More Between Us Chapter 61/? "First Kiss"
More Between Us, Chapter 61/? "First Kiss"
Day 16, December 26, afternoon
Thank God Peter wasn’t looking at him. Sylar knew his face was slipping, but he had little idea what Peter would see if he looked now, probably some wide-eyed wonderment or goofy confusion. He was stunned or…off-balance by that answer, mostly how it affected (rather, how it hadn’t played a part in) his life. He wondered why that was. Then he wanted to rip the man’s head open to see how he was made because that brain was sure to be an interesting one. They make people like him? He sounds like…Wonder Nurse. Still. Why treat me that way? Why make me happy and recognized and positive? So I won’t hurt him? He had always assumed those things were good, but to hear from a medical professional that those things were staples of health, well…It made a lot of sense and, honestly, it hurt because it did. Sylar wanted to protest the ideology oozing from Peter’s person; just to make the explanation fit his own life, which wasn’t resplendent with hugs and kisses or sex. The difference was a smack in the face of how…not-normal he was and how good normal, un-special people had it as a rule.
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He stopped there, trying not to think about how much he wanted to put his hands under the towel and directly on Sylar’s skin. That was above and beyond medical care and thus off-limits, much like sitting around with one’s patient’s feet in one’s lap. It sent the wrong message, he knew. But he couldn’t bring himself to move them. Instead, in an act of idiocy he knew he was going to regret, Peter pointed out, “Your pants have got to be soaked from falling. You should get them off.” He looked to the back of the couch, where the blanket had been flipped up. He pulled it down and tossed it over Sylar’s legs so he’d be covered. “Unfasten them, lift up, and I’ll pull them off.” He plucked at the sodden cuffs. I wouldn’t be feeling so guilty about this if he were just an average patient. This would be completely normal: ‘Got wet clothes? Get out of them.’ Normal. But with the usual patient, I go home at the end of the day and never see them again. I don’t sleep on their couch while they’re crushing on me.
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Sylar blinked, whiplashed by the change in topic because he’d been sea-deep into analyzing it. He frowned about it. Touch is good, now take off your pants? And I’m going to think there’s a connection there when there isn’t because Peter doesn’t want…that, any of it. Does he say that stuff on purpose? Just drop trou under the blanket with my feet in your lap. Sylar battled a blush despite himself, mostly from the weirdness of the situation. God, we’re lucky I put my underwear back on. I’m sure my balls are free of frostbite, but thanks for thinking of them. They’d appreciate some ‘recognition.’ He didn't say that though, not wanting to ruin...whatever the fuck was going on here. After a long checking glance at Peter, Sylar popped his pants open and arched up a few inches which was really as far as he could go, groaning from tight muscles, bruises and the infernal headache. When he settled, pants-less, he purposefully calmed himself: This isn’t weird. This isn’t weird. This isn’t weird…It was both nerve-wracking and…slightly arousing despite itself when all he could picture was ‘positive touch’ and Peter’s hand sneaking up under the damn blanket. He sniffed dismissively, giving checking glances to Peter every few seconds. “Touch spoils people, too, Peter,” he said by way of protesting the ideology. That’s what he’d been told about physical gratification of most varieties. It was a subtle message that he considered himself more adapted or adaptable than Mr. Six Hundred Fucks. He wasn’t that needy.
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Peter snorted, but he was pleased that they'd managed to get past the depantsing without incident. He tossed the garment to the side and then fussed with the blanket and towel. He folded the towel a few times and put it under Sylar's bony heels so they wouldn't dig into his leg so much, tucking the blanket around them. Then Peter relaxed against the couch, looking very much like he intended to stay there for a while. Even for him, sitting here with Sylar's feet in his lap was pretty damn strange, but he was tired, it felt good, and he was feeling selfish. He didn't think Sylar would object and even if he did (as long as he didn't call Peter out on what he was doing), he didn't care too much.
Aside from the murky moral waters, there was something more clear-cut to debate. “There used to be a theory that cuddling babies spoiled them somehow, like they might go rotten if you touched them too much. It's wrong; disproven; false. People go insane without contact - depression, anxiety ...” He shrugged, letting his eyes fall shut. He was warming up enough to notice his own pants were damp around the ankles, but the rest of him was comfy enough. “Next you'll be telling me that caring for the terminally ill doesn't improve their quality of life.”
Peter's eyes were shut; his right hand rested on Sylar's nearer ankle; his left was on his own thigh. He looked a lot like he might doze off like that. He'd gotten his way - Sylar's needs were taken care of without fight or argument, and Peter's loosely claimed prize of physical contact wasn't being denied or used to shame him. It made him feel like he could lay down his defenses enough to be snoozy for the moment.
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Sylar eyed Peter’s countenance. Instead of sticking his foot in it (figuratively speaking), he went the ‘think harder, question less’ route, considering what he knew of Peter. The man was relaxed, that much was obvious. Nathan wouldn’t have cared if Peter was sleepy. But why the touching? His ankle of all things, his rather hairy ankle? The man who murdered his brother? There was no reason whatever to touch or allow contact after the frostbite/infection check. Not that Sylar minded, heck, he was thrilled; it was comforting. He just couldn’t figure it out and…that was okay, he supposed (though it would rumble around in his mind for a while because it was an interesting, unanswered question or behavior). So we just sit here, foot-in-lap, hand-on-ankle. Yup, we’re enemies alright, he concluded with a mental eye roll. Letting go of the mystery, Sylar let his gaze wander over Peter’s unseeing face, because he could and it was a familiar, good-looking face.
He softened his voice in case Peter was…trying to sleep, “The only things I know about old people is that they don’t like living care and supposedly they get bad care there.” After all, none of his parents had ever gone into care (Virginia definitely qualified and Gabriel had known it, more was the pity; Samson went the natural therapy direction) and all the dead/dying people he’d been around were terminal in a different, more immediate sense. “How do you know it causes insanity?” Is the Company testing on babies- Yeah, they are. This was of particular interest to him; it wasn’t like the insanity defense was going to clear him of anything anyway.
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“Living care?” Peter's voice was still normal, even if his eyes remained shut. His expression showed a momentary puzzlement. “You mean assisted living care, right?”
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Why does his frown have to be so adorable? “Yeah, that.” Sylar said indifferently.
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“Yeah. No one likes to be dismissed or disrespected, to feel out of control of their life, or like their family members are just waiting for them to check out. It can be a really depressing, vulnerable time for people if they lose their mobility and ability to take care of themselves. There's some things about the eldercare system that makes it harder than usual for bad treatment to be corrected, but that doesn't mean bad treatment is all there is. One thing I liked a lot about hospice care was that I was absolutely sure I was making a difference in someone's life, helping them, sometimes when no one else would. There's a lot of good hospice nurses out there. Not enough, but a lot.” Which was part of why he'd moved on to something he was more uniquely suited to, getting out in the middle of it on the front line. There were others who could do hospice care just as well as he could, but no one who could spin abilities into ways to save lives.
He sighed, his thumb working back and forth briefly on the blanket as he thought about Sylar's question. He frowned as he tried to remember. “There was a study in orphanages in … somewhere in Eastern Europe. Where the children didn't get much individual attention. And then there's been behavioral studies on infants, testing the whole 'cry it out' philosophy that a crying baby should be left to self-soothe. There's other studies on the effects of touch on preemies. They thought for a long time was that touching premature babies was too dangerous due to risk of infection, but it turned out the thing that was too dangerous was depriving them of human contact.”
