More Between Us Chapter 73/? "Pulse I"
More Between Us, Chapter 73/? "Pulse I"
Day 24, January 3, morning
“Huh?” Peter's thoughts were immediately fixed on Nathan and while it seemed like a possible leap for someone of Sherlockian brilliance, Sylar was supposedly concussed and mentally impaired here. Plus he looked shaken and pale - not the appearance of cool, calm, and calculating. Still, the possibility that he'd guessed about Nathan's murder rattled Peter. He put his right hand down to pick rapidly and nervously at the top of the guard for the keyboard. Words tumbled out without taking the time to sort them first. “I never said who I … who I … I mean, Claire regenerated and I didn't even … that wasn't me. What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”
XXX
“The kid - Noah,” Sylar enunciated. He didn’t care about whatever was upsetting Peter; it was only getting in the way right now. The supposed hero’s nervousness was a sure sign of guilt. That was something at least.
XXX
“Oh.” Peter's relief was clearer than he wanted it to be. After all, there was still someone dead. Two someones. No, several hundred thousand someones. Sort of, in the future, a future that wasn't going to happen. He reached up with his left hand and rubbed at his eyes. He wasn't crying; the gesture was more subconscious than anything else. Nathan's death and how cavalierly he'd carried it out still bothered him, deeply. No matter that the future had been averted - it was still Peter's past. Sylar giving him the evil eye was no help. He sighed. “I didn't kill Noah.” Then it hit him what Sylar was implying. Peter gave him an undisguised nasty look at the insinuation he'd killed an innocent child and for what reason? Peter blinked and shook his head. Sylar didn't know; he hadn't been there. I must not have … I think I must have edited that part when I talked about it.
He sighed and looked at Sylar, giving him the straight dope. He should know. “I got your ability. We were talking. Then we heard Noah call for you from the other room. We went in and there were people there - Knox, Claire, and that blonde speedster.” He waited for a moment, connecting a few things in his head. “Daphne! That was Daphne.” He tilted his head with a mildly surprised expression as he realized where he'd run across her before, or at least mention of her and a description. She'd been at the crash site, according to Matt, but Peter had gone in a different direction and by the time he rejoined the group, she'd been shot and taken away by Homeland Security. Matt was looking for her. I wonder if he ever found her? “Huh.” Didn't he have a wife and boy when I showed up to his house? “Anyway, those three. They,” he exhaled heavily, because the whole thing was his fault, “wanted me to go with them.”
XXX
So it was your fault, Sylar surmised quickly. Peter was taking his time, dragging out the story for the sake of having some useless personal revelation about a girl they’d never met. He was getting angry and frustrated and it was starting to show in the storm clouds brewing over his head. Just spit it out.
XXX
Peter shrugged and straightened, making an ambivalent, frustrated gesture. “We didn't even get to the part where I agreed, not that I was planning to. Things just escalated. Claire had a gun and she was pointing it at Noah and then at you, so since it wasn't pointed at me, and I figured you'd be okay if she fired, I lunged for her. I got her, but then Daphne was on me. You and Knox mixed it up. I think you got his power. I don't mean you cut his head open, either. You were just fighting him, and then you had it. It was Knox,” he finished softly. “He kicked or shoved or threw - I don't remember how exactly - a table … Noah was in the way. Everything stopped for a moment as you went to him.” He waited a few moments in silent respect. Soto voce, he said, “It was too late.” He resumed with a tone that was more normal but still clipped. “You took down Knox. Claire tried to shoot you. I was calling to you. But you blew up.” He wondered if Daphne had managed to get away.
XXX
Sylar was a little at a loss to see how a mere gun posed a threat to him or anyone he considered his duty to protect (apparently in that situation, Peter counted as such). With him, his son should have been as safe as could be. He died because…Peter was causing trouble, brought it to my house and then I was…too distracted to protect him? Someone hit my kid with a table or…crushed him with it. Sylar felt his face pinch inwards for a moment. Picturing that was horrible and he was an uncaring monster and the kid never existed in his plane so what did it matter? Why did it matter anyway? What am I supposed to do now? It wasn’t like he had overmuch experience with grief of the loss of a ‘loved one.’ Sylar didn’t know how much attachment was allowed or required. Peter being involved with the death of his son and now, being here to surely crush every other hope Sylar possessed was no coincidence. And that was before I killed Nathan, he kept coming back to that. So what else was Peter capable of now that blow had been struck? Peter was still watching him too closely and finally Sylar looked up to him, uncaring what the other man saw on his face. “I see,” he said again but this time he didn’t want to see. Out of curiosity, he wanted to know how Peter handled that, so he asked, “What did you do after that?” I bet you got out of Dodge.
XXX
“Well, I died.” Peter sighed. From the expression on Sylar's face, he wanted to know more than that obvious fact. “I tried to get to you. Or … to … Gabriel. You, sort of. I could have teleported out, but ...” He hesitated, trying to recall his motivations in that second or two of action. He didn't know, so he guessed, knowing his own mind well enough to make an educated one. “I stayed. I didn't want you to kill so many other people. So maybe like Nathan did for me …? But I burned up first.” Peter looked down, thinking surely there was something better he could have done, something to have prevented all of that. He'd come back and made sure it didn't happen, so there was that, but it was cold comfort when he'd seen the misery firsthand.
XXX
Sylar jerked at that memory, //waves of agony from his fried nerves, burnt from holding and carrying his brother to the last. For months, his world was nothing but unadulterated pain. He’d been heavily medicated, in and out of delirium and consciousness, seeing his mother and Heidi come and go, but no Peter. Where was Peter? He remembered finally sitting up, against Ma’s wishes, to see what he’d feared - his face a charred wreck//. Sylar came back to himself with relief, more so that Peter hadn’t noticed. He took a few deep breaths to combat the returning nausea.
XXX
When Peter looked up again, Sylar looked shaken. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of the cause, then went on with the information he thought Sylar wanted. “I woke up somewhere else. In a lab. Or a morgue. Maybe both.” He was silent for a few moments, staring fixedly at the floor. “You weren't there.” His words came out softly. There was nothing else about the scene he wanted to discuss - at least not from that point onward. None of it concerned Sylar anyway.
He'd watched Sylar's expressions as Peter had told the story. He'd seen sorrow when he got to Noah's death. That Sylar even wanted to know told Peter a lot. He'd had a family in that future. He'd had people, which the nature of this hell informed Peter the lack of which was the worst thing Sylar could imagine. Of the two choices - to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all - Peter would always choose love and loss. He believed Sylar would join him in that choice, which must have made it additionally bitter to hear that it had ended badly. He must envy that other him. Peter swallowed and said respectfully, “That other you … was a good person.”
He cleared his throat quietly. “What else did you want to know?”
XXX
“Shut up,” Sylar snapped and growled, his eyes daring Peter to say another word about it. He was prepared to beat the message into Peter if necessary because he was not going to listen or fall prey to another Petrelli’s bedeviled whispers. Exhaling hard, he tried to forget the damage done by Mama Petrelli. “I don’t know,” Sylar finally answered. He was touchy and angry in general, more upset than anything else and not knowing what to do about it. His distress must be obvious to Peter and he couldn’t focus to think up a distracting question for him. “I don’t know…Why did you come back and kill me, in the holding cell?” Sylar waved a hand then rubbed at his orbital socket, remembering to breathe.
XXX
Peter started to smile at what he thought was a good-natured jibe under a veneer of anger, but quickly realized there was no veneer. His smile disappeared. What did I say? It must have been something I said. That Gabriel was a good person? Peter sighed. Sylar can't see himself that way - 'I'm not the savior type.' That sucks. But at least he's willing to help me if something happens to me here. That's something. He waited in silence as Sylar struggled through trying to decide what to ask.
