More Between Us Chapter 63/? "Cereal Killer"
More Between Us, Chapter 63/? "Cereal Killer"
Day 16, December 26, afternoon
Peter loitered in the kitchen well after the meal was over, putting things away and going to the bother of washing the dishes. Despite being tired, he wasn't in a rush to claim his bed on the couch. He was still waiting, hoping, for some manner of reassurance as he had been all day. Some 'no, I'm not going to force myself on you'. Instead, he'd been kissed without his consent and his concerns about that were not even worthy of a straight answer. Talking about it sitting across the Clue board from Sylar was one thing - it was easier to think that maybe Sylar climbing in bed with him that morning or kissing him that afternoon had been … innocent. Or understandably human. Getting ready to go to bed with the guy in the room was another thing entirely - this wasn't some hypothetical that Sylar might be venting his 'understandably human' urges on. Human beings hurt each other all the time, something Peter was painfully aware of.
He fondled one of the kitchen knives, considering taking it to bed with him. It seemed kind of extreme, but if he needed it and didn't have it … that would suck. If he had it and didn't need it, then it didn't matter and he had nothing to worry about. Peter was not unaware that the 'good' behavior Sylar had shown for the last week might be due mainly to inability. Now that the guy was feeling better, transgressions were afoot - not necessarily a coincidence. The more he thought about it, the more decided he became. He chose the paring knife, wrapping his fist around it. It had a small indentation before the heel of the blade, making it less likely his hand would slip past the bolster and cut his fingers on the blade.
XXX
Sylar didn’t bother trimming his beard down to a manageable stubble, not tonight. There was little point besides comfort. He’d definitely do in the morning. Peter was…in the kitchen - the light was still on. At least, he was pretty sure Peter hadn’t flown the coop. Maybe I should have kept a better eye on him - the drugs are right outside and Peter is nothing if not a sneaky bastard. Dismissing it because so far that threat had been unfounded, Sylar left out a blanket and pillow on the couch for Peter to arrange and fluff as he would. Ready for sleep, he turned off the living room lights and crawled into his cot, sighing just to be back with familiar things.
XXX
Peter continued his aimless puttering (planning out breakfast, but really just wasting time) until he assumed Sylar was asleep. Lights off in the kitchen left the apartment nearly dead dark. The cloud cover outside must have broken at some point during the day, because as Peter's eyes adjusted, he could see enough moonlight coming in through the window to get around. It made a decent enough nightlight that he didn't bother with leaving any other light on. He set the knife on the arm of the couch, finding the blanket and pillow Sylar had left out. Thoughtful, but on the other hand, self-serving. The guy wanted him to stay.
Peter arranged the bedding and sat down, stripping off his shirt and tossing it on the floor in front of him, far enough away that he wouldn't trip on it if he had to get up in the night. Next were shoes, carefully unlaced and examined for any residual dampness. These were placed more carefully on the floor halfway down the couch, laces loosened and open. Then socks were pulled off and tossed over with his shirt. He rubbed his feet and in between toes. Absently holding his right foot with his left hand, he listened as the many clocks simultaneously chimed the hour, and then ticked away in the comparative quiet after. He stood up, gave one last stretch for the benefit of his back and then flipped back the blanket. He picked up the knife and sat, preparing to swing his legs under the blanket and settle in.
XXX
A quick glance showed Peter, shirtless, engaged and…very armed. [Without a word, he clicked on his bedside reading lamp and] sat up. “Nuh-uh,” he proclaimed loudly. “If you can’t sleep with me, restless bed mate, then you can’t sleep with a knife. You sure as hell can’t in my apartment.”
XXX
“What?” Peter shielded his eyes from the sudden light with his right hand, the knife in question held tensely in his left. He hadn't expected to be confronted about having it. He hadn't expected Sylar to know at all unless things went badly, which he supposed might describe the current situation. Shirtless, already uncomfortable just to be here, and feeling threatened over his chosen method of self-defense, he dropped his right hand and took an aggressive tack. “I can sleep with whatever I want. And whoever I want.” To mean: not you. ”Why do you care? Is me having a knife inconvenient for something you had planned?”
XXX
Sylar immediately didn’t like that tone. A growled sigh-harumph of aggravation preceded his words. “I’m not contesting that.” Why do I care? Why do I care? There was a long, silent stare, broken only by his occasional blinking as he processed that, or tried to. “Why do I care?” Sylar repeated finally. “Yeah, you’re right. It is inconvenient. I was planning on sleeping and waking up as myself,” he stressed. “Do you not remember what happened the last time you stabbed me?” Sylar asked that with hurt confusion. The last time he’d been pierced by this man, he’d been torn asunder, left to wither or be destroyed, body and soul. He hadn’t felt the sanity, the safety of his mind and body together for months and at the end of it, Petrelli had hunted him down to try again, this time with full knowledge of what he was doing. There was no way he was leaving stabby-Petrelli in custody of a shanking weapon whether or not he had a kill-spot.
He paused to let that sink in - hopefully with logic, not…paring knives. The next obvious issue was this escalation. “It was a fucking kiss. Get over it.”
XXX
The last time I stabbed him … The tone meant Peter entirely skipped the injections of Zofran he'd given Sylar recently. Sylar was too upset for it to be that. Instead: Nails? The nail gun? No, stabbed. Kirby Plaza, sword through the chest. But that was Hiro, not me! Stabbed … glass, but that was him stabbing me. His eyes dropped and slid out of focus as a quick sweep of events when he'd thought Sylar was his brother came up blank, just like the fight at the Stanton. 'Waking up as myself'. Does he mean the- Yes, he has to. The syringe in the limo. Right? Could still be the nails. Or maybe future-me stabbed him and he thinks it was me. That would suck. Again.
Peter looked at Sylar and tilted his head, brow furrowing and his grip on the object under contest loosening. “I remember,” he said soberly. Just as seriously, he continued, “We're going to have to deal with the fact that we're both dangerous here.” He gestured with his right, pointing first at himself, then Sylar, then himself again. “To each other. It's not the 'fucking kiss'. I'm over the 'fucking kiss'. What I'm not over is you telling me to get over it and acting like what you do, and what you have done, doesn't matter.” Peter drew in a slow, deep breath, trying to relax the muscles of his back. They were tightening up and this was an important conversation that he wanted to have as calmly as possible. He breathed out slowly. The fingers of his left hand played with their grip on the knife. He let them, leaving his gaze and attention otherwise entirely on Sylar.
XXX
A light bulb was desperate to pop up over his head and light up because there was something there and he was too keyed up, tired, frazzled, something, to strike on the connection. We’re…saying the same thing, we’re worried about the same thing? But I have to live with the knife? That’s not fair. Sylar’s eyes went to the knife as it shifted in Peter’s hand. Nothing came of it but he couldn’t tell if the fiddling was a nervous, pre-emptive gesture or…not. He literally sat waiting when Peter finished speaking. Oh, no. He didn’t. Peter was waiting, cleverly leaving open space and social pressure (and bodily threat) in such a way that Sylar had to fill-in-the-blank. And a guy holding a knife, not over the kiss, but the behavior, demanding the right answer was a mountain of unfairness. Sylar glared lasers at the nurse for that reason alone. “Do you have to hold that right now?” he snipped about the blade. If he was going to have to think, mystically procure the right answer or response, or worse, apologize or sleep, he sure as hell wasn’t going to do it at paring-knife-point - his dignity and sense of fucking reality simply refused.
XXX
Peter glanced down at the knife, then gave Sylar a good, long look. This gives me power over you? You're really afraid of it. He waited to see if Sylar flinched or shifted under his gaze, trying to decide if the request that he disarm himself was a safe one to follow. Sylar's attention did not waver; he didn't give Peter anything, which was enough. Peter set the knife on the couch to his left, the opposite side of him from the other man.
XXX
That was good. Not great, but better. Sylar noticed the care (or paranoia) involved in setting the knife on the other side of Peter - it was smart whether Sylar did anything or not. His face showed his slight annoyance and acceptance, briefly. It was a relief, nonetheless, and it took the edge of tension away from the interaction. That Peter would put the knife down boded well. “Is it necessary to freak out about this before I sleep? If it’s not about the kiss, can’t this wait?”