Peter shrugged, squirming a little and shooting a brief glance at Sylar before looking down at his hands. “Insanity … maybe that was the wrong word for me to use. What I meant was that going without human contact causes a lot of problems for people. With babies it's the starkest because they have no other experience, but it doesn't ...” He paused, remembering Noah's admonition for him to get out of his apartment and connect with his family again. Noah had known about Sylar's forced impersonation of Peter's brother; Claire had said so. Had Noah been telling him to go be friendly to Sylar-as-Nathan?
Peter gave a short shake of his head and brought himself back to the present. “It doesn't do adults any favors either. There's a reason why solitary confinement is a big punishment in prisons.” Or here. Like for you, Peter thought, realizing why there was that hint of personal interest in Sylar's voice. Perversely, it made him want to jerk his hand away from Sylar's leg as it occurred to him how much his touch might mean to the man. Peter had been doing it for his own needs, almost consciously declining to consider Sylar's outside of whether or not Sylar was likely to allow the contact. Now that he realized ... For the moment, he refused to give in to the urge to pull away. He left his hand there, his thumb rubbing a few slow circles as he thought it over, feeling through his emotions on the subject.
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“No…Insanity sounds about right,” Sylar admitted like a statement. He understood the concept of everyone he knew watching, wanting and waiting for him to die. It was one of the worst feelings he knew. Connect the dots, Peter. You’re a medical professional, I’m the patient; the adult patient needs to get laid to stay sane, see? He watched the thumb caressing him through the blanket. All the teasing and closeness grew on him. That tiny motion, intentional or not, had rippling effects like a butterfly’s wings. He understands, he’s describing it perfectly. Has he already connected the dots? He needs touch? Does he want something? He doesn’t want to say it. I can help with that. As gently and smoothly as he could, Sylar lifted his feet away and knelt on the couch. He moved with necessary speed as he homed in on Petrelli’s lips. Don’t read too much into kissing; it’s not a requirement; it’s just easiest… Passion wasn’t driving him; it was more a case of fulfilling mutual needs. Nervous, ready to pull away, he skipped over bonding and communication. Leaning down, he cupped the man’s jaw and artlessly pressed his lips against Peter’s unsuspecting ones. Come on; give me something; don’t hit me; come on…
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In retrospect, Peter would have expected desire, passion, or lust to have been writ on Sylar's face. Maybe infatuation or yearning. Instead it was something akin to fear - an expression Peter would not have anticipated as a prelude to what followed. It had a lot to do with why he just sat there as Sylar got up all of a sudden, eyes fixed on Peter rather than any other goal. He watched with mild surprise as Sylar reached for his jaw, the beginnings of a thought forming: He wants to look at my jaw again? Why now? Why does he look- By the time he realized Sylar wasn't just leaning close to peer at the way his mandible connected to his skull, the man was kissing him.
Peter jerked back, barking, “Hey!” Hands that had already been rising slowly sped up, finding Sylar's shoulder with his left, upper chest with his right. He gave a short, sharp push, uncertain as to what the response would be. His gaze scanned rapidly over Sylar's face, lingering for a moment on lips before rising and narrowing to meet Sylar's eyes. He's doing this because I implied he's insane? Like revenge? Or manipulation, like 'you say I'm insane so I'll act that way'? Or is it just all the fucking mixed signals I'm giving? Are they mixed? I've told him fucking NO already I don't know how many times. (Then I should probably stop touching him and putting my feet against him and humping him in bed and putting his feet in my lap and agreeing to sleep in his fucking apartment!) “Back off,” he said authoritatively, giving another push. He waited a breathless moment, a thrill of both fear and arousal surging through him as Sylar leaned over him, still so close. Too close. He could smell him, feel the heat of skin under his hands, and Peter's mind was flooded with the awareness that Sylar wanted him badly. His traitorous libido chose to point out that the blanket had certainly fallen enough to reveal bare legs and underwear (assuming Sylar was wearing any), but Peter's eyes stayed fixed on Sylar's face, curiosity be damned.
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Sylar felt them disconnect and allowed himself to sway back with the first, light push. The second time with an explicit demand, he sat back on his heels, then shifted to his butt still further away, legs Indian style, face blank. He didn’t like the retreat at all but his test had yielded an answer, a response, so the experiment was over; he didn’t feel like pushing more than he had already, mostly because the consequence was sure to be another fight. Sylar’s eyes lethargically tracked between Peter’s left hand and his face.
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Peter pushed himself up off the couch as soon as possible, stiff and coiled like he desperately wanted to start a fight. His left hand went so far as to make a fist as he faced Sylar directly, scowling and glaring. There was nothing quite there to set him to swinging, so he stalked off to the kitchen, pawing at his hair the whole way before turning and coming back. Guilt tore at him. Uncertainty. Knowledge that he'd done things that Sylar might have seen as come-ons. Admission, in his own words and thoughts, that Sylar's need for contact and intimate human companionship would be as great as anyone's who felt they'd spent three years in solitary. But why the fuck am I the one to have to give him that?!? Maybe I'm the only one here, but he killed my brother! And a lot of other people! If he was my patient at the hospital they'd fucking remove me from working on him. I'm compromised! Anyone knows that. I am not here to fix him!
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Sylar sighed when Peter stood. He felt drained. There was a time when he would have reveled in seeing even such negative passion because of him, aimed at him. Now it made him feel worthless that something as stupid and small as a kiss sent someone into a rage. He wanted to scrub himself raw in a shower to see if that helped make him more acceptable, palatable, presentable (make him feel better or get better results). Or beat some sense into his own brain. It wouldn’t work but he entertained it childishly for a moment. This would only be one of many rejections; so this one didn’t mean much, a pebble compared to a rockslide. He gave expressionless, undivided attention to Peter through his fit (the man was surprisingly controlled thus far) because that was the safest thing to do when someone was angry at him. They wanted his attention, they wanted to be and would be heard.
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Standing in front of the man, still radiating a desire to inflict violence, Peter challenged, “Why me, Sylar? Why the fuck me? If it was some little old lady who had come here to get you out or Matt Parkman changed his mind or some preteen kid with an early power you wouldn't be making moves on them. What the fuck is it about me that makes you think this could work?”
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Sylar looked up at the somewhat-taller, angry form. Is he calling me a pedophile? I just kill people! Sylar bit that back with effort, with every intention of revisiting it later. ‘Because you’re my brother?’ was the best and only truthful answer that came to him and it was not appropriate. The question was not one he’d given much thought to; he certainly didn’t have an answer to please both of them, not even a decent one to pass off for Peter’s sake. That made little sense even to him because he had standards and Peter fit them for some reason - unfortunately Sylar didn’t always know what those standards were, like his own preferences were hidden from him. I have preferences? Another possible answer appeared: (Because I know he’ll hurt me?) Almost tonelessly, he replied, “You answered your own question. You’re not old, you’re not Parkman, you’re not a kid. You’re you and you’re here.” I already told him we’re not going to like each other…Does he still expect ‘kiss and make nice’? I mean…He makes it sound like there should be something more - is that just him or is that how it really is? It doesn’t matter either way. I’m insane.
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Peter made an exasperated snarling noise and took a step back, running his hand through his hair again. His expression shifted from angry towards confused. He said as if to himself, “Yeah, but I'd hoped ...” I'd hoped you had a good answer! But it's a stupid question. Why does anyone like anyone? But the thing is, why would he think I wouldn't freak out? He killed my brother! He's killed me. Why does he think we could still-
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“And I am not a pedophile!” Sylar hissed for good measure. “Not like you ever bothered to ask Molly, Micah, Luke or Claire, but I never touched them. Like that.” He sneered at the idea. I let one crash on my - Taub’s - couch and I slept in the same hotel room as Luke…and I touched Claire’s cheek. None of that’s…sexual. That’s…Ugh! He also didn’t contemplate the part where he’d gotten along with the pair of teenage boys, how both of them had wormed their way under his defenses with distressing ease. “They’re all still alive, too,” he added spitefully. That was an issue for contention with himself - letting Molly get away, not pursuing her. How easy his life would have been if he’d have just grown a pair and killed one little girl. I probably wouldn’t be here.
