More Between Us Chapter 71/? "Pocketful of Change"
More Between Us, Chapter 71/? "Pocketful of Change"
Day 23, January 2, afternoon
Sylar was squirming by that point, certainty and dread of what was coming but hadn’t come yet. No one ever passed up the opportunity to rub his face in a mistake so what was all this small talk? He couldn’t handle it, the gestures, the relative quiet…”Peter,” he burst out before calming himself, “I appreciate you…being here and bringing…sushi,” Sylar gave it a glance. “But you like to talk, you’re compulsive with it and obviously I need to keep my mouth shut, I know that, but…” he rushed through that difficult, uncomfortable admission, “why…What…” Wonderful. After all that and he couldn’t formulate the question. “What are you doing here, like…this? You’re not going to…?”
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At his name being said forcefully, Peter pulled back a little, but then brightened. You appreciate something I did? Really? Oh, wait … that's just a figure of speech, right? Or does he … Oh, I'm a compulsive talker? He frowned and eased back down in disappointment, putting down his fork and listening as Sylar stumbled on.
Peter cocked his head. “I'm bringing you lunch because you need it.” After a moment to consider the many ways Sylar might have concluded his last question (Not going to take my shoe back? Not going to leave forever after all?, Not going to talk your ear off because apparently I'm compulsive about it and you don't want to hear me?), he continued, “I'm not going to what?”
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“I don’t know, tear me a new one about it? You’re just going to…let it pass? I mean…you left.”
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Peter crossed his arms over his chest and sat up straighter in his chair, continuing to frown at Sylar. “Yeah, I left,” he said, voice short. “And no, I'm not ignoring it. I'm just not doing anything about it at the moment.”
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‘At the moment’? So something is coming and it’s an action, ‘do something about it’. His head still hurt, from trauma not drinking, but his mentally faculties were picking up with alacrity. “Why not?”
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“Sylar ...” Peter uncrossed his arms with a huff. He rolled his eyes. “No, there is not some secret ninja attack going to happen to you. I don't save up grudges about arguments that get out of hand.” He forked another piece of sushi. “I'm going to do my job and take care of you, we're not drinking together anymore, and I want my shoe back.” He put the piece of food in his mouth, thoroughly displeased with how the conversation had already gone. He could feel his anger rising and tried to manage his breathing, making an effort to consciously relax. This stuff would taste a lot better with some soy sauce.
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That’s it?! Insult and relief were both present in his reaction. All the response told him was that Peter would handle it face-to-face and Sylar was likely to see it coming. “What happens when you are going to do something about it?” There was no way Peter was going to let him mouth off like that without repercussion - no more drinking and giving his shoe back hardly felt like punishment. With any luck, this would be his last question to annoy Peter with. He didn’t know what to think about being someone’s ‘job’, at least not one that involved the word ‘care’ in the way Peter meant it.
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“What? Then we'll talk about it. It was just an argument. I'm sure we'll have more of them.” Peter frowned at his food, chewing slowly and succeeding for the most part in calming down that temporary spike of anger.
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“Okay,” Sylar intoned, though it was probably clear he didn’t find that answer explicit enough to actually answer his question. He ducked his head, letting it go rather than upset Peter further, turning back to his food. It was a strange texture, mostly it was just tasteless and that was helpful to his stomach - it didn’t smell much, either. He felt like he was forgetting something…Ah, yes. He piped up, trying his own version of ‘small talk,’ “My head is still concussed, it still hurts and I haven’t taken any pills.” A pause and another squirm led up to, “Is sushi good for…certain things, medically? Is that why…? Or did…you just want sushi?” an awkward chuckle preceded that.
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Peter perked up at the suggestion of something else he could do, looking around the counters for the spot where they'd been keeping the pills. There they are. He got up to fetch them and rattled out Sylar's dose, handing the pills over as he realized Sylar could have just as well done it himself. He's not an invalid. He's perfectly able to take his own pills. All he needs is the reminder. Grimacing in a little embarrassment, Peter turned to Sylar's question. “No, not especially. I just picked sushi because I was tired of cooking and wanted something different. Plus, it's good for you in a general way and I thought,” he shrugged and gestured at it, not meeting Sylar's eyes for the rest of the sentence, “I thought that if I was just dropping it off then it was something you could just open and eat without having to prepare.” Then you wouldn't have to deal with me. He shrugged another time, making glancing eye contact again. “The vegetarian rolls would still be good if you left them out for a while. Probably the other stuff, too. I thought it was something you'd be okay with even if you didn't like raw food normally.”
I'm saying too much. But he asked … Peter huffed softly and went back to more normal eye contact to ask in as neutral a tone as he could manage, “So … do you think I talk too much? Or … just that I can't keep myself from talking?” He didn't think either was true in a general sense, but maybe he'd been talking too much for Sylar's taste. That seemed bizarre since it often felt like Sylar was prompting him, but the only way to know was to talk even more by asking.
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So…he wasn’t going to stay? Just drop the food off and run? Did I…scare him yesterday? Another reason to shut the fuck up as if I needed another reason. Sylar nodded about the food, he understood and wanted to show that. He downed the pills without hesitation. I guess I did say that…he thought of the new topic. “I meant that you’re…direct,” he said, looking at Peter in turn because directness was a good thing, complimentary, and for the most part it worked in Sylar’s favor, having a communication style he understood at least. “You don’t…You talk about the things you think…are important instead of…not talking about them.” I’m such a pansy; this isn’t working. “So…no, I don’t think you can help that anymore than you can help…being a hero.” And I’m not a hero so I shouldn’t talk, right? Sylar then alternated looking at his food and glancing at Peter. “I…really wouldn’t know about talking too much. It’s not…annoying, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t mind it.” He didn’t ask. “Sometimes it’s…difficult with what you ask. You talk…differently than almost everyone else I know. I know one other empath and she’s still…not like you. Some people talk at you and others talk to you, you mostly talk to me,” Sylar shrugged, aware he’d given far more verbiage to a likely simple question, feeling like he’d gushed about Peter enough.
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Oh. Oh … okay. Peter straightened at the realization that perhaps Sylar hadn't intended 'compulsive' in the insulting manner Peter had taken it. It seemed to him that Sylar was trying to be extra-careful with his words. He didn't like the argument yesterday either. Maybe he's trying to figure out how not to have those. Sylar's comment about being spoken to rather than at reminded Peter of the way Sylar had said people spoke his name - as a label rather than who he was, if they even used it at all. But wait, what did he just say? “Another empath? You mean someone with a power like mine? Or like mine was? Where was this?”
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“Lydia. At the Carnival?” Sylar frowned before remembering that Peter had never been there. “She…could see some of the future, your feelings using tattoos and…sex.” That wasn’t quite accurate, but it was a slight technicality. “It sounds weird but it’s actually a really cool ability.” God, if only it worked here. Sylar salivated a little at the idea of using it on Peter: knowing some of the future, the man’s innermost feelings in a way he’d otherwise never share…having to kiss and get close, skin-to-skin to do it…
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Peter blinked a few times, watching Sylar. If the guy's expressions were any indication, he was fantasizing right in front of Peter and apparently about something fairly lurid. He hoped like hell that Lydia was still alive and well and in full possession of her brain. Well … um … do I really need to be here? I guess not. Maybe I should just finish eating and go. Peter looked down and finished off the last of his food, minding his own business.
Peter cleared his throat and stood, gathering his plastic tray and taking it to the trash. An alternative explanation occurred to him for Sylar's lusting expression - it didn't have to be bloodlust to be lust. Oh, wait, maybe ... “So would Lydia get people's powers by having sex with them? Was that a borrowing like mine or a … well, permanent like my dad's?”
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Sylar’s eyes widened as he oriented them on Peter. Then he chuckled with gleeful irony. “By that reasoning she’d have my power,” he breathed around his chuckling which he couldn’t seem to stop. That might be kinda hot…Like a perfect mate. Hmm, no. Then I’d have to share. But Peter’s had it before…That finally sobered him. “No, she doesn’t get anyone’s power. She just…touches your skin and kind of understands your motives and a bit of your future and it appears on her body by way of tattoos. It was kind of fun,” Sylar raised an evil eyebrow, “like connect-the-dots or follow-the-ink.”
