More Between Us, Chapter 10/? "Learning To Be Friendly"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 10/?
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 9, 062
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
A/N: Brief, semi-explicit mention of dead wild animals, specifically road kill.
Day 6
At first, Peter had no idea how much time passed. He needed to shift the ice packs twenty minutes on and twenty minutes off. His watch not working made that difficult to gauge. After a while, he took to watching where the sun slanted in the windows and the slow progression of the rays across the floor. Mentally, he designated spots as where ‘enough time’ would have passed. It was a system at least.
He had a choice of how to occupy his thoughts: distant memories of family and pre-ability times; more recent memories of the last several years; trying to figure out the current situation and this crazy prison dreamed up by Matt or Sylar; or speculating about the future. The last was painful even to try to think about. He shut his eyes and turned his head, but it didn’t stop the recollections: stranding Caitlin, killing Nathan, watching Sylar blow up Costa Verde, the explosion on the floor of Isaac’s loft…the carnival…Sylar with that odd smile, heading towards Emma…and Peter hoped like hell he was going to help her, save her. It felt like that’s what the killer was going to do, but Peter felt fear clench his gut, uncertainty. The more time passed since the dream, the more chance he had to second-guess, the more opportunity his memory had to distort the impression.
He tried to think of something else, anything else. A camping trip when he was a kid, with the boy scouts. Gaining merit badges, running around in the woods, trying to convince Jason that Derek had lied about the poison ivy Jason was now rubbing on himself because Derek had said you could ‘vaccinate’ yourself with it if you rubbed it on your butt where the doctors always gave you shots. Poor Jason.
In standard human nature, he’d blamed Peter for a while, until Peter suggested they jointly beat Derek up for it and then suddenly Jason was his best friend. They never got around to it, because although Peter had suggested it, the idea of actually attacking someone, even someone deserving of it, had bothered him. Instead they discussed plans and worked up strategies while Peter hung out at Jason’s place because Jason was laid up with allergic reaction. By the time the opportunity came to pass to jump Derek, Jason’s anger had faded and the two of them made up. Then Jason told Derek that Peter wanted to beat him up for the prank and Peter was never friends again with either of them. Sigh.
Oh well. It was a preferable memory to what he’d seen was yet to come, so he spent the afternoon trying not to think about his current situation or what might happen next. Eventually he slept, having weird, disjointed dreams about Sylar’s father, or a man he assumed was Sylar’s father.
Day 7
Peter rose in the morning, trying not to think about the thoughts that leaked from his companion’s mind in this place. He suspected Sylar did not know he was doing it or that Peter was getting information about him this way. Peter didn’t want to know him like this. He’d prefer to talk and hear how Sylar presented himself now. People could change - this Peter believed, and the impressions of how Sylar was years ago weren’t necessarily relevant to how he was now.
He took more painkillers and ate a couple more pieces of raisin bread before going about his morning routine. This time he had an electric razor. It was a pleasant coincidence because his right hand wasn’t up to holding a razor and he was sure he’d do a lousy job with his left. The electric razor was more forgiving of mistakes. He didn’t bother to try for a close shave. He managed an even, uniform bristle length. He smirked at the mirror as he considered growing a moustache. Ah! Hair grows here. If my facial hair is growing, then the rest is. Huh. He combed the rest back and let his thoughts avoid how he would eventually have to give himself a haircut … or the obvious alternative of asking Sylar to do it.
He applied more ben-gay, recleaned and rebandaged his knuckles and adjusted the wrapping on his right wrist and hand. He’d used plastic wrap and a bag over it for the shower, but it was a little wet regardless. He grabbed the messenger bag before heading out. He looked over at the bear. He’d stripped off the hat and bandana the night before. It looked a lot more familiar now and sat on the nightstand watching over the bed. He gave it a long look, then dropped his eyes and left.
It was easier to walk now, but he still took the elevator. His back, thighs and feet didn’t hurt nearly so much, although he was still limping from being kicked. His first stop was not to go outside, but instead visit the building office and find the key to his apartment. There might be times he wanted to lock it behind himself after he left. He took the key and as many master sets as he could identify. None of this would keep out a determined man, but at least locking the door would establish that he didn’t want Sylar inside without permission.
That done, Peter walked outside into the pre-dawn air. As before, he’d gone to bed early, risen early, and the sun would be coming up in the next ten to fifteen minutes. He liked the way the city looked at this hour - light enough to see a bit, gloomy enough to imagine that maybe everyone else just hadn’t woke up yet. He was still hungry enough that the diner sounded like a good idea, but he also wanted to get some proper compression bandages right away. There would be things to eat in the grocery store, too. He looked around to see if he was alone or if Sylar was waiting for him even before the sun came up.
XXX
Sylar woke up slowly, rather groggy and hazy. The first move he made was stiff and seemed to trigger his entire body up to the same level of it. He grunted and took his time rolling out of bed. Back…my back, he thought, shuffling into the bathroom. When he leaned over the running tap to splash some water on his face his bruised scalp screamed at him next and a survivable if brutal headache invaded his head. He groaned at that one and rolled his eyes. At least it wasn't as bad as before.
Somehow he felt refreshed, odd given his morning pains, the fight yester-- yes, it was the next morning which accounted for his waking. Something about the spirit being strong and the body weak. He was still in pain, his face aching and all to complete the look, but Peter had said they would meet that day. He chose not to label that emotion as hope. Because, really, what would they accomplish today?
He finger-combed his hair back, musing like he did almost every day about cutting it. Moving to the toilet he relieved himself and washed his hands, exited the bathroom lazily and going into the kitchen. He pawed around mostly out of boredom since he already knew today was toast; he always knew, it was unsurprisingly a routine.
After he’d placed the bread in the toaster, he ambled back towards the cot in search of reading material, trying to remember what it was that had caught his interest not so long ago. What had it been? Baseball. He rubbed his face as he recalled it; he’d left the book at the apartment complex where they’d fought. Biting his lip he wondered how much suspicion it would place him under to go back and retrieve it. He had a legitimate excuse, but that building also housed known weapons.
Sylar had won the fight, so it wasn’t like he was revenge-hunting in any way, but the thought that Peter might think he was collecting bats and guns and poisons was not a risk he wanted to take. Maybe if I ask him…? Ask him? Ask him what? ‘Peter, is it okay if I go back to the bunker building to get a book, pretty please?’ No. He would find something else to interest them both. Plenty of books in the sea. Fish being…scarce. While that thought twinged in an uncomfortable Virginia moment, Sylar went back as he heard the toaster spring up.
Grabbing out the butter and strawberry jam, he applied them to his carefully crisped toast; not burned, barely even toasted. Mom always left it in there too long. And she knows-- knew I hate tuna…Why would she- Sylar quickly derailed himself as his teeth began to grind, finishing his last bite. Standing, he went back to the bathroom and went about brushing his teeth with his usual spearmint flavor.
Once finished, he padded behind his desk and cot and dragged out a gray polo, sliding into it, cautious because of his back and grabbing up his coat which he worked his bandaged wrist into. As usual, he had nothing to carry and his internal clock told him it was the upwards of seven A.M, practically sunrise. He knew Peter tended to sleep later, but that seemed to change after he graduated med school.
Peter was alternately was up like a robin before the sun to get to work to save the masses or he crashed out like a toddler back from the playground, all depending on his schedule. Lately he thought Peter had been working too hard and wasn’t getting enough- Really? He has no job - he can’t work himself to death. What the hell does it matter? Sylar couldn’t help that he did worry about Peter’s….sanity such as it was here; the kid had never handled neglect, total neglect with grace or understanding.
Why is the instant I want and try to change my life, I get Hell instead of a-- A what? Normal life? Claire is redundant and blonde on top of that, let’s avoid sounding like her. Was it beyond the Band of Heroes to help someone who desired it in a time of need, especially when it would save some lives? He supposed it was; he didn’t factor in as ‘human: savable- please attempt rescue’.
He did so hate karma and irony. So maybe ‘Hell’ had a point. Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to be saved. Then Peter was…? What? What sin had Peter committed to land him here? Nothing on Sylar’s level of sin; that he knew without doubt. It was all a riddle, all a puzzle and if he could just figure it out he’d…have some…closure. Joy.
Sylar sighed deeply, trying to keep the positive (-ish) attitude he’d woken with as he shut the door behind himself, trying to burrow into his coat as he became exposed to more chill air. He went about his way towards Peter’s place, expecting to wait…who knew how long until he made an appearance. The medic had tensed up before when Sylar had accidentally made a move towards Peter’s door, making his feelings crystalline clear as to just how far Sylar was welcome.
Gray puffs of air escaped his mouth at every breath and he recalled a singular memory of his childhood when he’d seen people smoking outside his middle school; later he’d seen the kids pretending to smoke using twigs and rolled up paper. Somehow he remembered considering joining them at the time, but the school bus was ready for him; and what if someone saw him and told Mom?
Sylar shook his head and tried to maneuver his bound wrist into his pockets to keep his hands from stiffening up in the very brisk morning air. It was December after all. Shit…birthday. Um… His mind hitched over that course of action, but by then he’d arrived at Peter’s place, as he’d taken to calling it.
He sat where he had yesterday, on the steps of the building across from Peter’s and waited, beginning to count the pebbles of concrete and what few bits of trash and nature that lay around his feet.
XXX
To Peter’s surprise, he was alone. He didn’t wait, turning and heading off immediately, walking down the sidewalk at a steady but determined hobble. He’d stretched his leg after getting up. As injuries went, it wasn’t serious, though it was going to keep him from running for a few more days. Actually everything but the hand wasn’t serious. Already the kink in his right shoulder had faded to near-nothingness. Everything else would be down to merely tender in a week. His face looked nasty though - one eye was thoroughly blacked, the other darkened underneath; his nose and chin were swollen, neither all that symmetrically either.
He smirked to himself. For once he didn’t need to make excuses for his appearance - not to his mother, his neighbors or, worse yet, his coworkers. That last had been repeatedly awkward. Hesam had seen the bullet scar Peter carried now thanks to Emile Danko. He’d seen it when Peter was changing in the locker room. And then there were the cuts to his face and arm he’d taken from Edgar and a plethora of other unexplained injuries. He smirked again. His mother at least was usually only concerned with his clothing and what sort of an impression he would make to others, not that she obsessed over him to the extent she had with Nathan. Nathan couldn’t go out without looking perfect. Peter couldn’t go out unless his looks wouldn’t be an embarrassment to Nathan. He shook his head as he arrived at the little store.