The list of things Peter thought he did or liked was far-fetched and stereotypical - it was insulting. Rather than endure another round of ‘homicidal maniac clichés’, he put his foot down. “You don’t know anything about how I operate or why I do things. You’d have done a successful job of killing me if you knew anything about me. So…quit with that.” His voice quieted at the end.
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Peter made a choked-sounding grunt before snapping, “I wasn't saying you were a pedophile. Specifically, that's the opposite of what I meant,” he said with a dramatic wave of his arm. “I said if it was someone … too old or young for you to be attracted to - that's what I meant - too old or young, then you wouldn't be making passes at them. You're making it sexual now because I-” He rolled his eyes and leaned his butt against the side of the desk. Because I fit whatever profile of people you're attracted to, whether that be broad or narrow. And there's nothing I can do about that. Nothing he can do about it. The attraction, at least. He can do things about acting on it. “Fine. Because I'm me.” Complete non-answer! he fumed internally. Peter looked sullen and grumpy, still a little fidgety as he turned his mind to the other things Sylar had said.
“Glad they're still alive.” He raised his eyes to regard Sylar steadily for a moment, a grudging respect that Sylar had some limits to whom he would kill. “Most of the time I didn't want to kill you. I just wanted to stop you. There's a difference.” He crossed his arms and hunched a little as he looked away, unhappy for having entertained and attempted Sylar's death despite it going against his morals. “Who's Luke, anyway?”
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Sylar’s eyes were narrowed as they exchanged looks, but his wariness was decreased. He was more grouchy about the conversation than he was about the sort-of failed kiss (that just depressed him, less so if he’d gotten punched over it, but maybe that made it worse; he didn’t know). “No one you knew. He…lived next door to my…real father. Probably knew each other most of his - Luke’s - life. Little brat knew more about my dad than I do. Luke could…emit microwaves, like an EMP,” Sylar sent a glance to see if Peter followed the acronym; Nathan was military so maybe Peter knew. Contemplatively he confessed with a far-away expression, “Saved my life a few times. He was a good kid.” There was more he could say, stories he could tell, insights he could share. He stopped there because that was probably more than Peter asked for.
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Peter nodded for the glance about EMP. He'd heard about it. It had something to do with nuclear bombs and scrambling electronic stuff. He made the leap to assume Luke had a power similar to Ted's in emitting radiation, but as he hadn't heard about any massive explosions, apparently Luke hadn't had to deal with the 'blowing up an entire city' side effect. Or maybe Sylar helped him with that? Not killed him, but … no, didn't Sylar say you couldn't turn off an ability? He cocked his head, hearing a slightly different tone in Sylar's voice, almost … affectionate, definitely friendly, possibly mournful. It really snagged his attention, not that it had been wandering. Peter's expression changed from sullen to curious as his hunch straightened a little and he quit holding himself so firmly. “Tell me more about him. Was he a friend?”
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Sylar’s brows twitched in momentary amusement/confusion. “As much as I can be friends with a seventeen-year-old.” Sadly, that spoke volumes. I hang out with kids and the only people who tolerate me are going through puberty. They either think I’m some kind of savior or badass. Not so different from adults, apparently. “He was from Jersey; kind of a hyper-active delinquent…His mom was a piece of work. She’s lucky to be alive.” Sylar’s expression clearly showed his distaste. He showed up and wanted to kill the woman just for…existing and making Luke’s life miserable.
“The whole thing was…really ironic.” You mean familiar. It was only after he met Luke that he re-remembered Samson killing his own mother. And Sylar had killed Virginia years before to finally unburden himself, albeit by accident. He showed up and the moment he knew the kid had a power, Sylar felt like he knew him; wanted to help him some, mentor him. He didn’t know how to express that to Peter, or if it should be expressed at all. “He lied to me just to test out a power…” He shook his head, impressed. “He had balls, he had a pair enough to tell me that my dad took him bird watching. And that Luke reminded him of me. To my face. And this was a kid who saw me in action; he knew what I could do.”
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“Yeah?” Peter nodded, straightening to normal and letting his arms slide free of each other. “Friendship's not really age-dependent. I counted a guy who was a couple hundred years old as a … well, sort of a friend. I thought we were friends, for a while at least.” He gave a brief eye roll and said introspectively, “I never really knew Adam.” Lifting his head, Peter rallied with, “What seems to matter more is what people have in common. Sounds like you and Luke shared some common ground.” You resented that he knew your father? Jealous? Is this the father who left when you were young? I can see how that might tick a person off, to have someone else be the favored son through no fault of yours. Or son-substitute. That wasn't a direction Peter wanted to explore at the moment with Sylar, but he wanted to hear more about this Luke guy. Sylar had had a friend he hadn't killed. That was something Peter wanted to know more about, to encourage. He understood and admitted that he didn't know much about how Sylar operated, but he was learning more and more.
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You have no idea, Sylar thought about their ‘common ground.’
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“What happened to him, far as you know? You said he was still alive.” You also said he 'saw you in action'. What does that mean? Did you kill someone in front of him? Not wanting to trot that out, because it sounded a lot like a judgment (and it was), Peter asked instead, “Was he able to control his ability?”
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“Last time I saw him he was in an abandoned diner. That’s where I left him.” After all, they’d had some run-ins with agents, Luke knew what to look for and the kid was far from defenseless. Sylar’s brows did furrow this time. “Yeah. Teenage boy with a power, he must have practiced. He never lost control even under stress. Had good aim, too,” he said that like it was odd - and it was. “He was probably good at hiding it for school or saving it up for juvie.”
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An abandoned diner? Huh. He was alive at least. And I assume by that Sylar means he was basically okay. At seventeen, he probably had a phone. Assuming Luke had anyone he could call. Peter considered Jeremy, Amanda, and Claire - the other youths he'd known with abilities. Those were the ones he'd talked to personally. He knew about Molly and Micah from others. Sylar's power didn't freak him out, so he couldn't have been too traumatized by Sylar's dad. I'm pretty sure Sylar said his dad had an ability, or the same ability. "What kind of relationship did he have with your father?"
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Sylar paused to give Peter a look. He wasn’t quite wary but the questions were getting obvious. Is this, like, a therapy session to him? This one was also a loaded question. “He…knew my dad for some years. At least, that’s the impression I got. Luke’s dad was gone. He said…He said…” another halt before he shook it off, “my dad said he had a little boy once and that Luke reminded him of me.” His mouth was open to say more, tell the rest but it just wouldn’t come out. /’He sold you for money, you know…He told me once that he had a little boy a long time ago but he needed cash so he sold him.’/ And the whole part about Samson being ‘Mr. Rogers’ and killing his mother. He closed his mouth and looked disinterested. Realizing Peter had no frame of reference, he explained a little, “He knew where my dad was and he was smart enough not to tell me for a few days on our road trip and when he did I took the address and left him somewhere off the grid. I don’t know why my dad told him that.” That last sentence reeked of insecure jealousy. Why should Luke have access to his father in case of freaking emergency when the old bastard couldn’t even remember the mother of his child or his son’s name?
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“Why he told him that Luke reminded him of you? Probably because he missed you.” People are messy, organic. We don't make sense and it's stupid to get bogged down in trying to. Sylar's desire for the universe and other people in it to conform to his idea of appropriate behavior had never been so clear. I'd say you were in for a life of disappointment, but you've already had that.