XXX
Peter snorted lightly. "I wasn't freaking out about it. I was just going to bed - going to lie over here and mind my own business all night. If you minded yours, then nothing would have happened and I didn't think you'd ever know." He waited a beat, trying to see a way out of this that met his needs and enough of Sylar's that they could give up on this lousy day and get some sleep. "Would it help if I promised something?"
XXX
Wh- really? We are saying the same thing. I’m…a walking arsenal and he has a knife. Stand-off. Sylar’s eyes narrowed at first, then he frowned and frowned harder. He had to think about the idea of being promised something, how much Peter’s word was worth, and, if so, what he wanted. “Yes,” he surprised himself by saying, looking up at the man, almost asking ‘is that okay?’ “I…just don’t want the knife in here.” I believe him. I trust him not to do anything with his bare hands or any other object in here. How…strange and unexpected. With a kind of rueful, humorous admission, he spoke softly, “Reality tends to…warp when you’re around, Peter. But you’d have…done something by now if you were going to. You’re a straightforward guy, right?”
XXX
“I try to be,” he said, greatly soothed by Sylar's probably unintentional compliment. The set of Peter's shoulders eased and he got to what he really needed. "I want to hear you tell me that I'll be safe, asleep, here, tonight. And that I'll be safe by my standards, not yours." He wondered what it was he should promise, having not been given any hints about that.
XXX
Sylar’s face was dubious, eyebrow arced. He made a choking sound. That’s all he wanted? That’s it? “You’ll be safe by your standards.” That was easy enough. And he didn’t have to lie. There wasn’t enough room on the couch for two. It was now up to Peter to believe that or not. Sylar tilted his head, awaiting that answer. The unlikelihood of that was the whole reason he hadn’t bothered making any solid promise.
XXX
Peter turned his head a little, watching Sylar out of the side of his eyes. Then he chuckled silently and nodded. “Okay.” He took up the knife in his left hand, rolling the handle in his palm and then looking at Sylar. “I promise I won't have any other weapon in bed with me, either.” He gave that a moment, his intention being to find out more conclusively where the limit of trust should be drawn. It was the same bizarre, reverse brinksmanship that had led him to sleep in the exposed main bedroom of the penthouse apartment just a few nights before, leaving himself open to whatever Sylar might do. Sylar had indeed climbed in bed with him, although it was on top of the covers and after waking him from a nightmare. Peter didn't have as much objection to that as he did to the second, more underhanded and unwantedly intimate bed-sharing that had come when he'd retreated to the guest bedroom and shut the door. There was a point there, but Peter was tired and not making the connection.
He shifted, pushing himself forward on the couch to get his feet under him and himself up. He took the short walk to the kitchen, returning the utensil to its slot in the knife block. He did so without going to the bother of making a lot of noise to telegraph his action. Sylar would trust him or not, and he'd already said he would. He went back to the couch, making the briefest 'my hands are empty' gesture before twitching back the covers a bit more and sitting down.
XXX
Sylar could only blink and stare at this turn of events. That worked? Peter believed him? Trusted his word? His words had meant something? That seemed so unaccountably nice on Peter’s part. Sylar couldn’t begin to label what flooded through him. It felt so good, whatever it was. Like the vice around his soul had eased. It was a balm, that he could be trusted on words alone not to harm someone, to be around them. He was being heard. Using his words - his word - had gotten something he wanted; he couldn’t believe it! He’d talked down manic Peter Petrelli from a lethal weapon, hell, Nathan couldn’t even do that! Sylar was practically giddy.
Peter did him one better and returned the knife without being asked and promised there were no hidden surprises. I still believe him. Huh…He beamed at nothing and turned off the light once Peter was seated. “Night, Peter,” his voice probably oozed with pleasure despite himself. An experimental kiss, board game, laundry, a successful negotiation and company while he slept; oh, yes, it had been a good day.
XXX
Peter settled himself in, head closer to the kitchen, feet in Sylar's direction, face up for the moment. He drew in a slow breath, looking over in the direction of the voice. “Good night … Sylar.”
His toes scraped against the bottom of the blanket as he shifted around. Peter reached back to move the pillow, then turned on his left side so he was facing the room. He made another attempt to fluff the pillow, then wormed his head against it. A smell. He drew in a deep breath. Sylar. That's him. Peter wriggled, drawing up his knees a little, then extending one leg and leaving one knee up as the small of his back had its say about his position. He turned his face more directly to the pillow and breathed in again, wanting another lungful.
He wasn't sure what he thought about the scent, except that it definitely tickled something in his hindbrain. That, and he wanted to smell more of it. He wasn't even sure he liked it - it was like when you catch scent of something evocative or different and have a mindless urge to sniff more and deeper so you get a better whiff. Um, can Sylar hear me over here? What do I sound like? With embarrassed self-awareness, Peter went quiet and still, straining his eyes warily in the other man's direction. It was light enough to see an outline of him, but he couldn't see features. Just as well - it meant Sylar couldn't see him. He hoped.
XXX
Sylar, being much more stationary, heard the process of wiggling. It is the couch, he recognized. He heard an inhale, dismissing it as a weird sigh. A second, longer, purposeful inhale. Does something smell? Sylar took a quick sniff of the air, finding nothing unusual. Maybe it’s me; I stink? People are more immune to their own things after all. I’ve never fallen asleep with him before, maybe this is something he does. Like…checking for carbon monoxide or…something? He’s a nurse. But you can’t smell that stuff. A third, definite sniff in the dark. Weirdest sleepover ever. I hope he doesn’t do this all night. Then it was quiet. Sylar wondered if it was an ‘uncomfortable’ quiet.
XXX
“Hey … Sylar?” His voice sounded softer and kind of weird in the dark. Juvenile. Peter cleared his throat a little to give it more age. “What do you want me to do if you have a nightmare? Give you a shake, throw a pillow at you, what?”
XXX
(You’d…actually wake me?) Course he would; he wants to sleep, you’d be interrupting. That made more sense than Peter wanting him to be getting a good night’s sleep. Off-balance and uncertain, “Um…throw a pillow at me, I guess? I wouldn’t get close or touch me - I might attack you,” his voice ended softly, regretfully, not wanting Peter to think that was a threat. He didn’t suggest a ten-foot pole, either. Sylar now noticed how strange it was, not having a concrete answer about himself - it seemed like that sort of thing should be known. It wasn’t like he’d ever slept with someone around; the few times he had been woken up hadn’t been pleasant for anyone involved. The paranoia about agents, doctors, monsters and God-knows what else was impossible to be free of. Then day must have rushed over him, consuming him in sleep.
Day 17, December 27, Morning
Sylar remembered waking once, sort of, and wanting to go back to sleep so he did. It was comfortable for a little while then it felt…empty. Sylar woke to knocking again. “Mmmm?” God, what is-? That’s so weird. “C’min,” he called out sleepily to give the all-clear. While Peter entered, Sylar blinked himself slowly to wakefulness, happy to recognize his surroundings. His clocks, his books, his bed, his clothes.
XXX
“Hey.” Having managed to get through the night unmolested and unaccompanied, Peter gave Sylar a small but friendly smile. He issued a nod of welcome as well, then ducked into the kitchen on the off chance Sylar might still want to sleep.
XXX
Where had Peter gone? Doesn’t he have everything he needs here? I’m not exactly set up for guests but…he doesn’t have a problem using my stuff. (I don’t think…) “Where were you?” he asked, propping himself on his elbows, feeling his headache roar full force. He didn’t really want to rise yet or rise at all.
XXX
Peter pulled out the milk carton, sloshing it and judging there was enough for the both of them. He glanced out at Sylar's question. As he stood in the doorway, his eyes dropped and a small frown creased his lips and brow. He didn't want to answer to Sylar about his schedule, but … it was a reasonable question if they were here together, somewhat as roommates and Sylar depending on Peter for a degree of care. There's no reason why I should keep my routine a secret from him. No legitimate reason, at least.
Coming to a decision, Peter blew out a short puff of air and turned to search for cereal boxes. He'd seen some before. He answered over his shoulder as he looked through the cabinets. “I went to work out. I like to do that in the mornings. Then I went to my apartment and showered. Came back here. Thought we'd eat together. You want some cereal? I don't really feel like cooking.”
Finding a half-empty box of Lucky Charms, he returned to the door to shake it enticingly at Sylar. “This stuff's horrible for you! I love it. Better get in here before I eat it all.” With a mischievous grin, he headed off to get bowls, then medication.
