More Between Us Chapter 69/? "Peter Petrelli's Nipples"
More Between Us, Chapter 69/? "Peter Petrelli's Nipples"
Day 22, New Year’s Day, morning
“Thank you,” Sylar whispered, taking the cup. He didn’t know how his stomach would handle the new visitor but the warmth of the cup, the gesture, were comfort enough. Sylar didn’t look at his nurse, he pretended to be engrossed in the tea, unable to engage in conversation and Peter…left it alone. After long enough, it became clear Peter wasn’t going to say anything about it or say much of anything else. Why does he ask all these questions? He’s supposed to leave me alone. When the silence settled and it was clear he could introduce another topic, probably another undesired question for Peter to deny and disallow. “Why did you ask about the worst question you could ask last night?” Sylar assumed Peter felt the need to have dirt on him, some vulnerability to exploit, or try to, but he didn’t put words in the empath’s mouth. Peter’s questions seemed focused on his mother and he wanted to know if the content was coincidence or planned (though how Peter could do that with such supposedly limited information was beyond him). Does he know something and he’s not telling? Is he looking for a confession? He said he didn’t want to talk about the murders, though.
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Peter looked over at him from squeezing pointlessly at the now-empty IV bag. I thought I wasn't supposed to talk about that? That's not what he's asking of me, though. He wants motivations, not for me to ask about it. He started detaching the IV, considering what angle to take in answering. “I wanted to scare you,” he said quietly. “I wanted you to think I could have been asking worse stuff than I was.” He pulled the tube from his vein and put his thumb over it for pressure. “I wanted to see if you'd trust me with something like that. I won't ask. I wouldn't have last night and I won't now.”
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Trust? It has nothing to do with trust. Well, I trusted his promise. Shit. I did trust him a little. I was…drunk. The creases around his eyes crinkled, Sylar’s way of showing amusement without smiling as his mouth twitched at one anyway. He won’t ask now? He can, does he know that? I know something you don’t know. Let him think that - he might behave better if he thinks I trust him. “It was a game and you suckered me into that one. If I chose Truth again, without your promise - the one you didn’t include - you’d have asked it next. If I chose Dare, you could have made them so horrible that I’d have to chose Truth or risk losing. Even now, I doubt you’d tie me up and beat it out of me. It’s not that important.” While some of that was leading, hinting to see if Peter really had no clue he could ask (but Sylar might not answer or do it truthfully), the rest of it was pointed and deceptive - Peter had a history of beating him up (and talk of his mother was important, at least to Sylar. He couldn’t follow how something important to him mattered to someone else). The phrasing was close enough to something he’d rasped before, mid-fight, when he was laid flat on a plywood table in a dusty, reconstructed hospital floor: /’What are you gonna do; beat him out of me? Do it! Kill me!’/ Ah! Sylar grimaced and made a move to touch his head as more pain twisted inside it.
XXX
Peter stood in concern at Sylar's groan, setting aside his tubing and bag, but then catching himself before moving to Sylar. Something about Sylar's posture and choice of words stopped him. I'm not dealing with a standard patient here. I'm dealing with a guy who is violent, traumatized, and he and I have a history. Be gentle. Peter put his hands out to the sides, palms toward Sylar. In a calm, even, and honest tone of voice, he said, “You thought all that through, huh? That's better than I did. You got me. But you know what? I'm still not going to ask unless you tell me it's okay, and if that's never, that's okay, too. No beatings. No nothing.” It's obviously important or you wouldn't be so desperate to tell me it isn't. Which just reinforces that you told me the truth and there is no way I'm breaking that.
Peter made a slow motion towards the hook for the IV bag on the shelf above Sylar's bed, taking it down and setting it aside on the chair. “Let me see your arm and I'll take that out for you.” He gestured, but didn't move closer.
XXX
An exhale that wanted to be a sigh followed his spasm. Peter had confirmed it, on his own. He really won’t ask. (Why do I feel a little…disappointed?) We’re not talking. Sylar puffed a few amused breaths as he settled back, “Sure, right,” he intoned, voice heavy with disbelief, but light enough to keep the current mood. You would have let me walk right into that trap in the game if I hadn’t made you promise. But he’s not asking now so…I don’t know what that means. “Hmm? Oh, is it…? Yeah.” Sylar looked partially behind himself to see the empty IV bag and proffered his arm, watching his partner-slash-nurse with low-lidded interest. The pats on his arm were wonderful and far too brief. Didn’t he…didn’t he do that last night, too? Yeah, put me right to sleep. Peter set the used equipment on his chair, immediately striking Sylar as a bad place to put it - sitting on a used needle? I could always band-aid his butt, no problem. Without permission, he reached out, gathered it up and tossed it onto the desk.
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Peter glanced over at the rearrangement of stuff, taking it as unusual politeness on Sylar's part, and an unspoken desire for Peter to sit down and hang around. He took the seat, but kept his attention on Sylar, trying to figure out what had just caused the display of pain. “Is your head still hurting you?”
XXX
“Always.”
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Peter frowned briefly. “Must be the concussion, not the hangover. How bad is it?”
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“Bad enough to still be a problem. I suppose I’ll live.” I wonder how he feels about that…
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Peter exhaled heavily, eyes tracking over Sylar's forehead, then to his pupils, which looked fine. They were, in turn, fixed on Peter himself. “Far as I know, there's nothing much I can do about that except make sure you take painkillers, stay hydrated, and try to hold down the stress.” Before he could dwell too much on the miserable failure he was at achieving that last condition, Peter moved on. “Are you still feeling nauseous?”
XXX
“It’s better,” Sylar shrugged.
XXX
“Okay. I’m gonna go make some breakfast for us.” Peter rose, heading off to the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Toast sound good?”
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Sylar made a hum, barely loud enough to be heard over Peter’s departure. Again, even that much separation made him…anxious. He sat up, toying with an edge of his sheet. “How are you…doing?” was his awkwardly thought, awkwardly voiced question because he’d though three different variations to the question and mixed them up a little when he spoke. Plus, it was unfamiliar for him to have to ask about someone else’s well being, usually he got only as far as ‘you okay?’ but he wanted specifics since Peter had been specific, nurse or no. On top of that, his voice was still rough, dried from the alcohol and sleep so it didn’t carry as well as it should have.
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Peter got out the bread, picking off and eating a bit of crust because no one was in there watching him, then stuck the slices in the toaster. He moved the dial over to very dark. Burnt toast is better for nausea, right? Wish I remembered … but meal prep was never part of the paramedic stuff and not really hospice, either. “Oh, I'm … “ He double-checked the toaster setting and went to get plates out, the sound of his own voice seeming to echo around the room more than he liked. “I'm okay. My electrolyte balance is probably off. You lost everything out the top; I lost it out the end. Getting fluids helps, but it doesn't make up for that. I think I should take it easy today.” Not that I've been getting the level of exercise I should be getting, but whatever. He still had a few lingering sore spots from their fights and of course his hand was still broken, but functionally, he thought he was fine, although Peter had a track record of over-estimating his body's endurance. The hangover's worst effects were already mitigated by fluids and medication - headache faded, nausea vastly reduced, the cotton-headed, nasty-mouthed sensation was gone. Well, actually the nasty-mouthed feeling was still there. I need to brush my teeth. He settled for rinsing his mouth at the kitchen sink.
XXX
“Hmm,” Sylar grunted again. “Why did you freak out when I pinched you?” he called out, leaving it for Peter to figure out what he meant. “Is that another one of those…Uh, I don’t know, sex things?”
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Pinched me? Wait, what? Peter went over to look out at Sylar, but Sylar was coming to the kitchen already, and what he meant was clear from the rest of what he had to say. You're asking about that? Now? What, are we gonna have a debriefing of everything? “Last night?” Peter scoffed, leaning backwards against the counter next to the toaster, facing Sylar. “Maybe you were too drunk to notice, but I was freaking out before that, too.” He lifted his right hand to stab a finger once at Sylar. “By the way, drunk or not, I don't buy that 'I don't know where the limits are' bullshit you tried to pull. You knew damned well where the limits were because I told you and you understood what I said. You repeated it back to me - something about it being too late for me to set limits, which means you knew what I was doing. Remember that?” Peter tipped his head down, brows rising, skewering Sylar with his gaze and calling him to answer for being an ass. You do not get to bitch about 'freak-outs' you caused. Considering all the bad stuff he had in his past involving restraints, Peter thought he'd been pretty mild in his reaction.