Sylar's question about the holding cell bounced around in his head, reminding him of the rest of that day, the portion he'd been working at not thinking about. He still didn't want to think about it. His face took a sullen, uncooperative turn. “I wasn't thinking right. I ...” He straightened a little, face clearing as he saw a way to divert the subject to things Sylar already knew. “It wasn't about you. I tried to kill my mother too, remember?” Peter shook his head. “I was … I couldn't stop killing.” His voice was a whisper for that last, eyes falling to his hands. His fingers twitched a little, remembering that peculiar, semi-instinctive gesture they'd adopted to channel the ability. He wondered what Sylar made of his last statement and what any right-minded, impartial person of wisdom would make of the actions that had spawned it. Guilty with extenuating circumstances was what Peter had settled on, not that the circumstances erased the guilt. It just transmuted his sentence from … whatever it would have been to … whatever it turned out to be. With no judge or confession, Peter had never been able to expiate that sin. It just festered inside of him, a weight he carried.
Willing to take the risk of broaching the topic, Peter looked back at Sylar and asked, “Is that what it's like for you?”
XXX
The lack of understanding or reason, Sylar could actually understand even without understanding. The Hunger wasn’t personal; neither was killing a target, threat or obstacle. It was difficult for him to grasp when people took it personally and blamed him like more choice was involved. He was silent. It was a respect thing; he assumed that was evident. He wondered if, perhaps, Peter might make a leap of abstraction and see the connection between them through that ability. Peter got it then voiced it. Sylar simply gazed at him for a long time, caught off guard and uncertain of how Peter intended the question. Does it matter? Why does he ask? He just said that’s how it was or does he think mine is somehow different? This is going to come back to bite me in the ass, I know it.
“I suppose,” he began slowly, feeling his way through everything and choosing his words carefully. Every time he had tried to stop, he’d been tempted by someone involved with the Company and had fallen back into his old ways regardless of his desires. Peter had reasons not to kill, things, goals or people to anchor him. It didn’t excuse him when Sylar knew he should have dug deeper and triumphed where Peter, with all his advantages, had failed - because he was stronger and more driven than Peter ever was and he had to succeed. “It’s not…simple.” The Hunger didn’t want to be denied or cured, killing was a means to an end and it represented mentally orgasmic success. Therefor it was a positive achievement, the same as ridding the world of unworthy power-holders? How was anyone supposed to ignore that? How did his flimsy mortal feelings, morals, and other needs compare against that?
“It depends if you killed someone or not. I imagine it’s different living a day or two with it when you haven’t gotten your fingers wet. It depends if you felt you had control or a choice or a reason to care either way.” With that, he turned the question back to Peter with an expectant look.
XXX
“I didn't ...” get my fingers wet. With blood, you mean? Like someone's brains? He looked down at his fingers, rubbing them together uneasily. His voice was suddenly raspy, chest tight. “I mean, I did ...” kill someone … Nathan. He didn't think enough of his words were getting out to make sense to Sylar, so he tried again. “I killed ...” Nathan, “but I didn't take ...” his brain, his ability? The mental image of cutting Nathan apart and plunging his fingers into the still-hot brain was too easy to imagine. He knew just how it would feel. The outer layers of the brain were stiff, like a firm sponge, and slick on the outside with a thin layer of sclera. It had a smell unique to the nervous system. It was faintly like that internal organ smell of blood and viscera, but without any of the digestive system undertones that you had in the abdominal cavity.
The air felt too thin and he couldn't get a decent breath - not that he wanted to. He feared it would smell like that - that close, humid, faintly ammonia-like smell of damaged brain matter. (The things EMTs experienced in the course of their jobs were sometimes things no person with any degree of empathy wanted to know.) He felt dizzy, confused, losing his grip on whether he was here with Sylar or freezing up over Nathan's corpse, aghast at what he had done, his mind breaking as his heart thudded way too strong and fast in his chest.
“Ugk,” he said, swallowing and turning to face the opposite direction on the piano bench. He hunched, feeling like he was choking on what little air he was getting. He kept seeing, over and over as if it was happening right now, his hand rising to cut into Nathan's forehead, or his mother's. His right hand was paralyzed by blinding pain like some divine punishment was being inflicted on him for those sins. A strangely lucid thought drifted through his head, Oh, I'm having a panic attack. It wasn't the first time. He was prone to his chest heaving and near-hyperventilation when he was severely stressed and though those weren't panic attacks, what he was having now was an extreme version of the same.
XXX
“Peter?” Something wasn’t right but Sylar wasn’t sure it was necessarily, unintentionally wrong either.
XXX
Peter's fingers curled into fists and then his arms folded over his midsection. He leaned over, making himself small and trying to focus on his breathing. Knowing what was happening gave him something to think about other than the memory of murdering his brother for no decent reason (sad to say, Peter had had experiences in his life that led him to think there were, at times, good reasons for killing family members). It gave him a problem to fix, something immediate and physical he could do. He shifted his grip from balled-up fists to holding his arms, relaxing his right hand enough that it wasn't stressing the broken bones and putting him in agony. Slowly, very slowly, he managed to get deeper breaths. His body shook, but he was getting it back together. Fuck - what the fuck is Sylar doing? No, stop thinking about him. He won't hurt me. Just ignore him. Get under control. Breathe.
XXX
Receiving no answer, Sylar was left to listen to Peter’s ragged, stunted breathing and watch his back shudder. He got that ‘hair on the back of his neck’ feeling just looking at the man’s posture. It seemed familiar, like something he’d wanted to do in a moment of lonely emotional chaos but had never actually done it. “Peter?” his voice rose and he sat up, deciding quickly to go to him. Leaning over he started by touching Peter’s shoulder with no answer. “Pete?” he asked more softly in case he was being ignored. His hand slid along Peter’s back then returned as Sylar crouched, wincing about his own toes but it allowed him to see Peter’s pale, sweaty, unfocused face. What is this? A cop out, a joke? Is he sick, like a seizure or something?
The younger man still tried to look away, making a disturbing sound in his throat and Sylar would have none of it, gently taking hold of Peter’s chin then his cheek to bring him back. “Hey,” that was the traditional Italian opening line. Peter was breathing deep yet very shaky then turned, seemed to snap out of himself a little and rested his forehead against Sylar’s, to his great shock. Did he pass out? No, still breathing. What…? “Peter, can you hear me? I need you to tell me what’s going on.” The hand attached to Peter’s skin drifted over his clammy face, neck and shoulder, uncertain what he was doing other than reassuring himself that Peter was still warm and breathing and praying this wasn’t a medical emergency he was so unprepared for.
XXX
Peter felt like an idiot - small, stupid, and helpless for having a freak-out right in front of Sylar. He could feel the shame spiraling his tension right back up. No help for it. Just relax. Sylar's hand over his face and shoulder was reassuring in the surfeit of gentle contact. He nodded in response to the man's question, still having trouble getting his throat to work right for anything more complicated than sucking air, but it was at least doing that much now. He reached out and grabbed Sylar's shirt some inches below the right armpit, pulling him around just a little, positioning him for Peter to move his head to Sylar's shoulder. Oh fuck, this sucks. Not him! Why him? Why would I freak out in front of him? (Relax. It's okay. He was there for me after that nightmare. He just promised today he'd be there for anything else. It'll be okay.)
XXX
“Okay, that’s good,” Sylar said in relief. Now that he knew Peter was listening and somewhat conscious he didn’t know what to say or ask about. Sylar only knew about abilities and a lot (but not everything) about brains - this was the human body; easily trillions of things could go wrong with it. Peter moved or slumped further into him to Sylar’s sick delight and continued worry. Peter felt warm, not feverishly so but even the warmth didn’t feel right when he was touching the guy’s skin. He continued petting the man’s hair and neck while he thought about what could be going wrong (and something was obviously wrong - Peter was touching him of his own volition and allowing Sylar’s touch moreover). Heart attack? Seizure? It’s not liver failure. Alcohol poisoning? Does he have allergies I don’t know about? We just had breakfast…Not bothering with polite or subtle, Sylar pressed two fingers to his shoulder angel’s pulse. It was very fast from what he could tell. Adrenaline rush? But I didn’t say anything threatening…
XXX
Peter's breathing deepened fast. His heart was still pounding in his chest, but the pressure was lifting so rapidly that he felt dizzy and euphoric for a moment. Swaying a little, Peter tightened his one-handed grip on Sylar's shirt, pressing the side of his face against his shoulder for stability.