XXX
Sylar was pleased to be worthwhile company to eat with; he puffed up with pride a little. The empath bustled around in the kitchen, asking questions without really needing answers. The Lucky Charms appeared with a critique of their healthiness-factor and in the same breath, their awesomeness was proclaimed and a challenge/laughable threat given. Sylar (after his initial wide-eyed confusion) couldn’t help but grin. It grew into a smile as he chuckled and hauled himself upright. Peter was too chipper to eat by himself so there would be cereal left for him when he got there. Sylar noticed a book, one of his own collection, on the armrest of the couch. Apparently, Peter had been reading it at some point - “Realm of the Incas,” an interesting choice. He wondered if he should be angry or comforted in the knowledge that Peter had helped himself to his things (and left it lying out). That wasn’t a new theme. Either way, the book looked undamaged.
XXX
“Did- How did you sleep?” Peter asked, correcting himself from a question that only had a yes/no answer. Not only was it better to ask a patient something open-ended, but also, Peter actually wanted to talk.
XXX
Sylar entered the kitchen and nodded to the question, brushing his hair back. His focused on getting something to drink for breakfast. Task completed, he realized he’d been rude for several minutes, “How about you?”
XXX
So much for the open-ended question. He hadn't even gotten a yes or no. Peter let the attempt lapse between them, getting out spoons and bowls until Sylar volunteered to restart it with his own question. “I slept okay. Awful stiff, though.” And he found the couch confining, wanting a bed big enough to stretch out on. Couch-surfing was definitely not a long-term solution, not that Peter thought he needed to worry about it anyway. Soon, Sylar would be well enough that Peter could move back to his own apartment.
XXX
Sylar grunted about the couch. There was little help for it (aside from crude offerings to ‘adjust Peter’s back for him’). My promise didn’t insure against back pain, Petrelli, and seriously, it’s a couch.
XXX
Since it sounded like they were headed back to non-verbal territory, Peter prompted, “How's your stomach feeling? Do you want some Zofran or do you feel okay?” He looked up at Sylar, hands on the back of the chair opposite Sylar, hesitating on sitting down and obviously waiting for the answer.
XXX
“It’s better today, but my head feels worse.” Sylar sat and fiddled with his spoon, indecisive. “I’ll…try it without?” Peter didn’t have any objections, in fact, he looked happy. At that, they both poured and ate, Sylar stuck to his method of (playing with his food out of solitary boredom) eating mainly the cereal, leaving the marshmallows for after.
XXX
Peter nodded to himself and took a seat, a small smile showing his serenity with Sylar's choice.
Lucky Charms had some things going for it in Peter's estimation. On a personal note, it wasn't homogenous and he liked that. He toyed with having one bite of several cereal bits and a marshmallow, then just cereal, then three marshmallow bits together. Different combinations tasted different and he liked trying them out. On an interpersonal note, cereal was mostly milk and it was another way to get liquids into Sylar. Looking over, Peter thought for a moment the man was eating it the same way, but then he noticed the pattern. “You don't like the marshmallows? Why would you get Lucky Charms and not eat the marshmallows?”
XXX
Sylar looked up from his careful spoon-rationing. His expression was confused; how had Peter come to that conclusion? Not liking the marshmallows was how it appeared, though. “They’re called ‘marbits.’ It’s mostly something to do. I eat them last. I…like the cereal itself plain…” Sylar ducked his head and went back to poking at his breakfast, self-conscious now that his habits were weird and they both knew it. That decided, from then on he ate like a normal person, as careless as he could manage about the marbit ratio.
XXX
“Oh.” Peter pulled his head back, straightening a little and looking nonplussed at the answer. “Okay. Sure.” Looking for something different to talk about, he offered, “I'd like to finish the puzzle today so we can use the desk for whatever else.”
XXX
Sylar looked up in relief. Peter’s field trip adventures were very tiring. He knew he’d appreciate them more when he was at full health, but now it was just draining. He was pretty sure it wasn’t that much fun for Peter, either, not as much fun as it could have, should have been anyway. Maybe he remembered I have a concussion. “That sounds good.” He slyly probed, “How’d you like the book?”
XXX
“The book?” Peter's head turned in the direction of the living room, tracking to where he'd left his latest reading material. Then he looked back to Sylar, his face doing funny things as he struggled with what to say, wondering if the book's contents were some reflection on Sylar or his interests. “Well, uh, the Incans … they were … well, it's not the sort of thing they taught me in Catholic school.” History had interested him well enough, but he couldn't remember the Central and South American tribes as any more than a blur of names and shifting regions, given short shrift in his classes. It was part of why he'd continued reading the text after pulling it down at random, spine unseen, from the shelf above him. He cleared his throat. “Seemed a little gory. I didn't know they had entire cultures where ...” His voice trailed off and he looked down to watch his spoon swirl around, chasing the last few cereal bits. Human sacrifice brought to mind a much more modern moment, when his mother had knowingly set him up for disaster at Kirby … and then there was the tangled crap she (and he) had pulled in trying to sacrifice Sylar for Nathan. “How do people do that to each other?” It was raw and heartfelt, more than the apparent subject matter warranted, as Peter's emotion for the question came from a so much more personal source.
XXX
A Petrelli’s education was lacking? And lacking in the area of human sacrifice? That was hilarious, in a totally sick way. Peter’s a nurse…how is that gory to him? Sylar tried to absorb that without…laughing, questioning or otherwise mocking. The nurse’s tone caught him off guard. Sylar tilted his head and waited to see if the outburst was rhetorical. The tone suggested it wasn’t. The tone suggested Sylar hadn’t followed some emotional thought process leading up to the outburst and he didn’t want to jump in, taking things literally, especially when he didn’t know the context. Of course, since Sylar was apparently more knowledgeable, he thought there were plenty of viable, less emotional reasons behind the question: the Incas sacrificed ‘pure’ children in attempts to control the weather for a good harvest, for the children to escort the emperor in the afterlife, and/or worshipping the sun as a god. The question as better asked to someone like Hitler, whose reasons were scientifically stupid, if interesting. The point being that Hitler at least knew better, the Incas didn’t (not that it much excused them). History was good at showing human nature: cannibalistic.
Peter’s question, posed to him here required a vague answer. Being singled out, trapped and persecuted (at least, that’s what it felt like, no matter what anyone told him, no matter how they rationalized it or didn’t) was something Sylar understood. He was only slightly suspicious that Peter was referring to the Hunger and Sylar’s own acts of sacrifice. Voice blank, he said, “By caring about the end result more than individual lives.” That he understood (given his background) and yet he…didn’t understand it. It just…kind of…existed.
XXX
“But-” Peter pulled in air, held it under pressure for a moment, then let it out in an upset burst, accompanied with a small grunt. He looked at Sylar's blank face, realizing he was treading into dangerous waters here, but pushing on regardless. “Ends don't justify the means. But wait … that's what you're saying, isn't it?” Peter dipped his head, eyes still on Sylar's. “That … evil … is when people care about the end result more than the person involved?” Peter did not doubt that Sylar had a moral compass. Sylar had admitted as much before when he'd said he knew that what he'd done - all the killings, perhaps other things - had been wrong. And certainly he wouldn't be on Peter's case (or the Petrelli's) if he didn't see a glaring moral failure there. But Peter wanted to get it out in the open. It was important to him somehow, to get Sylar's agreement on the meaning of right and wrong. It was a foundation for other conversations, even if they weren't ones he wanted to have over breakfast.
Speaking of which, Peter's brows drew together as he looked at Sylar's half-finished bowl. “Did you start eating the marshmallows because I mentioned it?” His eyes, very intent like they always were when he had a subject he wasn't about to let go of, locked onto Sylar's face. “Sylar, you can eat your cereal however you want. You don't like them, don't eat them. Hell, we can sort your cereal beforehand if you'd rather.” He laughed, waving a hand at the rest of the box. “Give me all the marshbits or whatever and you can have the cereal. That'd be great. Probably rot my teeth, but that's not a big deal.”