He glanced over at the toast that had just popped out. “Get the butter. We probably shouldn't put anything else on it.”
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Sylar stopped short when the finger aimed at him. What did I do now? The body language alerted him before the words specified his crime; one he apparently didn’t know he’d committed. Of course it’s bullshit. You don’t even know but it’s bullshit. Of course. Wait, what did he tell me? But he didn’t set any limits! He had plenty of chances! “You-…The…That was…?” That was molesting you? (Yeah, remember normal people? Remember how much they looove being touched by me?) Fuck. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t even know…That’s why he should have said-! Sylar contemplated an apology for something that was, as usual, only half his fault, a question he’d probably tried to communicate and had failed, then screwed it up true to form. “Are they like-” he began a clarifying question despite Peter’s ball-breaking stare. The sudden, sharp, grating pop and twang of the toaster signaling completion startled him badly and hurt his tender senses, “Ah!” he hissed, moving away before Peter gave him a command. Butter again. This just isn’t my day, he thought, setting the butter dish near Peter and the toast station at arm’s length then clearing out. His face, not that Peter could see it, was one of distaste. “Fine. Have it your way: no more questions.” This is exactly what I was talking about earlier.
He got glasses of water (because Peter mentioned fluids but disagreed with flavors) and sat at the table, waiting patiently. Bread and water, too, how fitting.
XXX
No more questions? You get called on your behavior and that ends the conversation, huh? Must be nice to just bail whenever it's inconvenient to you! Peter's blood was up and the desire to pitch this minor thing into a full-scale conflict simmered in the background as he buttered the two slices. Sylar, quite wisely, left him the hell alone so that by the time Peter brought their very simple breakfast to the table, he was at least calm enough not to immediately snap at the man.
Calm down. He got the water. He got the butter. He's right there. You were just talking about how you needed to keep the stress level down … but damnit, I don't want to let this drop! He slid Sylar's plate over with the untouched piece of toast, keeping for himself the one that he'd already torn the top crust off of. Deciding not to reiterate the point about limits, he went to what Sylar had started stammering out before he'd stifled himself. “Are they like what?”
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Sylar’s nerve to ask was gone. Besides, the question sounded bad and it was sure to insult and get him into more hot water than he was already in. Just ease the frog into the boiling water - the frog is very used to it, Sylar thought bitterly. He shook his head.
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Peter took a few small bites of toast, mostly due to uncertainty about his stomach, but a little because his jaw still hurt him sometimes. Especially if he was prone to clenching it, which at the moment he was having to resist. The chewing helped. If he thinks he has to do what I tell him to do … “Answer me.”
XXX
“Nah. It was another stupid question, guaranteed to piss you off, so…” With that, he occupied his mouth with food.
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“I'm already pissed off and this is what you get.” Peter gestured at himself, pale but with anger-spawned rosy spots on this cheeks and across his nose, hair unkempt, dressed in Sylar's pajamas. He didn't think he could possibly be intimidating like this, not that he was trying. “I'm good at stupid questions. Tell me what you meant.”
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“Al-right…” Sylar exhaled the word dramatically, petulantly, “Are they like a woman’s? Did it hurt or something?” Maybe that was why it was unacceptable, molesting behavior for Peter.
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Peter blinked at him. That … wasn't what he'd been expecting. He took another bite of toast and calmed down a little. “You're asking about pinching me?”
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Either that’s good or he’s going to give me his real reaction in a minute…”Yeah.”
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Peter thought back through the conversation. “You're back to asking why I freaked out.” He put his toast down and reached up to scratch at his left temple, chewing his lips a little as he looked down for a moment. He was internalizing the possibility that Sylar really was clueless here. “You don't get it. Okay.” Peter sighed and ran his hand through his hair, realizing too late that it might have had toast crumbs on it. He glanced at it surreptitiously (clean-looking now, but that didn't mean anything), then focused on Sylar. A few crumbs in his hair was not important. “I tol-” Peter cut himself off, took a deep breath, held it, let it out. His tone of voice had started to come out harsh. It wasn't what he wanted. In an even voice, he started again. “Okay. Here's the sequence: I was already upset about being tied up. You were teasing me, circling me, telling me how helpless I was. I don't like hearing that.” Peter tried to lock eyes with Sylar for a moment. “That's the reason you were saying it - to upset me. You succeeded; I was upset. Then you sat on me. I didn't like that either. When you started touching me … sexually … I told you to stop. You knew I was telling you to stop. You repeated it back to me and told me, essentially, that no, you weren't going to stop. That told me that defending myself verbally was off the table - you wouldn't negotiate or discuss things. Then you pinched me, taking things a step further, continuing what I'd already told you to stop, and daring me to do something about it. So I did. That's why I 'freaked out'.”
He cocked his head a little and asked, “How far were you going to take that, anyway?”
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Sylar just looked back at Peter while he spoke. And you tell me how worthless I am; I don’t like hearing that either. Okay, he’d kind of known he was upsetting Peter just by sitting on him. That was intentional, inebriated or not. That was…sexual to him? Sylar’s brows furrowed a little in a muted frown as he thought back to his own intentions for the act(s) in question. It was…skin - soft and so warm; it was a human being; it was a captive, enduring, emotionally wired human being and people were by nature objects of revulsive fascination for him. He’d wanted to see how Peter worked, explore, and that included sexuality as just one topic of many he had interest in. Peter didn’t look like he was in an understanding mood, no matter what he said about therapeutic communication - Sylar felt he had an explanation, at least, a possible valid reason for ignoring Peter’s supposed cry of foul play. He wasn’t going to bother with it. Instead, he looked mournfully down at his toast, all the better to keep his nose out of trouble and keep it intact.
He glanced up at the return query. “What do you mean? If our positions had been reversed - you were here for three years and I needed your help and couldn’t get it and I was the one tied up - what the hell do you think you would have done? No, that’s-“ He waved his hand to negate the question portion. “If you had me tied up after being alone for three years, you would expect me not to be upset by what I did to you.” Sylar gave a checking look to see if he’d followed along. When Peter made a face, any face other than comprehension, Sylar sighed and spoke plain English, “I wasn’t going to do anything, not…anything real bad, nothing intentional.” He had been drunk, after all. There was only so much he could account for.
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Peter couldn't stop himself from visualizing what he'd do if their roles and positions had been reversed: he'd have fallen on his knees in front of Sylar in grateful appreciation for his presence, and wept. Then he would have untied him, because a reversed-position Peter would have no need of a tied up Sylar. He would have never frightened or molested him, precisely for fear of offending the object of his attraction (assuming he were attracted - he wasn't sure how much the hypothetical role reversal encompassed, but attracted or not, he would be appeasing, not annoying).
This wasn't an entirely unfounded speculation. Peter had had the experience of having strangers break him out of a cargo container after weeks alone and tortured by deprivation of all kinds. Despite all manner of powers at his unconscious disposal, he'd defended himself only out of reflex and allowed them to brutally and methodically beat him nearly to death, because he would not dare alienate the only people he knew. He fell in love at the first sign of kindness and pledged to join their gang despite how they'd treated him and knowing they were just using him. He hadn't cared. If their roles were reversed, Peter was pretty sure he'd see Sylar as an agent of God. Three years alone, instead of three weeks? Yeah, totally divine. He'd be on his knees in supplication and he wasn't embarrassed to admit that to himself. Assuming I were even sane.
Peter stared at the table, knowing he wasn't getting Sylar's exact meaning, but thinking he had it well enough to follow the gist. We're really different. I wouldn't lay an unwelcome finger on him. He lifted his gaze at the end of Sylar's words. “'Nothing intentional'? What do you consider what you did? Are you trying to say you weren't in control of what you were doing?”