He got compression bandages and two models of splints. He felt like a shoplifter to be putting them right in his messenger bag, but whatever. I’m moving imaginary stuff from one part of Sylar’s mind to another. It’s not stealing. He grabbed a tube of antibiotic ointment, too, then walked over towards the fruit and vegetable area, wondering where they kept freezer packs. He didn’t know, didn’t really look, and didn’t happen across them either. He picked up an apple and snagged an individually wrapped muffin as he walked out. The apple went in the bag. He continued on, examining the packaging for the muffin.
He searched the entire thing as he headed back, examining it minutely. The sun had risen while he was in the store, but the rays weren’t to the street yet. Still...there ought to be an expiration date on here. There wasn’t, quite stubbornly. He opened the package and ate it. It was good - a little sticky, but good. He reexamined the packaging again. Still no date. Huh. What to do with it now? I wonder what happens to trash around here?
He had such a list of questions for Sylar - ‘are there seasons here or is it always this friggin’ cold?’ was the next one. There were palm trees here. It shouldn’t be this cold. Curiosity wasn’t Peter’s strong suit, but there were some things he needed to know for basic life. And while sure, he could find out about the trash one by tossing the wrapper down and seeing if it was still there the next day; and he would eventually find out about seasons with the passage of time, it would be easier to ask the other man. If, assuming, the other man was willing to answer him rather than be an ass about things.
Peter finally looked up, only a half block from his destination now and saw that Sylar was waiting for him on the steps of the building they’d explored the day before. Again, Peter wondered why Sylar picked there to sit - was it because it was across from the door of Peter’s apartment building, or was it because it was in front of the building Peter intended to explore? Hardly mattered, he supposed.
A more important issue suddenly came to mind as he played events forward a bit. Now he was in a quandary and it was his own fault. He hadn’t put on the compression bandage at the store, thinking he’d go back to his apartment and do it there. If he went up to his apartment, Sylar might follow him. It wasn’t that unreasonable, but telling him not to would be awkward. Peter hadn’t done that good a job with the cloth strips, so not putting the bandage on wasn’t really an option, yet if he did it out here on the street, Sylar might want to help him - also awkward.
Peter huffed. Let’s get this over with. He was on the sidewalk on his building’s side of the street already, so he continued his path. He walked to the steps and settled down, scrupulously ignoring Sylar, who was across the width of the street from him. Peter opened his bag and pulled out the compression bandage. With his left he dug out a multi-tool knife. He looked at it blankly for a moment. How do I open this with one hand? Dammit. I am not going to accept help. Very carefully he worked his fingernail into the indentation at the top of the tiny set of scissor and swung it out. It was easier than he’d expected. He began to cut off the cloth strips from his right hand.
XXX
After seventeen minutes and twelve seconds of waiting, a surprisingly short period, Peter appeared, having already been out by the look of the muffin he had in hand. Sylar eyed it with momentary and half-hearted devious intentions; before ‘Hell’ as he termed it, when he’d had regeneration he’d always been hungry. Something about burning through nutrients and calories at a super human pace.
It would be a chore to approach the man until he’d eaten that, even if he no longer had regeneration and the (other) hunger to eat almost anything in sight. Peter, however, appeared oblivious to his presence; not entirely unexpected as he didn’t exactly stick out of the cityscape sitting as he was and all. From across the street, unimpeded by traffic, Sylar couldn’t tell if Peter was being purposefully oblivious however, something that annoyed him.
It would totally be within Peter’s motives to pretend not to see him for as long as possible. Off to a flying start today, I see. He fought off the urge to allow his expression to sour. Momentary set-back, that’s all. He watched the other man, thoroughly engrossed in his (fucking blueberry) breakfast, sit similar to Sylar only on his side of the street.
Sylar was left to quirk an eyebrow at that. If it was intentional…he had that much further to go, literally. He stood, but didn’t shake his cramping, jittery legs like he wanted (Peter might spook or…see it and take it funny, whatever), instead crossing the street solidly meanwhile thinking of metaphors and tacky unanswerable jokes about chickens…
The analogy caught him as so unfunny as to actually be amusing, so, biting down on his lip, he approached Peter as he began to fiddle with…a knife? His humor dissipated on sight and his brow furrowed, trying to make sense of that. Oh, right. I-talian Eagle Scout and all. He rolled his eyes and made enough noise walking over so he avoided startling the one-handed man with a freaking knife.
Peter made a lousy job of springing out the small scissor attachment in the knife before he tried to cut the bandage, Sylar’s sheet strips. So he had used them. That made him grin slightly to himself as he murmured a greeting, “Morning,” as he sat beside the lamed medic. Can’t use one hand to save people, Peter. No people here to be saved, right? Can’t even save yourself… The cold was traveling up his legs and butt, the concrete making his back that much stiffer.
XXX
Sylar walked over as Peter got started. This was not a surprise. After all, Peter was here; he was doing something. Were their positions reversed, then yeah, Peter would be over there looking to see what was up. He wouldn’t have sat himself down next to someone who had made it so clear they didn’t want him near them though, or whom he had a history of killing them, their family members, friends and a mixed bag of strangers. But maybe for Sylar, that just wasn’t that big a deal. Peter tensed, hunched and tried to ignore the other man, not even returning his murmured greeting.
XXX
Sylar gazed at the package of compression bandaging Peter hadn’t opened and couldn’t open. Deciding on a tactic (one he’d…vaguely picked up on from TV pre-Hell but clearer from Nathan and how to…act around a brother) Sylar picked up the package and held out his hand, surgeon-like, for the knife Peter had finished with before he put it away.
He made absolutely sure not to so much as glance Peter’s way as he did this, his eyes fixed to the package. His hand remained empty for all of five seconds as Peter processed, but soon he felt slightly-warmed metal and deftly twisted it around in his hand, plucking out the actual knife portion. The blade exposed, he popped it quickly (unthinking of the motion, noise or speed of the action) into the otherwise-sealed plastic. Heh, that was fun. Oh, god…just let me not turn into one of those kids with bubble wrap, please.
XXX
The medic had sat on the right side of the steps, where there was a raised edge he could rest his right elbow on. He’d laid out his materials to his left. Sylar sat on the opposite side of them and almost immediately picked up the very thing Peter would need next - the compression bandage. Peter glanced over at that and said nothing. He finished cutting free the cloth strips and looked over, beginning to bristle, as what he needed was still in Sylar’s hand. Sylar’s other hand, empty, was extended to him. He looked between hand and face - Sylar’s expression was blank and he was looking studiously down.
Peter realized what was wanted, but it was the body language that defused him, not the offer itself. There were many ways Sylar could have offered to open the package for him that he would have refused, argued, or objected. This was not one of them. He put the knife in Sylar’s hand and turned back to his hand, peeling off the bandages from his knuckles while Sylar fought with the stubborn plastic. He had no fear that Sylar would do anything to him with a two and a half inch blade. If he had been concerned, it would have been that the other man would slice himself on the plastic.
XXX
Extending the knife back to Peter, sans eye contact, Sylar dug into the hole he’d made, peeling apart the plastic by main force. The reason he used brute strength rather than the knife is he couldn’t imagine Peter appreciating the hacking, sawing movement or the sound since it was one of those welded shut packages. Soon he’d created an opening and tugged the bandage out as gracefully as he could, tossing the container aside carelessly and handed the prize to Peter, staring straight ahead as if nothing had happened because that was the key.
Brothers, hell, men in general did things for each other and either hit each other, laughed it off or ignored it and pretended it hadn’t happened. They’d already covered the hitting; the laughing probably wouldn’t ever come, so pretending was the easiest way. Act bored, just act bored. Surely even he can’t find fault in that?
XXX
Peter took the knife back, relaxing a bit more at the continued lack of eye contact. Peter closed it by putting the back of the blade against his thigh, then set it down on the step next to him in case he needed it for anything else. He waited another long beat when Sylar offered the bandage. No strings attached? Huh. He took it and began wrapping, knowing he really ought to say something - Thanks, Good Morning - something. He huffed instead and applied himself to his task.
XXX
Peter snatched the bandage away after a pause for those dented cogs in his head to spin around a dozen times or so; almost like he was afraid Sylar would force the damn bandage on him or something. While the thought was amusing and admittedly tempting, Peter was giving him the red light. He could see it; he just usually ignored it; he usually didn’t have to pay attention to what someone was feeling.
Contrary to popular belief, he was pretty astute at reading people after having a good twenty-five years or so of hard, day-in/day-out practice with a highly unstable adoptive mother…figure person. And if popular belief were true, as a psychopath he could easily read what a person wanted in direct opposition to what they said they wanted. Psychopaths were shallow, the books said and that had always irked him, almost as much as the label did. He knew he had feelings, people just ignored them (okay, and he sort of hid them).
Psychopaths easily shifted their shallow exterior to adopt what the person needed at the time, rather what they said they wanted. So Peter got his foot of space in actuality, got his knife back and got all the help he would willingly allow himself to receive even though they were both aware that Sylar would assist in binding his hand.
XXX
Peter snugged up the bandage, tested what limited flexibility he had, then set down the rest of the roll. He picked up the splint that would hold his wrist and hand immobile. What he had was more suited to carpel tunnel, but it would work. Maybe in the afternoon or tomorrow he’d go looking for a hospital, pharmacy or hospital supply store. He secured it then reached down to pick up the box the antibiotic ointment came in. He poked in the end with his thumb and fiddled with it briefly until he got it out. He let the box drop and picked up the tube, working the cap with thumb and forefinger while holding it with the same hand.
XXX
So far…so good. The only response he got was a huff, but he was fairly sure it was aimed at Peter himself and not Sylar. It made him wonder though, just how inhuman the Heroes thought he truly was. Surely Peter… He pursed his lips, ditching that line of thinking. It no longer mattered. He supposed what did matter now was how interesting things would get until Peter trusted him. And how long it would take.
XXX
He could feel Sylar’s eyes on him during this operation, but he was pretty sure if he looked over, the other man would look away and that was fine. Keeping his eyes on his task, Peter asked, “You ever been hurt all that bad here, while you were alone?” Peter applied the ointment to his knuckles. He frowned down at his supplies. He’d planned - as much as he had planned - to do this in his apartment where he had bandages. Oh well. The ones he’d just taken off had been applied less than an hour before. He started putting them back on.