XXX
Unable to see Peter’s face, Sylar had no idea what the desperate clutching meant. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” Sylar placated quickly, feeling the man nearly gasping for air, unsteady even as he sat somewhat supported against Sylar. He lifted a hand around Peter’s right side so he wouldn’t slip off that way.
XXX
“I'm okay,” he whispered hoarsely as the wave passed, but he didn't let go quite yet. Eyes shut, his breathing was slowing now, heading back towards normal along with his heart rate and blood pressure. His left hand released, cupping to press flat-palmed to Sylar's side for a moment. His right hand was still aching from whatever he'd done to it in the first phase of the panic attack. He held it protectively in his lap. With a last deep breath, Peter sat up, pulling away, eyes rising to hold Sylar's. So, um, what now?
XXX
Sylar hardly blinked as they stared at one another. That was…unexpected. His eyes are okay, he noted distantly. “Of course you are,” he bullshitted right back. I don’t believe a word out of your mouth but at least words are coming out. Even Peter said something to that effect about nursing, didn’t he? He was nervous and trying to focus on Peter’s health rather than the fact that their hands were literally all over each other and he could smell Peter again and feel his body heat. “I’m going to put you on the couch, okay? Put your legs up and…” Whatever else. I just know that’s a good position for a lot of problems. Dehydration! Water, I’ll find some water. “Come on.” Sylar slid his arm underneath Peter’s, helping him stand without asking if he needed the assist because it seemed like he did and this is what Peter did when Sylar didn’t necessarily need help, and what’s more, he’d still do this even if Peter lied again.
XXX
Couch, yeah, good idea. He got to his feet, feeling able to manage the few feet of distance himself but not refusing the help. The contact was soothing. He wrapped his arm around Sylar in return, wishing this was Nathan or … His chest spasmed like his heart had just skipped a beat. It would never be Nathan. It never could be. Fuck. He knew the symptoms often came in waves. He knew it was exacerbated by thinking the wrong things. They were already the few steps to the couch. He sank into it heavily at one end, struggling to bring his thoughts back to something neutral like breathing.
He wanted to curl up. He wanted to get away. He wanted to hold someone or be held. To his disappointment, unrealistic though his desires were, Sylar had released him when he sat. Asking anything of him was childish. What Sylar was already doing for him was above and beyond the call of duty. Now the man was plucking at Peter's legs, trying to encourage him to turn sideways and put his feet up. “I'm alright,” Peter said grumpily, voice strained. “It's no big deal,” he said, covering his face with his right hand in embarrassment. He was feeling tense and upset again, very aware that the world was closing in. Sylar gave up on trying to shift him and sat right next to him, a presence that was both comforting and worrying by turns.
XXX
“Do you know what’s going on? Should I get you anything?” Sylar pressed, hovering and trying to sound like he was capable and prepared for this, like he already knew what was going on but really; this was Peter’s domain and Peter was the one with medical training. What happened if Peter got hurt so bad he couldn’t talk or direct? I need to get some medical books and study alright. Peter’s definitely stupid enough that I’m going to need to know some of that.
XXX
“It's … I ...” Peter felt his head swimming again. He put his left hand on his chest, noticing his hand was trembling. Was it doing that earlier? He's asking too many questions. I wish he'd stop. Let me be. I'll be okay. The air felt hot. He moved his hand up to his throat and massaged it, intent on getting enough words out to shut Sylar up, at least for the time being. “Panic attack.” Two words were apparently doable. Despite his victory, he hunched over again, this time worked up at himself because he couldn't calm down. It took a couple seconds for the irrationality of that to get through his head. Damnit. Breathe! Just breathe. He struggled through a gagging swallow and reached out to his left, putting his hand on Sylar's knee and gripping it. Peter shut his eyes. People calmed him down; in a lot of cases, physical contact calmed him down. So did purpose. My goal right now is to breathe. Deep, slow. Just breathe.
XXX
Ah…Okay. That wasn’t something that immediately occurred to Sylar but it made enough sense, fitting the symptoms as he saw them. Why is he having a panic attack? He stared Peter and the hand on his knee, wondering what was the purpose or message behind it. “Just…take it easy.” He needs air and…time, I guess, but he’ll be fine. Sylar made to move to stand and get water, thinking time alone might help until Peter gripped and pushed down on the knee in his possession, halting Sylar in place, still seated. Stay here then.
XXX
Peter waited until he had it mostly together - all systems functioning … if not normally, then at least functioning. He needs to know what just happened. Speaking low and soft, Peter said, “I killed someone, yeah. Someone I cared about.” Tired now from the emotional stress, Peter lifted his hand away from Sylar's knee. “Your wording,” he said, turning his left hand palm up, fingers drawn together, “I didn't get my 'fingers wet',” he said with a slight curl of his lip. “I couldn't stop myself, so I came back and killed you instead, in the holding cell.” Peter felt his internal pressure ease suddenly, his eyes widening a little as he realized he might not have been so out of control as he'd thought. “I … I think I was picking my victim. I couldn't have stopped myself if I'd stayed there, but I had enough control to leave before I ...” He shrugged, repeating his earlier 'fingers wet' gesture. Maybe I knew Sylar would have regenerated? Was that why I went back for him? Claire survived it.
“Does that make a difference?”
XXX
Haven’t we all, Sylar thought bitterly of killing loved ones. At least you didn’t play around in their blood afterward; you didn’t touch it at all apparently so why do you get to have a fucking panic attack and get help dealing with it? The rest of it was Peter saying that Sylar was an acceptable victim, no surprise. He was not going to accept the blame for Peter freaking out like this over something he’d said either. As soon as Peter’s hand lifted away (and if he hadn’t done it voluntarily, Sylar would have batted it off himself), Sylar was making space between them. Petrelli’s question was broad. “Yeah,” he snipped shortly and rose to his feet. He could leave Peter alone for a few minutes in a search for water.
XXX
Peter sensed the hostility from Sylar. A one-word answer, clipped tone, and immediate, stiff departure? Yeah, hostility. Peter slumped and then, after a moment, pulled his knees up, leaned against the arm of the couch, and curled into himself like a troubled child might. He would have never clung to Nathan as much as he did or followed him so loyally, if he'd had anyone else to support him. He watched the doorway, more of a vacant stare really, and tried to turn himself off. It didn't work.
I miss you, Nathan. I wish you were here. I wish that was you just a few minutes ago and maybe I could have told you about what happened in the future and you would have listened and even if you told me to wake up and quit being an idiot, I'd know you still loved me and would be there for me if I needed it. Maybe. Peter shut his eyes and then put a hand over them, pressing slightly, willing himself not to cry. Maybe. He wasn't always there for me. But I always wished he was and now he never will be again.
Sylar's departure changed the tenor of how Peter saw the consolation. It went from a true exchange of concern and comfort to a mere animal thing - 'it was warm and human and I needed that', rather than 'Sylar saw I was afraid and tried to help me.' He knew he was suffering from emotional whiplash, jet lag, whatever, but the effects of a panic attack were very clearly not merely physical. Peter curled himself a little tighter and tried not to think about how fucked up and pointless his whole mission was. There has to be something worthwhile in what I'm doing here - even if asking Sylar to save those people was a dumb idea, it was better than doing nothing, right? If I fail, it still means something … right?
Hopefully something other than 'Here lies Peter Petrelli - He tried.'
XXX
Sylar returned after a while with a pair of water bottles, tossing one next to Peter on the couch, feeling magnanimous for not having chucked it at Peter himself, forcing him to catch it with his dominant and broken hand. He cracked his own bottle and took a large gulp after seating himself on the piano bench, stewing quietly.
XXX
Peter straightened immediately when Sylar walked in the room, putting his feet on the floor and sitting normally. He rubbed at his face, worried that his skin might be inappropriately flushed even though he hadn't been crying. An energetic scrub of the rest of his face would at least equalize the coloration. He didn't see the bottle of water tossed at him and jumped when it hit the cushion beside him. He looked wide-eyed at Sylar for a moment, trying to figure out if the guy had missed him or hit his target of the cushion. Sylar looked pissed, but not pissed because he'd missed. Whatever had made him leave the room in a snit was still at work. Peter sniffed and picked up the bottle, twisting the cap off slowly. “Thanks.”