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You had a girlfriend at the carnival? I guess that explains why you kept going back to it and why they aren't all dead. That's cool. He watched Sylar's chuckles with a friendly smile, leaning against the counter and idly wondering which of several possible reasons for Sylar's humor were true - there was the 'at some point in the past, I got laid!' glee, which Peter knew a lot of guys had even when married with kids; there was the darker humor of a second person running around the world with Sylar's hunger; or maybe the nihilistic view that if she'd stolen his power that way, it would have been some manner of cosmic justice. Peter was still musing over it when Sylar stopped laughing to explain about her ability. “Why do you call her an empath then? What does that mean, anyway?”
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Sylar paused to consider that. Letting on that he had mystical empath powers himself and had Lydia and Elle’s abilities would only open up the ‘why’ question in regards to murder, as much as he might want to share that fact and his knowledge therein. He literally didn’t understand how Lydia’s power worked directly because of how he’d gained the ability in the first place. It didn’t make much sense logically, either. Like Elle’s power, he’d had to learn it. How did he know Lydia was an empath? “The others…Because she reads you.” He looked up at Peter with a confused frown. “It’s difficult to explain. She needs the contact for the emotional stuff. It’s different from yours but I guess I thought…Well, I don’t know a whole lot about your ability.” That was better than ‘I don’t understand either ability and I have one of them.’ “I tho- I assumed yours was some kind of emotional thing, given the name and…you,” Sylar ducked his head a little. “But I guess it could mean ‘understanding to copy’ which is what yours actually does.”
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The others? The others what? But he nodded and didn't grill Sylar about every unexplained thing he said. “No, that makes sense to me. I don't understand an ability that I copy - I just copy it. With my power as it is now, I need physical contact. Emotional-” he paused, a hitch in his speech as the self-preservation part of his brain worried over what dangerous use Sylar could put this information to, then gave it a very grudging pass, “contact isn't enough. Like, I knew Claire, I'd had her power before, but I couldn't borrow it from her until she touched me. I don't have to have any emotional contact at all, really. And I never did, but that 'reading' someone is what makes sense to me. For my first ability, it took recognition and proximity. I had to know someone was there and actually notice them, plus be … I don't know, five or ten feet away from them at some point? I'm not saying I had to know who they were, but I had to … yeah, read them. Like scanning maybe? There was something that I did, auto … there was a word Claude used, it wasn't 'automatic' but I think it meant the same thing.” He exhaled, peering at the floor briefly before looking up at Sylar. “Am I talking too much?”
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He never needed emotional contact? For the ability at least, Sylar mentally sniggered a bit. I find that a little hard to believe, all this time I thought he needed it. In theory, he could require sex to get abilities. And how many abilities do I have? And he needs constant access because he’s a one-hit-wonder now, hmm… Sylar couldn’t help his thoughtful smirk that smoothed out as he shook his head negative, “No.” This was…beyond refreshing, talking like this, or listening mostly in his case, about abilities. Uh-oh. Is he going to blame me and make a racket that we’re talking about this?
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“For example, there were a couple people I didn't really meet at Kirby Plaza; they had abilities, but I was too distracted by everything to even look at them. I didn't get their powers and they were close enough, I think. I assume there were other people I just walked past and didn't pay attention to … the thing is, I never turned up with an ability I couldn't trace to someone. Like, of all the ones I should have from gotten from you at Odessa, the only one I could use later was telekinesis.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Not that I was … you know, all that good with knowing what abilities I had.”
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Sylar blinked, at first wondering or explaining aloud, “You got telekinesis because that’s what I was using at the time…Wait, so you might have a dozen powers you don’t even know about? Your- you’re not even conscious of it?” Sylar’s voice and face were aghast. The idea of a dozen or even one unknown ability from a random stranger (if he could trace it back and identify it at all), without any of the understanding Sylar knew from his ability…It was staggering, horrifying, dangerous - beautiful, he supposed, because of the discovery, but…it was so stunted and ignorant. Was it possible, then, that Peter could understand what it was like not to…completely know one’s own self? To have things going on inside, seen or unseen, but not understand the who or the why? “But you can feel your original ability consciously, right?” then he turned hopeful, guessing, daring to believe. “I mean…jumping off rooftops…You knew, didn’t you? You could feel it.” When he finished, his voice was impassioned, eyes narrowed for a moment as he leaned forward, intent and engrossed.
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“I have no idea what I had. It was just a feeling, like when you know you have some change in your pocket but that doesn't mean you know exactly whether it's quarters or pennies. I knew I had … something, originally.” Peter pushed off from the counter and came over to slide into his chair, putting his elbows on the table and carefully, tentatively, opening up. His voice softened and his posture relaxed. “Yeah, I felt it. I didn't know what I was feeling, though, or what it meant. But I knew it was important enough to risk my life for it.”
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Sylar hummed. Important enough to risk everything for, he corrected. A pocketful of change; change and chance. “One of us got quarters, the other got pennies,” he said ruefully. Sylar said genuinely, relieved, “I guess it’s a good thing you haven’t taken my power yet, with all our…altercations.” Although an emotional connection would be fantastic; a different kind of physical contact would be great, too…
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“I had quarters, too, at first,” Peter said mildly. Half dollars, really, because I didn't have to kill anyone to do it. “And I did have your ability for a little while - from you in the future. But I didn't just go and take it. You had to show me, guide me on how to tap into it. It wasn't something I could pick up and use on my own.” Peter sighed and leaned back a little, looking past Sylar at the archway into the other room. “Though once I had it, I couldn't turn it off.” He frowned, a mix of emotions crossing his face, but the one that remained was regret. He shook it off and asked, "Tell me about when you first realized you had an ability, if you can."
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I meant I had pennies and you had…He thinks I had quarters? He was a little flattered his ability wasn’t so easy, a good thing it wasn’t, but it was special because it was different. It was like he was the only one who understood it - maybe that’s why it had come to him. Sylar didn’t know what to say, what face to make about that. It was very much the nature of the beast, a double-sided coin. He’d been referring to here, this place; he was glad Peter didn’t have any part of Sylar’s ability here, not just because he’d make one hell of a meal, but because it was so much worse when the special was alone (or nearly alone). Sylar didn’t think he’d make that great an addiction counselor or mentor either.
The words ‘if you can’ stuck with him. He was…being given a convenient out if he so much as didn’t feel like talking or sharing this particular story. It wasn’t a demand or a requirement. He scanned Peter’s face for a moment, deciding and then thinking. No one’s ever asked me that. My…origin wasn’t important. “I was always good with watches and anything I could tear apart and fix and put back together. My...parents never got it but I knew no one else, not even my….father, could do what I did so it- I thought it was…special. It wasn’t flashy or impressive but….” Sylar shifted gears, away from his motive for murder. “About seven months before the first eclipse, the…election,” he hesitated to put that in, but it was Peter’s primary frame of reference. He sent several checking glances before continuing. “I started looking at things and being able to…tell; I knew if it was broken and why. I could see how it worked.” Only then did it occur to him that he shouldn’t be sharing this, giving up the secrets of his ability to…this person. This person who hated him and his ability, who, despite his words, still wanted him dead or changed over into his brother. How many new ways could his brain now be abused for it’s creative output? He hoped he hadn’t said too much or been tricked. Nervously, he cleared his throat, wrapping up the story before it became too personal or detailed, “I didn’t know it was an ability until someone told me. The rest is history.”
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Peter's only reaction to the election reference was a glance down and to the side, then back to Sylar, his face reflecting a steady interest in what he had to say. The election was a shameful power-grab and he was glad Sylar wasn't talking about that itself. When he was done, Peter's brows pulled together slightly. “Sylar, fixing things is impressive. It's way harder than tearing things up to start with - that's the easy part and even if it's flashy, it's usually not good.” He started, “How did-” that lead to killing people? but cut it off before he got more than a couple words into it. The conversation was going good; Peter didn't want to torpedo it with the topic of death. Maybe Sylar took people apart because they were broken and then couldn't figure out how to reassemble them? He swallowed and tried a different approach, “Who told you it was an ability? And … how did they know?” He made a small gesture with his right hand. “For me, it took flight before I realized what was going on and I'm pretty sure, no, I'm sure, that wasn't the first thing.” He huffed. “It was just that flying was the one that couldn't be denied. Or at least, I didn't think it would be.” He gave a single laugh and a sarcastic roll of his eyes.
