More Between Us Chapter 74/? "Soul Subjects"
More Between Us, Chapter 74/? "Soul Subjects"
Day 24, January 3, morning
“You don’t have to accept an apology from me,” Peter said evenly. “Or my gratitude. Not even for little things. But that doesn't mean I won't stop offering it.” He was irked by the implication Sylar would never forgive any trespasses or appreciate anything Peter might do (or might have done) for him. It left him feeling deficient and insufficient, which he assumed was Sylar's intention. Striking back indirectly, Peter said, “About your ability and apologies - I thought an apology was for hurting someone, regardless of whether you did it intentionally or not. What do you think?”
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“Ah. I get it. I need to apologize for something, right? Probably a lot of somethings. You’d have me apologize for breathing,” Sylar guessed where this was headed and beat Peter to the punch. “Why are you asking what I think?” he shot back angrily. “I’m not the one who nearly puked about it just now or the one trying to apologize for…things. This isn’t about me. If you did it, then you meant it. That includes accidents, self-defense, and ‘the ability made me do it’ excuses. Get used to the hot seat, Petrelli.” God knows I’ve had to.
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Peter folded his leg down so he was sitting with one foot on the floor, the other foot resting against that knee. He held his ankle with his left hand - still holding himself after the panic attack and aware of what he was doing. But it worked and he doubted Sylar knew. Even if he did, so what? Anger was stirring in him, a more effective purgative for fear than anything else. Jerking his head up, he countered with a sharp voice, “I'm asking you because you were the one who said I couldn't apologize for something I did with your ability. So which is it? 'The ability made me do it' or I decided to do it? Intention matters to me; it matters to everyone.”
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Sylar crossed his arms. “How the hell would I know, Peter? You’re the one who did it and you’re the one who knows why you did it. There is a difference between motive and intent - you ought to know that.” He avoided whatever trap Peter was trying to lay but he still couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag.
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Peter got to his feet and paced away restlessly. He's not getting the point! The point is … It took him a moment to pull that together from his disparate feelings and thoughts. It was no wonder Sylar wasn't going where Peter was so indirectly directing the conversation. The point is I fucked up and I didn't mean to and I wish someone could recognize that. It's not like anyone else can, because I've never told anyone else. Peter sighed, shot Sylar an unhappy look, and then went over to the pool table where he started racking up billiard balls. He didn't want to admit any of that to Sylar, which meant there was nothing else to say.
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After huffing an annoyed/relieved breath, he realized why Peter wasn’t going back to the piano - Sylar was hogging the bench. I wanted to sit on the couch anyway. Sylar slunk back over to the vacated couch, palming his book. Perhaps it was the former topic of forgiveness (or lack thereof), talk about abilities and gratitude or Peter shutting down…it was distressing. He expects me to hold his hand, figuratively, when he gets upset. Like a Nathan-shaped crutch. Knowing he was aggravating things but needing to know, Sylar asked in wondering tone, “Do- do you confuse me with him?” Peter certainly offered many second chances and apologies to Nathan over the years, far more than Sylar thought was necessary or deserved but…that was Peter and it would explain his behavior of late. He clutched the thick dictionary to his chest and thighs, adrift about what to feel about that possibility.
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Peter snorted, glanced over at Sylar for a long second, then went back to lining up his shot on the 6-ball. He hit it with a decisive crack and the dark green ball went in the right direction, but overshot the pocket and bounced off the bumper. He grimaced at it. He was still unfamiliar with the table (but getting better) and his brace made his fingering difficult. It was something to pass the time. He turned his mind to Sylar's question as he chalked the tip of his cue stick. Talking was a more interesting way to pass the time. It was interesting that Sylar would even ask that question. He leaned his hip on the pool table and faced his companion. “No. I don't. You're the one who's here with me, though.” Peter looked down, face shifting to sadness with a frown and a moment of furrowed, in-drawn brows. Nathan will never be with me again. It was hard to think, to accept. He spun the cue stick idly on the butt, the carpeted floor making the action slow, but it gave him something to do while he tried to struggle out of his feelings and focus on Sylar.
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That makes sense, too. He really does need me. And want me, to some degree. I can use that. It perked Sylar up.
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“I'm telling you things I never told him. I don't think I ever would have, either.” He swallowed. “We - you and me - in a lot of ways we have more in common than I did with Nathan.” His voice became quiet at the end, but it was still audible. “He never stopped judging me. I always wanted to live up to his standards. With you,” Peter gave a small shrug, voice and body language still low-key, “I know you're judging me, too, but, you know, it doesn't matter as much when it's not coming from your big brother.” Plus there was the not-insignificant factor of Sylar being in no position to cast judgment on others, but pointing such out was rude. Peter stuck to the equally true reason that Sylar wasn't a father-figure to him. He gave a wan smile.
After a few moments, Peter asked carefully, “Do you? Confuse yourself with him?”
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Sylar made a face about the not-so-subtle message, lips thinning and his chin going up. It was disrespectful even if it was very true. The balls involved to lay it out there like that…Then why do you act like what I think about you matters? Sylar could safely call a fair amount of bullshit on that. The rest, the majority of what Peter said puffed his pride and almost made him feel warm inside. He got stuck on the return question, another ballsy thing to ask, though Sylar didn’t quibble about re-stating the rather obvious. Resentfully, he replied, “Unfortunately. You’ve made it impossible not to.” He didn’t tell him it was nice in some ways, too; it was the kind of bold statement Peter wouldn’t care for.
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Peter tilted his head and drew in a breath. This wasn't the first time he'd asked Sylar if Nathan's identity still lingered, but it was a subject Peter didn't feel was done yet and so he kept coming back to it. Sylar had been defensive and curt about it before. Now, he was saying a bit more. Peter wanted to explore that. “'You' - do you mean me personally, or is this one of those times where you're using 'you' to refer to everyone who worked against you?” His tone was not challenging or sarcastic. He simply wanted to know.