There was no answer. Peter sighed about that. He’d gotten some things out and it had helped him understand why he’d done what he’d done. Maybe talking would help Sylar. And if it didn’t, it would be another thing for Peter to be depressed and broody about. “Tell me why you're angry.”
XXX
Sylar merely looked at him. “You didn’t even take the ability. You don’t know what it’s like so you don’t get to act like some martyr just for thinking about it. But I’m so horrible: I kill people for a reason. What do you do? You kill people for no reason. How convenient. ‘Picking my victim’ my ass. You killed someone and wanted to pick my available, renewable brain so you killed me because, well, I’m not like other people.”
XXX
Peter listened woodenly, the accusations coming as blows. They were all true, but Sylar slamming him over a failure to inflict additional harm was incomprehensible at first. He swallowed and took another sip of water to wet his suddenly dry mouth. I think he's jealous. Angry that I didn't fuck up as bad as he did. That I found a way out maybe. That way out being him. That had to hurt - that I used him just like he’s complained about everyone else doing. “You … you thought I was your brother then, and I showed up and killed you.” Peter frowned. “That was wrong. I'm sorry for it. I guess I was making for every living member of my family that day.” He froze. That did kind of make it obvious who he'd killed in the future. He relaxed a little as he supposed Arthur was unaccounted for, along with Uncle Tim and whoever else wanted to be counted. He scanned Sylar's face for evidence that he'd guessed. But did Sylar even care who knocked who off among the Petrellis? He seemed a little wrapped up in himself at the moment, something Peter was grateful for.
XXX
"Don't insult me," Sylar sneered of the 'apology.' The standards he was held to would not allow for grief, panic attacks, mourning, regret or apologies because naturally he'd made a decision to kill each and every one of his victims, even the ones who were rather accidental in nature, hadn't he? The same was true for Peter. "You thought I was your brother then, too."
XXX
Peter pulled a brief frown and glanced away, then back. I didn’t know what to think. Everything was crazy enough for that to be true.
XXX
Sylar looked away for a moment, then back. "Your mother is mostly to blame. She only pretended to be my mother so I'd save your ass a thousand times in a few days. And possibly kill Arthur for her, also to save you, I'm sure. You're so lucky to have such a devoted mother." The last sentence was multi-layered with sarcasm, heat, and jealousy.
XXX
“She sent me to kill my dad, too,” Peter objected defensively, pulling up his left knee and hugging it, leaning his body weight towards the arm of the couch. If there was a subject even more emotionally charged for him than killing Nathan, it was his complicated feelings towards Angela Petrelli. He looked down. Did she know we’d end up killing Arthur together? Or was she just doubling her odds of having it done? She didn’t mind having me kill a few million people for Nathan’s career, so why would she mind having me kill my own father? He sighed, but his face was hard, drawn up in bitterness and pain. Like so many of the decisions in his life since he’d had abilities, he felt like there was a better solution to the situation that he hadn’t thought of at the time.
XXX
“Congratulations,” Sylar intoned in a drier-than-a-desert way. It hadn’t been difficult to kill Arthur so he was hardly scrambling to take credit, but he knew that when blame time came around, Peter would dodge and blame him. In Angela’s eyes, one of them had to be a back-up plan.
XXX
Peter didn’t want to talk about his mother, even though and because Sylar had a lot of legitimate objections to air regarding her. My family’s supposed to be off-limits anyway. His mother is, Peter thought begrudgingly. But Peter recognized it was a mutual subject and Sylar hadn’t gone looking for it. He looked for something else to address in what Sylar had said. ‘So I’d save your ass a thousand times’ - he did save me a few times that day, but he doesn’t accept any of my gratitude. He mocked me for it a few days ago. Peter was more confused by that than anything else. He adored gratitude and positive attention; Sylar seemed to scorn it. “When I try to thank you, or apologize to you, you reject it. Why is that?”
XXX
Why do I feel like this is some kind of emotional therapy session: ‘sit back and tell me about your feelings’? It earned Peter yet another look. “Lots of reasons.” Or am I not allowed to have those?
XXX
Peter lowered his head so his mouth was against the lowest part of his thigh, nose on the knee he still hugged. He shifted just slightly, feeling the hamstring stretch. It felt good, a nice sensation to oppose the tension ache he still felt lingering in his chest. He stared evenly across the short distance at Sylar, noting the lack of a real answer. He doesn’t want to accept anything from me - not help, not thanks. Well, he wants my company. There’s that. We’re getting somewhere … just slowly. Unsatisfied by that, Peter lifted his face enough to say, “Tell me some of them,” before going back to hiding part of his face behind his knee.
XXX
Sylar inhaled with the intent to let out a sigh but caught the breath and let it out slowly, like some attempt to control something, anything right now - Peter having proven himself to be highly annoying as if he needed the reminder. “I’m told having your life saved is one of those things you remember to thank your…” savior? hero? “the person who saved you, without much thought or debate or years worth of delay.” Really, when Peter said thank you or sorry it looked like he had to think about it, like he’d never thought about it before. Sylar was confused - for someone so evil to do what was, even in Peter’s book, a very good deed, possibly the best thing he could ever accomplish…shouldn’t it stand out that much more for going against his ‘nature’? “So you either rate your own life strangely or you rate my 'good deeds' very strangely and I’m not sure which it is, maybe both.”
“People only apologize or thank me to change my behavior. I’m not some trained dog who does things for pats on the head and you wouldn’t thank a dog for retrieving a stick for you. Now you’re afraid I might leap up and attack you at any minute you want to try to ‘scratch behind my ears’ or something.” Even if he did perform for a reaction or gratitude, he’d ever received it in the past. Hell, sometimes he didn’t even know why he did some things, sometimes ‘just because whichever Mom wanted it,’ and…yes, sometimes saving Peter or sparing him seemed stupid in hindsight. (Because he was my brother and I wanted to save him).
“And you really need to think if you can or should apologize for killing someone with my ability,” Sylar snorted a breath in depressed irony. Okay, that was really all of his reasons.
XXX
“Do you mean killing someone by using your ability, or killing someone who happens to have it?”
XXX
“Killing someone using my ability; the target is irrelevant.” Right? Or does he mean to imply someone with my ability should be killed?
XXX
“Oh.” Peter let his face sink again, but this time ended with his chin resting on his knee. He felt not at all guilty for not thanking Sylar in whatever timetable Sylar desired, but one thing it told Peter was that Sylar genuinely wanted thanks. Since he hadn't gotten them when and how he wanted, Peter surmised Sylar was now immaturely refusing to accept them at all - a posture that hurt him as much as anyone else, poisoning the relationship and making it difficult to move forward.
“Most of the people who save my life haven’t killed me a few times before. It’s something I have to think about.” He sat for a long pause, chin on knee, soulful eyes looking over at Sylar, all attention on him. He was calm, and grateful that he could be calm in Sylar’s presence, and even talk about very personal murder. “I’m not afraid you’re going to attack me anymore. Not unless I do something to you.”
XXX
Sylar shrugged. “I didn’t ask for thanks or an apology,” he retorted, making his lack of involvement clear. He didn’t like the way Peter was looking at him. There was no way of knowing what would spring from his mouth next and that look said ‘I’m curious and you’re a puzzle.’
XXX
His gaze dropped to Sylar’s shoes as he thought. Slowly he said, “If I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated something you’d done, or apologize for something I did, how should I do that in a way that won’t leave you feeling like I’m trying to manipulate you?” He looked up, meeting Sylar’s eyes.
XXX
His exhaled breath, a single chuckle of sorts, spoke of his amusement. Sylar looked away, shaking his head a little at the joke. Why is that…funny? When his eyes returned to Peter’s he saw that those piercing dark hazel orbs had been fixated on him the whole time. His amusement faded as his eyebrows quirked up slightly as if to say ‘you’re serious?’ That’s the punch line: that there is no punch line. Why would he show appreciation for something I did or apologize for something he did? Do I look stupid to him? “You can’t. I wouldn’t bother if I were you,” he dismissed.