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At first Sylar chuckled about flight and denial - because it was true. Nathan had been buried in denial to the point that he covered his ass by sacrificing his little brother to…many people, many plots. Sylar leaned away at his own slightly hysterical amusement having no idea how Peter would take it, but again, he couldn’t help it. Again, he cleared his throat and refocused when he was through. “Chandra told me.” Sylar smiled a little and quirked an eyebrow, “He wrote the book. I was his Patient Zero. Mohinder’s, too, kind of. Do you know about the list? I was…there for it when you came into Mohinder’s apartment, looking for him.” Peter had arrived and spoiled absolutely everything and Sylar had killed him without much thought, distracted from his various goals. He wondered if he should feel bad for that now, or if bringing it up so candidly was low class and socially awkward for Peter. “Anyway, I was on the list Chandra made, I have genes for being predisposed to having abilities. I was the first one he talked to, met with, tested. I guess I was lucky,” Sylar ruminated aloud, realizing as he thought, “I had him as a kind of mentor. For a while.”
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Chandra. You murdered him. Peter's face … saddened. It wasn't grieving over someone he'd hardly met, or anger about an immoral killing. It was sadness at the senselessness of it, like if Peter had reflected on the loss of life in an auto accident. Not that Sylar's actions were accidental or that Peter tried telling himself that. It was just that the death was far away from where they were at the moment and he'd learned a lot of pieces of what made Sylar the person he was. Chandra, too, was easier to deal with than certain other victims - Peter had never met him and had no personal connection, plus if he were anything like his son Mohinder, then Peter could see how things could so easily go wrong. He'd ended up at odds with Mohinder a few times himself.
“Yeah, I knew about the list,” he said softly. “Mohinder … I ran into him earlier when I was looking for Chandra.” He looked up at Sylar with a small sigh. “He told me you'd killed him.” Peter leaned back until his spine was in full contact with the ladderback of the unyielding wooden chair, one finger restlessly tapping on the surface of the table where his hands still rested on it. He had a moment where his instincts were telling him to get away from this murderer, leave the apartment, shun the person who'd ended the elder Suresh's life. It might not have been his mother who was his first victim. That, too, was sad - that Sylar had started down a path of killing, a path he seemed to regret at times, a path that had brought him here to an eternal hell in his own mind - and perhaps done it by killing the man who had shown him what made him so special. Peter drew in a deep breath and leaned forward again, elbows and then forearms resting on the table. He would see this through, at least for another round of conversation, and find out where it went.
“So,” Peter said with a small tilt to his head and steady, nonjudgmental eye contact, “did he help you? My mentor … I don't think he knew what he was doing. I've wondered what it would have been like if I could have worked with someone who did.”
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Sylar went still and his face prepared a scowl. It made him feel so damn hunted. It didn’t matter, had never mattered, that he had his untold side of the story - it amounted to an excuse. He’d done what he was accused of, there was no disputing that, but his reason, his motive was inconsequential and tossed aside. Peter wouldn’t understand and didn’t want to. He absentmindedly counted the taps Peter’s finger made - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…No attack came. Sylar blinked in confusion, feeling like the rug had been snatched from under his feet. His face was still blustery when Peter looked at him, trying to be prepared, defensive, more focused on his eyes than he was on the words spoken…Did…did he help me? It was such a non sequitur.
He inhaled after what felt like an age and considered the question. There was a lot to track down, dig up and reexamine. It took him a moment to say, “I haven’t thought about it, about him in a long time.” Peter was hitting on a similarly sore murder as his mother, the now ‘forbidden’ topic. Sylar didn’t know how to talk about it or even what to feel. “He was a geneticist, looking for…a cure for his dead daughter, a reason why she died. I was…” Convenient. An answer that didn’t work out for him. “He answered my questions about abilities, as best he could at the time. He didn’t know much, just had theories he needed to prove. Other than that, we’re going to differ in our opinion - you’ll say he helped me too much and I’ll say he didn’t help me enough.” The last sentence was bitter and barbed, his reactions were torn raw again at the reminders.
He stood abruptly, pacing restlessly around the kitchen. Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut…he chanted, not wanting a repeat of last night. Sylar went so far as to tense his lips to create a physical barrier to speaking but it bubbled up anyway. “You know how I am with help,” he sneered in general, at Chandra, himself, at Peter and anyone else who’d wound up dead or hurt because of it. “Anyone who tries will end up dead, is that what you want to hear? He didn’t know what he was doing or if he did, he didn’t care - he did the same thing to Mohinder! His own son! That should be your clue, you know?” You had Nathan - he eventually came around to seeing how special you were, saving you, flying with you. I wonder what it would have been like if I had someone like that, if Chandra had been like anything close to that and changed…everything…
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Peter followed Sylar’s pacing without stressing over it. Emoting didn’t usually bother him and he wasn’t getting any indication he needed to be worried for his safety. What did he do to Mohinder? Wait, no, better question: “What did he do to you? Did he … give you your ability?” Peter blinked at that possibility, his mind putting together an unsettling scenario where Chandra, like Drs. Moreau or Frankenstein, was murdered by the monster he’d created, rather than just one he’d been unfortunate enough to be in the path of. Peter leaned forward quickly, remembering how Nathan’s ability had supposedly been granted and how Mohinder had come at him with a syringe to test the very same thing. “Did you get an injection of something right before your ability manifested?”
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Sylar rounded on Peter quickly. “It’s mine!” He would have yelled but his headache cut him off to more of a bark. He then growled, “No one gave it to me, I was born with it; it’s real; it’s mine.” Danko asked him a similar question years ago and now Peter was…confusing him with Nathan, having synthetic abilities - no wonder the man could hardly accept and treasure it. It was understandable Sylar was defensive and petulant. Everyone was out to discredit or explain away, hide, cut out or erase him or his ability. “Is that so hard to believe?” he asked with hurt incredulity. Doubt even after he’d told Peter about Samson’s power, as if anyone could disbelieve that lineage.
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“No,” Peter answered calmly. “No, it's not. It's yours, it's a part of you, and no one's going to take it from you.” Peter tilted his head, one finger rubbing back and forth on the table as his imagination idly provided him with a scenario where Arthur saved the day by taking away Sylar's ability instead of Peter's. But no, that hadn't happened. Arthur, Peter's own father, had preferred to employ Sylar and ground Peter. It stung, but the man had played favorites all of Peter's life. He steered the subject away from the memory of having what made him special so pointlessly amputated from him. “What do you wish he’d done - Chandra, that is?” He couldn’t have an opinion on too much or not enough if he didn’t even know what Chandra had done. Since he’d asked that and not received much in the way of an answer, he moved it to the hypothetical. He knew what he wished Claude had done and that would have created a very different future. What about Sylar?
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Sylar hadn’t given it much conscious thought - his ‘wants’ had been far more instinctive. Unsure where he wanted to be, he hovered and tried to fix himself somewhat in place, hands on the back of his chair somewhat across from Peter. To buy a little time but also out of curiosity, he asked softly, “Do you mean in hindsight what I wish now or what I wished then?” There might be a difference, there might not - but if Peter intended it one way or other that was important.
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They're different? Well … they're different for me and Claude, so probably for him and Chandra, too. “In hindsight, what you wish now, that he'd done then.”
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It’s the same answer, he realized quickly. I wished he hadn’t pushed me and tried to abandon me… Sylar inhaled. There was so much complexity there he himself could barely touch it let alone analyze or put words to it. Feeling lost, he said, a touch bitter but nearly as soft as he’d spoken before, “You wouldn’t understand.”
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Peter pursed his lips and reached up to scratch at one ear, looking up at Sylar with an unamused, long-suffering look. I can't possibly understand if you won't tell me. But what was there to say if Sylar wouldn't speak?
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After a few seconds, an angle occurred to him. “Or maybe you can, a little. I’m sure you blame me in whatever future where I gave you my ability. You killed someone and you don’t want to talk about it, but if I’d done something different…your life would be different. It’s like that stupid saying about stepping on butterflies but with us it’s actually true. So…don’t ask me those what-if questions.”