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Hefting his book, Sylar glanced up over it meaningfully, “Both.” His mouth worked as he thought how Peter…came to the conclusion - and action - that obliterating Sylar’s mind was…good, acceptable or beneficial beyond the pale of his usual morals and care for the ‘human spirit.’ Then he eyed the large stick Peter still held. “You really like to talk with weapons in hand, don’t you? Does that make you feel powerful?”
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Peter regarded the cue stick, then looked at Sylar with a jibe right back at him, “You're easily intimidated by me having a weapon, aren't you?” Is that because you feel powerless here? But Peter only thought that last question, not comfortable enough to diss Sylar so directly. He set the stick down on the table carelessly, knocking the 11-ball out of the way as he did. Not like I was keeping score anyway.
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“Oh, please.” Sylar scoffed and rolled his eyes to back up his point. Maybe there was a granule of fact there, but the main concern was Peter’s stability or predictability with said weapon.
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“Both, you say.” He pondered that. It was the more important topic than trading quips about who had the bigger stick. “You said before that I was … familiar, and that made it harder for you to keep it straight.” He didn't want Sylar to be Nathan. He'd considered it (obviously) at Mercy Heights, but that had been an act of denial and of desperation. How did Sylar see that? What did being Nathan mean to him? Peter's brows knit together and he looked up, about to speak. For a second, he was distracted by the huge book Sylar was cradling. What the hell is that? A dictionary? Is he reading a dictionary? He made a small shake of his head. He was too far away to read the spine and anyway, his next question was more pressing to him than the identity of Sylar's reading material. “What do you believe about the human soul?”
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“What about the human soul?”
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"Do you think it exists? And if it does, do you think it exists apart from the body?" Peter waited a long pause, wanting to know Sylar's beliefs without cluttering it up with Peter's own. Sylar's skeptical expression was clear enough of what he thought: He doesn't think so. This was hardly the first time Peter had believed in the supernatural in the face of doubt. But he's seen this stuff. Maybe he just doesn't see it the same way I do. Hopeful and earnest, he walked to the nearer end of the couch, gesturing as he tried to explain the inexplicable. "We - we have these abilities. I think I talked to a telepath after he was dead. I think he visited me in a dream. I possessed a different guy once, sort of. We co-existed in the same body, at least.” Peter exhaled heavily. “Do you think certain abilities give people souls?"
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Sylar frowned out of confusion and uncertainty. One thing was sure: We’re not talking about my soul here. That left only one ‘soul’ to speak of, one that obviously meant more than all of Sylar combined. He didn’t know whether to feel insulted or not, which was a strange feeling considering. This was important to Peter yet it was so far outside anything Sylar knew. He was damned after all. “I guess. Yes, it must,” he said as if just realizing that in a very non-religious way. He was thinking about the last time he’d mentioned his own soul or lack thereof to Samuel; /’It would be a crisis for a lesser man, having their soul ripped from them, but not for me.’/ He didn't wonder what happened after death because he was soulless and he didn't care what happened to other people's souls. He talked to Matt? Matt’s not dead…At least, I didn’t kill him. “Why would any ability, let alone a specific one, give a person a soul? That would mean normal people don’t have souls and you don’t believe that. You wouldn’t say my ability gives me more ‘soul.’ Yours does, maybe.”
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“No, I don't believe that, but maybe souls are … I don't know, different. Different like abilities - everyone's is unique?” Peter's brows knit as he realized the existence of a soul was an insolvable as any question of faith - at some point, logic and reality became irrelevant - you either believed or you didn't. But Sylar had said something else that caught his attention. “Why would my ability give me more of a soul?”
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Sylar explained, "If your ability is part of you, then copying it involves some...contact." His eyes flicked over Peter's body briefly, so close and intense as it was. "For some empaths it's sex, maybe for you it's touching souls," Sylar's voice was a false, and rather sarcastic, sense of grandiosity about 'touching souls,' shrugging it off with, "Without the sex. You know."
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Peter watched Sylar closely for a moment, not sure how to take that. He chuckled nervously. “I touch people's souls?” Sylar might intend that as an insult and it might sound like it had dirty or at least weird connotations, but Peter ended up smiling shyly. He chuckled again, softer and out of happiness. His eyes crinkled around the corners of his lids as his face softened. “Really? Thanks.” He chewed on his lower lip briefly, thinking, It would be so cool if that were true - if I was copying people's abilities because my soul saw something in theirs that was similar, that clicked. That would be so great. Sex isn't that different - connecting with someone, intimacy … yeah, it's sort of all the same thing. He pulled out of his reverie to look at Sylar, much more willing to be inclusive with him. “You want to come play pool?”
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Peter looked pleased as punch about that and upon review, Sylar realized his words sounded like…well, they’d had something intimate in whatever crazy (probably imagined) future Peter had been to, when the empath got his ability. It also highly implied that Sylar had a soul to touch. Maybe I do. It’s just dark and stained. He didn’t see where the compliment lay but Peter was happy with whatever he’d said. Does that make him like some abilities pervert - also ‘rubbing’ up against people without their consent? He narrowed his eyes at his companion, adopting a more normal gaze when the man turned to him. “Um…sure.” This was more Peter’s kind of game, more physical, and, of course, involving what equated to weapons - heavy balls and large sticks. Or…is that really gay and he wants me to play?
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Peter racked the balls and rolled the white, nicked, and well-used cue ball towards the other end. He asked, “You know how to play?” Peter was not all that good at it, but he'd played dozens or maybe scores of times in smoky bars while in college and at Bretty-Brett's parent's house when they were in high school. He knew the rules and he'd seen some amazing trick shots demonstrated, but he personally was doing good to get the ball to do anything more sophisticated than roll in a straight line. He'd never put much effort into it, always more interested in the people he was playing with than the game itself. Just like now.
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Sylar stood and selected a cue stick, the darkest of the bunch, from the wall rack. “Yeah.” It was a simple game and he could have figured it out even if he didn’t know how to play, but Nathan sure knew how. Briefly chalking his cue, Sylar looked over at the racked balls. This was to be an informal game, then, and it looked like Peter was going first.