XXX
Sylar found himself watching with only a kernel of curiosity for the process of ‘how to wrap a broken finger’ and Peter didn’t give him an indication that it was somehow wrong or that it was unwelcome. The other man asked him about his previous injuries here in Hell and he glanced up, a little stunned.
Odd question….probing for weaknesses? He smoothed his face over in case Peter decided to look, swallowed and licked his lips before he answered, “I broke a toe, sprained my ankle, cracked a knuckle, twisted my knee, so no.” All his attempts at ‘out’ or attention from the non-existent populace had ended in a one-sided fight with a face of a building, immoveable and solid. Doesn’t matter now. You’re here to take over that job. Aren’t you, Peter?
Sylar made a face as Peter reapplied a used bandage to his knuckles after turning it over and he caught sight of Peter’s black eye. Wouldn’t it just make more sense to get another strip of fabric or band-aids when they explored instead of using an old bandage? That was Peter’s problem since he was not inviting any real help.
“I dropped a plate once, sliced up my thumb and hand…lots of times, actually, with the can opener. Bashed my elbow into a cupboard trying to open some juice; the arm stayed numb for a week, turns out it was fractured. Tried to stay awake to shut myself down, see if I still had….abilities….hit my head in the shower. Got an infection once, lasted about a week. Burned my part of my hand relearning how to cook without telekinesis; it’s actually harder than it sounds.”
Sylar’s voice was similar to someone reading things off his grocery list, trying to keep the emotion from his face as well. It was probably something most people considered ‘personal’. To him it was a bad time he’d rather forget. He was totally confused as to why Peter would want to know, unless it was ‘What can I expect here?’
Everything had healed over time, not a scar or nick to be found. Somehow the idea of suicide wasn’t as prominent as it probably would have been….should have been otherwise. He’d felt a horrible pang of empathy for Claire who had no pain on top of being unmarked. “Nothing changes,” he whispered to himself, adjusting his elbows on his knees, his fingers twined together loosely as he looked out over the street wistfully.
XXX
Peter snorted and continued on his knuckles. "How do you cook with telekinesis? I can't even imagine that."
XXX
Sylar made a face, barely holding back a glare. It wasn't his fault Peter couldn't cook or use telekinesis. It was probably too delicate for a messy empath. "Yes," he drew out the word a little slowly, careful to keep anything from his tone. "It's...a hard habit to break. I guess three years learning it and three years going the other way."
XXX
Peter sighed. More attitude. Well...whatever. "What I mean is, how do you actually cook with telekinesis at all? It's just moving things around. What are you doing with it when you cook? Using it to hold the pans on the burners or something?"
XXX
Persistent. Clearly he wasn't mocking if he was still asking. "Moving stuff around, I can flip a pretty good omelet," he grinned a little to himself, "I never got much chance to use it, you know. I mean, with Ted's power we c- I could technically be the fire while I did it. Great for multi-tasking."
XXX
We? Peter glanced over. We? That was so loaded he didn't want to touch it with a ten foot pole. "Yeah. So I've been meaning to ask, since you've-" said you’ve "been here three years... are there seasons, or is it always this cold?" He put the last bandage back on his right hand, smoothing it down carefully, and began to remove the ones on his left. The scuffs and abrasions there were much slighter - hardly broke the skin even. Under normal circumstances Peter wouldn't have bothered with bandages on them, but he'd been bored last evening.
XXX
Sylar sucked on his lower lip instead of biting it as he wished, managing to cover a wince at his lapse. It was just instinct. Most people he interacted with were specials. He had the urge to whistle to distract the other man. He tilted his head, looking around a bit with disinterest. "Eh...seasons is a...relative term. It won't always be cold but the leaves don't turn color, flowers don't bloom...." He shrugged, really at a loss for an answer; possibly a bi-product of having a Petrelli near. He stole a quick glance at Peter's left hand, practically unblemished. While he had his own questions, he knew Peter was the newbie here and needed them answered first; his own curiosity could wait as it had for, yes, three years.
XXX
Peter dabbed ointment on fairly liberally. "Okay. That...answers something else I was wondering about - gardens, growing things." He straightened, rolling his shoulders and looking off down the street like he expected to see something that wasn't there. I want out. He sighed, frowned and looked back at his hand. "Do we-" Now I'm doing it. Fucking 'we.' Oh well. "Do we ever run out of things here?"
XXX
Sylar shook his head sadly. He was no green-thumb, but growing something, being responsible for a plant would be similar to having a pet he imagined. It would have been something. Peter began moving around and it made him want to move around; the concrete was no fun to sit on when the cold seeped through his jeans. I should call him grasshopper. Ha. Sylar turned towards him, amused and not-so-secretly delighted at the plural pronoun's usage from Peter. "No. I never have to scavenge; not really. It's...it seems to replenish itself. I don't know how or even why." It sucked not having answers, especially when he was being asked for would-be wisdom.
XXX
Peter started rewrapping the bandages on his left hand now, taking care not to get the adhesive fouled by the ointment. "Huh. I guess that's good to know. How about trash? I hadn't really paid any attention to the trash can in the apartment, but," he shrugged one shoulder, "I don't want to be throwing stuff in the street if I'm going to have to walk over it for the next however long." I am certain Parkman could get me out of here if he tried. This isn't a freaking one-way ability. I must have lost it somehow when I touched Sylar. Maybe I accidentally swapped one of his abilities. That would explain a lot. An awful lot.
XXX
"Disappears." Sylar scratched at his calf through his pants, the feeling uncomfortable in the chill weather. Peter was making him look bad what with his head-to-toe medical care. Sylar took care of immediate needs and immediate pains if at all possible (because sometimes it wasn't) and dealt with the fall-out once he was safe. That's his job. He can get sued for that kind of crap. When was the last time I was in a hospital? "If you did, it would probably be gone within a week or so...it seems to depend on how often you see it or visit the area. I'm not sure why."
XXX
Peter nodded and picked up the tube of ointment. He made a gesture with his right hand - just an odd, abortive motion with it. Damn it. With the freaking brace on I can't get my thumb and forefinger together anymore. He picked up the cap to the tube, also with his left, and stuck it in his mouth. He screwed it back in. I'm going to have to put up with this for weeks? That ain't happening. That's going to get really frustrating, really fast. Next time I go back to hitting him over the head with 2x4s, I swear. "Well, that's good to hear, I guess. So don't toss things where we go frequently and we'll be fine, huh?" He changed subjects back to an earlier one. "Does it ever rain or get windy or anything like that?"
XXX
"Y-yeah," was his response. He was hesitant to address this one because he had his suspicions about it and it probably showed. Over the years it had finally dawned on him that the weather appeared to follow his...moods, roughly put. He liked to ignore that part of it. Peter was just turning into the act of the day, wasn't he? Sylar's attention was being focused more and more on what Peter was doing (trying to do). "Wind, rain, storms, thunder, hail sometimes...and lightning." He really shied from that one, splaying his hands on his knees.
XXX
Huh. Is he scared of storms? Wouldn't that be a riot? Scary serial killer, frightened by thunder. I'll have to remember that for the next time I think he's going to snap and kill me. "Okay. That sounds pretty scary. I've never liked tornados myself." He shook his head. "Whirlwinds." It was true; not that it was a crippling phobia, or that he'd had to deal with it much in his life. He realized he was sharing automatically and tensed.
XXX
Sylar caught the condescension at 'That sounds pretty scary.' Go figure his reluctance to address a fucking storm was read as fear. His fear was long since past, the person who had owned the lightning...equally harmless and no longer worthy of anxiety. "Oh, it's completely terrifying," he shot back, keeping his tone within the realm of teasing, but laden with sarcasm all the same.
XXX
Peter shot him a smirk as he gathered his stuff back up and put it in the bag, then stood up. "So, uh... I was going to continue where we left off yesterday." He jerked his head at the building. "Over there."
XXX
As Sylar stood to follow Peter, he got the static again: //"...Sometimes the cabin gets so compressed it crushes the pilot," he was telling his seven year old kid brother, ever full of questions. Nathan had completed boot camp and was soon to leave again for further training and eventually a post. "What happens to the plane in a tornado, Nate?" He'd asked, so innocent and wide-eyed with fear for his idol. But now it was "Really?" There would be no pulling the wool over this kid's eyes, evidenced by the expressive furrowing of his dark little eyebrows up at Nathan as he unpacked. "Ah, yah. I'm pretty sure they give you a Purple Heart for those missions. If you survive. They happen all the time in the Middle East, Pete. And when they get really bad..."// Sylar's balance wavered, but he caught himself and stood straight. "Huh?" He'd missed what his companion said, but clued in at the gesture. "Ah, yeah. Great."
XXX
Peter stretched a little more, taking a few steps and working his thigh from where it had stiffened while sitting. He watched Sylar for a few moments as he did so, wondering if the wavering was due to lingering effects of the concussion or something else. When it didn’t recur, Peter didn’t obsess about it. Okay, let's go. He didn't actually say it, though, because he didn't really want Sylar to come with him. He just expected he would. He glanced over at the other man. I wonder if it's possible he'll go off and do something else? Nah. He turned back and crossed the street, looking up and down the empty pavement. It's really lonely out here. I don't like it. If Matt Parkman can manage to make a place where Sylar is good company, then...wow, that says something pretty twisted about Matt's brain.
Peter went inside, bypassing the elevator for the stairs. He stopped once inside and stretched his leg again. Yes, the pause would make Sylar wait - or the other man could go around him. If he was going to be following Peter around, then he'd have to put up with Peter acting like he wasn't there. "Do you still think you're going to live forever? In here?"
XXX
Sylar stayed behind Peter as they entered the building. He was surprised by the choice of stairs. Is he trying to be tough or work out a cramp here? He was left to make a quick decision whether or not to hawk over Peter and his leg, risking serious awkwardness; or if he moved on and around, risking the appearance of callousness. He stepped around Peter and continued up the stairs, taking his time, since the motion did unpleasant things to his back. I’m not a mother hen for you, Peter, he told himself. So he heard the man's question and it gave him pause. Sylar turned from the flight above the medic to face him. "I think I'm going to live as long as long Hell goes on. In here," he delivered with solemnity and seriousness. 'You don't have Claire's power....I don't know how long you'll last, Peter' he wanted to say, but held his tongue. Giving him a weary, pained glance, he headed up to the fourth floor.