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Peter's expression pulled into a heavy frown. He spoke snappishly. “I didn't blame you. I asked for it. You didn't want to give it to me; I had to convince you.” He shook his head and pushed away from the table, the conversation having gone sour for him with thoughts of first his father's robbery of him and now the reminder of what he'd done to Nathan in the future. “And 'convince' isn't a euphemism for anything. We talked. I told you to paint the future to see what it was I was trying to prevent. You did; you showed me how to use your ability.” He had stood as he was speaking. He stopped behind his chair, mirroring Sylar. Mentally, he stepped around the accusation of murder entirely. He didn't recall confessing to that, but … it wasn't that hard a conclusion to reach given what Peter did remember saying. He moved on to the last statement. “I wasn't asking you a what-if question. I was asking you wanted from someone. You talk about how bad you are with people helping you - I want to know what sort of help you're looking for.”
He gave Sylar a steady, stony glare, then a small, negative head-shake and an abbreviated roll of his eyes. Never mind. This isn't working. In an apparent non-sequitur, he asked, “Where's my shoe?”
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Sylar slid back into his seat. “That is a what-if question, Peter. It always is,” he said, his voice sounding a little lost. Help wasn’t reliable when he needed it from his enemies because unlike Peter, he wasn’t even on the same team as the heroes. The part where Peter wanted to know what kind of help Sylar was looking for threw him harder than the Chandra question had. What was there to be helped at this point? The mere mention of help was a cruel twist of the knife, a short-lived hope. “I’m not fixable. The only ‘help’ you can give is a bullet to the back of my head,” he stated even though Peter’s attention was fractured as he said it. It sounds like the perfect job for you, Peter. Sylar sighed. “It’s around here somewhere.” He waved a hand towards the living room.
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Peter huffed, a lot of his bad mood dissipated by Sylar's genuine depression. He went off to find his shoe, wanting to argue about Sylar's words, but agreeing with them too much to speak. He wasn't going to give some insincere palliative.
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Sylar stood after Peter, noticing now his odd footwear choice. Guess that was all he could find. He went after Peter out of curiosity and paranoia that the empath would touch, steal or destroy more of his property. He was put-out that the important-to-him discussion was so easily sidelined for the sake of Peter’s shoe, but there was nothing to be done about it. In the grand scale of things, a talk about his needs and feelings was in fact outweighed by a fucking shoe. Sylar was overcome with worry that Peter would find and take the shirt that sort-of belonged to him. He couldn’t recall if he’d hid it very well, if at all. “It’s there-” he began to point to his desk where the shoe perched, not finishing because Peter had already seen it and moved in. Just take that and go. Sylar slumped in the doorway, miserable at the immanent loneliness that followed Peter’s shoe-hunt. “What did I say this time?” he asked tonelessly, because there was a reason for Peter’s departure. I need to start lying, that much was clear. Peter asked questions and expected certain answers that Sylar was obviously not giving.
XXX
The shoe was obvious, sitting out on the desk. Next to it, spread across the desk like a worked puzzle or one of their board games from days before, was his t-shirt. Peter hesitated, looking at the shirt, thinking. Is he collecting my clothes? What does he want with my shirt? Or was he just stacking both of my things here so I could get them at the same time? He looked up at Sylar's direction, seeing the man point and following the gesture by moving over and picking up the shoe. The shirt he gave another look and a glance back at Sylar, who looked more down than ever. This wasn't convenience for me. He was looking at my clothes … because I wasn't here. And now he thinks I'm going to take them. He sighed and left the shirt there, walking closer to Sylar. But he took the shoe because he couldn't stand to lose it. The shirt, though, he could sacrifice.
“I can't understand things you won't tell me.” He leaned his thigh against the arm of the couch, folding his arms loosely. “What you're telling me is that I'm either too stupid to follow what happened to you, or too naïve to accept it, or too unsympathetic to care. I do care, Sylar.” And I'll probably care more as I understand you more. He hesitated for a long moment before adding, “There was a time when I thought getting a bullet in the back of the head was the answer, too.” He tilted his head in a slow, slantways nod. “It didn't turn out that way. A bullet's not going to be the answer here, either.”
XXX
Sylar shuffled his foot against the floor, occasionally looking down at it while Peter spoke. As much as he looked to shift the blame and make the miscommunication (or whatever the hell it was) Peter’s deficiency…it was clear it was his own…somehow. Well, yeah, Peter. Although naïve isn’t the word I’d use. Sylar squirmed again. Yeah, on the off chance maybe Peter did care a little in some way, but Sylar was greedy and wanted the guy to care…differently or more. It was just so strange being separated when he was so accustomed to, well, owning Peter’s attention. There’d been no boundaries before, even when he’d been a fucked-up hybrid of Nathan and himself. Sylar clenched his jaw tight over saying something that would definitely send Peter packing, A bullet’s not the answer but erasing me was apparently good enough. He did not entertain the empath’s rather optimistic reply because to do so was just stupid. Peter was being Peter, thoughtless, if well-intentioned, with rose-tinted glasses. A wing and a prayer isn’t going to fix me, bring Nathan back or ‘get you out of here.’ Not that I’d wish for Nathan back or for you to be elsewhere, he concluded ruefully.
XXX
He moved past Sylar, reaching for the door. “Your shoes are in the bag in the kitchen. I'll be back tonight. Maybe we can have ice cream or something.”
XXX
Sylar blinked. He’d given his shoes up as casualties of interacting with other people. Did he wait until he had his shoe back to give them back-? No. Huh. Without much knowing why (aside from being cared for, getting his shoes back, talking about something sort of important, the fact that Peter would return and soon at a rather specific time or even the offer of ice cream) but feeling it was natural and expected of him, Sylar said as Peter passed by him, “Hey.” When the other man turned, he neared and raised his arms until he had Peter’s scrawny neck in a familiar bear hug. While Peter was mostly engulfed, Sylar was assaulted by the smaller man’s smell, exhaling a little fast to turn his head closer and inhale it again. It was still that stupid double-vision awareness, distracting him like his mind was being bisected - the hug and Peter and his scent all being comforting and brotherly on one hand and on the other…he realized he was pressed as close as he could be against the man he was trying to seduce and smelling him. Hell if he knew which one he wanted more.
XXX
Peter stiffened and made a choked throat noise when hugged, instinctively trying to grow taller and more intimidating through sheer will. A number of things flashed through his mind - getting clobbered and/or being forced over the arm of the couch onto the furniture (whether sexual or combative) among them. Also, there was the memory of Gabriel from the future hugging him in front of his kid, whose presence had limited Peter's options (and it had helped that the guy had telegraphed it more than Sylar had this time). Peter let his pent-up breath out, relaxing. It was just a hug; not an attack. It had been a few seconds now, long enough for Sylar to have done something harmful if that was what he was about. Peter found himself resenting that Sylar was taller than him, making it too easy for him to get top-rung position for his arms. But resentment wasn't going to change that. Peter hugged back awkwardly and without enthusiasm, using a brief pressure from his forearms mostly as he took the opportunity to shift the shoe into his right hand. With his left, he gave three quick pats. It was the usual 'we're done here' signal.
XXX
Sylar moved closer still, inhaling Peter’s stronger scent the closer he got - both his hair products and his skin. The tip of his nose was just brushing the farthest strands of Peter’s hair, tickling. Every breath was full of him, a warm, alluring…appetizing scent, his chest pushing against Peter’s, eyes closed and possibly losing himself.
XXX
What is he doing?! Hair fondling, making passes at him, unexpected kisses, keeping his shirt, leaving the bathroom door open, invading his space, Peter smelling Sylar on the pillow just as he could smell him now - all rushed through his mind at once. And now Sylar was sniffing him. It was way too much intimacy and entirely undesired. “Get- No!” Peter got his arms and hands between them, hunkering down and shoving Sylar hard.
“Get away from me; stay away!” A lot of other more complicated things occurred to him to say - not coming back for ice cream, anatomically difficult things Sylar could go do to himself, various threats or condemnations or insults … Peter finally just shook his head, exhaling heavily through clenched teeth. Barely taking his eyes off Sylar, he reached out for the doorknob, turned it, and left.
XXX
Continued...