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Peter waited for a long moment, but Sylar had finished with chalking and was looking at him expectantly. Under the loose house rules Peter had mainly played with, the guy who racked the balls was not supposed to be the one who went first, for reasons of potentially arranging the minor spacing between the balls and thus affecting the break. But whatever - they were no bets riding on the game, so it didn't really matter. Peter just went around the table to do the break himself. He was much more engaged in finding out if Sylar thought Nathan's soul had survived the death of Nathan's body, regardless of how winding the conversational route turned out to be. “How do you tell what's a soul and what's not?” A single, long stroke with the stick sent the cue ball to impact against the massed triangle of targets. Disappointingly, the center ones stayed roughly in place, with only the two rear corner trios of balls spinning off across the table. None went in, though a few bounced off the bumpers.
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“I never looked for evidence of a soul. Why would I?” he asked rhetorically. Sylar looked up as he thought about it. If his goal was killing people (or if that was somewhat unintentional result) why would he search or feel any better if his target/victim had a soul? Wouldn’t that make things worse? “You’re not one of those nuts who think everything has a soul, are you? Is it so questionable that you have to ask?” Pious Peter had turned into Doubting Thomas and it was so uncharacteristic, even from what Sylar knew of him, that it was shocking. Sylar made a shot, pausing to look smug before remembering it was still his turn. He missed the next one.
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“No, I don't. People have souls, nothing else does. At least … well, I don't know for sure.” Peter took his turn, calling his shot and pocketing a ball neatly and easily. They were always easier at the start, when there were more choices. “As far as animals go, and what exactly goes to heaven - dogs, pets, that sort of thing - I don't know. What happens after I'm dead isn't really the point of faith anyway, not for me. The reason I'm asking is because abilities change so much about how we see the world. And yeah, they change things like whether I can fly or heal, but there's other changes, too, that I'm trying to figure out - the whole time travel thing, and destiny, and … stuff.” He trailed off there, wanting to add 'identity' but suspecting that might torpedo the conversation, it being insensitive in the extreme. So he went back to the metaphysical. “If you did look for a soul or something like it, would you be able to … tell? Did you ever have an ability that let you sense … that?”
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Sylar looked up. “No. Maybe some abilities help with that more than others…I’ve never had those abilities. Why would you want to be able to tell? Either they exist and most people have one, or they don’t - pick a side and operate with that assumption.” He watched Peter in the process of making his move.
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Peter huffed quietly. He couldn't get the information he wanted, about Nathan's identity or Sylar's sense of Nathan's identity, by 'picking a side and operating with that assumption.' He was hoping and assuming there was some evidence for one take over the other, but the only person available to him who might have that information was Sylar. He couldn't see how to ask about it without being more explicit about what he was aiming at. 'Explicit' didn't feel right yet between them.
But Peter was not one to give up easily. Maybe I can try a different angle. He put the same philosophy into play on the pool table, picking a different shot than the one he'd been working on, trying and failing to get the right position. He pointed at a different ball and then the pocket he was now targeting rather than calling it out verbally. “The thing we were talking about earlier - that day in the future? - well, before that happened, a future version of me … kidnapped me and … put me inside a guy on Level Five. You were there, on Level Five - not inside a cell, but you fought with Elle.” He missed his shot, but he didn't worry about it. His unhappy pause was due to remembering his death threats to Sylar over the attack on Elle. Is this likely to upset him, too?
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“I know. I was there. //Ma// told me. One of the bank thieves,” Sylar interrupted and waved the story (or whatever the fuck it was) onward. He was getting annoyed but maybe there was something new he hadn’t heard or maybe Peter’s point was finally about to be made.
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“Don't-” Peter cut himself off with a scowl and a shake of his head. She's not your mother! You don't get to call her that! But she also wasn't some innocent who needed Peter's protection, particularly if the relationship Sylar was intimating was one she'd asserted herself. He sighed and rolled his eyes, looking away and visibly conceding Sylar's right to use the word 'Ma' in relation to her. It was a big deal for Peter to do even that.
Testily, he changed the subject away from wanting to argue about Angela and back to the previous thread about souls. ”What … what was going on there with him and me? Do you think that was me as a soul or just … me … somehow? Because that other me from the future came back while we were robbing a bank, stopped time, and pulled me out of there. Then we went to the future.” Peter made another introspective frown. He was a real asshole. I should be better than that. Am I that much of an asshole already?
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Sylar shrugged, calming now that some (more) sensible questions were coming to light after so much useless buildup. “We never found your body. I’d assume it was everything about you in him.” ‘In him’ I can’t believe we both just said that without laughing… ‘He put me IN him.’ Sylar licked his lips to avoid chuckling. He was sobered by the comprehension that his own…’transference’ was not a full and complete one, and he considered what that meant for what was left of his soul. I had a body and a mind wandering around in two different bodies.
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Peter circled the table, eyeing the balls until he found a shot he thought he could take. He stooped, touching the table with the middle finger of his right hand, balancing the slender end of the stick on his forefinger and thumb. The bulkiness of the brace limited the angles he could choose from and had a lot to do with why his break had sucked (and likewise, why he'd hoped Sylar would do that duty). This time it went well - the called ball went in the labeled pocket. He had three balls of his seven in the hole now.
'Everything about you' - is that the soul, more or less? But in that case my body was along for the ride. Is that different than what happened to Sylar? What did Matt do to him? Was it just a mental command, or can Matt manipulate people's souls? Is that what we're doing here? Is this really Purgatory? Or Hell? Didn't Sylar say it was Hell? Peter rubbed at the bridge of his nose, the mess of questions giving him a headache. Beating around the bush isn't getting me the answer. Maybe it's time to take the plunge.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out. “You … have more insight, more personal experience with this sort of thing, abilities, and this soul stuff in particular, than anyone else I've been able to talk to.” He swallowed, leaning against the pool stick, taking the final step. “When Nathan and I went to that hospital room in Odessa, Matt said you were inside of him. And that if Nathan- if you,” Peter shut his eyes painfully for a second, “if whoever I was with touched Matt's hand, it would let you out. When that other me from the future touched Jesse, I came out.” He looked aside uncomfortably. “Of course, time was stopped, so maybe that doesn't matter.” He looked back to Sylar searchingly. “I just want to know what happened.”