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“What?” Sylar was confused at that leap of ‘logic’, another assumption, another miscommunication. “No! I meant why my dad gave Luke his address. Jesus,” he expelled. “My dad didn’t miss me. He had cancer, and the Hunger. I’ll give you one guess what power he wanted from me. I know, the irony is just painful,” was his sarcastic finish. A forceful exhale banished those remembered conversations. “Say what you want about my family, at least I know when they’re going to make a move. Your parents? I understand them, I speak the language but when it comes to the unexpected, I don’t think anyone sees it coming.”
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Ah. An exact copy of his ability? Peter wasn't sure what to think of two potential Sylars running around. Or the idea of someone possibly having that power for decades. Arthur came to mind, but Peter derailed that thought by focusing on something else Sylar had said and asking, “What kind of cancer?”
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"Lung cancer, I think. He had an oxygen tank and he still smoked. He probably faked most of the coughing. He made the cancer sound terminal." A smirk twisted his lips at that, hearing, /'You'll heal, you'll be fine...I don't want to die'/ rattle through his memory.
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“I've heard lung cancer is a mess.” Peter picked up Sylar's pants and fetched the clothes hamper from the closet, brows pulled together in thought as he did. In a suspicious, slightly accusing tone (accusing of Noah, not Sylar), he said, “Noah told me that Claire's ability wouldn't cure cancer. Or at least, that it would only cause a metastasizing tumor to accelerate growth.” He stopped in front of the door to the bathroom, saying almost to himself, “Was Noah lying? What advantage was there to him getting me to take Jeremy's ability?”
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Sylar tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “That…makes sense and it doesn’t. Either he would be healed or the ability puts the cancer in overdrive, but it wouldn’t kill him because he’d just keep coming back. Unless it was brain cancer, depending how close it was to his ability node. That might kill him outright. Or he might die anyway, or he’d be stuck at whatever stage he was at and keep dying and coming back. Huh.” The knowledge was both comforting and frightening for all its mystery. Even if Samson had taken regeneration, he’d still be a wheezing old man with aching joints. But Claire, Peter and I are young and beautiful, is that it? Yes. Survival of the fittest.
“Bennet has a host of Bennet reasons to lie. He’s a Company man. Do you think if the Company found a cure for cancer, they’d make good use of it? They don’t protect or help anyone. Your mother, running things, has her own crazy agenda so maybe she wanted you to have that power.” This Jeremy kid’s life - just like Sylar’s, Bridget’s, Nathan and Peter’s - was certainly small potatoes for her grand cockamamie schemes, the ones that never paid off.
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Peter frowned, both at the simple fact Sylar had made a reference to Peter's mother and at Sylar’s disturbing leap to talking about brain cancer (I never told him what Hiro was sick with, did I?), then he slipped into the bathroom to look for any other articles of clothing in need of a wash. He emerged, propping the hamper on the chair while he said, “Maybe Noah didn't want Claire healing people? I've always wondered why she didn't. Maybe he thought that would protect her from being discovered and experimented on … or at least swarmed by people who wanted to be cured.” He was still frowning. His job, his personal situations and track history - oh yeah, Peter had lots of reasons to want to tap Claire's ability as frequently as she'd allow. But that was her decision to make - her decision to be a hero. It wasn't Noah's.
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Did Peter mention doing laundry? Sylar assumed (hoped) that’s what Peter was up to, gathering clothes and all. He decided to assist and further pester his keeper. Standing, he felt an unusual breeze on his legs that reminded him of his lack of pants. Before Peter could nag him, Sylar was at his closet, leaned against the wall, shuffling into a new pair of jeans. Why does he have to be so active? “Aren’t you still…sore?” he struggled for the appropriate word to sum up Peter’s injuries. I feel like my head is going to split open around one of those Alien pod-creatures and he’s buzzing around like everything’s fine. Sylar had been looking forward to some quiet time but the Petrelli’s blood was up. Maybe he’s…anxious about the kiss? Sylar snuck a covert glance at the man. He thought ahead then, pleased with himself for managing it, to changing shirts also. Jeans on, lower half covered, he unbuttoned his shirt slowly and slid into a fresh one. I’m sore. I fell on the ice. Approaching Peter and the hamper, he placed his days-old shirt inside. I wonder how bad he’d freak out if I kissed him again, Sylar considered sadistically, unable to stop his expression from reading ‘smug.’
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“Yeah, I am,” Peter said testily. I would have been happy to sit on the couch with you, but you took it too far. I shouldn’t have been doing that, anyway. His eyes narrowed a little at Sylar's expression, and his next questions came out a little more demanding than was necessary. “Where's the laundry detergent? Far as that goes, where's the laundry room? I should have brought my clothes from my place.”
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Oh. Laundry now, he means. Sylar stretched his back and rolled his eyes in pure annoyance. “It’s in the hall closet,” he pointed and moved to get it, whether or not Peter was going to do it himself. “If you moved closer, you wouldn’t have that problem,” he commented mildly. “I’ll show you where it’s at.” Like I’m going to give you directions and trust you not to get lost.
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I’m already going to be bunking on your couch tonight, Sylar. That’s a lot closer than I want to be. He blew air out of his nose, irritated that Sylar was still demanding more. He’s a control freak who wants me in his pocket all the time, Peter thought uncharitably. Realizing Sylar seemed to be prepping for coming with him, Peter changed his tact, opting for a lighter tone as he said, "Hey, if you want to stay here and rest, that's fine with me. I've done laundry. Your clothes are safe with me." He laughed a little at the joke that Sylar might fear to let Peter handle the washing in the same way he didn’t want Peter touching anything else of his.
XXX
Sylar canted his head again, missing…whatever was funny. Implying something else isn’t safe? When Peter didn’t move between him and the door, looking poised to leave him, Sylar struggled to come up with baiting activity. “We could…” Talk? (No). Kiss? (Yes, but no). Ah! “Play a board game?” he hedged and reminded, “You said we could.” When Peter looked grudgingly accepting, Sylar informed, “They’re in the hall, you pick.”
XXX
Peter swallowed down his grumbling as he conceded defeat, or at least that he wasn’t going to be more direct in telling Sylar to stay away from him for a while. Yeah, I’m sore. And I’m irritable. And I was planning on resting on the couch while … yeah, touching you like that should be off limits. Even just sitting there with my hand on your ankle. That’s weird. Wrong. I shouldn’t even want to do that. (Well, I certainly don’t want to now.) He sighed and carried the clothes hamper into the hall, looking at the choices. “We can play while the clothes wash,” he said distractedly.
The box on top was a combination chess/checkers set. Peter nudged at it half-heartedly, remembering Arthur being overbearing and Nathan a gloating ass when he’d played chess with them. He’d played in college and had happier times with it, but the early experiences had soured the fun for him. He shot a sidelong glance back at Sylar. He won’t behave himself any better. I’ll bet that smug look earlier was about the kiss and 'getting one over on me'. I hate that attitude. The next was Scrabble, which he liked, but judged might be too complicated for Sylar’s current mental faculties. Clue and Monopoly were the next two, with various others further under. He hesitated on Clue. Didn’t he say he liked that? It involves killing people. Can I handle that? From him? Well, if I can’t, it’s not a big loss. I’m not all that invested in Clue. He pulled it out and brushed it off. Not that it was dusty, but he felt like it should be. Having decided, he set it on top of the clothes and turned to his companion. “Hey? You ready?”
XXX
“Yeah!” Wait. “Not…yet.” Sylar wanted some shoes for this. Clean socks and the damp shoes from before took moments, then he was in the hall with Peter, shutting the door behind himself.
XXX
Continued...