XXX
Peter waited until Sylar was well out of sight before miming him mockingly, 'I'm gonna live as long as Hell lasts.' He didn't actually speak, he just mouthed the words and moved his head sarcastically. Yeah, sure. You don't have Claire's power in here. He sighed. I should drop it. This place is thick with logic problems. He thought it was real. Might still. Just leave it alone, Peter, unless you want to start another fight. Slowly, he mounted the stairs, emerging on the third floor. Which floor were we on last time? "Sylar?" He listened. No answer. "Sylar?" Still no answer. Huh. He went on up to the fourth floor, stopping with his hand on it. He's got to be around here somewhere. But if this isn't the right floor, and he’s trying to stage an ambush or something, then I'm getting out of here. I wanted to freaking avoid him. Why am I following him anyway? He snorted, rolled his eyes, and opened the door anyway. "Sylar?"
XXX
Letting the door clang shut behind him, he meandered into the hall and around the corner, hands contentedly in his pockets. There was nothing here to keep his attention besides Peter. And Peter was being a slow-poke today. Sylar didn't turn as he heard his name called; the source and the source's location obvious. He was visible enough in the middle of the freaking hall. "Lost so soon, Peter?" Sylar gently, very gently teased, leaving out his thoughts on Peter being afraid of the dark...(Also dirt he possessed on Peter’s childhood). Wasn't he generous? Maybe he was feeling playful. He opened a door at random and made a mild if facetious gesture of ‘after you’, tilting his head and letting himself in with a grin on his face.
XXX
Peter didn’t dignify Sylar’s question with an answer, but he did approach him and looked into the apartment Sylar had opened. After a pause to review it, he walked inside. The set of his shoulders relaxed a little. Sylar had sat next to him earlier, walked past him in the stairwell and Peter passed by him now as he walked into the room. The distance between them was literally shrinking, but more noticeably Peter was not bristling so much and reacting warily at every move from the killer. This was not to indicate any acceptance of the other man’s actions, but rather an acknowledgement that perhaps there was nothing to be on guard against here. The back of Peter’s mind remained dead-certain that was a “here” condition only - with abilities, outside, Sylar would still be very much a threat and one that Peter was ill-equipped to contain.
For now though, he didn’t need to think about that. They might leave tomorrow or maybe in ten years, or maybe Peter would die here (tomorrow, or in ten years, or a hundred - he didn’t know). He’d think about it some other time. He was sometimes cautious, occasionally afraid, and tried not to get hurt, but his own mortality had rarely stopped him from attempting something if the cause was worthwhile.
XXX
Sylar prowled around aimlessly, careless of the belongings in the rooms, but then again he’d never been careful with them. He gave only the initial, cursory glance as Peter entered. Peter also seemed to be slowly losing his inhibitions towards it. This isn’t gonna sink in for a while and it has nothing to do with my presence, was his insightful comprehension. It’s a nature, isn’t it, he grumped to himself, wishing he could fast forward it or something. He knew he couldn’t expect Peter to just ‘get over it’; he wasn’t capable of it; he wouldn’t let himself ‘get over it’ either.
Is Peter ever going to let this go, not just get over it? It’s either that or giving up and he’s….that’s just not in him. He knew from experience, even if he couldn’t claim it as his. So much crap so fast, he thought. Mind rape, being a hollowed out husk, then getting my body back, asking for help then….this. I got my body back, now there’s someone in the world now. I don’t know how or why, but he’s here. So….now what?
XXX
Peter looked around the place and started making judgments and guesses - occupant male, middle aged, middle-income and employed, no pets, no kids - not here at least. He walked over and looked at the books on the built-in shelves, letting his eyes trail over the titles on the spines. “You ever search these apartments yourself, or is this all new to you?” He squatted to look in the cabinet set into the wall under the shelves. There was a photo album. He pulled it out with a surge of enthusiasm, only to find it full of pictures of landscapes. He stared at it blankly. What was it I expected to see?
He looked over his shoulder at Sylar, then back at the album. He put it up quietly. A human face. Whoever lived here. That’s what I wanted to see. This whole place, all these apartments, and the only person who really lives here is him. And me, I guess. Now.
XXX
After he’d perused the bedroom and bathroom, finding nothing shocking or of use; it was a guy’s apartment, what could really be interesting in it? Sylar leaned back against the wall and watched Peter. The man picked up a photo album (must’ve been a girlfriend involved in that one) and he wasn’t surprised. Still looking for people? He knew what the medic wouldn’t see. He kept his eyes on Peter, not being shy about it this time. “I explored lots of buildings, first just to look for people, then signs of people than for anything useful or a place to crash. I ended up at my apartment, which you’ve seen,” was the answer.
XXX
Peter looked at the back of the couch, then pulled it away from the wall a few inches and peered down between the furniture and the wall. What am I looking for here? I know there’s no one here. (Not that they’d be hiding behind the couch of all places.) Or do I know no one’s here? There’s Sylar. He smiled slightly to himself at the thought of pawing through Sylar’s apartment like this. The thought of invading the other man’s space like that was amusing, not that Peter was about to do it. It was invasive enough just being mired here in his head. It’s not like there’s going to be anyone else in here. He stood up, brow furrowed. Sylar…was in Matt’s head somehow. Then who was in Nath-, uh, Sylar’s body?
He looked over at Sylar and then down, blinking back a moment of sadness and confusion. It wasn’t a question he wanted answered yet and he knew it. Even more, he didn’t think he’d believe what Sylar had to say. He gave himself a little shake and went on into the dining room. He looked over objects, touching them, shifting them, going through the place one possession at a time, in no great hurry but moving steadily.
XXX
Sylar’s brows inched upwards at the couch-wall ratio checking. “It might be New York, but sorry, no rats.” There went his pet idea, he mentally sniggered. He found his gaze wandering and what more interesting than Peter; injured, cranky and depressed as he was.
It was difficult to keep his mind off…the things he wished to do, the things he wished he could let himself think about. But he knew once that cat left the bag he could never put it back again. He’ll…come around to something….eventually. Right? If he could keep his cool, his control and in doing that control his communication which was his biggest problem (and thereby Peter’s), he would win him over.
So what now? He felt something had changed after the fight, not just the lack of death-threats either. Then he caught Peter turning away with a deeply saddened expression. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. (Did I?) It was getting frustrating and he didn’t handle that well; violence or snark or even talking someone’s ear off to ease his discomfort with a situation and none of it would actually help here.
“Um, Peter…” he began lamely, trying not to belabor ‘why the hell are you here’ and ‘how did you get here’ or ask the personal questions that would just get him smacked again, but trying to…be involved. Casually. (Involved?) “What was the worst scene you had to clean up?” Whew. Something Nathan wouldn’t know, something that was unrelated, casual….safe? I’m learning something; it’s not a failed question.
XXX
Peter appreciated, probably more than Sylar knew, the opportunity to think about something else, as well as the invitation to talk. The subject itself - that made him smile, and not because he was a fan of gore, but because that was such a popular question. In fact, it was something of a running joke among EMTs. There were many hilarious answers. “Heh,” Peter said, wondering if he could pull one off on Sylar, and what sort of reaction the other man would have to it if he did.
“Lemme guess, you don’t have any experience with EMTs and what they have to deal with, do you?” He cast a speculative eye over Sylar’s response, confirming for himself that yeah, he might be able to pull this off. He wandered into the kitchen and started looking through drawers, one after another. It gave him an excuse to keep his face turned away and minimize how much he was likely to give away.
XXX
“Vaguely, yeah,” Sylar nodded seriously, his expression interested and unsuspecting when Peter glanced back. The medico launched into his story, and it was a story. He was a little surprised by that somehow, recognizing he’d asked the man to tell him a story and even more so intrigued that Peter was actually taking him up on it. Cool. He nodded and made the appropriate sounds to encourage the man to continue; oh, please do continue. It had been a throw away question from him, but Peter took it and went with it and he was getting more than he’d hoped for. It had been the right question.
XXX
“The worst scene I was ever called to was an auto accident, but that wasn’t the bad part.” He shrugged. “The people in the car, they were fine, just shook up. They’d ended up in the ditch after swerving to miss the body. It was out on the highway; it was dark; summertime; really hot day. Whoever hit him first must have just clipped him. I say him, but it was so bad no one could tell if it was male or female - at least, not from the side of the road. Two or three different cars must have run over him.”
XXX
Sylar winced as Peter got to the part about the sex of the person, trying to picture it and not picture it at the same time. “Wow,” he murmured. A whole body? Getting run over two or three- He didn’t have time to pick it apart because Peter was already moving on and he was enraptured.
XXX
Peter sank down to open a cabinet, continuing talking in a mostly bland monologue. He shook his head slowly and sadly. “The thing you don’t realize about corpses…or maybe you do, really…” He paused considering that most of Sylar’s kills had been, as far as Peter knew, fairly clean. He shuddered, not wanting to contemplate that. Back to the story. “Anyway, it’s the smell. The abdomen had been torn open, guts were out there, there’s this stench in the air and here’s Hesam - my partner - trying to get me to go out there and pull this body off a busy highway at night. No. Way. I have limits, man.” He shook his head again and hazarded a glance back to see how his audience was taking it.
XXX
Sylar did narrow his eyes at the part about corpses, mostly so Peter’s spine knew he was onto his brain and mouth’s train of thought there. Peter missed it with his back turned, but it was the thought that counted, right? It hadn't been menacing anyway. “Hmm,” was his hum of response. He’d read about the smell of the abdominal cavity during autopsies and Discovery Channel animal shows and such.
Wait, who’s Hes- Oh, okay, he wondered briefly, following gamely along. His eyebrows rose as Peter adamantly refused to get the body and that really did surprise him. /”Triumph of the human spirit?”/ He could understand the why (not) in this case, but this was still Peter Petrelli, Rescue Hotline One-Oh-One. Even to corpses he was sure, Nathan’s memories assuring him of that about the hospice care.
XXX
Peter moved on to another cabinet. “It’s not like anyone’s life was going to be saved. Dead was dead. We put up some road flares and worked the auto accident until some cops showed up. Then we got them to do it.” He didn’t think he could milk this much further without Sylar catching on, so he wrapped up (even though Peter had seen a few masterful tale-spinners continue this particular story for fifteen or twenty minutes). “I’ll tell you what, there is nothing worse than a dead skunk on hot asphalt.”
Peter stood with the punch line in case he needed to beat a hasty retreat, or…really, he had no idea how Sylar was going to take the joke. In retrospect, he suspected this was probably a really dumb idea.