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Sylar’s face soured. Not only was Peter asking about sensitive things, he didn’t even have the decency to…to what? There was no nice, polite way to phrase any of this. What bothered him more was that Peter couldn’t…tell who he’d been standing with. How could he not know? Didn’t Peter care or was he trying to be politically correct? Gripping his cue with both hands, he stared back at Peter for a moment. “No, you want to know what happened to Nathan.” Sylar could, and did, say it. Nathan was dead and feeling no pain but Sylar, still alive, was in agony, living with a source of abrasion and danger how many times over. Yet still what held Peter’s interest? The dead guy.
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Peter's lips made a tight line and he grimaced. “I want to know what happened to both of you - if there was even any 'both' involved or if that was just you, alone.”
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“Nice save,” Sylar snarked bitterly. “Your interest has always been for him, there’s no need to pretend otherwise and placate the crazy person you admit wishing had died instead.” Sylar lined up a shot and took it, mostly missing and skidding the ball aside without much force. Angrily, he straightened and grasped the stick again. Peter knowing what happened didn’t change anything. “What I want to know, since I am the one still alive, is what would you have done if I showed up on your doorstep, looking like him,” he spat, “asking for help, and you knew Nathan was dead or that I’d killed him?” It was so morally laden and Sylar knew it; knew it and didn’t care. He wanted to know that if he could have fooled everyone including himself into believing he was that scumbag, that he could have been welcomed somewhere, had a home; if he, as whatever apparition and abomination he’d been, could have been enough for Peter that way.
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“He's my brother, Sylar. Of course I care more about him than the guy who murdered him!” There was nothing to apologize for in that and it confused Peter that Sylar didn't see that. But to the rest of what Sylar had said, he responded, voice raised in anger, “And you did - showed up on my doorstep, looking like him, asking for help. And maybe I thought it was him, didn't know you'd killed him yet, but I knew it that night.” Peter pointed at him, growling, “You slept safe in my bed, all night long, Sylar, so drunk you couldn't have fought me off if you'd wanted to.” He tilted his head and took a step closer. “I knew … we both did.” That had been a long, sleepless night for Peter, confused, horrified, and helpless, trying to find something sane in an insane situation, drinking in the bitter dregs of how awful his mother was. He'd forgotten entirely the national holiday that was to come with the dawn. His mother hadn't, though. What would have happened if she hadn't come by?
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Of course he’d been safe, whoever he’d been at the time - Peter would spare Sylar to help Nathan (only to kill Sylar later to completely save Nathan). It was a very dumb question, one without an answer. Sylar wondered if Peter knew how convoluted this was for him; nothing about his situation could be separated from a corpse, they were intertwined still. It was things like this that made him wish to be mortal, made him wish he’d been the one to give up if living his own life was going to be like this, leave the two obviously loving brothers together and forfeit his own body. That would have been the decent thing to do. Peter’s words reflected the hopelessness and complexity of the situation - he’d been welcomed in and cared for but the care and love wasn’t intended for him and it never would be. He wanted to cry from overwhelming stress and frustration, he could feel it begin to bubble up as the silence grew and he had nothing to say or do.
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Peter watched as Sylar crumpled - no answer, no rebuttal, just the silence. Peter was still wound up though, still agitated by Sylar's outrage that he wouldn't have helped him. Had he known Sylar had just killed Nathan, then he certainly wouldn't have and it was bizarre that Sylar even thought he might. It didn't make any sense. He reviewed Sylar's words again and asked sharply, “What you mean by 'you're the one still alive'? You say that like something happened to both of you and you just happened to survive. Didn't you kill him?”
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That caught Sylar’s attention. He’d been stupid to engage in this conversation with this man, holding a weapon with plenty of projectiles around and Peter was between him and the door. The hostility Peter was leveling at him made it seem like the casual game of pool was over, one way or another. An image kept running through his head, that if he answered wrong somehow, Peter would break that pool stick in half and jam the sharp edges into his hands again, pinning him to the table and…Of course, I killed him, he nearly blurted. It’s not that simple. Is he going to sit and listen to what really happened or…? Why do I get penalized for defending myself? Sylar turned around and returned his cue to the wall rack, moving towards the couch slowly. “I meant that I’m alive and he’s not. It’s complicated,” his tone sounded needy, begging and he hated himself for it, but he did not want to talk about and relive this. He sat and raked his hair back with a hand he hoped wasn’t shaking. “It’s complicated,” he said again, almost to himself, feeling his headache roaring to explode his brain with throbbing.
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Peter laid the pool stick across the nearer corner of the table, following Sylar slowly and at an increasing distance. When Sylar sat, Peter stopped. Hands at his side, Peter's voice was back to near-normal as he said, “Simplify it for me.”
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“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sylar nearly whispered his voice was so soft. It was a request; one he didn’t expect would be understood or granted. At the same time, he was aware Peter might…snap if he didn’t answer, and answer well. He didn’t look at Peter and wondered if he, too, would have a panic attack. It felt like Nathan’s stupid ghost was hovering over his shoulder, ready to take control of his body at any minute and Peter was goading him, tricking him until it happened so he could pounce. Peter didn’t understand, he’d had a part in this, and here he was interrogating him like Sylar was required to divulge this, with no thought of how painful it was. It didn’t make sense on multiple levels, though Peter’s motive made sense. Perhaps inflicting pain was the purpose. He touched his book and wanted to sink into the couch, hide, and be safe.