Day 23, January 2, afternoon
Sylar was squirming by that point, certainty and dread of what was coming but hadn’t come yet. No one ever passed up the opportunity to rub his face in a mistake so what was all this small talk? He couldn’t handle it, the gestures, the relative quiet…”Peter,” he burst out before calming himself, “I appreciate you…being here and bringing…sushi,” Sylar gave it a glance. “But you like to talk, you’re compulsive with it and obviously I need to keep my mouth shut, I know that, but…” he rushed through that difficult, uncomfortable admission, “why…What…” Wonderful. After all that and he couldn’t formulate the question. “What are you doing here, like…this? You’re not going to…?”
XXX
At his name being said forcefully, Peter pulled back a little, but then brightened. You appreciate something I did? Really? Oh, wait … that's just a figure of speech, right? Or does he … Oh, I'm a compulsive talker? He frowned and eased back down in disappointment, putting down his fork and listening as Sylar stumbled on.
Peter cocked his head. “I'm bringing you lunch because you need it.” After a moment to consider the many ways Sylar might have concluded his last question (Not going to take my shoe back? Not going to leave forever after all?, Not going to talk your ear off because apparently I'm compulsive about it and you don't want to hear me?), he continued, “I'm not going to what?”
XXX
“I don’t know, tear me a new one about it? You’re just going to…let it pass? I mean…you left.”
XXX
Peter crossed his arms over his chest and sat up straighter in his chair, continuing to frown at Sylar. “Yeah, I left,” he said, voice short. “And no, I'm not ignoring it. I'm just not doing anything about it at the moment.”
XXX
‘At the moment’? So something is coming and it’s an action, ‘do something about it’. His head still hurt, from trauma not drinking, but his mentally faculties were picking up with alacrity. “Why not?”
XXX
“Sylar ...” Peter uncrossed his arms with a huff. He rolled his eyes. “No, there is not some secret ninja attack going to happen to you. I don't save up grudges about arguments that get out of hand.” He forked another piece of sushi. “I'm going to do my job and take care of you, we're not drinking together anymore, and I want my shoe back.” He put the piece of food in his mouth, thoroughly displeased with how the conversation had already gone. He could feel his anger rising and tried to manage his breathing, making an effort to consciously relax. This stuff would taste a lot better with some soy sauce.
XXX
That’s it?! Insult and relief were both present in his reaction. All the response told him was that Peter would handle it face-to-face and Sylar was likely to see it coming. “What happens when you are going to do something about it?” There was no way Peter was going to let him mouth off like that without repercussion - no more drinking and giving his shoe back hardly felt like punishment. With any luck, this would be his last question to annoy Peter with. He didn’t know what to think about being someone’s ‘job’, at least not one that involved the word ‘care’ in the way Peter meant it.
XXX
“What? Then we'll talk about it. It was just an argument. I'm sure we'll have more of them.” Peter frowned at his food, chewing slowly and succeeding for the most part in calming down that temporary spike of anger.
XXX
“Okay,” Sylar intoned, though it was probably clear he didn’t find that answer explicit enough to actually answer his question. He ducked his head, letting it go rather than upset Peter further, turning back to his food. It was a strange texture, mostly it was just tasteless and that was helpful to his stomach - it didn’t smell much, either. He felt like he was forgetting something…Ah, yes. He piped up, trying his own version of ‘small talk,’ “My head is still concussed, it still hurts and I haven’t taken any pills.” A pause and another squirm led up to, “Is sushi good for…certain things, medically? Is that why…? Or did…you just want sushi?” an awkward chuckle preceded that.
XXX
Peter perked up at the suggestion of something else he could do, looking around the counters for the spot where they'd been keeping the pills. There they are. He got up to fetch them and rattled out Sylar's dose, handing the pills over as he realized Sylar could have just as well done it himself. He's not an invalid. He's perfectly able to take his own pills. All he needs is the reminder. Grimacing in a little embarrassment, Peter turned to Sylar's question. “No, not especially. I just picked sushi because I was tired of cooking and wanted something different. Plus, it's good for you in a general way and I thought,” he shrugged and gestured at it, not meeting Sylar's eyes for the rest of the sentence, “I thought that if I was just dropping it off then it was something you could just open and eat without having to prepare.” Then you wouldn't have to deal with me. He shrugged another time, making glancing eye contact again. “The vegetarian rolls would still be good if you left them out for a while. Probably the other stuff, too. I thought it was something you'd be okay with even if you didn't like raw food normally.”
I'm saying too much. But he asked … Peter huffed softly and went back to more normal eye contact to ask in as neutral a tone as he could manage, “So … do you think I talk too much? Or … just that I can't keep myself from talking?” He didn't think either was true in a general sense, but maybe he'd been talking too much for Sylar's taste. That seemed bizarre since it often felt like Sylar was prompting him, but the only way to know was to talk even more by asking.
XXX
So…he wasn’t going to stay? Just drop the food off and run? Did I…scare him yesterday? Another reason to shut the fuck up as if I needed another reason. Sylar nodded about the food, he understood and wanted to show that. He downed the pills without hesitation. I guess I did say that…he thought of the new topic. “I meant that you’re…direct,” he said, looking at Peter in turn because directness was a good thing, complimentary, and for the most part it worked in Sylar’s favor, having a communication style he understood at least. “You don’t…You talk about the things you think…are important instead of…not talking about them.” I’m such a pansy; this isn’t working. “So…no, I don’t think you can help that anymore than you can help…being a hero.” And I’m not a hero so I shouldn’t talk, right? Sylar then alternated looking at his food and glancing at Peter. “I…really wouldn’t know about talking too much. It’s not…annoying, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t mind it.” He didn’t ask. “Sometimes it’s…difficult with what you ask. You talk…differently than almost everyone else I know. I know one other empath and she’s still…not like you. Some people talk at you and others talk to you, you mostly talk to me,” Sylar shrugged, aware he’d given far more verbiage to a likely simple question, feeling like he’d gushed about Peter enough.
XXX
Oh. Oh … okay. Peter straightened at the realization that perhaps Sylar hadn't intended 'compulsive' in the insulting manner Peter had taken it. It seemed to him that Sylar was trying to be extra-careful with his words. He didn't like the argument yesterday either. Maybe he's trying to figure out how not to have those. Sylar's comment about being spoken to rather than at reminded Peter of the way Sylar had said people spoke his name - as a label rather than who he was, if they even used it at all. But wait, what did he just say? “Another empath? You mean someone with a power like mine? Or like mine was? Where was this?”
XXX
“Lydia. At the Carnival?” Sylar frowned before remembering that Peter had never been there. “She…could see some of the future, your feelings using tattoos and…sex.” That wasn’t quite accurate, but it was a slight technicality. “It sounds weird but it’s actually a really cool ability.” God, if only it worked here. Sylar salivated a little at the idea of using it on Peter: knowing some of the future, the man’s innermost feelings in a way he’d otherwise never share…having to kiss and get close, skin-to-skin to do it…
XXX
Peter blinked a few times, watching Sylar. If the guy's expressions were any indication, he was fantasizing right in front of Peter and apparently about something fairly lurid. He hoped like hell that Lydia was still alive and well and in full possession of her brain. Well … um … do I really need to be here? I guess not. Maybe I should just finish eating and go. Peter looked down and finished off the last of his food, minding his own business.
Peter cleared his throat and stood, gathering his plastic tray and taking it to the trash. An alternative explanation occurred to him for Sylar's lusting expression - it didn't have to be bloodlust to be lust. Oh, wait, maybe ... “So would Lydia get people's powers by having sex with them? Was that a borrowing like mine or a … well, permanent like my dad's?”
XXX
Sylar’s eyes widened as he oriented them on Peter. Then he chuckled with gleeful irony. “By that reasoning she’d have my power,” he breathed around his chuckling which he couldn’t seem to stop. That might be kinda hot…Like a perfect mate. Hmm, no. Then I’d have to share. But Peter’s had it before…That finally sobered him. “No, she doesn’t get anyone’s power. She just…touches your skin and kind of understands your motives and a bit of your future and it appears on her body by way of tattoos. It was kind of fun,” Sylar raised an evil eyebrow, “like connect-the-dots or follow-the-ink.”