Continued...
Day 24, January 3, morning
“Huh?” Peter's thoughts were immediately fixed on Nathan and while it seemed like a possible leap for someone of Sherlockian brilliance, Sylar was supposedly concussed and mentally impaired here. Plus he looked shaken and pale - not the appearance of cool, calm, and calculating. Still, the possibility that he'd guessed about Nathan's murder rattled Peter. He put his right hand down to pick rapidly and nervously at the top of the guard for the keyboard. Words tumbled out without taking the time to sort them first. “I never said who I … who I … I mean, Claire regenerated and I didn't even … that wasn't me. What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”
XXX
“The kid - Noah,” Sylar enunciated. He didn’t care about whatever was upsetting Peter; it was only getting in the way right now. The supposed hero’s nervousness was a sure sign of guilt. That was something at least.
XXX
“Oh.” Peter's relief was clearer than he wanted it to be. After all, there was still someone dead. Two someones. No, several hundred thousand someones. Sort of, in the future, a future that wasn't going to happen. He reached up with his left hand and rubbed at his eyes. He wasn't crying; the gesture was more subconscious than anything else. Nathan's death and how cavalierly he'd carried it out still bothered him, deeply. No matter that the future had been averted - it was still Peter's past. Sylar giving him the evil eye was no help. He sighed. “I didn't kill Noah.” Then it hit him what Sylar was implying. Peter gave him an undisguised nasty look at the insinuation he'd killed an innocent child and for what reason? Peter blinked and shook his head. Sylar didn't know; he hadn't been there. I must not have … I think I must have edited that part when I talked about it.
He sighed and looked at Sylar, giving him the straight dope. He should know. “I got your ability. We were talking. Then we heard Noah call for you from the other room. We went in and there were people there - Knox, Claire, and that blonde speedster.” He waited for a moment, connecting a few things in his head. “Daphne! That was Daphne.” He tilted his head with a mildly surprised expression as he realized where he'd run across her before, or at least mention of her and a description. She'd been at the crash site, according to Matt, but Peter had gone in a different direction and by the time he rejoined the group, she'd been shot and taken away by Homeland Security. Matt was looking for her. I wonder if he ever found her? “Huh.” Didn't he have a wife and boy when I showed up to his house? “Anyway, those three. They,” he exhaled heavily, because the whole thing was his fault, “wanted me to go with them.”
XXX
So it was your fault, Sylar surmised quickly. Peter was taking his time, dragging out the story for the sake of having some useless personal revelation about a girl they’d never met. He was getting angry and frustrated and it was starting to show in the storm clouds brewing over his head. Just spit it out.
XXX
Peter shrugged and straightened, making an ambivalent, frustrated gesture. “We didn't even get to the part where I agreed, not that I was planning to. Things just escalated. Claire had a gun and she was pointing it at Noah and then at you, so since it wasn't pointed at me, and I figured you'd be okay if she fired, I lunged for her. I got her, but then Daphne was on me. You and Knox mixed it up. I think you got his power. I don't mean you cut his head open, either. You were just fighting him, and then you had it. It was Knox,” he finished softly. “He kicked or shoved or threw - I don't remember how exactly - a table … Noah was in the way. Everything stopped for a moment as you went to him.” He waited a few moments in silent respect. Soto voce, he said, “It was too late.” He resumed with a tone that was more normal but still clipped. “You took down Knox. Claire tried to shoot you. I was calling to you. But you blew up.” He wondered if Daphne had managed to get away.
XXX
Sylar was a little at a loss to see how a mere gun posed a threat to him or anyone he considered his duty to protect (apparently in that situation, Peter counted as such). With him, his son should have been as safe as could be. He died because…Peter was causing trouble, brought it to my house and then I was…too distracted to protect him? Someone hit my kid with a table or…crushed him with it. Sylar felt his face pinch inwards for a moment. Picturing that was horrible and he was an uncaring monster and the kid never existed in his plane so what did it matter? Why did it matter anyway? What am I supposed to do now? It wasn’t like he had overmuch experience with grief of the loss of a ‘loved one.’ Sylar didn’t know how much attachment was allowed or required. Peter being involved with the death of his son and now, being here to surely crush every other hope Sylar possessed was no coincidence. And that was before I killed Nathan, he kept coming back to that. So what else was Peter capable of now that blow had been struck? Peter was still watching him too closely and finally Sylar looked up to him, uncaring what the other man saw on his face. “I see,” he said again but this time he didn’t want to see. Out of curiosity, he wanted to know how Peter handled that, so he asked, “What did you do after that?” I bet you got out of Dodge.
XXX
“Well, I died.” Peter sighed. From the expression on Sylar's face, he wanted to know more than that obvious fact. “I tried to get to you. Or … to … Gabriel. You, sort of. I could have teleported out, but ...” He hesitated, trying to recall his motivations in that second or two of action. He didn't know, so he guessed, knowing his own mind well enough to make an educated one. “I stayed. I didn't want you to kill so many other people. So maybe like Nathan did for me …? But I burned up first.” Peter looked down, thinking surely there was something better he could have done, something to have prevented all of that. He'd come back and made sure it didn't happen, so there was that, but it was cold comfort when he'd seen the misery firsthand.
XXX
Sylar jerked at that memory, //waves of agony from his fried nerves, burnt from holding and carrying his brother to the last. For months, his world was nothing but unadulterated pain. He’d been heavily medicated, in and out of delirium and consciousness, seeing his mother and Heidi come and go, but no Peter. Where was Peter? He remembered finally sitting up, against Ma’s wishes, to see what he’d feared - his face a charred wreck//. Sylar came back to himself with relief, more so that Peter hadn’t noticed. He took a few deep breaths to combat the returning nausea.
XXX
When Peter looked up again, Sylar looked shaken. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of the cause, then went on with the information he thought Sylar wanted. “I woke up somewhere else. In a lab. Or a morgue. Maybe both.” He was silent for a few moments, staring fixedly at the floor. “You weren't there.” His words came out softly. There was nothing else about the scene he wanted to discuss - at least not from that point onward. None of it concerned Sylar anyway.
He'd watched Sylar's expressions as Peter had told the story. He'd seen sorrow when he got to Noah's death. That Sylar even wanted to know told Peter a lot. He'd had a family in that future. He'd had people, which the nature of this hell informed Peter the lack of which was the worst thing Sylar could imagine. Of the two choices - to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all - Peter would always choose love and loss. He believed Sylar would join him in that choice, which must have made it additionally bitter to hear that it had ended badly. He must envy that other him. Peter swallowed and said respectfully, “That other you … was a good person.”
He cleared his throat quietly. “What else did you want to know?”
XXX
“Shut up,” Sylar snapped and growled, his eyes daring Peter to say another word about it. He was prepared to beat the message into Peter if necessary because he was not going to listen or fall prey to another Petrelli’s bedeviled whispers. Exhaling hard, he tried to forget the damage done by Mama Petrelli. “I don’t know,” Sylar finally answered. He was touchy and angry in general, more upset than anything else and not knowing what to do about it. His distress must be obvious to Peter and he couldn’t focus to think up a distracting question for him. “I don’t know…Why did you come back and kill me, in the holding cell?” Sylar waved a hand then rubbed at his orbital socket, remembering to breathe.
XXX
Peter started to smile at what he thought was a good-natured jibe under a veneer of anger, but quickly realized there was no veneer. His smile disappeared. What did I say? It must have been something I said. That Gabriel was a good person? Peter sighed. Sylar can't see himself that way - 'I'm not the savior type.' That sucks. But at least he's willing to help me if something happens to me here. That's something. He waited in silence as Sylar struggled through trying to decide what to ask.