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Sylar paused in guiding his toast to his mouth. Then his face fell. He’d slipped up and Peter caught him, highlighting and hyper focusing on his mistakes, drilling him on it now. He’d talked himself into a corner. “Does it matter?” he snipped, dropping his toast to the plate. Part of him really wanted to know the answer to that. “I mean, what do you wa-” he began, stopping himself short to take a breath, release it and shake his head. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he’d almost said aloud but that was an unforgivable admission. Control made him better; control was power. “I have plenty of control. I have more control than you.” Only after his angry reaction and his usual claim of control could he relax enough to lighten up and tell the truth. Something of it anyway, “I meant the beer, alright? I don’t…I told you I never really drank much.” I never played Truth or Dare before, either. “Does that work for you?” he asked it with sarcasm and a bit of taunting.
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Peter tilted his head and pulled it back, an intent expression forming on his face. “No. No, I don't think it does. I made a lot of stupid decisions last night, but I was the one making them. It sounds like you're telling me the beer was making some of yours. If that's the case, no more beer for us.” He eyed Sylar judgmentally, not appreciating whatsoever the attempt to brush off bad behavior on the alcohol. Is that how he deals with having killed people? 'It was the ability that made me do it?'
Thoughts of murdering Nathan in the future, driven by his newly acquired ability from Sylar (well, actually, Gabriel) floated through his mind. Peter grimaced and frowned, releasing his body language and going back to eating. It matters, and control is something he thinks he doesn't have. Asshole. Peter rubbed at the soreness behind his temple.
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Sylar glared. Once again he had either trapped himself or been trapped. "Then what is going to cut it for you, Peter? You gave a very crazy person a lot of beer last night and that was after you tried to cave his skull in. Maybe I am kinky after all." He went back to his toast for a moment before thinking it over, discovering something more to add, "You have this thing..." Sylar waved his hand, "where you think that people play by the same rules as you. Do you know that? You jump headfirst into seriously dangerous shit and you...expect or hope it will all just turn out okay. You don't even consider shit hitting the fan. If you agree to something, you'd better know what you're getting into or stuff comes back to bite you. Since you won't trust me, this is what you have to deal with - a deranged psycho who likes tying up drunk idiots. Interested in round two, baby?" he purred over his toast, "I'll be nice and spare your sensitive nipples."
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“Sylar, I was trusting you last night. Don’t you realize that's what was going on there? You were the one who pointed out I was trusting you back when you taped up my finger.” Peter made a small wave with his left hand, displaying the digit in question. It still featured a reddish line of forming scar tissue where the force of some punch had split the skin. It was okay though as long as he didn’t punch anything with it until it was fully healed. Sometimes that seemed less possible than others. “We’ve already established you’re not crazy,” or at least that I’m not to treat you that way, “so you’re not going to get anywhere with me now by pretending you are. If we’re not playing by the same rules, then you’d better clue me in on them. Tell me what I’m getting into.” He put his elbows on the table and took a casual bite of toast, settling in and being comfortable with the conversation despite the subject and the person he was having it with.
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Sylar’s head canted at that. That makes a lot more sense, if he was trusting me. But why would he do that? I mean, I just said he sort of shouldn’t trust me and he did and I…He was upset just to do it he said. That’s the point, isn’t it? He did it anyway. No, Peter, that obviously wasn’t obvious. Sylar frowned and his lips pursed next. “So I’m…normal, then, if I’m not crazy, right? You’re saying I’m normal. And who the fuck said I was pretending?!” he barked because yelling would use his headache to kill him. A pointed finger locked onto Peter, “Keep that bullshit up and I really will tie you up again. Quit with the psych evaluation.” Sylar chuffed a sigh, poking at his toast. He knew he was contradicting himself, demanding to be treated like he wasn’t crazy, probably or apparently acting crazy, Peter saying he wasn’t crazy when he obviously thought Sylar was. So Sylar was…trying to convince Peter, or himself? Insanity wasn’t a defense because it excused him nothing - clearly; insanity was instead an explanation for his actions and it was the only one that had ever fit. The accusation of being a pretender bothered him. How could he pretend to be something he felt, something he acted on, something he’d been labeled? The evidence was all there except…sometimes he didn’t feel the largest crushing pressure of insanity - of course it was easier now, without the Hunger, but in other ways the emptiness of his world was just as bad. Now Peter was here and everything shifted on its head. With more than one person in his head, Sylar felt sanity was a distant memory, something Peter couldn’t understand. If he was going to be insane, he felt it should work as a defense some of the time; there had to be a perk in there somewhere, if not, he’d make one.
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Okay. Talking about sanity at all sets him off. Check. Peter exhaled evenly and continued eating, watching while Sylar worked through his reaction. He wasn’t pleased with the threat of restraint, but as intimidations went, it didn’t hold much power over him. For Sylar to do it without Peter’s cooperation would be quite the fight. What Peter registered instead was that mental health was something Sylar found very triggering. So, don't talk about it - not something I was burning to discuss with him anyway, but I wonder where he got this strong of a reaction? I need to make sure that in future, I talk about the concussion in purely physical terms, not so much mental.
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More sedately, Sylar explained, “Those are the rules, Peter: you think things through. You don’t plan so you get into things then you blame me for not…I don’t know, holding your hand and walking you through everything? No, you either expect the worst or you get the crash course. You act like-like I should pull my punches when you clearly won’t.” His voice grated some, “You keep reminding me how I’m the unpredictable one, how I’m not your brother, not your friend, not your anything, so why should I give you the cheat sheet?”
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“Sometimes we all need a little hand-holding,” Peter said so quietly it was almost a murmur. He regretted it immediately, getting up from the table and going to refill his only half-empty glass of water. It implied both a weakness he didn’t want to show and an awareness that Sylar got less help than he needed. It wasn’t where Peter wanted the conversation to go. He turned and shot Sylar an unpleasant look, the sort of expression that usually preceded angry conversation. Instead, he frowned, sighed, and looked away, sipping at his water as he cooled down a little.
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Sylar’s lip turned up at the far less than joyous expression aimed at him. Some of us more than others, he thought but didn’t speak, considering how…toothless it was as a bitchy retort.
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“Well, I’m pulling my punches right now. I don’t want to expect the worst from you all the time, Sylar, and I don’t, or else I wouldn’t even be in the same room with you. I expect better.” He sounded petulant and he probably was. His tone evened out a little as he looked back at Sylar and went on, “Regardless of what you’ve been before, we’re here together. I’m not buying the ‘you get to do anything you want’ thing, especially with the ‘it’s Peter’s fault if he’s not smart enough to figure me out ahead of time’ part. That’s not fair. Those aren’t rules I’m willing to play by.”
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Sylar had since folded his arms across his chest, an eyebrow steadily creeping upwards in disbelief. ‘I expect better,’ he internally mocked - God, that was so familiar. You demand better, you think I owe it to you because…I’m me and you’re you. That was the extent of the reasoning Sylar had ever understood about it - other people were better, sometimes special, at least more productive, useful, often times others were good sons and daughters…In any case, Peter’s statements left a lot to be desired and already he was digging his heels in against cooperating. Funny, now we’re together, when you want to make a point of it. A brief frown crossed his face, How does that work, ‘I get to do anything I want’?...It goes that way because it IS your fault, Peter! Stupid little asswipe - he thinks he can ‘opt out.’ He thinks he’s too good for the rules. Frustrated now, Sylar exhaled with some force, “See, this is wh- It’s not just me. You do it for everything, Peter. You don’t figure it out. I don’t understand how you expect me to know something you haven’t communicated. It’s not my fault if you didn’t think something through. You didn’t even ask questions. You agreed to a Dare and you didn’t set any limits,” Sylar raised a hand to forestall any comeback, “for whatever your reason. Besides, you freaked out enough and got your way anyway.” It didn’t sound like Peter’s trust was too broken. He couldn’t remember the point (if there was any) of the conversation or what his argument was so he shut his mouth, filling it with now-cold, bland toast.
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Peter glowered at him and retook his seat. He felt, not for the first time, that he and Sylar were having very different conversations.
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Several chews later, it came to him. Looking up, Sylar added, “Those rules are the same for everyone, for the most part, Peter. So why do you think you deserve some kind of cheat sheet? I’ve earned what I know - you haven’t.” His head was still killing him, in fact, becoming more of a permanent fixture; the light and sound sensitivities of hangover remained but the nausea had gone down. Inner torment roiled in him when he felt the urge to play sick or manipulate a rather short-sighted, somewhat stupid Peter into cuddling until his headache felt better.