XXX
You had a girlfriend at the carnival? I guess that explains why you kept going back to it and why they aren't all dead. That's cool. He watched Sylar's chuckles with a friendly smile, leaning against the counter and idly wondering which of several possible reasons for Sylar's humor were true - there was the 'at some point in the past, I got laid!' glee, which Peter knew a lot of guys had even when married with kids; there was the darker humor of a second person running around the world with Sylar's hunger; or maybe the nihilistic view that if she'd stolen his power that way, it would have been some manner of cosmic justice. Peter was still musing over it when Sylar stopped laughing to explain about her ability. “Why do you call her an empath then? What does that mean, anyway?”
XXX
Sylar paused to consider that. Letting on that he had mystical empath powers himself and had Lydia and Elle’s abilities would only open up the ‘why’ question in regards to murder, as much as he might want to share that fact and his knowledge therein. He literally didn’t understand how Lydia’s power worked directly because of how he’d gained the ability in the first place. It didn’t make much sense logically, either. Like Elle’s power, he’d had to learn it. How did he know Lydia was an empath? “The others…Because she reads you.” He looked up at Peter with a confused frown. “It’s difficult to explain. She needs the contact for the emotional stuff. It’s different from yours but I guess I thought…Well, I don’t know a whole lot about your ability.” That was better than ‘I don’t understand either ability and I have one of them.’ “I tho- I assumed yours was some kind of emotional thing, given the name and…you,” Sylar ducked his head a little. “But I guess it could mean ‘understanding to copy’ which is what yours actually does.”
XXX
The others? The others what? But he nodded and didn't grill Sylar about every unexplained thing he said. “No, that makes sense to me. I don't understand an ability that I copy - I just copy it. With my power as it is now, I need physical contact. Emotional-” he paused, a hitch in his speech as the self-preservation part of his brain worried over what dangerous use Sylar could put this information to, then gave it a very grudging pass, “contact isn't enough. Like, I knew Claire, I'd had her power before, but I couldn't borrow it from her until she touched me. I don't have to have any emotional contact at all, really. And I never did, but that 'reading' someone is what makes sense to me. For my first ability, it took recognition and proximity. I had to know someone was there and actually notice them, plus be … I don't know, five or ten feet away from them at some point? I'm not saying I had to know who they were, but I had to … yeah, read them. Like scanning maybe? There was something that I did, auto … there was a word Claude used, it wasn't 'automatic' but I think it meant the same thing.” He exhaled, peering at the floor briefly before looking up at Sylar. “Am I talking too much?”
XXX
He never needed emotional contact? For the ability at least, Sylar mentally sniggered a bit. I find that a little hard to believe, all this time I thought he needed it. In theory, he could require sex to get abilities. And how many abilities do I have? And he needs constant access because he’s a one-hit-wonder now, hmm… Sylar couldn’t help his thoughtful smirk that smoothed out as he shook his head negative, “No.” This was…beyond refreshing, talking like this, or listening mostly in his case, about abilities. Uh-oh. Is he going to blame me and make a racket that we’re talking about this?
XXX
“For example, there were a couple people I didn't really meet at Kirby Plaza; they had abilities, but I was too distracted by everything to even look at them. I didn't get their powers and they were close enough, I think. I assume there were other people I just walked past and didn't pay attention to … the thing is, I never turned up with an ability I couldn't trace to someone. Like, of all the ones I should have from gotten from you at Odessa, the only one I could use later was telekinesis.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Not that I was … you know, all that good with knowing what abilities I had.”
XXX
Sylar blinked, at first wondering or explaining aloud, “You got telekinesis because that’s what I was using at the time…Wait, so you might have a dozen powers you don’t even know about? Your- you’re not even conscious of it?” Sylar’s voice and face were aghast. The idea of a dozen or even one unknown ability from a random stranger (if he could trace it back and identify it at all), without any of the understanding Sylar knew from his ability…It was staggering, horrifying, dangerous - beautiful, he supposed, because of the discovery, but…it was so stunted and ignorant. Was it possible, then, that Peter could understand what it was like not to…completely know one’s own self? To have things going on inside, seen or unseen, but not understand the who or the why? “But you can feel your original ability consciously, right?” then he turned hopeful, guessing, daring to believe. “I mean…jumping off rooftops…You knew, didn’t you? You could feel it.” When he finished, his voice was impassioned, eyes narrowed for a moment as he leaned forward, intent and engrossed.
XXX
“I have no idea what I had. It was just a feeling, like when you know you have some change in your pocket but that doesn't mean you know exactly whether it's quarters or pennies. I knew I had … something, originally.” Peter pushed off from the counter and came over to slide into his chair, putting his elbows on the table and carefully, tentatively, opening up. His voice softened and his posture relaxed. “Yeah, I felt it. I didn't know what I was feeling, though, or what it meant. But I knew it was important enough to risk my life for it.”
XXX
Sylar hummed. Important enough to risk everything for, he corrected. A pocketful of change; change and chance. “One of us got quarters, the other got pennies,” he said ruefully. Sylar said genuinely, relieved, “I guess it’s a good thing you haven’t taken my power yet, with all our…altercations.” Although an emotional connection would be fantastic; a different kind of physical contact would be great, too…
XXX
“I had quarters, too, at first,” Peter said mildly. Half dollars, really, because I didn't have to kill anyone to do it. “And I did have your ability for a little while - from you in the future. But I didn't just go and take it. You had to show me, guide me on how to tap into it. It wasn't something I could pick up and use on my own.” Peter sighed and leaned back a little, looking past Sylar at the archway into the other room. “Though once I had it, I couldn't turn it off.” He frowned, a mix of emotions crossing his face, but the one that remained was regret. He shook it off and asked, "Tell me about when you first realized you had an ability, if you can."
XXX
I meant I had pennies and you had…He thinks I had quarters? He was a little flattered his ability wasn’t so easy, a good thing it wasn’t, but it was special because it was different. It was like he was the only one who understood it - maybe that’s why it had come to him. Sylar didn’t know what to say, what face to make about that. It was very much the nature of the beast, a double-sided coin. He’d been referring to here, this place; he was glad Peter didn’t have any part of Sylar’s ability here, not just because he’d make one hell of a meal, but because it was so much worse when the special was alone (or nearly alone). Sylar didn’t think he’d make that great an addiction counselor or mentor either.
The words ‘if you can’ stuck with him. He was…being given a convenient out if he so much as didn’t feel like talking or sharing this particular story. It wasn’t a demand or a requirement. He scanned Peter’s face for a moment, deciding and then thinking. No one’s ever asked me that. My…origin wasn’t important. “I was always good with watches and anything I could tear apart and fix and put back together. My...parents never got it but I knew no one else, not even my….father, could do what I did so it- I thought it was…special. It wasn’t flashy or impressive but….” Sylar shifted gears, away from his motive for murder. “About seven months before the first eclipse, the…election,” he hesitated to put that in, but it was Peter’s primary frame of reference. He sent several checking glances before continuing. “I started looking at things and being able to…tell; I knew if it was broken and why. I could see how it worked.” Only then did it occur to him that he shouldn’t be sharing this, giving up the secrets of his ability to…this person. This person who hated him and his ability, who, despite his words, still wanted him dead or changed over into his brother. How many new ways could his brain now be abused for it’s creative output? He hoped he hadn’t said too much or been tricked. Nervously, he cleared his throat, wrapping up the story before it became too personal or detailed, “I didn’t know it was an ability until someone told me. The rest is history.”
XXX
Peter's only reaction to the election reference was a glance down and to the side, then back to Sylar, his face reflecting a steady interest in what he had to say. The election was a shameful power-grab and he was glad Sylar wasn't talking about that itself. When he was done, Peter's brows pulled together slightly. “Sylar, fixing things is impressive. It's way harder than tearing things up to start with - that's the easy part and even if it's flashy, it's usually not good.” He started, “How did-” that lead to killing people? but cut it off before he got more than a couple words into it. The conversation was going good; Peter didn't want to torpedo it with the topic of death. Maybe Sylar took people apart because they were broken and then couldn't figure out how to reassemble them? He swallowed and tried a different approach, “Who told you it was an ability? And … how did they know?” He made a small gesture with his right hand. “For me, it took flight before I realized what was going on and I'm pretty sure, no, I'm sure, that wasn't the first thing.” He huffed. “It was just that flying was the one that couldn't be denied. Or at least, I didn't think it would be.” He gave a single laugh and a sarcastic roll of his eyes.