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Peter rocked back on his heels, brows pulled together and an expression of great concentration on his face. He crossed his arms as he regarded Sylar. What if he can't talk about it? Did he really kill Nathan? Why isn't he saying he did? (Maybe he did and thinks I'll take him out.) Yeah, true, but what if he didn't do it? If Matt can make him think he is Nathan, then he could make him think he killed Nathan, too. What if Nathan isn't dead? (What about that corpse?) Well, what about it? I saw Sylar's corpse, too, and here he is. Nathan thought I was dead while I was in Ireland. Ma must have known I wasn't and she still let him believe I was. Peter drew in a very deep breath and let it out slowly, cogitating. If she'd do that, she'd be willing to let me think Nathan was dead, too. But then what about Sylar telling me that Nathan's dead? Well, how would Sylar know? Maybe that's what he's been told happened. Maybe he's got implanted memories along with all the other memories. Is there any way for me to find out? Much as Peter wanted to pin Sylar to some flat object and bludgeon the truth out of him, he knew that wouldn't work. There might not be any truth there to get and pressuring Sylar for it was just … cruel. The guy looked like he desperately wanted to crawl off and hide under a rock at the moment. What I need is trust and collaboration. I'm not going to get that if I'm beating him up, physically or emotionally. I need to know what his side of the story is. I'm only going to get that when he's ready to tell me.
Peter walked forward slowly, going to one knee in front of Sylar and putting his left hand on one of Sylar's knees. He looked up at him and spoke in a low, steady voice. “Sylar,” Peter swallowed, “I know what I've been told you did, to Nathan and to other people. And I know what I've seen you do, in the past. I knew those things before I came here to get you and I didn't show up here to hurt you.” He paused for a moment, feeling his way through what he had to say as he was going along. “I know it's complicated, maybe even more complicated than I thought. We don't have to talk about it, but I won't understand until we do - if we do.” Peter gave Sylar's knee a pat and shifted his weight back, changing the subject and raising his voice back to normal. “I'm going to go scare up lunch for us, okay? I'll go by your apartment and get your pills while I'm out.”
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So Peter left the obvious weapon behind, it didn’t mean anything; he was a hands-on guy. Sylar went still and stayed that way even through the shock of being touched. For once he didn’t want to be touched. Um…What? He stuttered and stared at Peter but not at him. That tactic usually kept him out of trouble. He keeps saying that. There was no combination of factors in which Sylar came out unscathed. Wait, what does that mean, ‘but I won’t understand until we talk’? ‘Scare up some…’ Sylar made a jerky nod, watching as Peter left. He sat there, listening intently for minutes after the doors shut behind Peter, waiting to see if he came back.
Time seemed to both slow down and speed up now he was alone. Sylar covered his face and finally remembered to breathe. What if Peter had pushed him to talk? Thinking about it, talking about it, let alone explaining it or informing the guy’s brother of all people…it was almost unthinkable. He resented Peter for wanting to know, like he lived to provide Peter with information about Nathan. What he had to say would sound stupid, it wasn’t believable, he didn’t have all the damn answers and it was literally the most personal thing he could talk about, his mind. When his hands moved away, the palms were wet, his nose was runny and clogged. Sylar didn’t know what was happening to him aside from some stress, he didn’t know what was going to happen to him and there was nothing he could do. Eventually he lay on his side and let the moisture tickle the bridge of his nose and his temple, staring at the door still until, after a quiet forever, he felt better and dozed.
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Peter returned after an hour, give or take. He arrived back with the aforementioned painkillers and their lunches in the canvas carry-sack. He came to the entrance of the rec room and lifted the bag. “Sylar?”
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Sylar jerked and opened his eyes with difficulty, lifting his hands on instinct. The voice wasn’t close but it was loud enough. “Huh?” He saw it was Peter, in the doorway with a bag and he relaxed. Remembering what led up to now, he wiped at his face and sat up as his headache allowed.
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“I picked up some frozen dinners. Let's go up to the penthouse again to warm them up.” He forced a laugh and turned to lead the way to the elevator. “I'm starting to understand what you said early on that you spent a lot of time cooking. I'm getting tired of what little I know how to fix. You think you could take over cooking in the evenings? You could tell me what to get from the store and I'd come back with it.”
XXX
The request sounded awfully domestic. That makes me the woman doing the cooking and him the man, bread-winning and picking up groceries? Should I be insulted by that or flattered that he trusts me not to poison him and cook better than him? At least this was harmless to talk about. “Sure,” he answered after a few second’s thought. “Cooking’s easy. You have to be precise and you’ll know if it doesn’t turn out right. You won’t starve if you fail but you can do it over and over again and…not get bored. The results are fun.” He shrugged, hoping he’d made it sound more like an acceptably masculine hobby. Sylar noticed he didn’t seem to gain weight here, no matter how much or what he ate. It was almost annoying or disturbing on a mental, routine level, not needing to exercise and maintain his body. Of course, with Peter around, I should be trying to do that anyway, needing to ‘maintain my body’ for lots of reasons. I wonder if I can build any muscle? He’d often wondered if this was what it was like for Claire, living in a world that never changed and never affected her except on the inside.
When they got to the suite, Peter offered him a choice of frozen dinner; he chose spinach artichoke ravioli. He let Peter warm his own up first because he wasn’t feeling hunger as much as the other man probably was. Belatedly he hovered around to make sure Peter didn’t need help opening something or lifting the trays, otherwise he got them water and utensils. There wasn’t much to say on his part but it felt like the pressure storm from earlier had passed.
Continued...
Day 24, January 3, morning
“You don’t have to accept an apology from me,” Peter said evenly. “Or my gratitude. Not even for little things. But that doesn't mean I won't stop offering it.” He was irked by the implication Sylar would never forgive any trespasses or appreciate anything Peter might do (or might have done) for him. It left him feeling deficient and insufficient, which he assumed was Sylar's intention. Striking back indirectly, Peter said, “About your ability and apologies - I thought an apology was for hurting someone, regardless of whether you did it intentionally or not. What do you think?”