Sylar's question about the holding cell bounced around in his head, reminding him of the rest of that day, the portion he'd been working at not thinking about. He still didn't want to think about it. His face took a sullen, uncooperative turn. “I wasn't thinking right. I ...” He straightened a little, face clearing as he saw a way to divert the subject to things Sylar already knew. “It wasn't about you. I tried to kill my mother too, remember?” Peter shook his head. “I was … I couldn't stop killing.” His voice was a whisper for that last, eyes falling to his hands. His fingers twitched a little, remembering that peculiar, semi-instinctive gesture they'd adopted to channel the ability. He wondered what Sylar made of his last statement and what any right-minded, impartial person of wisdom would make of the actions that had spawned it. Guilty with extenuating circumstances was what Peter had settled on, not that the circumstances erased the guilt. It just transmuted his sentence from … whatever it would have been to … whatever it turned out to be. With no judge or confession, Peter had never been able to expiate that sin. It just festered inside of him, a weight he carried.
Willing to take the risk of broaching the topic, Peter looked back at Sylar and asked, “Is that what it's like for you?”
XXX
The lack of understanding or reason, Sylar could actually understand even without understanding. The Hunger wasn’t personal; neither was killing a target, threat or obstacle. It was difficult for him to grasp when people took it personally and blamed him like more choice was involved. He was silent. It was a respect thing; he assumed that was evident. He wondered if, perhaps, Peter might make a leap of abstraction and see the connection between them through that ability. Peter got it then voiced it. Sylar simply gazed at him for a long time, caught off guard and uncertain of how Peter intended the question. Does it matter? Why does he ask? He just said that’s how it was or does he think mine is somehow different? This is going to come back to bite me in the ass, I know it.
“I suppose,” he began slowly, feeling his way through everything and choosing his words carefully. Every time he had tried to stop, he’d been tempted by someone involved with the Company and had fallen back into his old ways regardless of his desires. Peter had reasons not to kill, things, goals or people to anchor him. It didn’t excuse him when Sylar knew he should have dug deeper and triumphed where Peter, with all his advantages, had failed - because he was stronger and more driven than Peter ever was and he had to succeed. “It’s not…simple.” The Hunger didn’t want to be denied or cured, killing was a means to an end and it represented mentally orgasmic success. Therefor it was a positive achievement, the same as ridding the world of unworthy power-holders? How was anyone supposed to ignore that? How did his flimsy mortal feelings, morals, and other needs compare against that?
“It depends if you killed someone or not. I imagine it’s different living a day or two with it when you haven’t gotten your fingers wet. It depends if you felt you had control or a choice or a reason to care either way.” With that, he turned the question back to Peter with an expectant look.
XXX
“I didn't ...” get my fingers wet. With blood, you mean? Like someone's brains? He looked down at his fingers, rubbing them together uneasily. His voice was suddenly raspy, chest tight. “I mean, I did ...” kill someone … Nathan. He didn't think enough of his words were getting out to make sense to Sylar, so he tried again. “I killed ...” Nathan, “but I didn't take ...” his brain, his ability? The mental image of cutting Nathan apart and plunging his fingers into the still-hot brain was too easy to imagine. He knew just how it would feel. The outer layers of the brain were stiff, like a firm sponge, and slick on the outside with a thin layer of sclera. It had a smell unique to the nervous system. It was faintly like that internal organ smell of blood and viscera, but without any of the digestive system undertones that you had in the abdominal cavity.
The air felt too thin and he couldn't get a decent breath - not that he wanted to. He feared it would smell like that - that close, humid, faintly ammonia-like smell of damaged brain matter. (The things EMTs experienced in the course of their jobs were sometimes things no person with any degree of empathy wanted to know.) He felt dizzy, confused, losing his grip on whether he was here with Sylar or freezing up over Nathan's corpse, aghast at what he had done, his mind breaking as his heart thudded way too strong and fast in his chest.
“Ugk,” he said, swallowing and turning to face the opposite direction on the piano bench. He hunched, feeling like he was choking on what little air he was getting. He kept seeing, over and over as if it was happening right now, his hand rising to cut into Nathan's forehead, or his mother's. His right hand was paralyzed by blinding pain like some divine punishment was being inflicted on him for those sins. A strangely lucid thought drifted through his head, Oh, I'm having a panic attack. It wasn't the first time. He was prone to his chest heaving and near-hyperventilation when he was severely stressed and though those weren't panic attacks, what he was having now was an extreme version of the same.
XXX
“Peter?” Something wasn’t right but Sylar wasn’t sure it was necessarily, unintentionally wrong either.
XXX
Peter's fingers curled into fists and then his arms folded over his midsection. He leaned over, making himself small and trying to focus on his breathing. Knowing what was happening gave him something to think about other than the memory of murdering his brother for no decent reason (sad to say, Peter had had experiences in his life that led him to think there were, at times, good reasons for killing family members). It gave him a problem to fix, something immediate and physical he could do. He shifted his grip from balled-up fists to holding his arms, relaxing his right hand enough that it wasn't stressing the broken bones and putting him in agony. Slowly, very slowly, he managed to get deeper breaths. His body shook, but he was getting it back together. Fuck - what the fuck is Sylar doing? No, stop thinking about him. He won't hurt me. Just ignore him. Get under control. Breathe.
XXX
Receiving no answer, Sylar was left to listen to Peter’s ragged, stunted breathing and watch his back shudder. He got that ‘hair on the back of his neck’ feeling just looking at the man’s posture. It seemed familiar, like something he’d wanted to do in a moment of lonely emotional chaos but had never actually done it. “Peter?” his voice rose and he sat up, deciding quickly to go to him. Leaning over he started by touching Peter’s shoulder with no answer. “Pete?” he asked more softly in case he was being ignored. His hand slid along Peter’s back then returned as Sylar crouched, wincing about his own toes but it allowed him to see Peter’s pale, sweaty, unfocused face. What is this? A cop out, a joke? Is he sick, like a seizure or something?
The younger man still tried to look away, making a disturbing sound in his throat and Sylar would have none of it, gently taking hold of Peter’s chin then his cheek to bring him back. “Hey,” that was the traditional Italian opening line. Peter was breathing deep yet very shaky then turned, seemed to snap out of himself a little and rested his forehead against Sylar’s, to his great shock. Did he pass out? No, still breathing. What…? “Peter, can you hear me? I need you to tell me what’s going on.” The hand attached to Peter’s skin drifted over his clammy face, neck and shoulder, uncertain what he was doing other than reassuring himself that Peter was still warm and breathing and praying this wasn’t a medical emergency he was so unprepared for.
XXX
Peter felt like an idiot - small, stupid, and helpless for having a freak-out right in front of Sylar. He could feel the shame spiraling his tension right back up. No help for it. Just relax. Sylar's hand over his face and shoulder was reassuring in the surfeit of gentle contact. He nodded in response to the man's question, still having trouble getting his throat to work right for anything more complicated than sucking air, but it was at least doing that much now. He reached out and grabbed Sylar's shirt some inches below the right armpit, pulling him around just a little, positioning him for Peter to move his head to Sylar's shoulder. Oh fuck, this sucks. Not him! Why him? Why would I freak out in front of him? (Relax. It's okay. He was there for me after that nightmare. He just promised today he'd be there for anything else. It'll be okay.)
XXX
“Okay, that’s good,” Sylar said in relief. Now that he knew Peter was listening and somewhat conscious he didn’t know what to say or ask about. Sylar only knew about abilities and a lot (but not everything) about brains - this was the human body; easily trillions of things could go wrong with it. Peter moved or slumped further into him to Sylar’s sick delight and continued worry. Peter felt warm, not feverishly so but even the warmth didn’t feel right when he was touching the guy’s skin. He continued petting the man’s hair and neck while he thought about what could be going wrong (and something was obviously wrong - Peter was touching him of his own volition and allowing Sylar’s touch moreover). Heart attack? Seizure? It’s not liver failure. Alcohol poisoning? Does he have allergies I don’t know about? We just had breakfast…Not bothering with polite or subtle, Sylar pressed two fingers to his shoulder angel’s pulse. It was very fast from what he could tell. Adrenaline rush? But I didn’t say anything threatening…
XXX
Peter's breathing deepened fast. His heart was still pounding in his chest, but the pressure was lifting so rapidly that he felt dizzy and euphoric for a moment. Swaying a little, Peter tightened his one-handed grip on Sylar's shirt, pressing the side of his face against his shoulder for stability.