XXX
At first Sylar chuckled about flight and denial - because it was true. Nathan had been buried in denial to the point that he covered his ass by sacrificing his little brother to…many people, many plots. Sylar leaned away at his own slightly hysterical amusement having no idea how Peter would take it, but again, he couldn’t help it. Again, he cleared his throat and refocused when he was through. “Chandra told me.” Sylar smiled a little and quirked an eyebrow, “He wrote the book. I was his Patient Zero. Mohinder’s, too, kind of. Do you know about the list? I was…there for it when you came into Mohinder’s apartment, looking for him.” Peter had arrived and spoiled absolutely everything and Sylar had killed him without much thought, distracted from his various goals. He wondered if he should feel bad for that now, or if bringing it up so candidly was low class and socially awkward for Peter. “Anyway, I was on the list Chandra made, I have genes for being predisposed to having abilities. I was the first one he talked to, met with, tested. I guess I was lucky,” Sylar ruminated aloud, realizing as he thought, “I had him as a kind of mentor. For a while.”
XXX
Chandra. You murdered him. Peter's face … saddened. It wasn't grieving over someone he'd hardly met, or anger about an immoral killing. It was sadness at the senselessness of it, like if Peter had reflected on the loss of life in an auto accident. Not that Sylar's actions were accidental or that Peter tried telling himself that. It was just that the death was far away from where they were at the moment and he'd learned a lot of pieces of what made Sylar the person he was. Chandra, too, was easier to deal with than certain other victims - Peter had never met him and had no personal connection, plus if he were anything like his son Mohinder, then Peter could see how things could so easily go wrong. He'd ended up at odds with Mohinder a few times himself.
“Yeah, I knew about the list,” he said softly. “Mohinder … I ran into him earlier when I was looking for Chandra.” He looked up at Sylar with a small sigh. “He told me you'd killed him.” Peter leaned back until his spine was in full contact with the ladderback of the unyielding wooden chair, one finger restlessly tapping on the surface of the table where his hands still rested on it. He had a moment where his instincts were telling him to get away from this murderer, leave the apartment, shun the person who'd ended the elder Suresh's life. It might not have been his mother who was his first victim. That, too, was sad - that Sylar had started down a path of killing, a path he seemed to regret at times, a path that had brought him here to an eternal hell in his own mind - and perhaps done it by killing the man who had shown him what made him so special. Peter drew in a deep breath and leaned forward again, elbows and then forearms resting on the table. He would see this through, at least for another round of conversation, and find out where it went.
“So,” Peter said with a small tilt to his head and steady, nonjudgmental eye contact, “did he help you? My mentor … I don't think he knew what he was doing. I've wondered what it would have been like if I could have worked with someone who did.”
XXX
Sylar went still and his face prepared a scowl. It made him feel so damn hunted. It didn’t matter, had never mattered, that he had his untold side of the story - it amounted to an excuse. He’d done what he was accused of, there was no disputing that, but his reason, his motive was inconsequential and tossed aside. Peter wouldn’t understand and didn’t want to. He absentmindedly counted the taps Peter’s finger made - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…No attack came. Sylar blinked in confusion, feeling like the rug had been snatched from under his feet. His face was still blustery when Peter looked at him, trying to be prepared, defensive, more focused on his eyes than he was on the words spoken…Did…did he help me? It was such a non sequitur.
He inhaled after what felt like an age and considered the question. There was a lot to track down, dig up and reexamine. It took him a moment to say, “I haven’t thought about it, about him in a long time.” Peter was hitting on a similarly sore murder as his mother, the now ‘forbidden’ topic. Sylar didn’t know how to talk about it or even what to feel. “He was a geneticist, looking for…a cure for his dead daughter, a reason why she died. I was…” Convenient. An answer that didn’t work out for him. “He answered my questions about abilities, as best he could at the time. He didn’t know much, just had theories he needed to prove. Other than that, we’re going to differ in our opinion - you’ll say he helped me too much and I’ll say he didn’t help me enough.” The last sentence was bitter and barbed, his reactions were torn raw again at the reminders.
He stood abruptly, pacing restlessly around the kitchen. Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut…he chanted, not wanting a repeat of last night. Sylar went so far as to tense his lips to create a physical barrier to speaking but it bubbled up anyway. “You know how I am with help,” he sneered in general, at Chandra, himself, at Peter and anyone else who’d wound up dead or hurt because of it. “Anyone who tries will end up dead, is that what you want to hear? He didn’t know what he was doing or if he did, he didn’t care - he did the same thing to Mohinder! His own son! That should be your clue, you know?” You had Nathan - he eventually came around to seeing how special you were, saving you, flying with you. I wonder what it would have been like if I had someone like that, if Chandra had been like anything close to that and changed…everything…
XXX
Peter followed Sylar’s pacing without stressing over it. Emoting didn’t usually bother him and he wasn’t getting any indication he needed to be worried for his safety. What did he do to Mohinder? Wait, no, better question: “What did he do to you? Did he … give you your ability?” Peter blinked at that possibility, his mind putting together an unsettling scenario where Chandra, like Drs. Moreau or Frankenstein, was murdered by the monster he’d created, rather than just one he’d been unfortunate enough to be in the path of. Peter leaned forward quickly, remembering how Nathan’s ability had supposedly been granted and how Mohinder had come at him with a syringe to test the very same thing. “Did you get an injection of something right before your ability manifested?”
XXX
Sylar rounded on Peter quickly. “It’s mine!” He would have yelled but his headache cut him off to more of a bark. He then growled, “No one gave it to me, I was born with it; it’s real; it’s mine.” Danko asked him a similar question years ago and now Peter was…confusing him with Nathan, having synthetic abilities - no wonder the man could hardly accept and treasure it. It was understandable Sylar was defensive and petulant. Everyone was out to discredit or explain away, hide, cut out or erase him or his ability. “Is that so hard to believe?” he asked with hurt incredulity. Doubt even after he’d told Peter about Samson’s power, as if anyone could disbelieve that lineage.
XXX
“No,” Peter answered calmly. “No, it's not. It's yours, it's a part of you, and no one's going to take it from you.” Peter tilted his head, one finger rubbing back and forth on the table as his imagination idly provided him with a scenario where Arthur saved the day by taking away Sylar's ability instead of Peter's. But no, that hadn't happened. Arthur, Peter's own father, had preferred to employ Sylar and ground Peter. It stung, but the man had played favorites all of Peter's life. He steered the subject away from the memory of having what made him special so pointlessly amputated from him. “What do you wish he’d done - Chandra, that is?” He couldn’t have an opinion on too much or not enough if he didn’t even know what Chandra had done. Since he’d asked that and not received much in the way of an answer, he moved it to the hypothetical. He knew what he wished Claude had done and that would have created a very different future. What about Sylar?
XXX
Sylar hadn’t given it much conscious thought - his ‘wants’ had been far more instinctive. Unsure where he wanted to be, he hovered and tried to fix himself somewhat in place, hands on the back of his chair somewhat across from Peter. To buy a little time but also out of curiosity, he asked softly, “Do you mean in hindsight what I wish now or what I wished then?” There might be a difference, there might not - but if Peter intended it one way or other that was important.
XXX
They're different? Well … they're different for me and Claude, so probably for him and Chandra, too. “In hindsight, what you wish now, that he'd done then.”
XXX
It’s the same answer, he realized quickly. I wished he hadn’t pushed me and tried to abandon me… Sylar inhaled. There was so much complexity there he himself could barely touch it let alone analyze or put words to it. Feeling lost, he said, a touch bitter but nearly as soft as he’d spoken before, “You wouldn’t understand.”
XXX
Peter pursed his lips and reached up to scratch at one ear, looking up at Sylar with an unamused, long-suffering look. I can't possibly understand if you won't tell me. But what was there to say if Sylar wouldn't speak?
XXX
After a few seconds, an angle occurred to him. “Or maybe you can, a little. I’m sure you blame me in whatever future where I gave you my ability. You killed someone and you don’t want to talk about it, but if I’d done something different…your life would be different. It’s like that stupid saying about stepping on butterflies but with us it’s actually true. So…don’t ask me those what-if questions.”