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“What rules? That I have to figure things out without any help? I know how the world works, Sylar. I also know it doesn’t work the way you’re implying it does, without anyone helping anyone else. That’s seeing only what you expect to see. People do help each other; they should help each other more.” He sighed and stared at the table, shoulders sagging in resignation. “I’ve had this argument before with …” Nathan, my dad, “a lot of other people. Really, Sylar,” he looked up with a concerned, imploring expression, “you’re just making it clear to me this is a one way street and you have no intention of … reciprocating.” He shook his head and pursed his lips, trying to think of a better way to put this. “Even from a completely mercenary standpoint, if you do not give me a ‘cheat sheet’ and help me sometimes, then I’m not going to be very motivated to help you.”
But maybe he doesn’t think I’ve done anything to help him. Peter snorted softly and took another bite, hunching over his plate. Maybe he doesn’t recognize any of the things I’ve done as me going out of my way for him. I haven’t done anything that a decent person shouldn’t have done anyway - nothing special, nothing heroic, nothing he should be grateful for. Is that what I want, after all? Him to thank me? (It would be a nice start.) Seems kind of self-centered. Depressed suddenly by the anticipated rejection, frowning, and eyes going anywhere but at Sylar, Peter finished his toast and stood up, snagging his plate to put next to the sink.
“I’m going out.” He felt lousy, tired, and emotionally shut out. The physical wasn’t nearly as important as the social. He doesn’t want me here. I should leave. It’s not safe here anyway. I gave him a limit last night and he ignored it. Now he’s telling me he’s going to keep ignoring them. I should move back to my apartment. He doesn’t need me anymore. Maybe that’s what this is all about. Peter headed off to the bathroom to swap Sylar’s pajama bottoms for his own jeans. He could get a new shirt at home.
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No. No. No. Peter pulled away and announced that he would be leaving; possibly not coming back for all the certainty his declaration gave. Sylar felt the flood of red anger then the low tide of despair and creeping loneliness. All he wanted to do was claw and grab Peter back, hold him until he stayed (and maybe after that). The fact that they’d just been arguing (or something) was obliterated with disgusting, uncomfortable ease at the mere idea of being abandoned. So he waited outside his own bathroom for Peter to show his face. When the door opened, Sylar pounced, “No. You said you want to talk, that it’s okay for me to talk, then I want you to answer my questions: what makes you so special that you get inside information when I have to work for it?” Apparently Peter really needed this spelled out. “How on earth could I be ‘normal’?” He exhaled; feeling smaller now he’d stood up to the giant, so to speak, expelled the words and said his piece. “And…” he hesitated, uncommitted, “what kind of stuff would you want to know?” Sylar was not promising anything - he didn’t know what little self-secrets he was being asked to provide - and what’s more, he wasn’t sure he knew himself that well or knew how to disclose those things. Doing it at all was massively dangerous; it was the reason he didn’t ever do it. One hair out of place, one indecent preference, one I’d-rather-not and his life was hell. Or, more Hell, in this case.
XXX
Peter opened the bathroom door and pulled up short. Sylar was blocking his way, arms crossed, feet shoulder-width apart, looking imposing. Peter's eyes darted around the room alertly, not so much in alarm, but definitely checking to see if there was anything more to the ambush than Sylar. Not that Sylar couldn't be enough of an ambush all by himself. Peter looked back at him as he started speaking, his attention staying there throughout the speech.
When Sylar was done, Peter tilted his head and said sullenly, “I didn't get 'inside information', Sylar. My mom, my dad, my brother - all had abilities. Not one of them talked to me about it.” He swallowed roughly, leaning against the bathroom doorframe for support, because that familial betrayal was a hard thing for Peter to talk about. “Nathan denied it to my face. Even when I threatened to jump, he still denied it.” Peter's brows climbed and he tilted his head down, looking up at Sylar. “I had to fall before he flew.” He waited a beat for that to sink in - that only Peter's imminent death had caused Nathan to use his ability. “And even then, when I woke up, he still lied about it. My mom ...” Peter shook his head and changed the subject, because that was too painful altogether to talk about. “I didn't get any 'inside information'. I ran into Claude by accident when I was on my way out of town to live in the freaking desert for the rest of my life,” he made an angry gesture with his left hand, “to keep people safe from me blowing up. He acted like he had some answers, but all he did was beat me up over and over and then throw me off a thirty-story building, when I didn't know how to fly or heal or do anything on purpose.” Peter straightened again, heart pounding at the memory, breathing speeding up, angry now. That had been a murder attempt - Peter was sure of it.
XXX
Sylar’s eyes widened a little at first. He’s only talking about abilities? We…weren’t talking about them before…He still wants my hard-earned knowledge for free but it’s about something I can actually talk about even though he said he didn’t want to talk about abilities. Their situations were vastly different - Peter was surrounded by specials who could have (but didn’t) share their knowledge; Sylar had access (sometimes) to geneticists and had been on the receiving end of what brain surgeons looked and tested for. Of course Sylar never pretended to be ‘normal,’ except briefly, to get close to a target. What Sylar couldn’t wholly understand was Peter’s situation in ‘coming out’ as a special - Peter had been stone-walled and treated, quite literally, like a crazed person by his own family. //Nathan had ignored his own ability so thoroughly it had taken a scene like Peter almost killing himself for him to use it - out of necessity. That didn’t mean they had to talk about it and bond over it as Peter had wanted. Of course Nathan had denied it - because how the hell was he going to explain to their mother how his baby brother had tried to jump thirty stories and had somehow lived? How could he tell Heidi how he’d walked away, nearly unscathed from the accident that crippled her? It had still torn at Nathan’s identity to live one life and have Peter know or strongly suspect otherwise, knowing and digging at the secrets of his life and encourage or demand he be open. Peter’s life was simple, Peter’s life was open, he had that luxury, but Peter would never understand the role and responsibility of the eldest son//. Sylar experienced assault, when he’d tried to tell his mother about his powers, and he’d killed her. There was no more deception, anxiety, no more void of acceptance to fill with efforts to please and belong - he just ran away, leaving home, mother, corpse and a sick scene of depravity.
XXX
“Get out of my way.” Peter pushed Sylar aside firmly and went to sit on the couch, over his shoes. He looked at them briefly, then pushed them aside and looked back to Sylar. “What I said was that you weren't crazy. And you're not. There's not that many days go by as a paramedic where we're not picking someone up for psych reasons. I've seen crazy. Whatever you've-” I'm going to get into trouble with him about this. I know it. But I've got to say it. “Whatever you've done, horrible as maybe it was, is not a sign of insanity. Who knows? My dad's maybe done the same thing, maybe even worse. People in war … Just because you've killed people doesn't mean you're insane.”
I don't know what I want to know. I just want to be … safe? Okay? Understand you some so I'm not thinking I need to take a knife to bed with me? I don't 'get' you. He looked up at Sylar, brows drawing together, and said nothing for the moment, giving Sylar time to respond to what he had said.
XXX
Peter set his shoes aside and Sylar’s nervous hovering eased. He felt like he took a breath finally. The stress came right back with Peter’s words. You don’t know what I’ve done, you say so yourself. So how can you judge? “You know no one agrees with you on that. I’m a psychopath. Why should I believe you? You think I don’t know what kind of head-games you people play - tell me one thing, do another? I don’t think you know anything or you wouldn’t be asking questions. I thought you didn’t want to talk about abilities.” Sylar pointedly dodged the subject of murder. For one thing, it sounded like Peter might be excusing it and he didn’t know why, couldn’t see why or how that was even possible. If it wasn’t insane…then what was it? What was he - something better, something worse? Where did he fit? Why would the collective heroes define him incorrectly - what did that serve? Should homicide be excused? //Nathan remembered Peter specifically, firmly stating that he didn’t want to know about Nathan’s missions in the military. Peter was a gentle pacifist and couldn’t handle the idea of death - what an odd career move, then, to watch old people die//.
XXX
Continued...