XXX
Unable to see Peter’s face, Sylar had no idea what the desperate clutching meant. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” Sylar placated quickly, feeling the man nearly gasping for air, unsteady even as he sat somewhat supported against Sylar. He lifted a hand around Peter’s right side so he wouldn’t slip off that way.
XXX
“I'm okay,” he whispered hoarsely as the wave passed, but he didn't let go quite yet. Eyes shut, his breathing was slowing now, heading back towards normal along with his heart rate and blood pressure. His left hand released, cupping to press flat-palmed to Sylar's side for a moment. His right hand was still aching from whatever he'd done to it in the first phase of the panic attack. He held it protectively in his lap. With a last deep breath, Peter sat up, pulling away, eyes rising to hold Sylar's. So, um, what now?
XXX
Sylar hardly blinked as they stared at one another. That was…unexpected. His eyes are okay, he noted distantly. “Of course you are,” he bullshitted right back. I don’t believe a word out of your mouth but at least words are coming out. Even Peter said something to that effect about nursing, didn’t he? He was nervous and trying to focus on Peter’s health rather than the fact that their hands were literally all over each other and he could smell Peter again and feel his body heat. “I’m going to put you on the couch, okay? Put your legs up and…” Whatever else. I just know that’s a good position for a lot of problems. Dehydration! Water, I’ll find some water. “Come on.” Sylar slid his arm underneath Peter’s, helping him stand without asking if he needed the assist because it seemed like he did and this is what Peter did when Sylar didn’t necessarily need help, and what’s more, he’d still do this even if Peter lied again.
XXX
Couch, yeah, good idea. He got to his feet, feeling able to manage the few feet of distance himself but not refusing the help. The contact was soothing. He wrapped his arm around Sylar in return, wishing this was Nathan or … His chest spasmed like his heart had just skipped a beat. It would never be Nathan. It never could be. Fuck. He knew the symptoms often came in waves. He knew it was exacerbated by thinking the wrong things. They were already the few steps to the couch. He sank into it heavily at one end, struggling to bring his thoughts back to something neutral like breathing.
He wanted to curl up. He wanted to get away. He wanted to hold someone or be held. To his disappointment, unrealistic though his desires were, Sylar had released him when he sat. Asking anything of him was childish. What Sylar was already doing for him was above and beyond the call of duty. Now the man was plucking at Peter's legs, trying to encourage him to turn sideways and put his feet up. “I'm alright,” Peter said grumpily, voice strained. “It's no big deal,” he said, covering his face with his right hand in embarrassment. He was feeling tense and upset again, very aware that the world was closing in. Sylar gave up on trying to shift him and sat right next to him, a presence that was both comforting and worrying by turns.
XXX
“Do you know what’s going on? Should I get you anything?” Sylar pressed, hovering and trying to sound like he was capable and prepared for this, like he already knew what was going on but really; this was Peter’s domain and Peter was the one with medical training. What happened if Peter got hurt so bad he couldn’t talk or direct? I need to get some medical books and study alright. Peter’s definitely stupid enough that I’m going to need to know some of that.
XXX
“It's … I ...” Peter felt his head swimming again. He put his left hand on his chest, noticing his hand was trembling. Was it doing that earlier? He's asking too many questions. I wish he'd stop. Let me be. I'll be okay. The air felt hot. He moved his hand up to his throat and massaged it, intent on getting enough words out to shut Sylar up, at least for the time being. “Panic attack.” Two words were apparently doable. Despite his victory, he hunched over again, this time worked up at himself because he couldn't calm down. It took a couple seconds for the irrationality of that to get through his head. Damnit. Breathe! Just breathe. He struggled through a gagging swallow and reached out to his left, putting his hand on Sylar's knee and gripping it. Peter shut his eyes. People calmed him down; in a lot of cases, physical contact calmed him down. So did purpose. My goal right now is to breathe. Deep, slow. Just breathe.
XXX
Ah…Okay. That wasn’t something that immediately occurred to Sylar but it made enough sense, fitting the symptoms as he saw them. Why is he having a panic attack? He stared Peter and the hand on his knee, wondering what was the purpose or message behind it. “Just…take it easy.” He needs air and…time, I guess, but he’ll be fine. Sylar made to move to stand and get water, thinking time alone might help until Peter gripped and pushed down on the knee in his possession, halting Sylar in place, still seated. Stay here then.
XXX
Peter waited until he had it mostly together - all systems functioning … if not normally, then at least functioning. He needs to know what just happened. Speaking low and soft, Peter said, “I killed someone, yeah. Someone I cared about.” Tired now from the emotional stress, Peter lifted his hand away from Sylar's knee. “Your wording,” he said, turning his left hand palm up, fingers drawn together, “I didn't get my 'fingers wet',” he said with a slight curl of his lip. “I couldn't stop myself, so I came back and killed you instead, in the holding cell.” Peter felt his internal pressure ease suddenly, his eyes widening a little as he realized he might not have been so out of control as he'd thought. “I … I think I was picking my victim. I couldn't have stopped myself if I'd stayed there, but I had enough control to leave before I ...” He shrugged, repeating his earlier 'fingers wet' gesture. Maybe I knew Sylar would have regenerated? Was that why I went back for him? Claire survived it.
“Does that make a difference?”
XXX
Haven’t we all, Sylar thought bitterly of killing loved ones. At least you didn’t play around in their blood afterward; you didn’t touch it at all apparently so why do you get to have a fucking panic attack and get help dealing with it? The rest of it was Peter saying that Sylar was an acceptable victim, no surprise. He was not going to accept the blame for Peter freaking out like this over something he’d said either. As soon as Peter’s hand lifted away (and if he hadn’t done it voluntarily, Sylar would have batted it off himself), Sylar was making space between them. Petrelli’s question was broad. “Yeah,” he snipped shortly and rose to his feet. He could leave Peter alone for a few minutes in a search for water.
XXX
Peter sensed the hostility from Sylar. A one-word answer, clipped tone, and immediate, stiff departure? Yeah, hostility. Peter slumped and then, after a moment, pulled his knees up, leaned against the arm of the couch, and curled into himself like a troubled child might. He would have never clung to Nathan as much as he did or followed him so loyally, if he'd had anyone else to support him. He watched the doorway, more of a vacant stare really, and tried to turn himself off. It didn't work.
I miss you, Nathan. I wish you were here. I wish that was you just a few minutes ago and maybe I could have told you about what happened in the future and you would have listened and even if you told me to wake up and quit being an idiot, I'd know you still loved me and would be there for me if I needed it. Maybe. Peter shut his eyes and then put a hand over them, pressing slightly, willing himself not to cry. Maybe. He wasn't always there for me. But I always wished he was and now he never will be again.
Sylar's departure changed the tenor of how Peter saw the consolation. It went from a true exchange of concern and comfort to a mere animal thing - 'it was warm and human and I needed that', rather than 'Sylar saw I was afraid and tried to help me.' He knew he was suffering from emotional whiplash, jet lag, whatever, but the effects of a panic attack were very clearly not merely physical. Peter curled himself a little tighter and tried not to think about how fucked up and pointless his whole mission was. There has to be something worthwhile in what I'm doing here - even if asking Sylar to save those people was a dumb idea, it was better than doing nothing, right? If I fail, it still means something … right?
Hopefully something other than 'Here lies Peter Petrelli - He tried.'
XXX
Sylar returned after a while with a pair of water bottles, tossing one next to Peter on the couch, feeling magnanimous for not having chucked it at Peter himself, forcing him to catch it with his dominant and broken hand. He cracked his own bottle and took a large gulp after seating himself on the piano bench, stewing quietly.
XXX
Peter straightened immediately when Sylar walked in the room, putting his feet on the floor and sitting normally. He rubbed at his face, worried that his skin might be inappropriately flushed even though he hadn't been crying. An energetic scrub of the rest of his face would at least equalize the coloration. He didn't see the bottle of water tossed at him and jumped when it hit the cushion beside him. He looked wide-eyed at Sylar for a moment, trying to figure out if the guy had missed him or hit his target of the cushion. Sylar looked pissed, but not pissed because he'd missed. Whatever had made him leave the room in a snit was still at work. Peter sniffed and picked up the bottle, twisting the cap off slowly. “Thanks.”