XXX
“Ah. I get it. I need to apologize for something, right? Probably a lot of somethings. You’d have me apologize for breathing,” Sylar guessed where this was headed and beat Peter to the punch. “Why are you asking what I think?” he shot back angrily. “I’m not the one who nearly puked about it just now or the one trying to apologize for…things. This isn’t about me. If you did it, then you meant it. That includes accidents, self-defense, and ‘the ability made me do it’ excuses. Get used to the hot seat, Petrelli.” God knows I’ve had to.
XXX
Peter folded his leg down so he was sitting with one foot on the floor, the other foot resting against that knee. He held his ankle with his left hand - still holding himself after the panic attack and aware of what he was doing. But it worked and he doubted Sylar knew. Even if he did, so what? Anger was stirring in him, a more effective purgative for fear than anything else. Jerking his head up, he countered with a sharp voice, “I'm asking you because you were the one who said I couldn't apologize for something I did with your ability. So which is it? 'The ability made me do it' or I decided to do it? Intention matters to me; it matters to everyone.”
XXX
Sylar crossed his arms. “How the hell would I know, Peter? You’re the one who did it and you’re the one who knows why you did it. There is a difference between motive and intent - you ought to know that.” He avoided whatever trap Peter was trying to lay but he still couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag.
XXX
Peter got to his feet and paced away restlessly. He's not getting the point! The point is … It took him a moment to pull that together from his disparate feelings and thoughts. It was no wonder Sylar wasn't going where Peter was so indirectly directing the conversation. The point is I fucked up and I didn't mean to and I wish someone could recognize that. It's not like anyone else can, because I've never told anyone else. Peter sighed, shot Sylar an unhappy look, and then went over to the pool table where he started racking up billiard balls. He didn't want to admit any of that to Sylar, which meant there was nothing else to say.
XXX
After huffing an annoyed/relieved breath, he realized why Peter wasn’t going back to the piano - Sylar was hogging the bench. I wanted to sit on the couch anyway. Sylar slunk back over to the vacated couch, palming his book. Perhaps it was the former topic of forgiveness (or lack thereof), talk about abilities and gratitude or Peter shutting down…it was distressing. He expects me to hold his hand, figuratively, when he gets upset. Like a Nathan-shaped crutch. Knowing he was aggravating things but needing to know, Sylar asked in wondering tone, “Do- do you confuse me with him?” Peter certainly offered many second chances and apologies to Nathan over the years, far more than Sylar thought was necessary or deserved but…that was Peter and it would explain his behavior of late. He clutched the thick dictionary to his chest and thighs, adrift about what to feel about that possibility.
XXX
Peter snorted, glanced over at Sylar for a long second, then went back to lining up his shot on the 6-ball. He hit it with a decisive crack and the dark green ball went in the right direction, but overshot the pocket and bounced off the bumper. He grimaced at it. He was still unfamiliar with the table (but getting better) and his brace made his fingering difficult. It was something to pass the time. He turned his mind to Sylar's question as he chalked the tip of his cue stick. Talking was a more interesting way to pass the time. It was interesting that Sylar would even ask that question. He leaned his hip on the pool table and faced his companion. “No. I don't. You're the one who's here with me, though.” Peter looked down, face shifting to sadness with a frown and a moment of furrowed, in-drawn brows. Nathan will never be with me again. It was hard to think, to accept. He spun the cue stick idly on the butt, the carpeted floor making the action slow, but it gave him something to do while he tried to struggle out of his feelings and focus on Sylar.
XXX
That makes sense, too. He really does need me. And want me, to some degree. I can use that. It perked Sylar up.
XXX
“I'm telling you things I never told him. I don't think I ever would have, either.” He swallowed. “We - you and me - in a lot of ways we have more in common than I did with Nathan.” His voice became quiet at the end, but it was still audible. “He never stopped judging me. I always wanted to live up to his standards. With you,” Peter gave a small shrug, voice and body language still low-key, “I know you're judging me, too, but, you know, it doesn't matter as much when it's not coming from your big brother.” Plus there was the not-insignificant factor of Sylar being in no position to cast judgment on others, but pointing such out was rude. Peter stuck to the equally true reason that Sylar wasn't a father-figure to him. He gave a wan smile.
After a few moments, Peter asked carefully, “Do you? Confuse yourself with him?”
XXX
Sylar made a face about the not-so-subtle message, lips thinning and his chin going up. It was disrespectful even if it was very true. The balls involved to lay it out there like that…Then why do you act like what I think about you matters? Sylar could safely call a fair amount of bullshit on that. The rest, the majority of what Peter said puffed his pride and almost made him feel warm inside. He got stuck on the return question, another ballsy thing to ask, though Sylar didn’t quibble about re-stating the rather obvious. Resentfully, he replied, “Unfortunately. You’ve made it impossible not to.” He didn’t tell him it was nice in some ways, too; it was the kind of bold statement Peter wouldn’t care for.
XXX
Peter tilted his head and drew in a breath. This wasn't the first time he'd asked Sylar if Nathan's identity still lingered, but it was a subject Peter didn't feel was done yet and so he kept coming back to it. Sylar had been defensive and curt about it before. Now, he was saying a bit more. Peter wanted to explore that. “'You' - do you mean me personally, or is this one of those times where you're using 'you' to refer to everyone who worked against you?” His tone was not challenging or sarcastic. He simply wanted to know.
XXX
Hefting his book, Sylar glanced up over it meaningfully, “Both.” His mouth worked as he thought how Peter…came to the conclusion - and action - that obliterating Sylar’s mind was…good, acceptable or beneficial beyond the pale of his usual morals and care for the ‘human spirit.’ Then he eyed the large stick Peter still held. “You really like to talk with weapons in hand, don’t you? Does that make you feel powerful?”
XXX
Peter regarded the cue stick, then looked at Sylar with a jibe right back at him, “You're easily intimidated by me having a weapon, aren't you?” Is that because you feel powerless here? But Peter only thought that last question, not comfortable enough to diss Sylar so directly. He set the stick down on the table carelessly, knocking the 11-ball out of the way as he did. Not like I was keeping score anyway.