Day 22, New Year’s Day, morning
“Thank you,” Sylar whispered, taking the cup. He didn’t know how his stomach would handle the new visitor but the warmth of the cup, the gesture, were comfort enough. Sylar didn’t look at his nurse, he pretended to be engrossed in the tea, unable to engage in conversation and Peter…left it alone. After long enough, it became clear Peter wasn’t going to say anything about it or say much of anything else. Why does he ask all these questions? He’s supposed to leave me alone. When the silence settled and it was clear he could introduce another topic, probably another undesired question for Peter to deny and disallow. “Why did you ask about the worst question you could ask last night?” Sylar assumed Peter felt the need to have dirt on him, some vulnerability to exploit, or try to, but he didn’t put words in the empath’s mouth. Peter’s questions seemed focused on his mother and he wanted to know if the content was coincidence or planned (though how Peter could do that with such supposedly limited information was beyond him). Does he know something and he’s not telling? Is he looking for a confession? He said he didn’t want to talk about the murders, though.
XXX
Peter looked over at him from squeezing pointlessly at the now-empty IV bag. I thought I wasn't supposed to talk about that? That's not what he's asking of me, though. He wants motivations, not for me to ask about it. He started detaching the IV, considering what angle to take in answering. “I wanted to scare you,” he said quietly. “I wanted you to think I could have been asking worse stuff than I was.” He pulled the tube from his vein and put his thumb over it for pressure. “I wanted to see if you'd trust me with something like that. I won't ask. I wouldn't have last night and I won't now.”
XXX
Trust? It has nothing to do with trust. Well, I trusted his promise. Shit. I did trust him a little. I was…drunk. The creases around his eyes crinkled, Sylar’s way of showing amusement without smiling as his mouth twitched at one anyway. He won’t ask now? He can, does he know that? I know something you don’t know. Let him think that - he might behave better if he thinks I trust him. “It was a game and you suckered me into that one. If I chose Truth again, without your promise - the one you didn’t include - you’d have asked it next. If I chose Dare, you could have made them so horrible that I’d have to chose Truth or risk losing. Even now, I doubt you’d tie me up and beat it out of me. It’s not that important.” While some of that was leading, hinting to see if Peter really had no clue he could ask (but Sylar might not answer or do it truthfully), the rest of it was pointed and deceptive - Peter had a history of beating him up (and talk of his mother was important, at least to Sylar. He couldn’t follow how something important to him mattered to someone else). The phrasing was close enough to something he’d rasped before, mid-fight, when he was laid flat on a plywood table in a dusty, reconstructed hospital floor: /’What are you gonna do; beat him out of me? Do it! Kill me!’/ Ah! Sylar grimaced and made a move to touch his head as more pain twisted inside it.
XXX
Peter stood in concern at Sylar's groan, setting aside his tubing and bag, but then catching himself before moving to Sylar. Something about Sylar's posture and choice of words stopped him. I'm not dealing with a standard patient here. I'm dealing with a guy who is violent, traumatized, and he and I have a history. Be gentle. Peter put his hands out to the sides, palms toward Sylar. In a calm, even, and honest tone of voice, he said, “You thought all that through, huh? That's better than I did. You got me. But you know what? I'm still not going to ask unless you tell me it's okay, and if that's never, that's okay, too. No beatings. No nothing.” It's obviously important or you wouldn't be so desperate to tell me it isn't. Which just reinforces that you told me the truth and there is no way I'm breaking that.
Peter made a slow motion towards the hook for the IV bag on the shelf above Sylar's bed, taking it down and setting it aside on the chair. “Let me see your arm and I'll take that out for you.” He gestured, but didn't move closer.
XXX
An exhale that wanted to be a sigh followed his spasm. Peter had confirmed it, on his own. He really won’t ask. (Why do I feel a little…disappointed?) We’re not talking. Sylar puffed a few amused breaths as he settled back, “Sure, right,” he intoned, voice heavy with disbelief, but light enough to keep the current mood. You would have let me walk right into that trap in the game if I hadn’t made you promise. But he’s not asking now so…I don’t know what that means. “Hmm? Oh, is it…? Yeah.” Sylar looked partially behind himself to see the empty IV bag and proffered his arm, watching his partner-slash-nurse with low-lidded interest. The pats on his arm were wonderful and far too brief. Didn’t he…didn’t he do that last night, too? Yeah, put me right to sleep. Peter set the used equipment on his chair, immediately striking Sylar as a bad place to put it - sitting on a used needle? I could always band-aid his butt, no problem. Without permission, he reached out, gathered it up and tossed it onto the desk.
XXX
Peter glanced over at the rearrangement of stuff, taking it as unusual politeness on Sylar's part, and an unspoken desire for Peter to sit down and hang around. He took the seat, but kept his attention on Sylar, trying to figure out what had just caused the display of pain. “Is your head still hurting you?”
XXX
“Always.”
XXX
Peter frowned briefly. “Must be the concussion, not the hangover. How bad is it?”
XXX
“Bad enough to still be a problem. I suppose I’ll live.” I wonder how he feels about that…
XXX
Peter exhaled heavily, eyes tracking over Sylar's forehead, then to his pupils, which looked fine. They were, in turn, fixed on Peter himself. “Far as I know, there's nothing much I can do about that except make sure you take painkillers, stay hydrated, and try to hold down the stress.” Before he could dwell too much on the miserable failure he was at achieving that last condition, Peter moved on. “Are you still feeling nauseous?”
XXX
“It’s better,” Sylar shrugged.
XXX
“Okay. I’m gonna go make some breakfast for us.” Peter rose, heading off to the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Toast sound good?”
XXX
Sylar made a hum, barely loud enough to be heard over Peter’s departure. Again, even that much separation made him…anxious. He sat up, toying with an edge of his sheet. “How are you…doing?” was his awkwardly thought, awkwardly voiced question because he’d though three different variations to the question and mixed them up a little when he spoke. Plus, it was unfamiliar for him to have to ask about someone else’s well being, usually he got only as far as ‘you okay?’ but he wanted specifics since Peter had been specific, nurse or no. On top of that, his voice was still rough, dried from the alcohol and sleep so it didn’t carry as well as it should have.
XXX
Peter got out the bread, picking off and eating a bit of crust because no one was in there watching him, then stuck the slices in the toaster. He moved the dial over to very dark. Burnt toast is better for nausea, right? Wish I remembered … but meal prep was never part of the paramedic stuff and not really hospice, either. “Oh, I'm … “ He double-checked the toaster setting and went to get plates out, the sound of his own voice seeming to echo around the room more than he liked. “I'm okay. My electrolyte balance is probably off. You lost everything out the top; I lost it out the end. Getting fluids helps, but it doesn't make up for that. I think I should take it easy today.” Not that I've been getting the level of exercise I should be getting, but whatever. He still had a few lingering sore spots from their fights and of course his hand was still broken, but functionally, he thought he was fine, although Peter had a track record of over-estimating his body's endurance. The hangover's worst effects were already mitigated by fluids and medication - headache faded, nausea vastly reduced, the cotton-headed, nasty-mouthed sensation was gone. Well, actually the nasty-mouthed feeling was still there. I need to brush my teeth. He settled for rinsing his mouth at the kitchen sink.
XXX
“Hmm,” Sylar grunted again. “Why did you freak out when I pinched you?” he called out, leaving it for Peter to figure out what he meant. “Is that another one of those…Uh, I don’t know, sex things?”
XXX
Pinched me? Wait, what? Peter went over to look out at Sylar, but Sylar was coming to the kitchen already, and what he meant was clear from the rest of what he had to say. You're asking about that? Now? What, are we gonna have a debriefing of everything? “Last night?” Peter scoffed, leaning backwards against the counter next to the toaster, facing Sylar. “Maybe you were too drunk to notice, but I was freaking out before that, too.” He lifted his right hand to stab a finger once at Sylar. “By the way, drunk or not, I don't buy that 'I don't know where the limits are' bullshit you tried to pull. You knew damned well where the limits were because I told you and you understood what I said. You repeated it back to me - something about it being too late for me to set limits, which means you knew what I was doing. Remember that?” Peter tipped his head down, brows rising, skewering Sylar with his gaze and calling him to answer for being an ass. You do not get to bitch about 'freak-outs' you caused. Considering all the bad stuff he had in his past involving restraints, Peter thought he'd been pretty mild in his reaction.