XXX
Is he mocking me? Peter repeated what he’d said, how many times, staring him down. It was like when what teachers did in class, countering your answer to their question with a question of logic that proved your answer wrong, doing so, of course, in front of a class full of your peers. There was no escaping the questions or the humiliation after the mistake. It was like a pseudo-challenge or pseudo-insult to his intellect and capabilities. Fine, maybe it was a really generic, stupid answer but I didn’t know what you were talking about. The laughter sealed the deal. Sylar glared after that. His face was angry. He was not enjoying having his every word and behavior criticized. Can’t listen right, can’t sit right, can’t answer or talk right, can’t eat right…What does he want? He lost it over the offer to have his cereal sorted beforehand, like he was a picky child, and that’s what it meant, too: childish. Needy. Boiling over, he ranted, "You're asking a guy who can't eat his fucking cereal properly the definition of good and evil? Funny, Petrelli, really fucking hilarious!" His voice rose to a yell, made more impressive by the kitchen appliances and the small size of the kitchen itself. Sylar shoved the box at Peter; let him have the damn stuff if he liked it so much. He rose to drop his dishes off in the sink, clanking them loudly in the process. Turning around he belted, “What the fuck is it to you how I want to eat my fucking cereal anyway? Is that of vital importance for….anything?”
XXX
Peter's brows rose with the volume of Sylar's voice. Words came out that were nonsensical in combination, but the hurt underneath was loud and clear even if Peter didn’t know what had happened to trigger the outburst. He ignored the box that was shoved at him, both his hands going loose and level on the table. He was quiet and focused, his face blank, or perhaps with his game-face on. He didn’t think he was going to have to fight, but he wasn’t doing much thinking at all - just reacting.
When Sylar went to the sink, Peter started to interpret the whole thing as potentially nonviolent. He’s just venting. What is he venting about? The cereal? He turned and stood up just as quietly as he had sat, pushing his chair in and leaning his ass against it. He crossed his arms over his chest, head cocked, lips shifted to one side, his whole posture looking highly unimpressed. He was glad he'd washed up and put away everything the night before, and that cereal prep didn't involve skillets or knives. That meant there was nothing immediately dangerous for Sylar to grab near the sink and contributed to why Peter was able to let this wash over him for the time being. He’s mentioned the cereal twice now. And he acted weird when I first commented on it.
He blinked once, slowly. “Tell me about the cereal."
XXX
“No, you tell me about the cereal. Hmm? You want to- you want to demonstrate the right way to eat cereal for me? Why stop at cereal?” Peter responding to cereal talks meant the issue (the one Peter had) was about cereal. At least, that was the cover story. Sylar couldn’t understand how cereal was amusing or humiliating enough to warrant the attention. Peter’s expression made him want to smack that indifferent look away.
XXX
“If it’s important enough for you to toss the rest of your bowl and yell about it, then it’s important enough to talk about.” He spoke in a mostly reasonable tone although there was an undercurrent of irritation to it. It was hard to avoid thinking that maybe Sylar was just picking a fight because last night had passed uneventfully. “What matters to me is getting you healthy. That includes eating. If the food’s something you don’t want, tell me. Calmly.” Peter chuckled quietly and added, “Remember last night? I can be talked down from things if you give me reasons instead of just blowing up about it.”
XXX
Sylar was quiet as he thought his way around that. That his reaction was garnering a response like this was…Or is this another joke? His eyes narrowed. His lips thinned at insinuation he was being unreasonable, hysterical, insane. Then there another chuckle from the nurse. Teeth and fists clenched, he grated his reason, “Quit. Laughing.”
XXX
Peter’s head pulled back, his expression sobering more from the perception of danger than from the words themselves. He looked Sylar up and down carefully, eyes going from face to shoulders to fists to feet and then back to face. I’m not the one who needs to be talked down. He drew in a deeper, careful breath, very conscious of a sudden, stupid urge to say to hell with being reasonable and to throw down right here in the middle of the kitchen. It didn’t matter that the apparent subject was trivial; there were enough weighty, unspoken subjects between them to account for the urge. Expression even, Peter gave a single nod to agree with Sylar’s … request, putting his left hand on the top of the chair behind him. He didn’t have much of his weight on the chair - the previous impression of a semi-relaxed slouch had been mostly for show. Now he straightened a little, attention entirely focused on Sylar, eyes neither narrowed nor wide.
XXX
Jerkily, his hands unclenched. “Right and wrong isn’t funny unless you’re making fun of someone. And cereal…I don’t even…” Sylar trailed off rather than say the words ‘I don’t get the joke.’ It was one thing to be mocked, another thing not to grasp the reason for the mockery - most people seemed able to pinpoint the reason or cause, but he struggled.
XXX
Peter thought over the discussion and Sylar’s reactions to it. Maybe he thought me talking about the cereal was trivializing everything else? He’s being an asshole about it, regardless. I wasn’t making fun of him. How can I clarify that I really just wanted to talk to him, to hear what he had to say? “I was asking about it - about good and evil, the Incas, their society - because I value your opinion on it. I wanted to know what you thought.” He left the cereal out of it entirely, along with any denials of making fun of him.
XXX
“Oh, please,” Sylar scoffed, “You don’t expect me to fall for that, do you?” That ploy was so obvious even he saw it at first glance for what it was.
XXX
“Sylar, you have insights to things …” Peter ran his left hand through his hair, tousling it and rolling his eyes briefly at the ceiling, “things I don’t want to have a frame of reference for.” He sighed with resignation. “But I don’t necessarily get to choose that. Sometimes it happens to me anyway, some futures … In some futures, I’m not that different from you. I want to know you. I want to know how you’ve coped.” He frowned briefly, lips pressed together as he glanced down to remember. “I had a dream a few years ago, back when all of this started happening. It was one of those future-dreams. You told me …” he looked up intently at Sylar, eyes locked to his, “you told me I didn’t know anything about power.” He watched Sylar’s face for a reaction. “I’ve thought about that a lot. I’ve never understood what it meant. But … that it was you in the dream telling me that … it has to mean something.”
XXX
Everything stampeded through Sylar’s already over-heated and confused brain. He had a reaction to every sentence Peter uttered, good, bad, and ugly: Did he roll his eyes at me? My frame of reference is undesirable? I get to chose the crap in my life? But he’s the same as me, sort of. I don’t cope, I already said that. Then Peter stared at him and he felt caught, though it wasn’t a negative paralysis since the man wasn’t saying anything bad. Sylar blinked. He dreamed about me? And I said that? That’s…impressive of me. It’s true; what I- he- whoever, said. Did he dream that before we met? That would be…(weird? Cool? Destiny?) His expression eased, no less confused, but given a sense of direction maybe (thoroughly distracted, too). He wasn’t sure where to start speaking, most of it jumbled questions. “It means something, yeah. It’s…it’s just really…” Sylar lifted his eyebrows, closing his eyes for a second, shifting his mouth before returning to a more neutral musculature, “Weird that you would know that without…knowing that. I never said that.” He shook himself and refocused, “Are you asking me about it?”
XXX
Peter cocked his head slightly, not sure what Sylar was trying to get across. It was like Sylar thought he knew something he didn't actually know, like maybe he'd accidentally said the right words and Sylar had misunderstood it to indicate comprehension on Peter's part. Or … well, maybe Sylar would clarify. “Yeah, I am.”
XXX
“It’s the same thing I told you about quitting abilities. Trying to contain power will…tear you apart,” Sylar harshly enunciated. “Because you’re just a channel, a weak one at that. At the start you didn’t know much about abilities, let alone power but you…got some experience,” he ended ruefully. Ted’s power and Hiro’s, then that fateful Haitian’s…He got the feeling he was ignoring something or forgetting something about the conversation. The catharsis of talking about the overpowering, mind-rending, soul-blackening intent of the Hunger distracted him. In fact, Peter seemed to know lots of ways to get to him…conveniently so.
XXX
Peter's eyes narrowed a little, but the rest of his face was relaxed. It was a thoughtful/concentrating expression. The power will out, will find a way to be released? Is that what he's saying? You just need a direction then, an outlet. It's like a fire hose, all that pressure? He frowned at being called weak, but he didn't argue it.
XXX
“This is all in my head, isn’t it?” He nodded at Peter, calculating the odds and facts. “I’ve been here too long and I need a connection so I’ve finally gone off the deep end and decided to talk to myself.” Having decided that, since there was nothing he could do about it (and he wasn’t…displeased to have Peter here, real or not), he turned back to the sink to rinse out his bowl, mostly at peace with the knowledge. “If you’re part of me then…you still need this explained, don’t you?” I must be the only one with a certified person in my head, a bunch of other people I murdered and used to know, who needs to explain the things I know to myself because I’m so crazy that I snapped and I’m now picturing my worst enemy for amusement.