XXX
“Oh, please.” Sylar scoffed and rolled his eyes to back up his point. Maybe there was a granule of fact there, but the main concern was Peter’s stability or predictability with said weapon.
XXX
“Both, you say.” He pondered that. It was the more important topic than trading quips about who had the bigger stick. “You said before that I was … familiar, and that made it harder for you to keep it straight.” He didn't want Sylar to be Nathan. He'd considered it (obviously) at Mercy Heights, but that had been an act of denial and of desperation. How did Sylar see that? What did being Nathan mean to him? Peter's brows knit together and he looked up, about to speak. For a second, he was distracted by the huge book Sylar was cradling. What the hell is that? A dictionary? Is he reading a dictionary? He made a small shake of his head. He was too far away to read the spine and anyway, his next question was more pressing to him than the identity of Sylar's reading material. “What do you believe about the human soul?”
XXX
“What about the human soul?”
XXX
"Do you think it exists? And if it does, do you think it exists apart from the body?" Peter waited a long pause, wanting to know Sylar's beliefs without cluttering it up with Peter's own. Sylar's skeptical expression was clear enough of what he thought: He doesn't think so. This was hardly the first time Peter had believed in the supernatural in the face of doubt. But he's seen this stuff. Maybe he just doesn't see it the same way I do. Hopeful and earnest, he walked to the nearer end of the couch, gesturing as he tried to explain the inexplicable. "We - we have these abilities. I think I talked to a telepath after he was dead. I think he visited me in a dream. I possessed a different guy once, sort of. We co-existed in the same body, at least.” Peter exhaled heavily. “Do you think certain abilities give people souls?"
XXX
Sylar frowned out of confusion and uncertainty. One thing was sure: We’re not talking about my soul here. That left only one ‘soul’ to speak of, one that obviously meant more than all of Sylar combined. He didn’t know whether to feel insulted or not, which was a strange feeling considering. This was important to Peter yet it was so far outside anything Sylar knew. He was damned after all. “I guess. Yes, it must,” he said as if just realizing that in a very non-religious way. He was thinking about the last time he’d mentioned his own soul or lack thereof to Samuel; /’It would be a crisis for a lesser man, having their soul ripped from them, but not for me.’/ He didn't wonder what happened after death because he was soulless and he didn't care what happened to other people's souls. He talked to Matt? Matt’s not dead…At least, I didn’t kill him. “Why would any ability, let alone a specific one, give a person a soul? That would mean normal people don’t have souls and you don’t believe that. You wouldn’t say my ability gives me more ‘soul.’ Yours does, maybe.”
XXX
“No, I don't believe that, but maybe souls are … I don't know, different. Different like abilities - everyone's is unique?” Peter's brows knit as he realized the existence of a soul was an insolvable as any question of faith - at some point, logic and reality became irrelevant - you either believed or you didn't. But Sylar had said something else that caught his attention. “Why would my ability give me more of a soul?”
XXX
Sylar explained, "If your ability is part of you, then copying it involves some...contact." His eyes flicked over Peter's body briefly, so close and intense as it was. "For some empaths it's sex, maybe for you it's touching souls," Sylar's voice was a false, and rather sarcastic, sense of grandiosity about 'touching souls,' shrugging it off with, "Without the sex. You know."
XXX
Peter watched Sylar closely for a moment, not sure how to take that. He chuckled nervously. “I touch people's souls?” Sylar might intend that as an insult and it might sound like it had dirty or at least weird connotations, but Peter ended up smiling shyly. He chuckled again, softer and out of happiness. His eyes crinkled around the corners of his lids as his face softened. “Really? Thanks.” He chewed on his lower lip briefly, thinking, It would be so cool if that were true - if I was copying people's abilities because my soul saw something in theirs that was similar, that clicked. That would be so great. Sex isn't that different - connecting with someone, intimacy … yeah, it's sort of all the same thing. He pulled out of his reverie to look at Sylar, much more willing to be inclusive with him. “You want to come play pool?”
XXX
Peter looked pleased as punch about that and upon review, Sylar realized his words sounded like…well, they’d had something intimate in whatever crazy (probably imagined) future Peter had been to, when the empath got his ability. It also highly implied that Sylar had a soul to touch. Maybe I do. It’s just dark and stained. He didn’t see where the compliment lay but Peter was happy with whatever he’d said. Does that make him like some abilities pervert - also ‘rubbing’ up against people without their consent? He narrowed his eyes at his companion, adopting a more normal gaze when the man turned to him. “Um…sure.” This was more Peter’s kind of game, more physical, and, of course, involving what equated to weapons - heavy balls and large sticks. Or…is that really gay and he wants me to play?
XXX
Peter racked the balls and rolled the white, nicked, and well-used cue ball towards the other end. He asked, “You know how to play?” Peter was not all that good at it, but he'd played dozens or maybe scores of times in smoky bars while in college and at Bretty-Brett's parent's house when they were in high school. He knew the rules and he'd seen some amazing trick shots demonstrated, but he personally was doing good to get the ball to do anything more sophisticated than roll in a straight line. He'd never put much effort into it, always more interested in the people he was playing with than the game itself. Just like now.
XXX
Sylar stood and selected a cue stick, the darkest of the bunch, from the wall rack. “Yeah.” It was a simple game and he could have figured it out even if he didn’t know how to play, but Nathan sure knew how. Briefly chalking his cue, Sylar looked over at the racked balls. This was to be an informal game, then, and it looked like Peter was going first.
XXX
Peter waited for a long moment, but Sylar had finished with chalking and was looking at him expectantly. Under the loose house rules Peter had mainly played with, the guy who racked the balls was not supposed to be the one who went first, for reasons of potentially arranging the minor spacing between the balls and thus affecting the break. But whatever - they were no bets riding on the game, so it didn't really matter. Peter just went around the table to do the break himself. He was much more engaged in finding out if Sylar thought Nathan's soul had survived the death of Nathan's body, regardless of how winding the conversational route turned out to be. “How do you tell what's a soul and what's not?” A single, long stroke with the stick sent the cue ball to impact against the massed triangle of targets. Disappointingly, the center ones stayed roughly in place, with only the two rear corner trios of balls spinning off across the table. None went in, though a few bounced off the bumpers.