XXX
Continued...
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 9, 062
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
A/N: Brief, semi-explicit mention of dead wild animals, specifically road kill.
Day 6
At first, Peter had no idea how much time passed. He needed to shift the ice packs twenty minutes on and twenty minutes off. His watch not working made that difficult to gauge. After a while, he took to watching where the sun slanted in the windows and the slow progression of the rays across the floor. Mentally, he designated spots as where ‘enough time’ would have passed. It was a system at least.
He had a choice of how to occupy his thoughts: distant memories of family and pre-ability times; more recent memories of the last several years; trying to figure out the current situation and this crazy prison dreamed up by Matt or Sylar; or speculating about the future. The last was painful even to try to think about. He shut his eyes and turned his head, but it didn’t stop the recollections: stranding Caitlin, killing Nathan, watching Sylar blow up Costa Verde, the explosion on the floor of Isaac’s loft…the carnival…Sylar with that odd smile, heading towards Emma…and Peter hoped like hell he was going to help her, save her. It felt like that’s what the killer was going to do, but Peter felt fear clench his gut, uncertainty. The more time passed since the dream, the more chance he had to second-guess, the more opportunity his memory had to distort the impression.
He tried to think of something else, anything else. A camping trip when he was a kid, with the boy scouts. Gaining merit badges, running around in the woods, trying to convince Jason that Derek had lied about the poison ivy Jason was now rubbing on himself because Derek had said you could ‘vaccinate’ yourself with it if you rubbed it on your butt where the doctors always gave you shots. Poor Jason.
In standard human nature, he’d blamed Peter for a while, until Peter suggested they jointly beat Derek up for it and then suddenly Jason was his best friend. They never got around to it, because although Peter had suggested it, the idea of actually attacking someone, even someone deserving of it, had bothered him. Instead they discussed plans and worked up strategies while Peter hung out at Jason’s place because Jason was laid up with allergic reaction. By the time the opportunity came to pass to jump Derek, Jason’s anger had faded and the two of them made up. Then Jason told Derek that Peter wanted to beat him up for the prank and Peter was never friends again with either of them. Sigh.
Oh well. It was a preferable memory to what he’d seen was yet to come, so he spent the afternoon trying not to think about his current situation or what might happen next. Eventually he slept, having weird, disjointed dreams about Sylar’s father, or a man he assumed was Sylar’s father.
Day 7
Peter rose in the morning, trying not to think about the thoughts that leaked from his companion’s mind in this place. He suspected Sylar did not know he was doing it or that Peter was getting information about him this way. Peter didn’t want to know him like this. He’d prefer to talk and hear how Sylar presented himself now. People could change - this Peter believed, and the impressions of how Sylar was years ago weren’t necessarily relevant to how he was now.
He took more painkillers and ate a couple more pieces of raisin bread before going about his morning routine. This time he had an electric razor. It was a pleasant coincidence because his right hand wasn’t up to holding a razor and he was sure he’d do a lousy job with his left. The electric razor was more forgiving of mistakes. He didn’t bother to try for a close shave. He managed an even, uniform bristle length. He smirked at the mirror as he considered growing a moustache. Ah! Hair grows here. If my facial hair is growing, then the rest is. Huh. He combed the rest back and let his thoughts avoid how he would eventually have to give himself a haircut … or the obvious alternative of asking Sylar to do it.
He applied more ben-gay, recleaned and rebandaged his knuckles and adjusted the wrapping on his right wrist and hand. He’d used plastic wrap and a bag over it for the shower, but it was a little wet regardless. He grabbed the messenger bag before heading out. He looked over at the bear. He’d stripped off the hat and bandana the night before. It looked a lot more familiar now and sat on the nightstand watching over the bed. He gave it a long look, then dropped his eyes and left.
It was easier to walk now, but he still took the elevator. His back, thighs and feet didn’t hurt nearly so much, although he was still limping from being kicked. His first stop was not to go outside, but instead visit the building office and find the key to his apartment. There might be times he wanted to lock it behind himself after he left. He took the key and as many master sets as he could identify. None of this would keep out a determined man, but at least locking the door would establish that he didn’t want Sylar inside without permission.
That done, Peter walked outside into the pre-dawn air. As before, he’d gone to bed early, risen early, and the sun would be coming up in the next ten to fifteen minutes. He liked the way the city looked at this hour - light enough to see a bit, gloomy enough to imagine that maybe everyone else just hadn’t woke up yet. He was still hungry enough that the diner sounded like a good idea, but he also wanted to get some proper compression bandages right away. There would be things to eat in the grocery store, too. He looked around to see if he was alone or if Sylar was waiting for him even before the sun came up.
XXX
Sylar woke up slowly, rather groggy and hazy. The first move he made was stiff and seemed to trigger his entire body up to the same level of it. He grunted and took his time rolling out of bed. Back…my back, he thought, shuffling into the bathroom. When he leaned over the running tap to splash some water on his face his bruised scalp screamed at him next and a survivable if brutal headache invaded his head. He groaned at that one and rolled his eyes. At least it wasn't as bad as before.
Somehow he felt refreshed, odd given his morning pains, the fight yester-- yes, it was the next morning which accounted for his waking. Something about the spirit being strong and the body weak. He was still in pain, his face aching and all to complete the look, but Peter had said they would meet that day. He chose not to label that emotion as hope. Because, really, what would they accomplish today?
He finger-combed his hair back, musing like he did almost every day about cutting it. Moving to the toilet he relieved himself and washed his hands, exited the bathroom lazily and going into the kitchen. He pawed around mostly out of boredom since he already knew today was toast; he always knew, it was unsurprisingly a routine.
After he’d placed the bread in the toaster, he ambled back towards the cot in search of reading material, trying to remember what it was that had caught his interest not so long ago. What had it been? Baseball. He rubbed his face as he recalled it; he’d left the book at the apartment complex where they’d fought. Biting his lip he wondered how much suspicion it would place him under to go back and retrieve it. He had a legitimate excuse, but that building also housed known weapons.
Sylar had won the fight, so it wasn’t like he was revenge-hunting in any way, but the thought that Peter might think he was collecting bats and guns and poisons was not a risk he wanted to take. Maybe if I ask him…? Ask him? Ask him what? ‘Peter, is it okay if I go back to the bunker building to get a book, pretty please?’ No. He would find something else to interest them both. Plenty of books in the sea. Fish being…scarce. While that thought twinged in an uncomfortable Virginia moment, Sylar went back as he heard the toaster spring up.
Grabbing out the butter and strawberry jam, he applied them to his carefully crisped toast; not burned, barely even toasted. Mom always left it in there too long. And she knows-- knew I hate tuna…Why would she- Sylar quickly derailed himself as his teeth began to grind, finishing his last bite. Standing, he went back to the bathroom and went about brushing his teeth with his usual spearmint flavor.
Once finished, he padded behind his desk and cot and dragged out a gray polo, sliding into it, cautious because of his back and grabbing up his coat which he worked his bandaged wrist into. As usual, he had nothing to carry and his internal clock told him it was the upwards of seven A.M, practically sunrise. He knew Peter tended to sleep later, but that seemed to change after he graduated med school.
Peter was alternately was up like a robin before the sun to get to work to save the masses or he crashed out like a toddler back from the playground, all depending on his schedule. Lately he thought Peter had been working too hard and wasn’t getting enough- Really? He has no job - he can’t work himself to death. What the hell does it matter? Sylar couldn’t help that he did worry about Peter’s….sanity such as it was here; the kid had never handled neglect, total neglect with grace or understanding.
Why is the instant I want and try to change my life, I get Hell instead of a-- A what? Normal life? Claire is redundant and blonde on top of that, let’s avoid sounding like her. Was it beyond the Band of Heroes to help someone who desired it in a time of need, especially when it would save some lives? He supposed it was; he didn’t factor in as ‘human: savable- please attempt rescue’.
He did so hate karma and irony. So maybe ‘Hell’ had a point. Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to be saved. Then Peter was…? What? What sin had Peter committed to land him here? Nothing on Sylar’s level of sin; that he knew without doubt. It was all a riddle, all a puzzle and if he could just figure it out he’d…have some…closure. Joy.
Sylar sighed deeply, trying to keep the positive (-ish) attitude he’d woken with as he shut the door behind himself, trying to burrow into his coat as he became exposed to more chill air. He went about his way towards Peter’s place, expecting to wait…who knew how long until he made an appearance. The medic had tensed up before when Sylar had accidentally made a move towards Peter’s door, making his feelings crystalline clear as to just how far Sylar was welcome.
Gray puffs of air escaped his mouth at every breath and he recalled a singular memory of his childhood when he’d seen people smoking outside his middle school; later he’d seen the kids pretending to smoke using twigs and rolled up paper. Somehow he remembered considering joining them at the time, but the school bus was ready for him; and what if someone saw him and told Mom?
Sylar shook his head and tried to maneuver his bound wrist into his pockets to keep his hands from stiffening up in the very brisk morning air. It was December after all. Shit…birthday. Um… His mind hitched over that course of action, but by then he’d arrived at Peter’s place, as he’d taken to calling it.
He sat where he had yesterday, on the steps of the building across from Peter’s and waited, beginning to count the pebbles of concrete and what few bits of trash and nature that lay around his feet.
XXX
To Peter’s surprise, he was alone. He didn’t wait, turning and heading off immediately, walking down the sidewalk at a steady but determined hobble. He’d stretched his leg after getting up. As injuries went, it wasn’t serious, though it was going to keep him from running for a few more days. Actually everything but the hand wasn’t serious. Already the kink in his right shoulder had faded to near-nothingness. Everything else would be down to merely tender in a week. His face looked nasty though - one eye was thoroughly blacked, the other darkened underneath; his nose and chin were swollen, neither all that symmetrically either.
He smirked to himself. For once he didn’t need to make excuses for his appearance - not to his mother, his neighbors or, worse yet, his coworkers. That last had been repeatedly awkward. Hesam had seen the bullet scar Peter carried now thanks to Emile Danko. He’d seen it when Peter was changing in the locker room. And then there were the cuts to his face and arm he’d taken from Edgar and a plethora of other unexplained injuries. He smirked again. His mother at least was usually only concerned with his clothing and what sort of an impression he would make to others, not that she obsessed over him to the extent she had with Nathan. Nathan couldn’t go out without looking perfect. Peter couldn’t go out unless his looks wouldn’t be an embarrassment to Nathan. He shook his head as he arrived at the little store.