Day 16, December 26, afternoon
Thank God Peter wasn’t looking at him. Sylar knew his face was slipping, but he had little idea what Peter would see if he looked now, probably some wide-eyed wonderment or goofy confusion. He was stunned or…off-balance by that answer, mostly how it affected (rather, how it hadn’t played a part in) his life. He wondered why that was. Then he wanted to rip the man’s head open to see how he was made because that brain was sure to be an interesting one. They make people like him? He sounds like…Wonder Nurse. Still. Why treat me that way? Why make me happy and recognized and positive? So I won’t hurt him? He had always assumed those things were good, but to hear from a medical professional that those things were staples of health, well…It made a lot of sense and, honestly, it hurt because it did. Sylar wanted to protest the ideology oozing from Peter’s person; just to make the explanation fit his own life, which wasn’t resplendent with hugs and kisses or sex. The difference was a smack in the face of how…not-normal he was and how good normal, un-special people had it as a rule.
XXX
He stopped there, trying not to think about how much he wanted to put his hands under the towel and directly on Sylar’s skin. That was above and beyond medical care and thus off-limits, much like sitting around with one’s patient’s feet in one’s lap. It sent the wrong message, he knew. But he couldn’t bring himself to move them. Instead, in an act of idiocy he knew he was going to regret, Peter pointed out, “Your pants have got to be soaked from falling. You should get them off.” He looked to the back of the couch, where the blanket had been flipped up. He pulled it down and tossed it over Sylar’s legs so he’d be covered. “Unfasten them, lift up, and I’ll pull them off.” He plucked at the sodden cuffs. I wouldn’t be feeling so guilty about this if he were just an average patient. This would be completely normal: ‘Got wet clothes? Get out of them.’ Normal. But with the usual patient, I go home at the end of the day and never see them again. I don’t sleep on their couch while they’re crushing on me.
XXX
Sylar blinked, whiplashed by the change in topic because he’d been sea-deep into analyzing it. He frowned about it. Touch is good, now take off your pants? And I’m going to think there’s a connection there when there isn’t because Peter doesn’t want…that, any of it. Does he say that stuff on purpose? Just drop trou under the blanket with my feet in your lap. Sylar battled a blush despite himself, mostly from the weirdness of the situation. God, we’re lucky I put my underwear back on. I’m sure my balls are free of frostbite, but thanks for thinking of them. They’d appreciate some ‘recognition.’ He didn't say that though, not wanting to ruin...whatever the fuck was going on here. After a long checking glance at Peter, Sylar popped his pants open and arched up a few inches which was really as far as he could go, groaning from tight muscles, bruises and the infernal headache. When he settled, pants-less, he purposefully calmed himself: This isn’t weird. This isn’t weird. This isn’t weird…It was both nerve-wracking and…slightly arousing despite itself when all he could picture was ‘positive touch’ and Peter’s hand sneaking up under the damn blanket. He sniffed dismissively, giving checking glances to Peter every few seconds. “Touch spoils people, too, Peter,” he said by way of protesting the ideology. That’s what he’d been told about physical gratification of most varieties. It was a subtle message that he considered himself more adapted or adaptable than Mr. Six Hundred Fucks. He wasn’t that needy.
XXX
Peter snorted, but he was pleased that they'd managed to get past the depantsing without incident. He tossed the garment to the side and then fussed with the blanket and towel. He folded the towel a few times and put it under Sylar's bony heels so they wouldn't dig into his leg so much, tucking the blanket around them. Then Peter relaxed against the couch, looking very much like he intended to stay there for a while. Even for him, sitting here with Sylar's feet in his lap was pretty damn strange, but he was tired, it felt good, and he was feeling selfish. He didn't think Sylar would object and even if he did (as long as he didn't call Peter out on what he was doing), he didn't care too much.
Aside from the murky moral waters, there was something more clear-cut to debate. “There used to be a theory that cuddling babies spoiled them somehow, like they might go rotten if you touched them too much. It's wrong; disproven; false. People go insane without contact - depression, anxiety ...” He shrugged, letting his eyes fall shut. He was warming up enough to notice his own pants were damp around the ankles, but the rest of him was comfy enough. “Next you'll be telling me that caring for the terminally ill doesn't improve their quality of life.”
Peter's eyes were shut; his right hand rested on Sylar's nearer ankle; his left was on his own thigh. He looked a lot like he might doze off like that. He'd gotten his way - Sylar's needs were taken care of without fight or argument, and Peter's loosely claimed prize of physical contact wasn't being denied or used to shame him. It made him feel like he could lay down his defenses enough to be snoozy for the moment.
XXX
Sylar eyed Peter’s countenance. Instead of sticking his foot in it (figuratively speaking), he went the ‘think harder, question less’ route, considering what he knew of Peter. The man was relaxed, that much was obvious. Nathan wouldn’t have cared if Peter was sleepy. But why the touching? His ankle of all things, his rather hairy ankle? The man who murdered his brother? There was no reason whatever to touch or allow contact after the frostbite/infection check. Not that Sylar minded, heck, he was thrilled; it was comforting. He just couldn’t figure it out and…that was okay, he supposed (though it would rumble around in his mind for a while because it was an interesting, unanswered question or behavior). So we just sit here, foot-in-lap, hand-on-ankle. Yup, we’re enemies alright, he concluded with a mental eye roll. Letting go of the mystery, Sylar let his gaze wander over Peter’s unseeing face, because he could and it was a familiar, good-looking face.
He softened his voice in case Peter was…trying to sleep, “The only things I know about old people is that they don’t like living care and supposedly they get bad care there.” After all, none of his parents had ever gone into care (Virginia definitely qualified and Gabriel had known it, more was the pity; Samson went the natural therapy direction) and all the dead/dying people he’d been around were terminal in a different, more immediate sense. “How do you know it causes insanity?” Is the Company testing on babies- Yeah, they are. This was of particular interest to him; it wasn’t like the insanity defense was going to clear him of anything anyway.
XXX
“Living care?” Peter's voice was still normal, even if his eyes remained shut. His expression showed a momentary puzzlement. “You mean assisted living care, right?”
XXX
Why does his frown have to be so adorable? “Yeah, that.” Sylar said indifferently.
XXX
“Yeah. No one likes to be dismissed or disrespected, to feel out of control of their life, or like their family members are just waiting for them to check out. It can be a really depressing, vulnerable time for people if they lose their mobility and ability to take care of themselves. There's some things about the eldercare system that makes it harder than usual for bad treatment to be corrected, but that doesn't mean bad treatment is all there is. One thing I liked a lot about hospice care was that I was absolutely sure I was making a difference in someone's life, helping them, sometimes when no one else would. There's a lot of good hospice nurses out there. Not enough, but a lot.” Which was part of why he'd moved on to something he was more uniquely suited to, getting out in the middle of it on the front line. There were others who could do hospice care just as well as he could, but no one who could spin abilities into ways to save lives.
He sighed, his thumb working back and forth briefly on the blanket as he thought about Sylar's question. He frowned as he tried to remember. “There was a study in orphanages in … somewhere in Eastern Europe. Where the children didn't get much individual attention. And then there's been behavioral studies on infants, testing the whole 'cry it out' philosophy that a crying baby should be left to self-soothe. There's other studies on the effects of touch on preemies. They thought for a long time was that touching premature babies was too dangerous due to risk of infection, but it turned out the thing that was too dangerous was depriving them of human contact.”
Peter shrugged, squirming a little and shooting a brief glance at Sylar before looking down at his hands. “Insanity … maybe that was the wrong word for me to use. What I meant was that going without human contact causes a lot of problems for people. With babies it's the starkest because they have no other experience, but it doesn't ...” He paused, remembering Noah's admonition for him to get out of his apartment and connect with his family again. Noah had known about Sylar's forced impersonation of Peter's brother; Claire had said so. Had Noah been telling him to go be friendly to Sylar-as-Nathan?