XXX
Peter's expression pulled into a heavy frown. He spoke snappishly. “I didn't blame you. I asked for it. You didn't want to give it to me; I had to convince you.” He shook his head and pushed away from the table, the conversation having gone sour for him with thoughts of first his father's robbery of him and now the reminder of what he'd done to Nathan in the future. “And 'convince' isn't a euphemism for anything. We talked. I told you to paint the future to see what it was I was trying to prevent. You did; you showed me how to use your ability.” He had stood as he was speaking. He stopped behind his chair, mirroring Sylar. Mentally, he stepped around the accusation of murder entirely. He didn't recall confessing to that, but … it wasn't that hard a conclusion to reach given what Peter did remember saying. He moved on to the last statement. “I wasn't asking you a what-if question. I was asking you wanted from someone. You talk about how bad you are with people helping you - I want to know what sort of help you're looking for.”
He gave Sylar a steady, stony glare, then a small, negative head-shake and an abbreviated roll of his eyes. Never mind. This isn't working. In an apparent non-sequitur, he asked, “Where's my shoe?”
XXX
Sylar slid back into his seat. “That is a what-if question, Peter. It always is,” he said, his voice sounding a little lost. Help wasn’t reliable when he needed it from his enemies because unlike Peter, he wasn’t even on the same team as the heroes. The part where Peter wanted to know what kind of help Sylar was looking for threw him harder than the Chandra question had. What was there to be helped at this point? The mere mention of help was a cruel twist of the knife, a short-lived hope. “I’m not fixable. The only ‘help’ you can give is a bullet to the back of my head,” he stated even though Peter’s attention was fractured as he said it. It sounds like the perfect job for you, Peter. Sylar sighed. “It’s around here somewhere.” He waved a hand towards the living room.
XXX
Peter huffed, a lot of his bad mood dissipated by Sylar's genuine depression. He went off to find his shoe, wanting to argue about Sylar's words, but agreeing with them too much to speak. He wasn't going to give some insincere palliative.
XXX
Sylar stood after Peter, noticing now his odd footwear choice. Guess that was all he could find. He went after Peter out of curiosity and paranoia that the empath would touch, steal or destroy more of his property. He was put-out that the important-to-him discussion was so easily sidelined for the sake of Peter’s shoe, but there was nothing to be done about it. In the grand scale of things, a talk about his needs and feelings was in fact outweighed by a fucking shoe. Sylar was overcome with worry that Peter would find and take the shirt that sort-of belonged to him. He couldn’t recall if he’d hid it very well, if at all. “It’s there-” he began to point to his desk where the shoe perched, not finishing because Peter had already seen it and moved in. Just take that and go. Sylar slumped in the doorway, miserable at the immanent loneliness that followed Peter’s shoe-hunt. “What did I say this time?” he asked tonelessly, because there was a reason for Peter’s departure. I need to start lying, that much was clear. Peter asked questions and expected certain answers that Sylar was obviously not giving.
XXX
The shoe was obvious, sitting out on the desk. Next to it, spread across the desk like a worked puzzle or one of their board games from days before, was his t-shirt. Peter hesitated, looking at the shirt, thinking. Is he collecting my clothes? What does he want with my shirt? Or was he just stacking both of my things here so I could get them at the same time? He looked up at Sylar's direction, seeing the man point and following the gesture by moving over and picking up the shoe. The shirt he gave another look and a glance back at Sylar, who looked more down than ever. This wasn't convenience for me. He was looking at my clothes … because I wasn't here. And now he thinks I'm going to take them. He sighed and left the shirt there, walking closer to Sylar. But he took the shoe because he couldn't stand to lose it. The shirt, though, he could sacrifice.
“I can't understand things you won't tell me.” He leaned his thigh against the arm of the couch, folding his arms loosely. “What you're telling me is that I'm either too stupid to follow what happened to you, or too naïve to accept it, or too unsympathetic to care. I do care, Sylar.” And I'll probably care more as I understand you more. He hesitated for a long moment before adding, “There was a time when I thought getting a bullet in the back of the head was the answer, too.” He tilted his head in a slow, slantways nod. “It didn't turn out that way. A bullet's not going to be the answer here, either.”
XXX
Sylar shuffled his foot against the floor, occasionally looking down at it while Peter spoke. As much as he looked to shift the blame and make the miscommunication (or whatever the hell it was) Peter’s deficiency…it was clear it was his own…somehow. Well, yeah, Peter. Although naïve isn’t the word I’d use. Sylar squirmed again. Yeah, on the off chance maybe Peter did care a little in some way, but Sylar was greedy and wanted the guy to care…differently or more. It was just so strange being separated when he was so accustomed to, well, owning Peter’s attention. There’d been no boundaries before, even when he’d been a fucked-up hybrid of Nathan and himself. Sylar clenched his jaw tight over saying something that would definitely send Peter packing, A bullet’s not the answer but erasing me was apparently good enough. He did not entertain the empath’s rather optimistic reply because to do so was just stupid. Peter was being Peter, thoughtless, if well-intentioned, with rose-tinted glasses. A wing and a prayer isn’t going to fix me, bring Nathan back or ‘get you out of here.’ Not that I’d wish for Nathan back or for you to be elsewhere, he concluded ruefully.
XXX
He moved past Sylar, reaching for the door. “Your shoes are in the bag in the kitchen. I'll be back tonight. Maybe we can have ice cream or something.”
XXX
Sylar blinked. He’d given his shoes up as casualties of interacting with other people. Did he wait until he had his shoe back to give them back-? No. Huh. Without much knowing why (aside from being cared for, getting his shoes back, talking about something sort of important, the fact that Peter would return and soon at a rather specific time or even the offer of ice cream) but feeling it was natural and expected of him, Sylar said as Peter passed by him, “Hey.” When the other man turned, he neared and raised his arms until he had Peter’s scrawny neck in a familiar bear hug. While Peter was mostly engulfed, Sylar was assaulted by the smaller man’s smell, exhaling a little fast to turn his head closer and inhale it again. It was still that stupid double-vision awareness, distracting him like his mind was being bisected - the hug and Peter and his scent all being comforting and brotherly on one hand and on the other…he realized he was pressed as close as he could be against the man he was trying to seduce and smelling him. Hell if he knew which one he wanted more.
XXX
Peter stiffened and made a choked throat noise when hugged, instinctively trying to grow taller and more intimidating through sheer will. A number of things flashed through his mind - getting clobbered and/or being forced over the arm of the couch onto the furniture (whether sexual or combative) among them. Also, there was the memory of Gabriel from the future hugging him in front of his kid, whose presence had limited Peter's options (and it had helped that the guy had telegraphed it more than Sylar had this time). Peter let his pent-up breath out, relaxing. It was just a hug; not an attack. It had been a few seconds now, long enough for Sylar to have done something harmful if that was what he was about. Peter found himself resenting that Sylar was taller than him, making it too easy for him to get top-rung position for his arms. But resentment wasn't going to change that. Peter hugged back awkwardly and without enthusiasm, using a brief pressure from his forearms mostly as he took the opportunity to shift the shoe into his right hand. With his left, he gave three quick pats. It was the usual 'we're done here' signal.
XXX
Sylar moved closer still, inhaling Peter’s stronger scent the closer he got - both his hair products and his skin. The tip of his nose was just brushing the farthest strands of Peter’s hair, tickling. Every breath was full of him, a warm, alluring…appetizing scent, his chest pushing against Peter’s, eyes closed and possibly losing himself.
XXX
What is he doing?! Hair fondling, making passes at him, unexpected kisses, keeping his shirt, leaving the bathroom door open, invading his space, Peter smelling Sylar on the pillow just as he could smell him now - all rushed through his mind at once. And now Sylar was sniffing him. It was way too much intimacy and entirely undesired. “Get- No!” Peter got his arms and hands between them, hunkering down and shoving Sylar hard.
“Get away from me; stay away!” A lot of other more complicated things occurred to him to say - not coming back for ice cream, anatomically difficult things Sylar could go do to himself, various threats or condemnations or insults … Peter finally just shook his head, exhaling heavily through clenched teeth. Barely taking his eyes off Sylar, he reached out for the doorknob, turned it, and left.
XXX
Continued...