XXX
Continued...
Day 16, December 26, afternoon
Peter loitered in the kitchen well after the meal was over, putting things away and going to the bother of washing the dishes. Despite being tired, he wasn't in a rush to claim his bed on the couch. He was still waiting, hoping, for some manner of reassurance as he had been all day. Some 'no, I'm not going to force myself on you'. Instead, he'd been kissed without his consent and his concerns about that were not even worthy of a straight answer. Talking about it sitting across the Clue board from Sylar was one thing - it was easier to think that maybe Sylar climbing in bed with him that morning or kissing him that afternoon had been … innocent. Or understandably human. Getting ready to go to bed with the guy in the room was another thing entirely - this wasn't some hypothetical that Sylar might be venting his 'understandably human' urges on. Human beings hurt each other all the time, something Peter was painfully aware of.
He fondled one of the kitchen knives, considering taking it to bed with him. It seemed kind of extreme, but if he needed it and didn't have it … that would suck. If he had it and didn't need it, then it didn't matter and he had nothing to worry about. Peter was not unaware that the 'good' behavior Sylar had shown for the last week might be due mainly to inability. Now that the guy was feeling better, transgressions were afoot - not necessarily a coincidence. The more he thought about it, the more decided he became. He chose the paring knife, wrapping his fist around it. It had a small indentation before the heel of the blade, making it less likely his hand would slip past the bolster and cut his fingers on the blade.
XXX
Sylar didn’t bother trimming his beard down to a manageable stubble, not tonight. There was little point besides comfort. He’d definitely do in the morning. Peter was…in the kitchen - the light was still on. At least, he was pretty sure Peter hadn’t flown the coop. Maybe I should have kept a better eye on him - the drugs are right outside and Peter is nothing if not a sneaky bastard. Dismissing it because so far that threat had been unfounded, Sylar left out a blanket and pillow on the couch for Peter to arrange and fluff as he would. Ready for sleep, he turned off the living room lights and crawled into his cot, sighing just to be back with familiar things.
XXX
Peter continued his aimless puttering (planning out breakfast, but really just wasting time) until he assumed Sylar was asleep. Lights off in the kitchen left the apartment nearly dead dark. The cloud cover outside must have broken at some point during the day, because as Peter's eyes adjusted, he could see enough moonlight coming in through the window to get around. It made a decent enough nightlight that he didn't bother with leaving any other light on. He set the knife on the arm of the couch, finding the blanket and pillow Sylar had left out. Thoughtful, but on the other hand, self-serving. The guy wanted him to stay.
Peter arranged the bedding and sat down, stripping off his shirt and tossing it on the floor in front of him, far enough away that he wouldn't trip on it if he had to get up in the night. Next were shoes, carefully unlaced and examined for any residual dampness. These were placed more carefully on the floor halfway down the couch, laces loosened and open. Then socks were pulled off and tossed over with his shirt. He rubbed his feet and in between toes. Absently holding his right foot with his left hand, he listened as the many clocks simultaneously chimed the hour, and then ticked away in the comparative quiet after. He stood up, gave one last stretch for the benefit of his back and then flipped back the blanket. He picked up the knife and sat, preparing to swing his legs under the blanket and settle in.
XXX
A quick glance showed Peter, shirtless, engaged and…very armed. [Without a word, he clicked on his bedside reading lamp and] sat up. “Nuh-uh,” he proclaimed loudly. “If you can’t sleep with me, restless bed mate, then you can’t sleep with a knife. You sure as hell can’t in my apartment.”
XXX
“What?” Peter shielded his eyes from the sudden light with his right hand, the knife in question held tensely in his left. He hadn't expected to be confronted about having it. He hadn't expected Sylar to know at all unless things went badly, which he supposed might describe the current situation. Shirtless, already uncomfortable just to be here, and feeling threatened over his chosen method of self-defense, he dropped his right hand and took an aggressive tack. “I can sleep with whatever I want. And whoever I want.” To mean: not you. ”Why do you care? Is me having a knife inconvenient for something you had planned?”
XXX
Sylar immediately didn’t like that tone. A growled sigh-harumph of aggravation preceded his words. “I’m not contesting that.” Why do I care? Why do I care? There was a long, silent stare, broken only by his occasional blinking as he processed that, or tried to. “Why do I care?” Sylar repeated finally. “Yeah, you’re right. It is inconvenient. I was planning on sleeping and waking up as myself,” he stressed. “Do you not remember what happened the last time you stabbed me?” Sylar asked that with hurt confusion. The last time he’d been pierced by this man, he’d been torn asunder, left to wither or be destroyed, body and soul. He hadn’t felt the sanity, the safety of his mind and body together for months and at the end of it, Petrelli had hunted him down to try again, this time with full knowledge of what he was doing. There was no way he was leaving stabby-Petrelli in custody of a shanking weapon whether or not he had a kill-spot.
He paused to let that sink in - hopefully with logic, not…paring knives. The next obvious issue was this escalation. “It was a fucking kiss. Get over it.”
XXX
The last time I stabbed him … The tone meant Peter entirely skipped the injections of Zofran he'd given Sylar recently. Sylar was too upset for it to be that. Instead: Nails? The nail gun? No, stabbed. Kirby Plaza, sword through the chest. But that was Hiro, not me! Stabbed … glass, but that was him stabbing me. His eyes dropped and slid out of focus as a quick sweep of events when he'd thought Sylar was his brother came up blank, just like the fight at the Stanton. 'Waking up as myself'. Does he mean the- Yes, he has to. The syringe in the limo. Right? Could still be the nails. Or maybe future-me stabbed him and he thinks it was me. That would suck. Again.
Peter looked at Sylar and tilted his head, brow furrowing and his grip on the object under contest loosening. “I remember,” he said soberly. Just as seriously, he continued, “We're going to have to deal with the fact that we're both dangerous here.” He gestured with his right, pointing first at himself, then Sylar, then himself again. “To each other. It's not the 'fucking kiss'. I'm over the 'fucking kiss'. What I'm not over is you telling me to get over it and acting like what you do, and what you have done, doesn't matter.” Peter drew in a slow, deep breath, trying to relax the muscles of his back. They were tightening up and this was an important conversation that he wanted to have as calmly as possible. He breathed out slowly. The fingers of his left hand played with their grip on the knife. He let them, leaving his gaze and attention otherwise entirely on Sylar.
XXX
A light bulb was desperate to pop up over his head and light up because there was something there and he was too keyed up, tired, frazzled, something, to strike on the connection. We’re…saying the same thing, we’re worried about the same thing? But I have to live with the knife? That’s not fair. Sylar’s eyes went to the knife as it shifted in Peter’s hand. Nothing came of it but he couldn’t tell if the fiddling was a nervous, pre-emptive gesture or…not. He literally sat waiting when Peter finished speaking. Oh, no. He didn’t. Peter was waiting, cleverly leaving open space and social pressure (and bodily threat) in such a way that Sylar had to fill-in-the-blank. And a guy holding a knife, not over the kiss, but the behavior, demanding the right answer was a mountain of unfairness. Sylar glared lasers at the nurse for that reason alone. “Do you have to hold that right now?” he snipped about the blade. If he was going to have to think, mystically procure the right answer or response, or worse, apologize or sleep, he sure as hell wasn’t going to do it at paring-knife-point - his dignity and sense of fucking reality simply refused.
XXX
Peter glanced down at the knife, then gave Sylar a good, long look. This gives me power over you? You're really afraid of it. He waited to see if Sylar flinched or shifted under his gaze, trying to decide if the request that he disarm himself was a safe one to follow. Sylar's attention did not waver; he didn't give Peter anything, which was enough. Peter set the knife on the couch to his left, the opposite side of him from the other man.
XXX
That was good. Not great, but better. Sylar noticed the care (or paranoia) involved in setting the knife on the other side of Peter - it was smart whether Sylar did anything or not. His face showed his slight annoyance and acceptance, briefly. It was a relief, nonetheless, and it took the edge of tension away from the interaction. That Peter would put the knife down boded well. “Is it necessary to freak out about this before I sleep? If it’s not about the kiss, can’t this wait?”
XXX
Peter snorted lightly. "I wasn't freaking out about it. I was just going to bed - going to lie over here and mind my own business all night. If you minded yours, then nothing would have happened and I didn't think you'd ever know." He waited a beat, trying to see a way out of this that met his needs and enough of Sylar's that they could give up on this lousy day and get some sleep. "Would it help if I promised something?"