Peter gave a short shake of his head and brought himself back to the present. “It doesn't do adults any favors either. There's a reason why solitary confinement is a big punishment in prisons.” Or here. Like for you, Peter thought, realizing why there was that hint of personal interest in Sylar's voice. Perversely, it made him want to jerk his hand away from Sylar's leg as it occurred to him how much his touch might mean to the man. Peter had been doing it for his own needs, almost consciously declining to consider Sylar's outside of whether or not Sylar was likely to allow the contact. Now that he realized ... For the moment, he refused to give in to the urge to pull away. He left his hand there, his thumb rubbing a few slow circles as he thought it over, feeling through his emotions on the subject.
XXX
“No…Insanity sounds about right,” Sylar admitted like a statement. He understood the concept of everyone he knew watching, wanting and waiting for him to die. It was one of the worst feelings he knew. Connect the dots, Peter. You’re a medical professional, I’m the patient; the adult patient needs to get laid to stay sane, see? He watched the thumb caressing him through the blanket. All the teasing and closeness grew on him. That tiny motion, intentional or not, had rippling effects like a butterfly’s wings. He understands, he’s describing it perfectly. Has he already connected the dots? He needs touch? Does he want something? He doesn’t want to say it. I can help with that. As gently and smoothly as he could, Sylar lifted his feet away and knelt on the couch. He moved with necessary speed as he homed in on Petrelli’s lips. Don’t read too much into kissing; it’s not a requirement; it’s just easiest… Passion wasn’t driving him; it was more a case of fulfilling mutual needs. Nervous, ready to pull away, he skipped over bonding and communication. Leaning down, he cupped the man’s jaw and artlessly pressed his lips against Peter’s unsuspecting ones. Come on; give me something; don’t hit me; come on…
XXX
In retrospect, Peter would have expected desire, passion, or lust to have been writ on Sylar's face. Maybe infatuation or yearning. Instead it was something akin to fear - an expression Peter would not have anticipated as a prelude to what followed. It had a lot to do with why he just sat there as Sylar got up all of a sudden, eyes fixed on Peter rather than any other goal. He watched with mild surprise as Sylar reached for his jaw, the beginnings of a thought forming: He wants to look at my jaw again? Why now? Why does he look- By the time he realized Sylar wasn't just leaning close to peer at the way his mandible connected to his skull, the man was kissing him.
Peter jerked back, barking, “Hey!” Hands that had already been rising slowly sped up, finding Sylar's shoulder with his left, upper chest with his right. He gave a short, sharp push, uncertain as to what the response would be. His gaze scanned rapidly over Sylar's face, lingering for a moment on lips before rising and narrowing to meet Sylar's eyes. He's doing this because I implied he's insane? Like revenge? Or manipulation, like 'you say I'm insane so I'll act that way'? Or is it just all the fucking mixed signals I'm giving? Are they mixed? I've told him fucking NO already I don't know how many times. (Then I should probably stop touching him and putting my feet against him and humping him in bed and putting his feet in my lap and agreeing to sleep in his fucking apartment!) “Back off,” he said authoritatively, giving another push. He waited a breathless moment, a thrill of both fear and arousal surging through him as Sylar leaned over him, still so close. Too close. He could smell him, feel the heat of skin under his hands, and Peter's mind was flooded with the awareness that Sylar wanted him badly. His traitorous libido chose to point out that the blanket had certainly fallen enough to reveal bare legs and underwear (assuming Sylar was wearing any), but Peter's eyes stayed fixed on Sylar's face, curiosity be damned.
XXX
Sylar felt them disconnect and allowed himself to sway back with the first, light push. The second time with an explicit demand, he sat back on his heels, then shifted to his butt still further away, legs Indian style, face blank. He didn’t like the retreat at all but his test had yielded an answer, a response, so the experiment was over; he didn’t feel like pushing more than he had already, mostly because the consequence was sure to be another fight. Sylar’s eyes lethargically tracked between Peter’s left hand and his face.
XXX
Peter pushed himself up off the couch as soon as possible, stiff and coiled like he desperately wanted to start a fight. His left hand went so far as to make a fist as he faced Sylar directly, scowling and glaring. There was nothing quite there to set him to swinging, so he stalked off to the kitchen, pawing at his hair the whole way before turning and coming back. Guilt tore at him. Uncertainty. Knowledge that he'd done things that Sylar might have seen as come-ons. Admission, in his own words and thoughts, that Sylar's need for contact and intimate human companionship would be as great as anyone's who felt they'd spent three years in solitary. But why the fuck am I the one to have to give him that?!? Maybe I'm the only one here, but he killed my brother! And a lot of other people! If he was my patient at the hospital they'd fucking remove me from working on him. I'm compromised! Anyone knows that. I am not here to fix him!
XXX
Sylar sighed when Peter stood. He felt drained. There was a time when he would have reveled in seeing even such negative passion because of him, aimed at him. Now it made him feel worthless that something as stupid and small as a kiss sent someone into a rage. He wanted to scrub himself raw in a shower to see if that helped make him more acceptable, palatable, presentable (make him feel better or get better results). Or beat some sense into his own brain. It wouldn’t work but he entertained it childishly for a moment. This would only be one of many rejections; so this one didn’t mean much, a pebble compared to a rockslide. He gave expressionless, undivided attention to Peter through his fit (the man was surprisingly controlled thus far) because that was the safest thing to do when someone was angry at him. They wanted his attention, they wanted to be and would be heard.
XXX
Standing in front of the man, still radiating a desire to inflict violence, Peter challenged, “Why me, Sylar? Why the fuck me? If it was some little old lady who had come here to get you out or Matt Parkman changed his mind or some preteen kid with an early power you wouldn't be making moves on them. What the fuck is it about me that makes you think this could work?”
XXX
Sylar looked up at the somewhat-taller, angry form. Is he calling me a pedophile? I just kill people! Sylar bit that back with effort, with every intention of revisiting it later. ‘Because you’re my brother?’ was the best and only truthful answer that came to him and it was not appropriate. The question was not one he’d given much thought to; he certainly didn’t have an answer to please both of them, not even a decent one to pass off for Peter’s sake. That made little sense even to him because he had standards and Peter fit them for some reason - unfortunately Sylar didn’t always know what those standards were, like his own preferences were hidden from him. I have preferences? Another possible answer appeared: (Because I know he’ll hurt me?) Almost tonelessly, he replied, “You answered your own question. You’re not old, you’re not Parkman, you’re not a kid. You’re you and you’re here.” I already told him we’re not going to like each other…Does he still expect ‘kiss and make nice’? I mean…He makes it sound like there should be something more - is that just him or is that how it really is? It doesn’t matter either way. I’m insane.
XXX
Peter made an exasperated snarling noise and took a step back, running his hand through his hair again. His expression shifted from angry towards confused. He said as if to himself, “Yeah, but I'd hoped ...” I'd hoped you had a good answer! But it's a stupid question. Why does anyone like anyone? But the thing is, why would he think I wouldn't freak out? He killed my brother! He's killed me. Why does he think we could still-
XXX
“And I am not a pedophile!” Sylar hissed for good measure. “Not like you ever bothered to ask Molly, Micah, Luke or Claire, but I never touched them. Like that.” He sneered at the idea. I let one crash on my - Taub’s - couch and I slept in the same hotel room as Luke…and I touched Claire’s cheek. None of that’s…sexual. That’s…Ugh! He also didn’t contemplate the part where he’d gotten along with the pair of teenage boys, how both of them had wormed their way under his defenses with distressing ease. “They’re all still alive, too,” he added spitefully. That was an issue for contention with himself - letting Molly get away, not pursuing her. How easy his life would have been if he’d have just grown a pair and killed one little girl. I probably wouldn’t be here.