There was no answer. Peter sighed about that. He’d gotten some things out and it had helped him understand why he’d done what he’d done. Maybe talking would help Sylar. And if it didn’t, it would be another thing for Peter to be depressed and broody about. “Tell me why you're angry.”
XXX
Sylar merely looked at him. “You didn’t even take the ability. You don’t know what it’s like so you don’t get to act like some martyr just for thinking about it. But I’m so horrible: I kill people for a reason. What do you do? You kill people for no reason. How convenient. ‘Picking my victim’ my ass. You killed someone and wanted to pick my available, renewable brain so you killed me because, well, I’m not like other people.”
XXX
Peter listened woodenly, the accusations coming as blows. They were all true, but Sylar slamming him over a failure to inflict additional harm was incomprehensible at first. He swallowed and took another sip of water to wet his suddenly dry mouth. I think he's jealous. Angry that I didn't fuck up as bad as he did. That I found a way out maybe. That way out being him. That had to hurt - that I used him just like he’s complained about everyone else doing. “You … you thought I was your brother then, and I showed up and killed you.” Peter frowned. “That was wrong. I'm sorry for it. I guess I was making for every living member of my family that day.” He froze. That did kind of make it obvious who he'd killed in the future. He relaxed a little as he supposed Arthur was unaccounted for, along with Uncle Tim and whoever else wanted to be counted. He scanned Sylar's face for evidence that he'd guessed. But did Sylar even care who knocked who off among the Petrellis? He seemed a little wrapped up in himself at the moment, something Peter was grateful for.
XXX
"Don't insult me," Sylar sneered of the 'apology.' The standards he was held to would not allow for grief, panic attacks, mourning, regret or apologies because naturally he'd made a decision to kill each and every one of his victims, even the ones who were rather accidental in nature, hadn't he? The same was true for Peter. "You thought I was your brother then, too."
XXX
Peter pulled a brief frown and glanced away, then back. I didn’t know what to think. Everything was crazy enough for that to be true.
XXX
Sylar looked away for a moment, then back. "Your mother is mostly to blame. She only pretended to be my mother so I'd save your ass a thousand times in a few days. And possibly kill Arthur for her, also to save you, I'm sure. You're so lucky to have such a devoted mother." The last sentence was multi-layered with sarcasm, heat, and jealousy.
XXX
“She sent me to kill my dad, too,” Peter objected defensively, pulling up his left knee and hugging it, leaning his body weight towards the arm of the couch. If there was a subject even more emotionally charged for him than killing Nathan, it was his complicated feelings towards Angela Petrelli. He looked down. Did she know we’d end up killing Arthur together? Or was she just doubling her odds of having it done? She didn’t mind having me kill a few million people for Nathan’s career, so why would she mind having me kill my own father? He sighed, but his face was hard, drawn up in bitterness and pain. Like so many of the decisions in his life since he’d had abilities, he felt like there was a better solution to the situation that he hadn’t thought of at the time.
XXX
“Congratulations,” Sylar intoned in a drier-than-a-desert way. It hadn’t been difficult to kill Arthur so he was hardly scrambling to take credit, but he knew that when blame time came around, Peter would dodge and blame him. In Angela’s eyes, one of them had to be a back-up plan.
XXX
Peter didn’t want to talk about his mother, even though and because Sylar had a lot of legitimate objections to air regarding her. My family’s supposed to be off-limits anyway. His mother is, Peter thought begrudgingly. But Peter recognized it was a mutual subject and Sylar hadn’t gone looking for it. He looked for something else to address in what Sylar had said. ‘So I’d save your ass a thousand times’ - he did save me a few times that day, but he doesn’t accept any of my gratitude. He mocked me for it a few days ago. Peter was more confused by that than anything else. He adored gratitude and positive attention; Sylar seemed to scorn it. “When I try to thank you, or apologize to you, you reject it. Why is that?”
XXX
Why do I feel like this is some kind of emotional therapy session: ‘sit back and tell me about your feelings’? It earned Peter yet another look. “Lots of reasons.” Or am I not allowed to have those?
XXX
Peter lowered his head so his mouth was against the lowest part of his thigh, nose on the knee he still hugged. He shifted just slightly, feeling the hamstring stretch. It felt good, a nice sensation to oppose the tension ache he still felt lingering in his chest. He stared evenly across the short distance at Sylar, noting the lack of a real answer. He doesn’t want to accept anything from me - not help, not thanks. Well, he wants my company. There’s that. We’re getting somewhere … just slowly. Unsatisfied by that, Peter lifted his face enough to say, “Tell me some of them,” before going back to hiding part of his face behind his knee.
XXX
Sylar inhaled with the intent to let out a sigh but caught the breath and let it out slowly, like some attempt to control something, anything right now - Peter having proven himself to be highly annoying as if he needed the reminder. “I’m told having your life saved is one of those things you remember to thank your…” savior? hero? “the person who saved you, without much thought or debate or years worth of delay.” Really, when Peter said thank you or sorry it looked like he had to think about it, like he’d never thought about it before. Sylar was confused - for someone so evil to do what was, even in Peter’s book, a very good deed, possibly the best thing he could ever accomplish…shouldn’t it stand out that much more for going against his ‘nature’? “So you either rate your own life strangely or you rate my 'good deeds' very strangely and I’m not sure which it is, maybe both.”
“People only apologize or thank me to change my behavior. I’m not some trained dog who does things for pats on the head and you wouldn’t thank a dog for retrieving a stick for you. Now you’re afraid I might leap up and attack you at any minute you want to try to ‘scratch behind my ears’ or something.” Even if he did perform for a reaction or gratitude, he’d ever received it in the past. Hell, sometimes he didn’t even know why he did some things, sometimes ‘just because whichever Mom wanted it,’ and…yes, sometimes saving Peter or sparing him seemed stupid in hindsight. (Because he was my brother and I wanted to save him).
“And you really need to think if you can or should apologize for killing someone with my ability,” Sylar snorted a breath in depressed irony. Okay, that was really all of his reasons.
XXX
“Do you mean killing someone by using your ability, or killing someone who happens to have it?”
XXX
“Killing someone using my ability; the target is irrelevant.” Right? Or does he mean to imply someone with my ability should be killed?
XXX
“Oh.” Peter let his face sink again, but this time ended with his chin resting on his knee. He felt not at all guilty for not thanking Sylar in whatever timetable Sylar desired, but one thing it told Peter was that Sylar genuinely wanted thanks. Since he hadn't gotten them when and how he wanted, Peter surmised Sylar was now immaturely refusing to accept them at all - a posture that hurt him as much as anyone else, poisoning the relationship and making it difficult to move forward.
“Most of the people who save my life haven’t killed me a few times before. It’s something I have to think about.” He sat for a long pause, chin on knee, soulful eyes looking over at Sylar, all attention on him. He was calm, and grateful that he could be calm in Sylar’s presence, and even talk about very personal murder. “I’m not afraid you’re going to attack me anymore. Not unless I do something to you.”
XXX
Sylar shrugged. “I didn’t ask for thanks or an apology,” he retorted, making his lack of involvement clear. He didn’t like the way Peter was looking at him. There was no way of knowing what would spring from his mouth next and that look said ‘I’m curious and you’re a puzzle.’
XXX
His gaze dropped to Sylar’s shoes as he thought. Slowly he said, “If I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated something you’d done, or apologize for something I did, how should I do that in a way that won’t leave you feeling like I’m trying to manipulate you?” He looked up, meeting Sylar’s eyes.
XXX
His exhaled breath, a single chuckle of sorts, spoke of his amusement. Sylar looked away, shaking his head a little at the joke. Why is that…funny? When his eyes returned to Peter’s he saw that those piercing dark hazel orbs had been fixated on him the whole time. His amusement faded as his eyebrows quirked up slightly as if to say ‘you’re serious?’ That’s the punch line: that there is no punch line. Why would he show appreciation for something I did or apologize for something he did? Do I look stupid to him? “You can’t. I wouldn’t bother if I were you,” he dismissed.
Continued...