XXX
Wh- really? We are saying the same thing. I’m…a walking arsenal and he has a knife. Stand-off. Sylar’s eyes narrowed at first, then he frowned and frowned harder. He had to think about the idea of being promised something, how much Peter’s word was worth, and, if so, what he wanted. “Yes,” he surprised himself by saying, looking up at the man, almost asking ‘is that okay?’ “I…just don’t want the knife in here.” I believe him. I trust him not to do anything with his bare hands or any other object in here. How…strange and unexpected. With a kind of rueful, humorous admission, he spoke softly, “Reality tends to…warp when you’re around, Peter. But you’d have…done something by now if you were going to. You’re a straightforward guy, right?”
XXX
“I try to be,” he said, greatly soothed by Sylar's probably unintentional compliment. The set of Peter's shoulders eased and he got to what he really needed. "I want to hear you tell me that I'll be safe, asleep, here, tonight. And that I'll be safe by my standards, not yours." He wondered what it was he should promise, having not been given any hints about that.
XXX
Sylar’s face was dubious, eyebrow arced. He made a choking sound. That’s all he wanted? That’s it? “You’ll be safe by your standards.” That was easy enough. And he didn’t have to lie. There wasn’t enough room on the couch for two. It was now up to Peter to believe that or not. Sylar tilted his head, awaiting that answer. The unlikelihood of that was the whole reason he hadn’t bothered making any solid promise.
XXX
Peter turned his head a little, watching Sylar out of the side of his eyes. Then he chuckled silently and nodded. “Okay.” He took up the knife in his left hand, rolling the handle in his palm and then looking at Sylar. “I promise I won't have any other weapon in bed with me, either.” He gave that a moment, his intention being to find out more conclusively where the limit of trust should be drawn. It was the same bizarre, reverse brinksmanship that had led him to sleep in the exposed main bedroom of the penthouse apartment just a few nights before, leaving himself open to whatever Sylar might do. Sylar had indeed climbed in bed with him, although it was on top of the covers and after waking him from a nightmare. Peter didn't have as much objection to that as he did to the second, more underhanded and unwantedly intimate bed-sharing that had come when he'd retreated to the guest bedroom and shut the door. There was a point there, but Peter was tired and not making the connection.
He shifted, pushing himself forward on the couch to get his feet under him and himself up. He took the short walk to the kitchen, returning the utensil to its slot in the knife block. He did so without going to the bother of making a lot of noise to telegraph his action. Sylar would trust him or not, and he'd already said he would. He went back to the couch, making the briefest 'my hands are empty' gesture before twitching back the covers a bit more and sitting down.
XXX
Sylar could only blink and stare at this turn of events. That worked? Peter believed him? Trusted his word? His words had meant something? That seemed so unaccountably nice on Peter’s part. Sylar couldn’t begin to label what flooded through him. It felt so good, whatever it was. Like the vice around his soul had eased. It was a balm, that he could be trusted on words alone not to harm someone, to be around them. He was being heard. Using his words - his word - had gotten something he wanted; he couldn’t believe it! He’d talked down manic Peter Petrelli from a lethal weapon, hell, Nathan couldn’t even do that! Sylar was practically giddy.
Peter did him one better and returned the knife without being asked and promised there were no hidden surprises. I still believe him. Huh…He beamed at nothing and turned off the light once Peter was seated. “Night, Peter,” his voice probably oozed with pleasure despite himself. An experimental kiss, board game, laundry, a successful negotiation and company while he slept; oh, yes, it had been a good day.
XXX
Peter settled himself in, head closer to the kitchen, feet in Sylar's direction, face up for the moment. He drew in a slow breath, looking over in the direction of the voice. “Good night … Sylar.”
His toes scraped against the bottom of the blanket as he shifted around. Peter reached back to move the pillow, then turned on his left side so he was facing the room. He made another attempt to fluff the pillow, then wormed his head against it. A smell. He drew in a deep breath. Sylar. That's him. Peter wriggled, drawing up his knees a little, then extending one leg and leaving one knee up as the small of his back had its say about his position. He turned his face more directly to the pillow and breathed in again, wanting another lungful.
He wasn't sure what he thought about the scent, except that it definitely tickled something in his hindbrain. That, and he wanted to smell more of it. He wasn't even sure he liked it - it was like when you catch scent of something evocative or different and have a mindless urge to sniff more and deeper so you get a better whiff. Um, can Sylar hear me over here? What do I sound like? With embarrassed self-awareness, Peter went quiet and still, straining his eyes warily in the other man's direction. It was light enough to see an outline of him, but he couldn't see features. Just as well - it meant Sylar couldn't see him. He hoped.
XXX
Sylar, being much more stationary, heard the process of wiggling. It is the couch, he recognized. He heard an inhale, dismissing it as a weird sigh. A second, longer, purposeful inhale. Does something smell? Sylar took a quick sniff of the air, finding nothing unusual. Maybe it’s me; I stink? People are more immune to their own things after all. I’ve never fallen asleep with him before, maybe this is something he does. Like…checking for carbon monoxide or…something? He’s a nurse. But you can’t smell that stuff. A third, definite sniff in the dark. Weirdest sleepover ever. I hope he doesn’t do this all night. Then it was quiet. Sylar wondered if it was an ‘uncomfortable’ quiet.
XXX
“Hey … Sylar?” His voice sounded softer and kind of weird in the dark. Juvenile. Peter cleared his throat a little to give it more age. “What do you want me to do if you have a nightmare? Give you a shake, throw a pillow at you, what?”
XXX
(You’d…actually wake me?) Course he would; he wants to sleep, you’d be interrupting. That made more sense than Peter wanting him to be getting a good night’s sleep. Off-balance and uncertain, “Um…throw a pillow at me, I guess? I wouldn’t get close or touch me - I might attack you,” his voice ended softly, regretfully, not wanting Peter to think that was a threat. He didn’t suggest a ten-foot pole, either. Sylar now noticed how strange it was, not having a concrete answer about himself - it seemed like that sort of thing should be known. It wasn’t like he’d ever slept with someone around; the few times he had been woken up hadn’t been pleasant for anyone involved. The paranoia about agents, doctors, monsters and God-knows what else was impossible to be free of. Then day must have rushed over him, consuming him in sleep.
Day 17, December 27, Morning
Sylar remembered waking once, sort of, and wanting to go back to sleep so he did. It was comfortable for a little while then it felt…empty. Sylar woke to knocking again. “Mmmm?” God, what is-? That’s so weird. “C’min,” he called out sleepily to give the all-clear. While Peter entered, Sylar blinked himself slowly to wakefulness, happy to recognize his surroundings. His clocks, his books, his bed, his clothes.
XXX
“Hey.” Having managed to get through the night unmolested and unaccompanied, Peter gave Sylar a small but friendly smile. He issued a nod of welcome as well, then ducked into the kitchen on the off chance Sylar might still want to sleep.
XXX
Where had Peter gone? Doesn’t he have everything he needs here? I’m not exactly set up for guests but…he doesn’t have a problem using my stuff. (I don’t think…) “Where were you?” he asked, propping himself on his elbows, feeling his headache roar full force. He didn’t really want to rise yet or rise at all.
XXX
Peter pulled out the milk carton, sloshing it and judging there was enough for the both of them. He glanced out at Sylar's question. As he stood in the doorway, his eyes dropped and a small frown creased his lips and brow. He didn't want to answer to Sylar about his schedule, but … it was a reasonable question if they were here together, somewhat as roommates and Sylar depending on Peter for a degree of care. There's no reason why I should keep my routine a secret from him. No legitimate reason, at least.
Coming to a decision, Peter blew out a short puff of air and turned to search for cereal boxes. He'd seen some before. He answered over his shoulder as he looked through the cabinets. “I went to work out. I like to do that in the mornings. Then I went to my apartment and showered. Came back here. Thought we'd eat together. You want some cereal? I don't really feel like cooking.”
Finding a half-empty box of Lucky Charms, he returned to the door to shake it enticingly at Sylar. “This stuff's horrible for you! I love it. Better get in here before I eat it all.” With a mischievous grin, he headed off to get bowls, then medication.