The list of things Peter thought he did or liked was far-fetched and stereotypical - it was insulting. Rather than endure another round of ‘homicidal maniac clichés’, he put his foot down. “You don’t know anything about how I operate or why I do things. You’d have done a successful job of killing me if you knew anything about me. So…quit with that.” His voice quieted at the end.
XXX
Peter made a choked-sounding grunt before snapping, “I wasn't saying you were a pedophile. Specifically, that's the opposite of what I meant,” he said with a dramatic wave of his arm. “I said if it was someone … too old or young for you to be attracted to - that's what I meant - too old or young, then you wouldn't be making passes at them. You're making it sexual now because I-” He rolled his eyes and leaned his butt against the side of the desk. Because I fit whatever profile of people you're attracted to, whether that be broad or narrow. And there's nothing I can do about that. Nothing he can do about it. The attraction, at least. He can do things about acting on it. “Fine. Because I'm me.” Complete non-answer! he fumed internally. Peter looked sullen and grumpy, still a little fidgety as he turned his mind to the other things Sylar had said.
“Glad they're still alive.” He raised his eyes to regard Sylar steadily for a moment, a grudging respect that Sylar had some limits to whom he would kill. “Most of the time I didn't want to kill you. I just wanted to stop you. There's a difference.” He crossed his arms and hunched a little as he looked away, unhappy for having entertained and attempted Sylar's death despite it going against his morals. “Who's Luke, anyway?”
XXX
Sylar’s eyes were narrowed as they exchanged looks, but his wariness was decreased. He was more grouchy about the conversation than he was about the sort-of failed kiss (that just depressed him, less so if he’d gotten punched over it, but maybe that made it worse; he didn’t know). “No one you knew. He…lived next door to my…real father. Probably knew each other most of his - Luke’s - life. Little brat knew more about my dad than I do. Luke could…emit microwaves, like an EMP,” Sylar sent a glance to see if Peter followed the acronym; Nathan was military so maybe Peter knew. Contemplatively he confessed with a far-away expression, “Saved my life a few times. He was a good kid.” There was more he could say, stories he could tell, insights he could share. He stopped there because that was probably more than Peter asked for.
XXX
Peter nodded for the glance about EMP. He'd heard about it. It had something to do with nuclear bombs and scrambling electronic stuff. He made the leap to assume Luke had a power similar to Ted's in emitting radiation, but as he hadn't heard about any massive explosions, apparently Luke hadn't had to deal with the 'blowing up an entire city' side effect. Or maybe Sylar helped him with that? Not killed him, but … no, didn't Sylar say you couldn't turn off an ability? He cocked his head, hearing a slightly different tone in Sylar's voice, almost … affectionate, definitely friendly, possibly mournful. It really snagged his attention, not that it had been wandering. Peter's expression changed from sullen to curious as his hunch straightened a little and he quit holding himself so firmly. “Tell me more about him. Was he a friend?”
XXX
Sylar’s brows twitched in momentary amusement/confusion. “As much as I can be friends with a seventeen-year-old.” Sadly, that spoke volumes. I hang out with kids and the only people who tolerate me are going through puberty. They either think I’m some kind of savior or badass. Not so different from adults, apparently. “He was from Jersey; kind of a hyper-active delinquent…His mom was a piece of work. She’s lucky to be alive.” Sylar’s expression clearly showed his distaste. He showed up and wanted to kill the woman just for…existing and making Luke’s life miserable.
“The whole thing was…really ironic.” You mean familiar. It was only after he met Luke that he re-remembered Samson killing his own mother. And Sylar had killed Virginia years before to finally unburden himself, albeit by accident. He showed up and the moment he knew the kid had a power, Sylar felt like he knew him; wanted to help him some, mentor him. He didn’t know how to express that to Peter, or if it should be expressed at all. “He lied to me just to test out a power…” He shook his head, impressed. “He had balls, he had a pair enough to tell me that my dad took him bird watching. And that Luke reminded him of me. To my face. And this was a kid who saw me in action; he knew what I could do.”
XXX
“Yeah?” Peter nodded, straightening to normal and letting his arms slide free of each other. “Friendship's not really age-dependent. I counted a guy who was a couple hundred years old as a … well, sort of a friend. I thought we were friends, for a while at least.” He gave a brief eye roll and said introspectively, “I never really knew Adam.” Lifting his head, Peter rallied with, “What seems to matter more is what people have in common. Sounds like you and Luke shared some common ground.” You resented that he knew your father? Jealous? Is this the father who left when you were young? I can see how that might tick a person off, to have someone else be the favored son through no fault of yours. Or son-substitute. That wasn't a direction Peter wanted to explore at the moment with Sylar, but he wanted to hear more about this Luke guy. Sylar had had a friend he hadn't killed. That was something Peter wanted to know more about, to encourage. He understood and admitted that he didn't know much about how Sylar operated, but he was learning more and more.
XXX
You have no idea, Sylar thought about their ‘common ground.’
XXX
“What happened to him, far as you know? You said he was still alive.” You also said he 'saw you in action'. What does that mean? Did you kill someone in front of him? Not wanting to trot that out, because it sounded a lot like a judgment (and it was), Peter asked instead, “Was he able to control his ability?”
XXX
“Last time I saw him he was in an abandoned diner. That’s where I left him.” After all, they’d had some run-ins with agents, Luke knew what to look for and the kid was far from defenseless. Sylar’s brows did furrow this time. “Yeah. Teenage boy with a power, he must have practiced. He never lost control even under stress. Had good aim, too,” he said that like it was odd - and it was. “He was probably good at hiding it for school or saving it up for juvie.”
XXX
An abandoned diner? Huh. He was alive at least. And I assume by that Sylar means he was basically okay. At seventeen, he probably had a phone. Assuming Luke had anyone he could call. Peter considered Jeremy, Amanda, and Claire - the other youths he'd known with abilities. Those were the ones he'd talked to personally. He knew about Molly and Micah from others. Sylar's power didn't freak him out, so he couldn't have been too traumatized by Sylar's dad. I'm pretty sure Sylar said his dad had an ability, or the same ability. "What kind of relationship did he have with your father?"
XXX
Sylar paused to give Peter a look. He wasn’t quite wary but the questions were getting obvious. Is this, like, a therapy session to him? This one was also a loaded question. “He…knew my dad for some years. At least, that’s the impression I got. Luke’s dad was gone. He said…He said…” another halt before he shook it off, “my dad said he had a little boy once and that Luke reminded him of me.” His mouth was open to say more, tell the rest but it just wouldn’t come out. /’He sold you for money, you know…He told me once that he had a little boy a long time ago but he needed cash so he sold him.’/ And the whole part about Samson being ‘Mr. Rogers’ and killing his mother. He closed his mouth and looked disinterested. Realizing Peter had no frame of reference, he explained a little, “He knew where my dad was and he was smart enough not to tell me for a few days on our road trip and when he did I took the address and left him somewhere off the grid. I don’t know why my dad told him that.” That last sentence reeked of insecure jealousy. Why should Luke have access to his father in case of freaking emergency when the old bastard couldn’t even remember the mother of his child or his son’s name?
XXX
“Why he told him that Luke reminded him of you? Probably because he missed you.” People are messy, organic. We don't make sense and it's stupid to get bogged down in trying to. Sylar's desire for the universe and other people in it to conform to his idea of appropriate behavior had never been so clear. I'd say you were in for a life of disappointment, but you've already had that.