He glanced over at the toast that had just popped out. “Get the butter. We probably shouldn't put anything else on it.”
XXX
Sylar stopped short when the finger aimed at him. What did I do now? The body language alerted him before the words specified his crime; one he apparently didn’t know he’d committed. Of course it’s bullshit. You don’t even know but it’s bullshit. Of course. Wait, what did he tell me? But he didn’t set any limits! He had plenty of chances! “You-…The…That was…?” That was molesting you? (Yeah, remember normal people? Remember how much they looove being touched by me?) Fuck. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t even know…That’s why he should have said-! Sylar contemplated an apology for something that was, as usual, only half his fault, a question he’d probably tried to communicate and had failed, then screwed it up true to form. “Are they like-” he began a clarifying question despite Peter’s ball-breaking stare. The sudden, sharp, grating pop and twang of the toaster signaling completion startled him badly and hurt his tender senses, “Ah!” he hissed, moving away before Peter gave him a command. Butter again. This just isn’t my day, he thought, setting the butter dish near Peter and the toast station at arm’s length then clearing out. His face, not that Peter could see it, was one of distaste. “Fine. Have it your way: no more questions.” This is exactly what I was talking about earlier.
He got glasses of water (because Peter mentioned fluids but disagreed with flavors) and sat at the table, waiting patiently. Bread and water, too, how fitting.
XXX
No more questions? You get called on your behavior and that ends the conversation, huh? Must be nice to just bail whenever it's inconvenient to you! Peter's blood was up and the desire to pitch this minor thing into a full-scale conflict simmered in the background as he buttered the two slices. Sylar, quite wisely, left him the hell alone so that by the time Peter brought their very simple breakfast to the table, he was at least calm enough not to immediately snap at the man.
Calm down. He got the water. He got the butter. He's right there. You were just talking about how you needed to keep the stress level down … but damnit, I don't want to let this drop! He slid Sylar's plate over with the untouched piece of toast, keeping for himself the one that he'd already torn the top crust off of. Deciding not to reiterate the point about limits, he went to what Sylar had started stammering out before he'd stifled himself. “Are they like what?”
XXX
Sylar’s nerve to ask was gone. Besides, the question sounded bad and it was sure to insult and get him into more hot water than he was already in. Just ease the frog into the boiling water - the frog is very used to it, Sylar thought bitterly. He shook his head.
XXX
Peter took a few small bites of toast, mostly due to uncertainty about his stomach, but a little because his jaw still hurt him sometimes. Especially if he was prone to clenching it, which at the moment he was having to resist. The chewing helped. If he thinks he has to do what I tell him to do … “Answer me.”
XXX
“Nah. It was another stupid question, guaranteed to piss you off, so…” With that, he occupied his mouth with food.
XXX
“I'm already pissed off and this is what you get.” Peter gestured at himself, pale but with anger-spawned rosy spots on this cheeks and across his nose, hair unkempt, dressed in Sylar's pajamas. He didn't think he could possibly be intimidating like this, not that he was trying. “I'm good at stupid questions. Tell me what you meant.”
XXX
“Al-right…” Sylar exhaled the word dramatically, petulantly, “Are they like a woman’s? Did it hurt or something?” Maybe that was why it was unacceptable, molesting behavior for Peter.
XXX
Peter blinked at him. That … wasn't what he'd been expecting. He took another bite of toast and calmed down a little. “You're asking about pinching me?”
XXX
Either that’s good or he’s going to give me his real reaction in a minute…”Yeah.”
XXX
Peter thought back through the conversation. “You're back to asking why I freaked out.” He put his toast down and reached up to scratch at his left temple, chewing his lips a little as he looked down for a moment. He was internalizing the possibility that Sylar really was clueless here. “You don't get it. Okay.” Peter sighed and ran his hand through his hair, realizing too late that it might have had toast crumbs on it. He glanced at it surreptitiously (clean-looking now, but that didn't mean anything), then focused on Sylar. A few crumbs in his hair was not important. “I tol-” Peter cut himself off, took a deep breath, held it, let it out. His tone of voice had started to come out harsh. It wasn't what he wanted. In an even voice, he started again. “Okay. Here's the sequence: I was already upset about being tied up. You were teasing me, circling me, telling me how helpless I was. I don't like hearing that.” Peter tried to lock eyes with Sylar for a moment. “That's the reason you were saying it - to upset me. You succeeded; I was upset. Then you sat on me. I didn't like that either. When you started touching me … sexually … I told you to stop. You knew I was telling you to stop. You repeated it back to me and told me, essentially, that no, you weren't going to stop. That told me that defending myself verbally was off the table - you wouldn't negotiate or discuss things. Then you pinched me, taking things a step further, continuing what I'd already told you to stop, and daring me to do something about it. So I did. That's why I 'freaked out'.”
He cocked his head a little and asked, “How far were you going to take that, anyway?”
XXX
Sylar just looked back at Peter while he spoke. And you tell me how worthless I am; I don’t like hearing that either. Okay, he’d kind of known he was upsetting Peter just by sitting on him. That was intentional, inebriated or not. That was…sexual to him? Sylar’s brows furrowed a little in a muted frown as he thought back to his own intentions for the act(s) in question. It was…skin - soft and so warm; it was a human being; it was a captive, enduring, emotionally wired human being and people were by nature objects of revulsive fascination for him. He’d wanted to see how Peter worked, explore, and that included sexuality as just one topic of many he had interest in. Peter didn’t look like he was in an understanding mood, no matter what he said about therapeutic communication - Sylar felt he had an explanation, at least, a possible valid reason for ignoring Peter’s supposed cry of foul play. He wasn’t going to bother with it. Instead, he looked mournfully down at his toast, all the better to keep his nose out of trouble and keep it intact.
He glanced up at the return query. “What do you mean? If our positions had been reversed - you were here for three years and I needed your help and couldn’t get it and I was the one tied up - what the hell do you think you would have done? No, that’s-“ He waved his hand to negate the question portion. “If you had me tied up after being alone for three years, you would expect me not to be upset by what I did to you.” Sylar gave a checking look to see if he’d followed along. When Peter made a face, any face other than comprehension, Sylar sighed and spoke plain English, “I wasn’t going to do anything, not…anything real bad, nothing intentional.” He had been drunk, after all. There was only so much he could account for.
XXX
Peter couldn't stop himself from visualizing what he'd do if their roles and positions had been reversed: he'd have fallen on his knees in front of Sylar in grateful appreciation for his presence, and wept. Then he would have untied him, because a reversed-position Peter would have no need of a tied up Sylar. He would have never frightened or molested him, precisely for fear of offending the object of his attraction (assuming he were attracted - he wasn't sure how much the hypothetical role reversal encompassed, but attracted or not, he would be appeasing, not annoying).
This wasn't an entirely unfounded speculation. Peter had had the experience of having strangers break him out of a cargo container after weeks alone and tortured by deprivation of all kinds. Despite all manner of powers at his unconscious disposal, he'd defended himself only out of reflex and allowed them to brutally and methodically beat him nearly to death, because he would not dare alienate the only people he knew. He fell in love at the first sign of kindness and pledged to join their gang despite how they'd treated him and knowing they were just using him. He hadn't cared. If their roles were reversed, Peter was pretty sure he'd see Sylar as an agent of God. Three years alone, instead of three weeks? Yeah, totally divine. He'd be on his knees in supplication and he wasn't embarrassed to admit that to himself. Assuming I were even sane.
Peter stared at the table, knowing he wasn't getting Sylar's exact meaning, but thinking he had it well enough to follow the gist. We're really different. I wouldn't lay an unwelcome finger on him. He lifted his gaze at the end of Sylar's words. “'Nothing intentional'? What do you consider what you did? Are you trying to say you weren't in control of what you were doing?”