He got compression bandages and two models of splints. He felt like a shoplifter to be putting them right in his messenger bag, but whatever. I’m moving imaginary stuff from one part of Sylar’s mind to another. It’s not stealing. He grabbed a tube of antibiotic ointment, too, then walked over towards the fruit and vegetable area, wondering where they kept freezer packs. He didn’t know, didn’t really look, and didn’t happen across them either. He picked up an apple and snagged an individually wrapped muffin as he walked out. The apple went in the bag. He continued on, examining the packaging for the muffin.
He searched the entire thing as he headed back, examining it minutely. The sun had risen while he was in the store, but the rays weren’t to the street yet. Still...there ought to be an expiration date on here. There wasn’t, quite stubbornly. He opened the package and ate it. It was good - a little sticky, but good. He reexamined the packaging again. Still no date. Huh. What to do with it now? I wonder what happens to trash around here?
He had such a list of questions for Sylar - ‘are there seasons here or is it always this friggin’ cold?’ was the next one. There were palm trees here. It shouldn’t be this cold. Curiosity wasn’t Peter’s strong suit, but there were some things he needed to know for basic life. And while sure, he could find out about the trash one by tossing the wrapper down and seeing if it was still there the next day; and he would eventually find out about seasons with the passage of time, it would be easier to ask the other man. If, assuming, the other man was willing to answer him rather than be an ass about things.
Peter finally looked up, only a half block from his destination now and saw that Sylar was waiting for him on the steps of the building they’d explored the day before. Again, Peter wondered why Sylar picked there to sit - was it because it was across from the door of Peter’s apartment building, or was it because it was in front of the building Peter intended to explore? Hardly mattered, he supposed.
A more important issue suddenly came to mind as he played events forward a bit. Now he was in a quandary and it was his own fault. He hadn’t put on the compression bandage at the store, thinking he’d go back to his apartment and do it there. If he went up to his apartment, Sylar might follow him. It wasn’t that unreasonable, but telling him not to would be awkward. Peter hadn’t done that good a job with the cloth strips, so not putting the bandage on wasn’t really an option, yet if he did it out here on the street, Sylar might want to help him - also awkward.
Peter huffed. Let’s get this over with. He was on the sidewalk on his building’s side of the street already, so he continued his path. He walked to the steps and settled down, scrupulously ignoring Sylar, who was across the width of the street from him. Peter opened his bag and pulled out the compression bandage. With his left he dug out a multi-tool knife. He looked at it blankly for a moment. How do I open this with one hand? Dammit. I am not going to accept help. Very carefully he worked his fingernail into the indentation at the top of the tiny set of scissor and swung it out. It was easier than he’d expected. He began to cut off the cloth strips from his right hand.
XXX
After seventeen minutes and twelve seconds of waiting, a surprisingly short period, Peter appeared, having already been out by the look of the muffin he had in hand. Sylar eyed it with momentary and half-hearted devious intentions; before ‘Hell’ as he termed it, when he’d had regeneration he’d always been hungry. Something about burning through nutrients and calories at a super human pace.
It would be a chore to approach the man until he’d eaten that, even if he no longer had regeneration and the (other) hunger to eat almost anything in sight. Peter, however, appeared oblivious to his presence; not entirely unexpected as he didn’t exactly stick out of the cityscape sitting as he was and all. From across the street, unimpeded by traffic, Sylar couldn’t tell if Peter was being purposefully oblivious however, something that annoyed him.
It would totally be within Peter’s motives to pretend not to see him for as long as possible. Off to a flying start today, I see. He fought off the urge to allow his expression to sour. Momentary set-back, that’s all. He watched the other man, thoroughly engrossed in his (fucking blueberry) breakfast, sit similar to Sylar only on his side of the street.
Sylar was left to quirk an eyebrow at that. If it was intentional…he had that much further to go, literally. He stood, but didn’t shake his cramping, jittery legs like he wanted (Peter might spook or…see it and take it funny, whatever), instead crossing the street solidly meanwhile thinking of metaphors and tacky unanswerable jokes about chickens…
The analogy caught him as so unfunny as to actually be amusing, so, biting down on his lip, he approached Peter as he began to fiddle with…a knife? His humor dissipated on sight and his brow furrowed, trying to make sense of that. Oh, right. I-talian Eagle Scout and all. He rolled his eyes and made enough noise walking over so he avoided startling the one-handed man with a freaking knife.
Peter made a lousy job of springing out the small scissor attachment in the knife before he tried to cut the bandage, Sylar’s sheet strips. So he had used them. That made him grin slightly to himself as he murmured a greeting, “Morning,” as he sat beside the lamed medic. Can’t use one hand to save people, Peter. No people here to be saved, right? Can’t even save yourself… The cold was traveling up his legs and butt, the concrete making his back that much stiffer.
XXX
Sylar walked over as Peter got started. This was not a surprise. After all, Peter was here; he was doing something. Were their positions reversed, then yeah, Peter would be over there looking to see what was up. He wouldn’t have sat himself down next to someone who had made it so clear they didn’t want him near them though, or whom he had a history of killing them, their family members, friends and a mixed bag of strangers. But maybe for Sylar, that just wasn’t that big a deal. Peter tensed, hunched and tried to ignore the other man, not even returning his murmured greeting.
XXX
Sylar gazed at the package of compression bandaging Peter hadn’t opened and couldn’t open. Deciding on a tactic (one he’d…vaguely picked up on from TV pre-Hell but clearer from Nathan and how to…act around a brother) Sylar picked up the package and held out his hand, surgeon-like, for the knife Peter had finished with before he put it away.
He made absolutely sure not to so much as glance Peter’s way as he did this, his eyes fixed to the package. His hand remained empty for all of five seconds as Peter processed, but soon he felt slightly-warmed metal and deftly twisted it around in his hand, plucking out the actual knife portion. The blade exposed, he popped it quickly (unthinking of the motion, noise or speed of the action) into the otherwise-sealed plastic. Heh, that was fun. Oh, god…just let me not turn into one of those kids with bubble wrap, please.
XXX
The medic had sat on the right side of the steps, where there was a raised edge he could rest his right elbow on. He’d laid out his materials to his left. Sylar sat on the opposite side of them and almost immediately picked up the very thing Peter would need next - the compression bandage. Peter glanced over at that and said nothing. He finished cutting free the cloth strips and looked over, beginning to bristle, as what he needed was still in Sylar’s hand. Sylar’s other hand, empty, was extended to him. He looked between hand and face - Sylar’s expression was blank and he was looking studiously down.
Peter realized what was wanted, but it was the body language that defused him, not the offer itself. There were many ways Sylar could have offered to open the package for him that he would have refused, argued, or objected. This was not one of them. He put the knife in Sylar’s hand and turned back to his hand, peeling off the bandages from his knuckles while Sylar fought with the stubborn plastic. He had no fear that Sylar would do anything to him with a two and a half inch blade. If he had been concerned, it would have been that the other man would slice himself on the plastic.
XXX
Extending the knife back to Peter, sans eye contact, Sylar dug into the hole he’d made, peeling apart the plastic by main force. The reason he used brute strength rather than the knife is he couldn’t imagine Peter appreciating the hacking, sawing movement or the sound since it was one of those welded shut packages. Soon he’d created an opening and tugged the bandage out as gracefully as he could, tossing the container aside carelessly and handed the prize to Peter, staring straight ahead as if nothing had happened because that was the key.
Brothers, hell, men in general did things for each other and either hit each other, laughed it off or ignored it and pretended it hadn’t happened. They’d already covered the hitting; the laughing probably wouldn’t ever come, so pretending was the easiest way. Act bored, just act bored. Surely even he can’t find fault in that?
XXX
Peter took the knife back, relaxing a bit more at the continued lack of eye contact. Peter closed it by putting the back of the blade against his thigh, then set it down on the step next to him in case he needed it for anything else. He waited another long beat when Sylar offered the bandage. No strings attached? Huh. He took it and began wrapping, knowing he really ought to say something - Thanks, Good Morning - something. He huffed instead and applied himself to his task.
XXX
Peter snatched the bandage away after a pause for those dented cogs in his head to spin around a dozen times or so; almost like he was afraid Sylar would force the damn bandage on him or something. While the thought was amusing and admittedly tempting, Peter was giving him the red light. He could see it; he just usually ignored it; he usually didn’t have to pay attention to what someone was feeling.
Contrary to popular belief, he was pretty astute at reading people after having a good twenty-five years or so of hard, day-in/day-out practice with a highly unstable adoptive mother…figure person. And if popular belief were true, as a psychopath he could easily read what a person wanted in direct opposition to what they said they wanted. Psychopaths were shallow, the books said and that had always irked him, almost as much as the label did. He knew he had feelings, people just ignored them (okay, and he sort of hid them).
Psychopaths easily shifted their shallow exterior to adopt what the person needed at the time, rather what they said they wanted. So Peter got his foot of space in actuality, got his knife back and got all the help he would willingly allow himself to receive even though they were both aware that Sylar would assist in binding his hand.
XXX
Peter snugged up the bandage, tested what limited flexibility he had, then set down the rest of the roll. He picked up the splint that would hold his wrist and hand immobile. What he had was more suited to carpel tunnel, but it would work. Maybe in the afternoon or tomorrow he’d go looking for a hospital, pharmacy or hospital supply store. He secured it then reached down to pick up the box the antibiotic ointment came in. He poked in the end with his thumb and fiddled with it briefly until he got it out. He let the box drop and picked up the tube, working the cap with thumb and forefinger while holding it with the same hand.
XXX
So far…so good. The only response he got was a huff, but he was fairly sure it was aimed at Peter himself and not Sylar. It made him wonder though, just how inhuman the Heroes thought he truly was. Surely Peter… He pursed his lips, ditching that line of thinking. It no longer mattered. He supposed what did matter now was how interesting things would get until Peter trusted him. And how long it would take.
XXX
He could feel Sylar’s eyes on him during this operation, but he was pretty sure if he looked over, the other man would look away and that was fine. Keeping his eyes on his task, Peter asked, “You ever been hurt all that bad here, while you were alone?” Peter applied the ointment to his knuckles. He frowned down at his supplies. He’d planned - as much as he had planned - to do this in his apartment where he had bandages. Oh well. The ones he’d just taken off had been applied less than an hour before. He started putting them back on.