XXX
“What?” Sylar was confused at that leap of ‘logic’, another assumption, another miscommunication. “No! I meant why my dad gave Luke his address. Jesus,” he expelled. “My dad didn’t miss me. He had cancer, and the Hunger. I’ll give you one guess what power he wanted from me. I know, the irony is just painful,” was his sarcastic finish. A forceful exhale banished those remembered conversations. “Say what you want about my family, at least I know when they’re going to make a move. Your parents? I understand them, I speak the language but when it comes to the unexpected, I don’t think anyone sees it coming.”
XXX
Ah. An exact copy of his ability? Peter wasn't sure what to think of two potential Sylars running around. Or the idea of someone possibly having that power for decades. Arthur came to mind, but Peter derailed that thought by focusing on something else Sylar had said and asking, “What kind of cancer?”
XXX
"Lung cancer, I think. He had an oxygen tank and he still smoked. He probably faked most of the coughing. He made the cancer sound terminal." A smirk twisted his lips at that, hearing, /'You'll heal, you'll be fine...I don't want to die'/ rattle through his memory.
XXX
“I've heard lung cancer is a mess.” Peter picked up Sylar's pants and fetched the clothes hamper from the closet, brows pulled together in thought as he did. In a suspicious, slightly accusing tone (accusing of Noah, not Sylar), he said, “Noah told me that Claire's ability wouldn't cure cancer. Or at least, that it would only cause a metastasizing tumor to accelerate growth.” He stopped in front of the door to the bathroom, saying almost to himself, “Was Noah lying? What advantage was there to him getting me to take Jeremy's ability?”
XXX
Sylar tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “That…makes sense and it doesn’t. Either he would be healed or the ability puts the cancer in overdrive, but it wouldn’t kill him because he’d just keep coming back. Unless it was brain cancer, depending how close it was to his ability node. That might kill him outright. Or he might die anyway, or he’d be stuck at whatever stage he was at and keep dying and coming back. Huh.” The knowledge was both comforting and frightening for all its mystery. Even if Samson had taken regeneration, he’d still be a wheezing old man with aching joints. But Claire, Peter and I are young and beautiful, is that it? Yes. Survival of the fittest.
“Bennet has a host of Bennet reasons to lie. He’s a Company man. Do you think if the Company found a cure for cancer, they’d make good use of it? They don’t protect or help anyone. Your mother, running things, has her own crazy agenda so maybe she wanted you to have that power.” This Jeremy kid’s life - just like Sylar’s, Bridget’s, Nathan and Peter’s - was certainly small potatoes for her grand cockamamie schemes, the ones that never paid off.
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Peter frowned, both at the simple fact Sylar had made a reference to Peter's mother and at Sylar’s disturbing leap to talking about brain cancer (I never told him what Hiro was sick with, did I?), then he slipped into the bathroom to look for any other articles of clothing in need of a wash. He emerged, propping the hamper on the chair while he said, “Maybe Noah didn't want Claire healing people? I've always wondered why she didn't. Maybe he thought that would protect her from being discovered and experimented on … or at least swarmed by people who wanted to be cured.” He was still frowning. His job, his personal situations and track history - oh yeah, Peter had lots of reasons to want to tap Claire's ability as frequently as she'd allow. But that was her decision to make - her decision to be a hero. It wasn't Noah's.
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Did Peter mention doing laundry? Sylar assumed (hoped) that’s what Peter was up to, gathering clothes and all. He decided to assist and further pester his keeper. Standing, he felt an unusual breeze on his legs that reminded him of his lack of pants. Before Peter could nag him, Sylar was at his closet, leaned against the wall, shuffling into a new pair of jeans. Why does he have to be so active? “Aren’t you still…sore?” he struggled for the appropriate word to sum up Peter’s injuries. I feel like my head is going to split open around one of those Alien pod-creatures and he’s buzzing around like everything’s fine. Sylar had been looking forward to some quiet time but the Petrelli’s blood was up. Maybe he’s…anxious about the kiss? Sylar snuck a covert glance at the man. He thought ahead then, pleased with himself for managing it, to changing shirts also. Jeans on, lower half covered, he unbuttoned his shirt slowly and slid into a fresh one. I’m sore. I fell on the ice. Approaching Peter and the hamper, he placed his days-old shirt inside. I wonder how bad he’d freak out if I kissed him again, Sylar considered sadistically, unable to stop his expression from reading ‘smug.’
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“Yeah, I am,” Peter said testily. I would have been happy to sit on the couch with you, but you took it too far. I shouldn’t have been doing that, anyway. His eyes narrowed a little at Sylar's expression, and his next questions came out a little more demanding than was necessary. “Where's the laundry detergent? Far as that goes, where's the laundry room? I should have brought my clothes from my place.”
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Oh. Laundry now, he means. Sylar stretched his back and rolled his eyes in pure annoyance. “It’s in the hall closet,” he pointed and moved to get it, whether or not Peter was going to do it himself. “If you moved closer, you wouldn’t have that problem,” he commented mildly. “I’ll show you where it’s at.” Like I’m going to give you directions and trust you not to get lost.
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I’m already going to be bunking on your couch tonight, Sylar. That’s a lot closer than I want to be. He blew air out of his nose, irritated that Sylar was still demanding more. He’s a control freak who wants me in his pocket all the time, Peter thought uncharitably. Realizing Sylar seemed to be prepping for coming with him, Peter changed his tact, opting for a lighter tone as he said, "Hey, if you want to stay here and rest, that's fine with me. I've done laundry. Your clothes are safe with me." He laughed a little at the joke that Sylar might fear to let Peter handle the washing in the same way he didn’t want Peter touching anything else of his.
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Sylar canted his head again, missing…whatever was funny. Implying something else isn’t safe? When Peter didn’t move between him and the door, looking poised to leave him, Sylar struggled to come up with baiting activity. “We could…” Talk? (No). Kiss? (Yes, but no). Ah! “Play a board game?” he hedged and reminded, “You said we could.” When Peter looked grudgingly accepting, Sylar informed, “They’re in the hall, you pick.”
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Peter swallowed down his grumbling as he conceded defeat, or at least that he wasn’t going to be more direct in telling Sylar to stay away from him for a while. Yeah, I’m sore. And I’m irritable. And I was planning on resting on the couch while … yeah, touching you like that should be off limits. Even just sitting there with my hand on your ankle. That’s weird. Wrong. I shouldn’t even want to do that. (Well, I certainly don’t want to now.) He sighed and carried the clothes hamper into the hall, looking at the choices. “We can play while the clothes wash,” he said distractedly.
The box on top was a combination chess/checkers set. Peter nudged at it half-heartedly, remembering Arthur being overbearing and Nathan a gloating ass when he’d played chess with them. He’d played in college and had happier times with it, but the early experiences had soured the fun for him. He shot a sidelong glance back at Sylar. He won’t behave himself any better. I’ll bet that smug look earlier was about the kiss and 'getting one over on me'. I hate that attitude. The next was Scrabble, which he liked, but judged might be too complicated for Sylar’s current mental faculties. Clue and Monopoly were the next two, with various others further under. He hesitated on Clue. Didn’t he say he liked that? It involves killing people. Can I handle that? From him? Well, if I can’t, it’s not a big loss. I’m not all that invested in Clue. He pulled it out and brushed it off. Not that it was dusty, but he felt like it should be. Having decided, he set it on top of the clothes and turned to his companion. “Hey? You ready?”
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“Yeah!” Wait. “Not…yet.” Sylar wanted some shoes for this. Clean socks and the damp shoes from before took moments, then he was in the hall with Peter, shutting the door behind himself.
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Continued...