XXX
Sylar was pleased to be worthwhile company to eat with; he puffed up with pride a little. The empath bustled around in the kitchen, asking questions without really needing answers. The Lucky Charms appeared with a critique of their healthiness-factor and in the same breath, their awesomeness was proclaimed and a challenge/laughable threat given. Sylar (after his initial wide-eyed confusion) couldn’t help but grin. It grew into a smile as he chuckled and hauled himself upright. Peter was too chipper to eat by himself so there would be cereal left for him when he got there. Sylar noticed a book, one of his own collection, on the armrest of the couch. Apparently, Peter had been reading it at some point - “Realm of the Incas,” an interesting choice. He wondered if he should be angry or comforted in the knowledge that Peter had helped himself to his things (and left it lying out). That wasn’t a new theme. Either way, the book looked undamaged.
XXX
“Did- How did you sleep?” Peter asked, correcting himself from a question that only had a yes/no answer. Not only was it better to ask a patient something open-ended, but also, Peter actually wanted to talk.
XXX
Sylar entered the kitchen and nodded to the question, brushing his hair back. His focused on getting something to drink for breakfast. Task completed, he realized he’d been rude for several minutes, “How about you?”
XXX
So much for the open-ended question. He hadn't even gotten a yes or no. Peter let the attempt lapse between them, getting out spoons and bowls until Sylar volunteered to restart it with his own question. “I slept okay. Awful stiff, though.” And he found the couch confining, wanting a bed big enough to stretch out on. Couch-surfing was definitely not a long-term solution, not that Peter thought he needed to worry about it anyway. Soon, Sylar would be well enough that Peter could move back to his own apartment.
XXX
Sylar grunted about the couch. There was little help for it (aside from crude offerings to ‘adjust Peter’s back for him’). My promise didn’t insure against back pain, Petrelli, and seriously, it’s a couch.
XXX
Since it sounded like they were headed back to non-verbal territory, Peter prompted, “How's your stomach feeling? Do you want some Zofran or do you feel okay?” He looked up at Sylar, hands on the back of the chair opposite Sylar, hesitating on sitting down and obviously waiting for the answer.
XXX
“It’s better today, but my head feels worse.” Sylar sat and fiddled with his spoon, indecisive. “I’ll…try it without?” Peter didn’t have any objections, in fact, he looked happy. At that, they both poured and ate, Sylar stuck to his method of (playing with his food out of solitary boredom) eating mainly the cereal, leaving the marshmallows for after.
XXX
Peter nodded to himself and took a seat, a small smile showing his serenity with Sylar's choice.
Lucky Charms had some things going for it in Peter's estimation. On a personal note, it wasn't homogenous and he liked that. He toyed with having one bite of several cereal bits and a marshmallow, then just cereal, then three marshmallow bits together. Different combinations tasted different and he liked trying them out. On an interpersonal note, cereal was mostly milk and it was another way to get liquids into Sylar. Looking over, Peter thought for a moment the man was eating it the same way, but then he noticed the pattern. “You don't like the marshmallows? Why would you get Lucky Charms and not eat the marshmallows?”
XXX
Sylar looked up from his careful spoon-rationing. His expression was confused; how had Peter come to that conclusion? Not liking the marshmallows was how it appeared, though. “They’re called ‘marbits.’ It’s mostly something to do. I eat them last. I…like the cereal itself plain…” Sylar ducked his head and went back to poking at his breakfast, self-conscious now that his habits were weird and they both knew it. That decided, from then on he ate like a normal person, as careless as he could manage about the marbit ratio.
XXX
“Oh.” Peter pulled his head back, straightening a little and looking nonplussed at the answer. “Okay. Sure.” Looking for something different to talk about, he offered, “I'd like to finish the puzzle today so we can use the desk for whatever else.”
XXX
Sylar looked up in relief. Peter’s field trip adventures were very tiring. He knew he’d appreciate them more when he was at full health, but now it was just draining. He was pretty sure it wasn’t that much fun for Peter, either, not as much fun as it could have, should have been anyway. Maybe he remembered I have a concussion. “That sounds good.” He slyly probed, “How’d you like the book?”
XXX
“The book?” Peter's head turned in the direction of the living room, tracking to where he'd left his latest reading material. Then he looked back to Sylar, his face doing funny things as he struggled with what to say, wondering if the book's contents were some reflection on Sylar or his interests. “Well, uh, the Incans … they were … well, it's not the sort of thing they taught me in Catholic school.” History had interested him well enough, but he couldn't remember the Central and South American tribes as any more than a blur of names and shifting regions, given short shrift in his classes. It was part of why he'd continued reading the text after pulling it down at random, spine unseen, from the shelf above him. He cleared his throat. “Seemed a little gory. I didn't know they had entire cultures where ...” His voice trailed off and he looked down to watch his spoon swirl around, chasing the last few cereal bits. Human sacrifice brought to mind a much more modern moment, when his mother had knowingly set him up for disaster at Kirby … and then there was the tangled crap she (and he) had pulled in trying to sacrifice Sylar for Nathan. “How do people do that to each other?” It was raw and heartfelt, more than the apparent subject matter warranted, as Peter's emotion for the question came from a so much more personal source.
XXX
A Petrelli’s education was lacking? And lacking in the area of human sacrifice? That was hilarious, in a totally sick way. Peter’s a nurse…how is that gory to him? Sylar tried to absorb that without…laughing, questioning or otherwise mocking. The nurse’s tone caught him off guard. Sylar tilted his head and waited to see if the outburst was rhetorical. The tone suggested it wasn’t. The tone suggested Sylar hadn’t followed some emotional thought process leading up to the outburst and he didn’t want to jump in, taking things literally, especially when he didn’t know the context. Of course, since Sylar was apparently more knowledgeable, he thought there were plenty of viable, less emotional reasons behind the question: the Incas sacrificed ‘pure’ children in attempts to control the weather for a good harvest, for the children to escort the emperor in the afterlife, and/or worshipping the sun as a god. The question as better asked to someone like Hitler, whose reasons were scientifically stupid, if interesting. The point being that Hitler at least knew better, the Incas didn’t (not that it much excused them). History was good at showing human nature: cannibalistic.
Peter’s question, posed to him here required a vague answer. Being singled out, trapped and persecuted (at least, that’s what it felt like, no matter what anyone told him, no matter how they rationalized it or didn’t) was something Sylar understood. He was only slightly suspicious that Peter was referring to the Hunger and Sylar’s own acts of sacrifice. Voice blank, he said, “By caring about the end result more than individual lives.” That he understood (given his background) and yet he…didn’t understand it. It just…kind of…existed.
XXX
“But-” Peter pulled in air, held it under pressure for a moment, then let it out in an upset burst, accompanied with a small grunt. He looked at Sylar's blank face, realizing he was treading into dangerous waters here, but pushing on regardless. “Ends don't justify the means. But wait … that's what you're saying, isn't it?” Peter dipped his head, eyes still on Sylar's. “That … evil … is when people care about the end result more than the person involved?” Peter did not doubt that Sylar had a moral compass. Sylar had admitted as much before when he'd said he knew that what he'd done - all the killings, perhaps other things - had been wrong. And certainly he wouldn't be on Peter's case (or the Petrelli's) if he didn't see a glaring moral failure there. But Peter wanted to get it out in the open. It was important to him somehow, to get Sylar's agreement on the meaning of right and wrong. It was a foundation for other conversations, even if they weren't ones he wanted to have over breakfast.
Speaking of which, Peter's brows drew together as he looked at Sylar's half-finished bowl. “Did you start eating the marshmallows because I mentioned it?” His eyes, very intent like they always were when he had a subject he wasn't about to let go of, locked onto Sylar's face. “Sylar, you can eat your cereal however you want. You don't like them, don't eat them. Hell, we can sort your cereal beforehand if you'd rather.” He laughed, waving a hand at the rest of the box. “Give me all the marshbits or whatever and you can have the cereal. That'd be great. Probably rot my teeth, but that's not a big deal.”