XXX
Sylar found himself watching with only a kernel of curiosity for the process of ‘how to wrap a broken finger’ and Peter didn’t give him an indication that it was somehow wrong or that it was unwelcome. The other man asked him about his previous injuries here in Hell and he glanced up, a little stunned.
Odd question….probing for weaknesses? He smoothed his face over in case Peter decided to look, swallowed and licked his lips before he answered, “I broke a toe, sprained my ankle, cracked a knuckle, twisted my knee, so no.” All his attempts at ‘out’ or attention from the non-existent populace had ended in a one-sided fight with a face of a building, immoveable and solid. Doesn’t matter now. You’re here to take over that job. Aren’t you, Peter?
Sylar made a face as Peter reapplied a used bandage to his knuckles after turning it over and he caught sight of Peter’s black eye. Wouldn’t it just make more sense to get another strip of fabric or band-aids when they explored instead of using an old bandage? That was Peter’s problem since he was not inviting any real help.
“I dropped a plate once, sliced up my thumb and hand…lots of times, actually, with the can opener. Bashed my elbow into a cupboard trying to open some juice; the arm stayed numb for a week, turns out it was fractured. Tried to stay awake to shut myself down, see if I still had….abilities….hit my head in the shower. Got an infection once, lasted about a week. Burned my part of my hand relearning how to cook without telekinesis; it’s actually harder than it sounds.”
Sylar’s voice was similar to someone reading things off his grocery list, trying to keep the emotion from his face as well. It was probably something most people considered ‘personal’. To him it was a bad time he’d rather forget. He was totally confused as to why Peter would want to know, unless it was ‘What can I expect here?’
Everything had healed over time, not a scar or nick to be found. Somehow the idea of suicide wasn’t as prominent as it probably would have been….should have been otherwise. He’d felt a horrible pang of empathy for Claire who had no pain on top of being unmarked. “Nothing changes,” he whispered to himself, adjusting his elbows on his knees, his fingers twined together loosely as he looked out over the street wistfully.
XXX
Peter snorted and continued on his knuckles. "How do you cook with telekinesis? I can't even imagine that."
XXX
Sylar made a face, barely holding back a glare. It wasn't his fault Peter couldn't cook or use telekinesis. It was probably too delicate for a messy empath. "Yes," he drew out the word a little slowly, careful to keep anything from his tone. "It's...a hard habit to break. I guess three years learning it and three years going the other way."
XXX
Peter sighed. More attitude. Well...whatever. "What I mean is, how do you actually cook with telekinesis at all? It's just moving things around. What are you doing with it when you cook? Using it to hold the pans on the burners or something?"
XXX
Persistent. Clearly he wasn't mocking if he was still asking. "Moving stuff around, I can flip a pretty good omelet," he grinned a little to himself, "I never got much chance to use it, you know. I mean, with Ted's power we c- I could technically be the fire while I did it. Great for multi-tasking."
XXX
We? Peter glanced over. We? That was so loaded he didn't want to touch it with a ten foot pole. "Yeah. So I've been meaning to ask, since you've-" said you’ve "been here three years... are there seasons, or is it always this cold?" He put the last bandage back on his right hand, smoothing it down carefully, and began to remove the ones on his left. The scuffs and abrasions there were much slighter - hardly broke the skin even. Under normal circumstances Peter wouldn't have bothered with bandages on them, but he'd been bored last evening.
XXX
Sylar sucked on his lower lip instead of biting it as he wished, managing to cover a wince at his lapse. It was just instinct. Most people he interacted with were specials. He had the urge to whistle to distract the other man. He tilted his head, looking around a bit with disinterest. "Eh...seasons is a...relative term. It won't always be cold but the leaves don't turn color, flowers don't bloom...." He shrugged, really at a loss for an answer; possibly a bi-product of having a Petrelli near. He stole a quick glance at Peter's left hand, practically unblemished. While he had his own questions, he knew Peter was the newbie here and needed them answered first; his own curiosity could wait as it had for, yes, three years.
XXX
Peter dabbed ointment on fairly liberally. "Okay. That...answers something else I was wondering about - gardens, growing things." He straightened, rolling his shoulders and looking off down the street like he expected to see something that wasn't there. I want out. He sighed, frowned and looked back at his hand. "Do we-" Now I'm doing it. Fucking 'we.' Oh well. "Do we ever run out of things here?"
XXX
Sylar shook his head sadly. He was no green-thumb, but growing something, being responsible for a plant would be similar to having a pet he imagined. It would have been something. Peter began moving around and it made him want to move around; the concrete was no fun to sit on when the cold seeped through his jeans. I should call him grasshopper. Ha. Sylar turned towards him, amused and not-so-secretly delighted at the plural pronoun's usage from Peter. "No. I never have to scavenge; not really. It's...it seems to replenish itself. I don't know how or even why." It sucked not having answers, especially when he was being asked for would-be wisdom.
XXX
Peter started rewrapping the bandages on his left hand now, taking care not to get the adhesive fouled by the ointment. "Huh. I guess that's good to know. How about trash? I hadn't really paid any attention to the trash can in the apartment, but," he shrugged one shoulder, "I don't want to be throwing stuff in the street if I'm going to have to walk over it for the next however long." I am certain Parkman could get me out of here if he tried. This isn't a freaking one-way ability. I must have lost it somehow when I touched Sylar. Maybe I accidentally swapped one of his abilities. That would explain a lot. An awful lot.
XXX
"Disappears." Sylar scratched at his calf through his pants, the feeling uncomfortable in the chill weather. Peter was making him look bad what with his head-to-toe medical care. Sylar took care of immediate needs and immediate pains if at all possible (because sometimes it wasn't) and dealt with the fall-out once he was safe. That's his job. He can get sued for that kind of crap. When was the last time I was in a hospital? "If you did, it would probably be gone within a week or so...it seems to depend on how often you see it or visit the area. I'm not sure why."
XXX
Peter nodded and picked up the tube of ointment. He made a gesture with his right hand - just an odd, abortive motion with it. Damn it. With the freaking brace on I can't get my thumb and forefinger together anymore. He picked up the cap to the tube, also with his left, and stuck it in his mouth. He screwed it back in. I'm going to have to put up with this for weeks? That ain't happening. That's going to get really frustrating, really fast. Next time I go back to hitting him over the head with 2x4s, I swear. "Well, that's good to hear, I guess. So don't toss things where we go frequently and we'll be fine, huh?" He changed subjects back to an earlier one. "Does it ever rain or get windy or anything like that?"
XXX
"Y-yeah," was his response. He was hesitant to address this one because he had his suspicions about it and it probably showed. Over the years it had finally dawned on him that the weather appeared to follow his...moods, roughly put. He liked to ignore that part of it. Peter was just turning into the act of the day, wasn't he? Sylar's attention was being focused more and more on what Peter was doing (trying to do). "Wind, rain, storms, thunder, hail sometimes...and lightning." He really shied from that one, splaying his hands on his knees.
XXX
Huh. Is he scared of storms? Wouldn't that be a riot? Scary serial killer, frightened by thunder. I'll have to remember that for the next time I think he's going to snap and kill me. "Okay. That sounds pretty scary. I've never liked tornados myself." He shook his head. "Whirlwinds." It was true; not that it was a crippling phobia, or that he'd had to deal with it much in his life. He realized he was sharing automatically and tensed.
XXX
Sylar caught the condescension at 'That sounds pretty scary.' Go figure his reluctance to address a fucking storm was read as fear. His fear was long since past, the person who had owned the lightning...equally harmless and no longer worthy of anxiety. "Oh, it's completely terrifying," he shot back, keeping his tone within the realm of teasing, but laden with sarcasm all the same.
XXX
Peter shot him a smirk as he gathered his stuff back up and put it in the bag, then stood up. "So, uh... I was going to continue where we left off yesterday." He jerked his head at the building. "Over there."
XXX
As Sylar stood to follow Peter, he got the static again: //"...Sometimes the cabin gets so compressed it crushes the pilot," he was telling his seven year old kid brother, ever full of questions. Nathan had completed boot camp and was soon to leave again for further training and eventually a post. "What happens to the plane in a tornado, Nate?" He'd asked, so innocent and wide-eyed with fear for his idol. But now it was "Really?" There would be no pulling the wool over this kid's eyes, evidenced by the expressive furrowing of his dark little eyebrows up at Nathan as he unpacked. "Ah, yah. I'm pretty sure they give you a Purple Heart for those missions. If you survive. They happen all the time in the Middle East, Pete. And when they get really bad..."// Sylar's balance wavered, but he caught himself and stood straight. "Huh?" He'd missed what his companion said, but clued in at the gesture. "Ah, yeah. Great."
XXX
Peter stretched a little more, taking a few steps and working his thigh from where it had stiffened while sitting. He watched Sylar for a few moments as he did so, wondering if the wavering was due to lingering effects of the concussion or something else. When it didn’t recur, Peter didn’t obsess about it. Okay, let's go. He didn't actually say it, though, because he didn't really want Sylar to come with him. He just expected he would. He glanced over at the other man. I wonder if it's possible he'll go off and do something else? Nah. He turned back and crossed the street, looking up and down the empty pavement. It's really lonely out here. I don't like it. If Matt Parkman can manage to make a place where Sylar is good company, then...wow, that says something pretty twisted about Matt's brain.
Peter went inside, bypassing the elevator for the stairs. He stopped once inside and stretched his leg again. Yes, the pause would make Sylar wait - or the other man could go around him. If he was going to be following Peter around, then he'd have to put up with Peter acting like he wasn't there. "Do you still think you're going to live forever? In here?"
XXX
Sylar stayed behind Peter as they entered the building. He was surprised by the choice of stairs. Is he trying to be tough or work out a cramp here? He was left to make a quick decision whether or not to hawk over Peter and his leg, risking serious awkwardness; or if he moved on and around, risking the appearance of callousness. He stepped around Peter and continued up the stairs, taking his time, since the motion did unpleasant things to his back. I’m not a mother hen for you, Peter, he told himself. So he heard the man's question and it gave him pause. Sylar turned from the flight above the medic to face him. "I think I'm going to live as long as long Hell goes on. In here," he delivered with solemnity and seriousness. 'You don't have Claire's power....I don't know how long you'll last, Peter' he wanted to say, but held his tongue. Giving him a weary, pained glance, he headed up to the fourth floor.