XXX
Sylar paused in guiding his toast to his mouth. Then his face fell. He’d slipped up and Peter caught him, highlighting and hyper focusing on his mistakes, drilling him on it now. He’d talked himself into a corner. “Does it matter?” he snipped, dropping his toast to the plate. Part of him really wanted to know the answer to that. “I mean, what do you wa-” he began, stopping himself short to take a breath, release it and shake his head. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he’d almost said aloud but that was an unforgivable admission. Control made him better; control was power. “I have plenty of control. I have more control than you.” Only after his angry reaction and his usual claim of control could he relax enough to lighten up and tell the truth. Something of it anyway, “I meant the beer, alright? I don’t…I told you I never really drank much.” I never played Truth or Dare before, either. “Does that work for you?” he asked it with sarcasm and a bit of taunting.
XXX
Peter tilted his head and pulled it back, an intent expression forming on his face. “No. No, I don't think it does. I made a lot of stupid decisions last night, but I was the one making them. It sounds like you're telling me the beer was making some of yours. If that's the case, no more beer for us.” He eyed Sylar judgmentally, not appreciating whatsoever the attempt to brush off bad behavior on the alcohol. Is that how he deals with having killed people? 'It was the ability that made me do it?'
Thoughts of murdering Nathan in the future, driven by his newly acquired ability from Sylar (well, actually, Gabriel) floated through his mind. Peter grimaced and frowned, releasing his body language and going back to eating. It matters, and control is something he thinks he doesn't have. Asshole. Peter rubbed at the soreness behind his temple.
XXX
Sylar glared. Once again he had either trapped himself or been trapped. "Then what is going to cut it for you, Peter? You gave a very crazy person a lot of beer last night and that was after you tried to cave his skull in. Maybe I am kinky after all." He went back to his toast for a moment before thinking it over, discovering something more to add, "You have this thing..." Sylar waved his hand, "where you think that people play by the same rules as you. Do you know that? You jump headfirst into seriously dangerous shit and you...expect or hope it will all just turn out okay. You don't even consider shit hitting the fan. If you agree to something, you'd better know what you're getting into or stuff comes back to bite you. Since you won't trust me, this is what you have to deal with - a deranged psycho who likes tying up drunk idiots. Interested in round two, baby?" he purred over his toast, "I'll be nice and spare your sensitive nipples."
XXX
“Sylar, I was trusting you last night. Don’t you realize that's what was going on there? You were the one who pointed out I was trusting you back when you taped up my finger.” Peter made a small wave with his left hand, displaying the digit in question. It still featured a reddish line of forming scar tissue where the force of some punch had split the skin. It was okay though as long as he didn’t punch anything with it until it was fully healed. Sometimes that seemed less possible than others. “We’ve already established you’re not crazy,” or at least that I’m not to treat you that way, “so you’re not going to get anywhere with me now by pretending you are. If we’re not playing by the same rules, then you’d better clue me in on them. Tell me what I’m getting into.” He put his elbows on the table and took a casual bite of toast, settling in and being comfortable with the conversation despite the subject and the person he was having it with.
XXX
Sylar’s head canted at that. That makes a lot more sense, if he was trusting me. But why would he do that? I mean, I just said he sort of shouldn’t trust me and he did and I…He was upset just to do it he said. That’s the point, isn’t it? He did it anyway. No, Peter, that obviously wasn’t obvious. Sylar frowned and his lips pursed next. “So I’m…normal, then, if I’m not crazy, right? You’re saying I’m normal. And who the fuck said I was pretending?!” he barked because yelling would use his headache to kill him. A pointed finger locked onto Peter, “Keep that bullshit up and I really will tie you up again. Quit with the psych evaluation.” Sylar chuffed a sigh, poking at his toast. He knew he was contradicting himself, demanding to be treated like he wasn’t crazy, probably or apparently acting crazy, Peter saying he wasn’t crazy when he obviously thought Sylar was. So Sylar was…trying to convince Peter, or himself? Insanity wasn’t a defense because it excused him nothing - clearly; insanity was instead an explanation for his actions and it was the only one that had ever fit. The accusation of being a pretender bothered him. How could he pretend to be something he felt, something he acted on, something he’d been labeled? The evidence was all there except…sometimes he didn’t feel the largest crushing pressure of insanity - of course it was easier now, without the Hunger, but in other ways the emptiness of his world was just as bad. Now Peter was here and everything shifted on its head. With more than one person in his head, Sylar felt sanity was a distant memory, something Peter couldn’t understand. If he was going to be insane, he felt it should work as a defense some of the time; there had to be a perk in there somewhere, if not, he’d make one.
XXX
Okay. Talking about sanity at all sets him off. Check. Peter exhaled evenly and continued eating, watching while Sylar worked through his reaction. He wasn’t pleased with the threat of restraint, but as intimidations went, it didn’t hold much power over him. For Sylar to do it without Peter’s cooperation would be quite the fight. What Peter registered instead was that mental health was something Sylar found very triggering. So, don't talk about it - not something I was burning to discuss with him anyway, but I wonder where he got this strong of a reaction? I need to make sure that in future, I talk about the concussion in purely physical terms, not so much mental.
XXX
More sedately, Sylar explained, “Those are the rules, Peter: you think things through. You don’t plan so you get into things then you blame me for not…I don’t know, holding your hand and walking you through everything? No, you either expect the worst or you get the crash course. You act like-like I should pull my punches when you clearly won’t.” His voice grated some, “You keep reminding me how I’m the unpredictable one, how I’m not your brother, not your friend, not your anything, so why should I give you the cheat sheet?”
XXX
“Sometimes we all need a little hand-holding,” Peter said so quietly it was almost a murmur. He regretted it immediately, getting up from the table and going to refill his only half-empty glass of water. It implied both a weakness he didn’t want to show and an awareness that Sylar got less help than he needed. It wasn’t where Peter wanted the conversation to go. He turned and shot Sylar an unpleasant look, the sort of expression that usually preceded angry conversation. Instead, he frowned, sighed, and looked away, sipping at his water as he cooled down a little.
XXX
Sylar’s lip turned up at the far less than joyous expression aimed at him. Some of us more than others, he thought but didn’t speak, considering how…toothless it was as a bitchy retort.
XXX
“Well, I’m pulling my punches right now. I don’t want to expect the worst from you all the time, Sylar, and I don’t, or else I wouldn’t even be in the same room with you. I expect better.” He sounded petulant and he probably was. His tone evened out a little as he looked back at Sylar and went on, “Regardless of what you’ve been before, we’re here together. I’m not buying the ‘you get to do anything you want’ thing, especially with the ‘it’s Peter’s fault if he’s not smart enough to figure me out ahead of time’ part. That’s not fair. Those aren’t rules I’m willing to play by.”
XXX
Sylar had since folded his arms across his chest, an eyebrow steadily creeping upwards in disbelief. ‘I expect better,’ he internally mocked - God, that was so familiar. You demand better, you think I owe it to you because…I’m me and you’re you. That was the extent of the reasoning Sylar had ever understood about it - other people were better, sometimes special, at least more productive, useful, often times others were good sons and daughters…In any case, Peter’s statements left a lot to be desired and already he was digging his heels in against cooperating. Funny, now we’re together, when you want to make a point of it. A brief frown crossed his face, How does that work, ‘I get to do anything I want’?...It goes that way because it IS your fault, Peter! Stupid little asswipe - he thinks he can ‘opt out.’ He thinks he’s too good for the rules. Frustrated now, Sylar exhaled with some force, “See, this is wh- It’s not just me. You do it for everything, Peter. You don’t figure it out. I don’t understand how you expect me to know something you haven’t communicated. It’s not my fault if you didn’t think something through. You didn’t even ask questions. You agreed to a Dare and you didn’t set any limits,” Sylar raised a hand to forestall any comeback, “for whatever your reason. Besides, you freaked out enough and got your way anyway.” It didn’t sound like Peter’s trust was too broken. He couldn’t remember the point (if there was any) of the conversation or what his argument was so he shut his mouth, filling it with now-cold, bland toast.
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Peter glowered at him and retook his seat. He felt, not for the first time, that he and Sylar were having very different conversations.