XXX
Is he mocking me? Peter repeated what he’d said, how many times, staring him down. It was like when what teachers did in class, countering your answer to their question with a question of logic that proved your answer wrong, doing so, of course, in front of a class full of your peers. There was no escaping the questions or the humiliation after the mistake. It was like a pseudo-challenge or pseudo-insult to his intellect and capabilities. Fine, maybe it was a really generic, stupid answer but I didn’t know what you were talking about. The laughter sealed the deal. Sylar glared after that. His face was angry. He was not enjoying having his every word and behavior criticized. Can’t listen right, can’t sit right, can’t answer or talk right, can’t eat right…What does he want? He lost it over the offer to have his cereal sorted beforehand, like he was a picky child, and that’s what it meant, too: childish. Needy. Boiling over, he ranted, "You're asking a guy who can't eat his fucking cereal properly the definition of good and evil? Funny, Petrelli, really fucking hilarious!" His voice rose to a yell, made more impressive by the kitchen appliances and the small size of the kitchen itself. Sylar shoved the box at Peter; let him have the damn stuff if he liked it so much. He rose to drop his dishes off in the sink, clanking them loudly in the process. Turning around he belted, “What the fuck is it to you how I want to eat my fucking cereal anyway? Is that of vital importance for….anything?”
XXX
Peter's brows rose with the volume of Sylar's voice. Words came out that were nonsensical in combination, but the hurt underneath was loud and clear even if Peter didn’t know what had happened to trigger the outburst. He ignored the box that was shoved at him, both his hands going loose and level on the table. He was quiet and focused, his face blank, or perhaps with his game-face on. He didn’t think he was going to have to fight, but he wasn’t doing much thinking at all - just reacting.
When Sylar went to the sink, Peter started to interpret the whole thing as potentially nonviolent. He’s just venting. What is he venting about? The cereal? He turned and stood up just as quietly as he had sat, pushing his chair in and leaning his ass against it. He crossed his arms over his chest, head cocked, lips shifted to one side, his whole posture looking highly unimpressed. He was glad he'd washed up and put away everything the night before, and that cereal prep didn't involve skillets or knives. That meant there was nothing immediately dangerous for Sylar to grab near the sink and contributed to why Peter was able to let this wash over him for the time being. He’s mentioned the cereal twice now. And he acted weird when I first commented on it.
He blinked once, slowly. “Tell me about the cereal."
XXX
“No, you tell me about the cereal. Hmm? You want to- you want to demonstrate the right way to eat cereal for me? Why stop at cereal?” Peter responding to cereal talks meant the issue (the one Peter had) was about cereal. At least, that was the cover story. Sylar couldn’t understand how cereal was amusing or humiliating enough to warrant the attention. Peter’s expression made him want to smack that indifferent look away.
XXX
“If it’s important enough for you to toss the rest of your bowl and yell about it, then it’s important enough to talk about.” He spoke in a mostly reasonable tone although there was an undercurrent of irritation to it. It was hard to avoid thinking that maybe Sylar was just picking a fight because last night had passed uneventfully. “What matters to me is getting you healthy. That includes eating. If the food’s something you don’t want, tell me. Calmly.” Peter chuckled quietly and added, “Remember last night? I can be talked down from things if you give me reasons instead of just blowing up about it.”
XXX
Sylar was quiet as he thought his way around that. That his reaction was garnering a response like this was…Or is this another joke? His eyes narrowed. His lips thinned at insinuation he was being unreasonable, hysterical, insane. Then there another chuckle from the nurse. Teeth and fists clenched, he grated his reason, “Quit. Laughing.”
XXX
Peter’s head pulled back, his expression sobering more from the perception of danger than from the words themselves. He looked Sylar up and down carefully, eyes going from face to shoulders to fists to feet and then back to face. I’m not the one who needs to be talked down. He drew in a deeper, careful breath, very conscious of a sudden, stupid urge to say to hell with being reasonable and to throw down right here in the middle of the kitchen. It didn’t matter that the apparent subject was trivial; there were enough weighty, unspoken subjects between them to account for the urge. Expression even, Peter gave a single nod to agree with Sylar’s … request, putting his left hand on the top of the chair behind him. He didn’t have much of his weight on the chair - the previous impression of a semi-relaxed slouch had been mostly for show. Now he straightened a little, attention entirely focused on Sylar, eyes neither narrowed nor wide.
XXX
Jerkily, his hands unclenched. “Right and wrong isn’t funny unless you’re making fun of someone. And cereal…I don’t even…” Sylar trailed off rather than say the words ‘I don’t get the joke.’ It was one thing to be mocked, another thing not to grasp the reason for the mockery - most people seemed able to pinpoint the reason or cause, but he struggled.
XXX
Peter thought over the discussion and Sylar’s reactions to it. Maybe he thought me talking about the cereal was trivializing everything else? He’s being an asshole about it, regardless. I wasn’t making fun of him. How can I clarify that I really just wanted to talk to him, to hear what he had to say? “I was asking about it - about good and evil, the Incas, their society - because I value your opinion on it. I wanted to know what you thought.” He left the cereal out of it entirely, along with any denials of making fun of him.
XXX
“Oh, please,” Sylar scoffed, “You don’t expect me to fall for that, do you?” That ploy was so obvious even he saw it at first glance for what it was.
XXX
“Sylar, you have insights to things …” Peter ran his left hand through his hair, tousling it and rolling his eyes briefly at the ceiling, “things I don’t want to have a frame of reference for.” He sighed with resignation. “But I don’t necessarily get to choose that. Sometimes it happens to me anyway, some futures … In some futures, I’m not that different from you. I want to know you. I want to know how you’ve coped.” He frowned briefly, lips pressed together as he glanced down to remember. “I had a dream a few years ago, back when all of this started happening. It was one of those future-dreams. You told me …” he looked up intently at Sylar, eyes locked to his, “you told me I didn’t know anything about power.” He watched Sylar’s face for a reaction. “I’ve thought about that a lot. I’ve never understood what it meant. But … that it was you in the dream telling me that … it has to mean something.”
XXX
Everything stampeded through Sylar’s already over-heated and confused brain. He had a reaction to every sentence Peter uttered, good, bad, and ugly: Did he roll his eyes at me? My frame of reference is undesirable? I get to chose the crap in my life? But he’s the same as me, sort of. I don’t cope, I already said that. Then Peter stared at him and he felt caught, though it wasn’t a negative paralysis since the man wasn’t saying anything bad. Sylar blinked. He dreamed about me? And I said that? That’s…impressive of me. It’s true; what I- he- whoever, said. Did he dream that before we met? That would be…(weird? Cool? Destiny?) His expression eased, no less confused, but given a sense of direction maybe (thoroughly distracted, too). He wasn’t sure where to start speaking, most of it jumbled questions. “It means something, yeah. It’s…it’s just really…” Sylar lifted his eyebrows, closing his eyes for a second, shifting his mouth before returning to a more neutral musculature, “Weird that you would know that without…knowing that. I never said that.” He shook himself and refocused, “Are you asking me about it?”
XXX
Peter cocked his head slightly, not sure what Sylar was trying to get across. It was like Sylar thought he knew something he didn't actually know, like maybe he'd accidentally said the right words and Sylar had misunderstood it to indicate comprehension on Peter's part. Or … well, maybe Sylar would clarify. “Yeah, I am.”
XXX
“It’s the same thing I told you about quitting abilities. Trying to contain power will…tear you apart,” Sylar harshly enunciated. “Because you’re just a channel, a weak one at that. At the start you didn’t know much about abilities, let alone power but you…got some experience,” he ended ruefully. Ted’s power and Hiro’s, then that fateful Haitian’s…He got the feeling he was ignoring something or forgetting something about the conversation. The catharsis of talking about the overpowering, mind-rending, soul-blackening intent of the Hunger distracted him. In fact, Peter seemed to know lots of ways to get to him…conveniently so.
XXX
Peter's eyes narrowed a little, but the rest of his face was relaxed. It was a thoughtful/concentrating expression. The power will out, will find a way to be released? Is that what he's saying? You just need a direction then, an outlet. It's like a fire hose, all that pressure? He frowned at being called weak, but he didn't argue it.
XXX
“This is all in my head, isn’t it?” He nodded at Peter, calculating the odds and facts. “I’ve been here too long and I need a connection so I’ve finally gone off the deep end and decided to talk to myself.” Having decided that, since there was nothing he could do about it (and he wasn’t…displeased to have Peter here, real or not), he turned back to the sink to rinse out his bowl, mostly at peace with the knowledge. “If you’re part of me then…you still need this explained, don’t you?” I must be the only one with a certified person in my head, a bunch of other people I murdered and used to know, who needs to explain the things I know to myself because I’m so crazy that I snapped and I’m now picturing my worst enemy for amusement.
XXX
Continued...