XXX
Peter waited until Sylar was well out of sight before miming him mockingly, 'I'm gonna live as long as Hell lasts.' He didn't actually speak, he just mouthed the words and moved his head sarcastically. Yeah, sure. You don't have Claire's power in here. He sighed. I should drop it. This place is thick with logic problems. He thought it was real. Might still. Just leave it alone, Peter, unless you want to start another fight. Slowly, he mounted the stairs, emerging on the third floor. Which floor were we on last time? "Sylar?" He listened. No answer. "Sylar?" Still no answer. Huh. He went on up to the fourth floor, stopping with his hand on it. He's got to be around here somewhere. But if this isn't the right floor, and he’s trying to stage an ambush or something, then I'm getting out of here. I wanted to freaking avoid him. Why am I following him anyway? He snorted, rolled his eyes, and opened the door anyway. "Sylar?"
XXX
Letting the door clang shut behind him, he meandered into the hall and around the corner, hands contentedly in his pockets. There was nothing here to keep his attention besides Peter. And Peter was being a slow-poke today. Sylar didn't turn as he heard his name called; the source and the source's location obvious. He was visible enough in the middle of the freaking hall. "Lost so soon, Peter?" Sylar gently, very gently teased, leaving out his thoughts on Peter being afraid of the dark...(Also dirt he possessed on Peter’s childhood). Wasn't he generous? Maybe he was feeling playful. He opened a door at random and made a mild if facetious gesture of ‘after you’, tilting his head and letting himself in with a grin on his face.
XXX
Peter didn’t dignify Sylar’s question with an answer, but he did approach him and looked into the apartment Sylar had opened. After a pause to review it, he walked inside. The set of his shoulders relaxed a little. Sylar had sat next to him earlier, walked past him in the stairwell and Peter passed by him now as he walked into the room. The distance between them was literally shrinking, but more noticeably Peter was not bristling so much and reacting warily at every move from the killer. This was not to indicate any acceptance of the other man’s actions, but rather an acknowledgement that perhaps there was nothing to be on guard against here. The back of Peter’s mind remained dead-certain that was a “here” condition only - with abilities, outside, Sylar would still be very much a threat and one that Peter was ill-equipped to contain.
For now though, he didn’t need to think about that. They might leave tomorrow or maybe in ten years, or maybe Peter would die here (tomorrow, or in ten years, or a hundred - he didn’t know). He’d think about it some other time. He was sometimes cautious, occasionally afraid, and tried not to get hurt, but his own mortality had rarely stopped him from attempting something if the cause was worthwhile.
XXX
Sylar prowled around aimlessly, careless of the belongings in the rooms, but then again he’d never been careful with them. He gave only the initial, cursory glance as Peter entered. Peter also seemed to be slowly losing his inhibitions towards it. This isn’t gonna sink in for a while and it has nothing to do with my presence, was his insightful comprehension. It’s a nature, isn’t it, he grumped to himself, wishing he could fast forward it or something. He knew he couldn’t expect Peter to just ‘get over it’; he wasn’t capable of it; he wouldn’t let himself ‘get over it’ either.
Is Peter ever going to let this go, not just get over it? It’s either that or giving up and he’s….that’s just not in him. He knew from experience, even if he couldn’t claim it as his. So much crap so fast, he thought. Mind rape, being a hollowed out husk, then getting my body back, asking for help then….this. I got my body back, now there’s someone in the world now. I don’t know how or why, but he’s here. So….now what?
XXX
Peter looked around the place and started making judgments and guesses - occupant male, middle aged, middle-income and employed, no pets, no kids - not here at least. He walked over and looked at the books on the built-in shelves, letting his eyes trail over the titles on the spines. “You ever search these apartments yourself, or is this all new to you?” He squatted to look in the cabinet set into the wall under the shelves. There was a photo album. He pulled it out with a surge of enthusiasm, only to find it full of pictures of landscapes. He stared at it blankly. What was it I expected to see?
He looked over his shoulder at Sylar, then back at the album. He put it up quietly. A human face. Whoever lived here. That’s what I wanted to see. This whole place, all these apartments, and the only person who really lives here is him. And me, I guess. Now.
XXX
After he’d perused the bedroom and bathroom, finding nothing shocking or of use; it was a guy’s apartment, what could really be interesting in it? Sylar leaned back against the wall and watched Peter. The man picked up a photo album (must’ve been a girlfriend involved in that one) and he wasn’t surprised. Still looking for people? He knew what the medic wouldn’t see. He kept his eyes on Peter, not being shy about it this time. “I explored lots of buildings, first just to look for people, then signs of people than for anything useful or a place to crash. I ended up at my apartment, which you’ve seen,” was the answer.
XXX
Peter looked at the back of the couch, then pulled it away from the wall a few inches and peered down between the furniture and the wall. What am I looking for here? I know there’s no one here. (Not that they’d be hiding behind the couch of all places.) Or do I know no one’s here? There’s Sylar. He smiled slightly to himself at the thought of pawing through Sylar’s apartment like this. The thought of invading the other man’s space like that was amusing, not that Peter was about to do it. It was invasive enough just being mired here in his head. It’s not like there’s going to be anyone else in here. He stood up, brow furrowed. Sylar…was in Matt’s head somehow. Then who was in Nath-, uh, Sylar’s body?
He looked over at Sylar and then down, blinking back a moment of sadness and confusion. It wasn’t a question he wanted answered yet and he knew it. Even more, he didn’t think he’d believe what Sylar had to say. He gave himself a little shake and went on into the dining room. He looked over objects, touching them, shifting them, going through the place one possession at a time, in no great hurry but moving steadily.
XXX
Sylar’s brows inched upwards at the couch-wall ratio checking. “It might be New York, but sorry, no rats.” There went his pet idea, he mentally sniggered. He found his gaze wandering and what more interesting than Peter; injured, cranky and depressed as he was.
It was difficult to keep his mind off…the things he wished to do, the things he wished he could let himself think about. But he knew once that cat left the bag he could never put it back again. He’ll…come around to something….eventually. Right? If he could keep his cool, his control and in doing that control his communication which was his biggest problem (and thereby Peter’s), he would win him over.
So what now? He felt something had changed after the fight, not just the lack of death-threats either. Then he caught Peter turning away with a deeply saddened expression. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. (Did I?) It was getting frustrating and he didn’t handle that well; violence or snark or even talking someone’s ear off to ease his discomfort with a situation and none of it would actually help here.
“Um, Peter…” he began lamely, trying not to belabor ‘why the hell are you here’ and ‘how did you get here’ or ask the personal questions that would just get him smacked again, but trying to…be involved. Casually. (Involved?) “What was the worst scene you had to clean up?” Whew. Something Nathan wouldn’t know, something that was unrelated, casual….safe? I’m learning something; it’s not a failed question.
XXX
Peter appreciated, probably more than Sylar knew, the opportunity to think about something else, as well as the invitation to talk. The subject itself - that made him smile, and not because he was a fan of gore, but because that was such a popular question. In fact, it was something of a running joke among EMTs. There were many hilarious answers. “Heh,” Peter said, wondering if he could pull one off on Sylar, and what sort of reaction the other man would have to it if he did.
“Lemme guess, you don’t have any experience with EMTs and what they have to deal with, do you?” He cast a speculative eye over Sylar’s response, confirming for himself that yeah, he might be able to pull this off. He wandered into the kitchen and started looking through drawers, one after another. It gave him an excuse to keep his face turned away and minimize how much he was likely to give away.
XXX
“Vaguely, yeah,” Sylar nodded seriously, his expression interested and unsuspecting when Peter glanced back. The medico launched into his story, and it was a story. He was a little surprised by that somehow, recognizing he’d asked the man to tell him a story and even more so intrigued that Peter was actually taking him up on it. Cool. He nodded and made the appropriate sounds to encourage the man to continue; oh, please do continue. It had been a throw away question from him, but Peter took it and went with it and he was getting more than he’d hoped for. It had been the right question.
XXX
“The worst scene I was ever called to was an auto accident, but that wasn’t the bad part.” He shrugged. “The people in the car, they were fine, just shook up. They’d ended up in the ditch after swerving to miss the body. It was out on the highway; it was dark; summertime; really hot day. Whoever hit him first must have just clipped him. I say him, but it was so bad no one could tell if it was male or female - at least, not from the side of the road. Two or three different cars must have run over him.”
XXX
Sylar winced as Peter got to the part about the sex of the person, trying to picture it and not picture it at the same time. “Wow,” he murmured. A whole body? Getting run over two or three- He didn’t have time to pick it apart because Peter was already moving on and he was enraptured.
XXX
Peter sank down to open a cabinet, continuing talking in a mostly bland monologue. He shook his head slowly and sadly. “The thing you don’t realize about corpses…or maybe you do, really…” He paused considering that most of Sylar’s kills had been, as far as Peter knew, fairly clean. He shuddered, not wanting to contemplate that. Back to the story. “Anyway, it’s the smell. The abdomen had been torn open, guts were out there, there’s this stench in the air and here’s Hesam - my partner - trying to get me to go out there and pull this body off a busy highway at night. No. Way. I have limits, man.” He shook his head again and hazarded a glance back to see how his audience was taking it.
XXX
Sylar did narrow his eyes at the part about corpses, mostly so Peter’s spine knew he was onto his brain and mouth’s train of thought there. Peter missed it with his back turned, but it was the thought that counted, right? It hadn't been menacing anyway. “Hmm,” was his hum of response. He’d read about the smell of the abdominal cavity during autopsies and Discovery Channel animal shows and such.
Wait, who’s Hes- Oh, okay, he wondered briefly, following gamely along. His eyebrows rose as Peter adamantly refused to get the body and that really did surprise him. /”Triumph of the human spirit?”/ He could understand the why (not) in this case, but this was still Peter Petrelli, Rescue Hotline One-Oh-One. Even to corpses he was sure, Nathan’s memories assuring him of that about the hospice care.
XXX
Peter moved on to another cabinet. “It’s not like anyone’s life was going to be saved. Dead was dead. We put up some road flares and worked the auto accident until some cops showed up. Then we got them to do it.” He didn’t think he could milk this much further without Sylar catching on, so he wrapped up (even though Peter had seen a few masterful tale-spinners continue this particular story for fifteen or twenty minutes). “I’ll tell you what, there is nothing worse than a dead skunk on hot asphalt.”
Peter stood with the punch line in case he needed to beat a hasty retreat, or…really, he had no idea how Sylar was going to take the joke. In retrospect, he suspected this was probably a really dumb idea.
XXX
Continued...