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Several chews later, it came to him. Looking up, Sylar added, “Those rules are the same for everyone, for the most part, Peter. So why do you think you deserve some kind of cheat sheet? I’ve earned what I know - you haven’t.” His head was still killing him, in fact, becoming more of a permanent fixture; the light and sound sensitivities of hangover remained but the nausea had gone down. Inner torment roiled in him when he felt the urge to play sick or manipulate a rather short-sighted, somewhat stupid Peter into cuddling until his headache felt better.
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“What rules? That I have to figure things out without any help? I know how the world works, Sylar. I also know it doesn’t work the way you’re implying it does, without anyone helping anyone else. That’s seeing only what you expect to see. People do help each other; they should help each other more.” He sighed and stared at the table, shoulders sagging in resignation. “I’ve had this argument before with …” Nathan, my dad, “a lot of other people. Really, Sylar,” he looked up with a concerned, imploring expression, “you’re just making it clear to me this is a one way street and you have no intention of … reciprocating.” He shook his head and pursed his lips, trying to think of a better way to put this. “Even from a completely mercenary standpoint, if you do not give me a ‘cheat sheet’ and help me sometimes, then I’m not going to be very motivated to help you.”
But maybe he doesn’t think I’ve done anything to help him. Peter snorted softly and took another bite, hunching over his plate. Maybe he doesn’t recognize any of the things I’ve done as me going out of my way for him. I haven’t done anything that a decent person shouldn’t have done anyway - nothing special, nothing heroic, nothing he should be grateful for. Is that what I want, after all? Him to thank me? (It would be a nice start.) Seems kind of self-centered. Depressed suddenly by the anticipated rejection, frowning, and eyes going anywhere but at Sylar, Peter finished his toast and stood up, snagging his plate to put next to the sink.
“I’m going out.” He felt lousy, tired, and emotionally shut out. The physical wasn’t nearly as important as the social. He doesn’t want me here. I should leave. It’s not safe here anyway. I gave him a limit last night and he ignored it. Now he’s telling me he’s going to keep ignoring them. I should move back to my apartment. He doesn’t need me anymore. Maybe that’s what this is all about. Peter headed off to the bathroom to swap Sylar’s pajama bottoms for his own jeans. He could get a new shirt at home.
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No. No. No. Peter pulled away and announced that he would be leaving; possibly not coming back for all the certainty his declaration gave. Sylar felt the flood of red anger then the low tide of despair and creeping loneliness. All he wanted to do was claw and grab Peter back, hold him until he stayed (and maybe after that). The fact that they’d just been arguing (or something) was obliterated with disgusting, uncomfortable ease at the mere idea of being abandoned. So he waited outside his own bathroom for Peter to show his face. When the door opened, Sylar pounced, “No. You said you want to talk, that it’s okay for me to talk, then I want you to answer my questions: what makes you so special that you get inside information when I have to work for it?” Apparently Peter really needed this spelled out. “How on earth could I be ‘normal’?” He exhaled; feeling smaller now he’d stood up to the giant, so to speak, expelled the words and said his piece. “And…” he hesitated, uncommitted, “what kind of stuff would you want to know?” Sylar was not promising anything - he didn’t know what little self-secrets he was being asked to provide - and what’s more, he wasn’t sure he knew himself that well or knew how to disclose those things. Doing it at all was massively dangerous; it was the reason he didn’t ever do it. One hair out of place, one indecent preference, one I’d-rather-not and his life was hell. Or, more Hell, in this case.
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Peter opened the bathroom door and pulled up short. Sylar was blocking his way, arms crossed, feet shoulder-width apart, looking imposing. Peter's eyes darted around the room alertly, not so much in alarm, but definitely checking to see if there was anything more to the ambush than Sylar. Not that Sylar couldn't be enough of an ambush all by himself. Peter looked back at him as he started speaking, his attention staying there throughout the speech.
When Sylar was done, Peter tilted his head and said sullenly, “I didn't get 'inside information', Sylar. My mom, my dad, my brother - all had abilities. Not one of them talked to me about it.” He swallowed roughly, leaning against the bathroom doorframe for support, because that familial betrayal was a hard thing for Peter to talk about. “Nathan denied it to my face. Even when I threatened to jump, he still denied it.” Peter's brows climbed and he tilted his head down, looking up at Sylar. “I had to fall before he flew.” He waited a beat for that to sink in - that only Peter's imminent death had caused Nathan to use his ability. “And even then, when I woke up, he still lied about it. My mom ...” Peter shook his head and changed the subject, because that was too painful altogether to talk about. “I didn't get any 'inside information'. I ran into Claude by accident when I was on my way out of town to live in the freaking desert for the rest of my life,” he made an angry gesture with his left hand, “to keep people safe from me blowing up. He acted like he had some answers, but all he did was beat me up over and over and then throw me off a thirty-story building, when I didn't know how to fly or heal or do anything on purpose.” Peter straightened again, heart pounding at the memory, breathing speeding up, angry now. That had been a murder attempt - Peter was sure of it.
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Sylar’s eyes widened a little at first. He’s only talking about abilities? We…weren’t talking about them before…He still wants my hard-earned knowledge for free but it’s about something I can actually talk about even though he said he didn’t want to talk about abilities. Their situations were vastly different - Peter was surrounded by specials who could have (but didn’t) share their knowledge; Sylar had access (sometimes) to geneticists and had been on the receiving end of what brain surgeons looked and tested for. Of course Sylar never pretended to be ‘normal,’ except briefly, to get close to a target. What Sylar couldn’t wholly understand was Peter’s situation in ‘coming out’ as a special - Peter had been stone-walled and treated, quite literally, like a crazed person by his own family. //Nathan had ignored his own ability so thoroughly it had taken a scene like Peter almost killing himself for him to use it - out of necessity. That didn’t mean they had to talk about it and bond over it as Peter had wanted. Of course Nathan had denied it - because how the hell was he going to explain to their mother how his baby brother had tried to jump thirty stories and had somehow lived? How could he tell Heidi how he’d walked away, nearly unscathed from the accident that crippled her? It had still torn at Nathan’s identity to live one life and have Peter know or strongly suspect otherwise, knowing and digging at the secrets of his life and encourage or demand he be open. Peter’s life was simple, Peter’s life was open, he had that luxury, but Peter would never understand the role and responsibility of the eldest son//. Sylar experienced assault, when he’d tried to tell his mother about his powers, and he’d killed her. There was no more deception, anxiety, no more void of acceptance to fill with efforts to please and belong - he just ran away, leaving home, mother, corpse and a sick scene of depravity.
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“Get out of my way.” Peter pushed Sylar aside firmly and went to sit on the couch, over his shoes. He looked at them briefly, then pushed them aside and looked back to Sylar. “What I said was that you weren't crazy. And you're not. There's not that many days go by as a paramedic where we're not picking someone up for psych reasons. I've seen crazy. Whatever you've-” I'm going to get into trouble with him about this. I know it. But I've got to say it. “Whatever you've done, horrible as maybe it was, is not a sign of insanity. Who knows? My dad's maybe done the same thing, maybe even worse. People in war … Just because you've killed people doesn't mean you're insane.”
I don't know what I want to know. I just want to be … safe? Okay? Understand you some so I'm not thinking I need to take a knife to bed with me? I don't 'get' you. He looked up at Sylar, brows drawing together, and said nothing for the moment, giving Sylar time to respond to what he had said.
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Peter set his shoes aside and Sylar’s nervous hovering eased. He felt like he took a breath finally. The stress came right back with Peter’s words. You don’t know what I’ve done, you say so yourself. So how can you judge? “You know no one agrees with you on that. I’m a psychopath. Why should I believe you? You think I don’t know what kind of head-games you people play - tell me one thing, do another? I don’t think you know anything or you wouldn’t be asking questions. I thought you didn’t want to talk about abilities.” Sylar pointedly dodged the subject of murder. For one thing, it sounded like Peter might be excusing it and he didn’t know why, couldn’t see why or how that was even possible. If it wasn’t insane…then what was it? What was he - something better, something worse? Where did he fit? Why would the collective heroes define him incorrectly - what did that serve? Should homicide be excused? //Nathan remembered Peter specifically, firmly stating that he didn’t want to know about Nathan’s missions in the military. Peter was a gentle pacifist and couldn’t handle the idea of death - what an odd career move, then, to watch old people die//.
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Continued...