XXX
“I never looked for evidence of a soul. Why would I?” he asked rhetorically. Sylar looked up as he thought about it. If his goal was killing people (or if that was somewhat unintentional result) why would he search or feel any better if his target/victim had a soul? Wouldn’t that make things worse? “You’re not one of those nuts who think everything has a soul, are you? Is it so questionable that you have to ask?” Pious Peter had turned into Doubting Thomas and it was so uncharacteristic, even from what Sylar knew of him, that it was shocking. Sylar made a shot, pausing to look smug before remembering it was still his turn. He missed the next one.
XXX
“No, I don't. People have souls, nothing else does. At least … well, I don't know for sure.” Peter took his turn, calling his shot and pocketing a ball neatly and easily. They were always easier at the start, when there were more choices. “As far as animals go, and what exactly goes to heaven - dogs, pets, that sort of thing - I don't know. What happens after I'm dead isn't really the point of faith anyway, not for me. The reason I'm asking is because abilities change so much about how we see the world. And yeah, they change things like whether I can fly or heal, but there's other changes, too, that I'm trying to figure out - the whole time travel thing, and destiny, and … stuff.” He trailed off there, wanting to add 'identity' but suspecting that might torpedo the conversation, it being insensitive in the extreme. So he went back to the metaphysical. “If you did look for a soul or something like it, would you be able to … tell? Did you ever have an ability that let you sense … that?”
XXX
Sylar looked up. “No. Maybe some abilities help with that more than others…I’ve never had those abilities. Why would you want to be able to tell? Either they exist and most people have one, or they don’t - pick a side and operate with that assumption.” He watched Peter in the process of making his move.
XXX
Peter huffed quietly. He couldn't get the information he wanted, about Nathan's identity or Sylar's sense of Nathan's identity, by 'picking a side and operating with that assumption.' He was hoping and assuming there was some evidence for one take over the other, but the only person available to him who might have that information was Sylar. He couldn't see how to ask about it without being more explicit about what he was aiming at. 'Explicit' didn't feel right yet between them.
But Peter was not one to give up easily. Maybe I can try a different angle. He put the same philosophy into play on the pool table, picking a different shot than the one he'd been working on, trying and failing to get the right position. He pointed at a different ball and then the pocket he was now targeting rather than calling it out verbally. “The thing we were talking about earlier - that day in the future? - well, before that happened, a future version of me … kidnapped me and … put me inside a guy on Level Five. You were there, on Level Five - not inside a cell, but you fought with Elle.” He missed his shot, but he didn't worry about it. His unhappy pause was due to remembering his death threats to Sylar over the attack on Elle. Is this likely to upset him, too?
XXX
“I know. I was there. //Ma// told me. One of the bank thieves,” Sylar interrupted and waved the story (or whatever the fuck it was) onward. He was getting annoyed but maybe there was something new he hadn’t heard or maybe Peter’s point was finally about to be made.
XXX
“Don't-” Peter cut himself off with a scowl and a shake of his head. She's not your mother! You don't get to call her that! But she also wasn't some innocent who needed Peter's protection, particularly if the relationship Sylar was intimating was one she'd asserted herself. He sighed and rolled his eyes, looking away and visibly conceding Sylar's right to use the word 'Ma' in relation to her. It was a big deal for Peter to do even that.
Testily, he changed the subject away from wanting to argue about Angela and back to the previous thread about souls. ”What … what was going on there with him and me? Do you think that was me as a soul or just … me … somehow? Because that other me from the future came back while we were robbing a bank, stopped time, and pulled me out of there. Then we went to the future.” Peter made another introspective frown. He was a real asshole. I should be better than that. Am I that much of an asshole already?
XXX
Sylar shrugged, calming now that some (more) sensible questions were coming to light after so much useless buildup. “We never found your body. I’d assume it was everything about you in him.” ‘In him’ I can’t believe we both just said that without laughing… ‘He put me IN him.’ Sylar licked his lips to avoid chuckling. He was sobered by the comprehension that his own…’transference’ was not a full and complete one, and he considered what that meant for what was left of his soul. I had a body and a mind wandering around in two different bodies.
XXX
Peter circled the table, eyeing the balls until he found a shot he thought he could take. He stooped, touching the table with the middle finger of his right hand, balancing the slender end of the stick on his forefinger and thumb. The bulkiness of the brace limited the angles he could choose from and had a lot to do with why his break had sucked (and likewise, why he'd hoped Sylar would do that duty). This time it went well - the called ball went in the labeled pocket. He had three balls of his seven in the hole now.
'Everything about you' - is that the soul, more or less? But in that case my body was along for the ride. Is that different than what happened to Sylar? What did Matt do to him? Was it just a mental command, or can Matt manipulate people's souls? Is that what we're doing here? Is this really Purgatory? Or Hell? Didn't Sylar say it was Hell? Peter rubbed at the bridge of his nose, the mess of questions giving him a headache. Beating around the bush isn't getting me the answer. Maybe it's time to take the plunge.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out. “You … have more insight, more personal experience with this sort of thing, abilities, and this soul stuff in particular, than anyone else I've been able to talk to.” He swallowed, leaning against the pool stick, taking the final step. “When Nathan and I went to that hospital room in Odessa, Matt said you were inside of him. And that if Nathan- if you,” Peter shut his eyes painfully for a second, “if whoever I was with touched Matt's hand, it would let you out. When that other me from the future touched Jesse, I came out.” He looked aside uncomfortably. “Of course, time was stopped, so maybe that doesn't matter.” He looked back to Sylar searchingly. “I just want to know what happened.”
XXX
Sylar’s face soured. Not only was Peter asking about sensitive things, he didn’t even have the decency to…to what? There was no nice, polite way to phrase any of this. What bothered him more was that Peter couldn’t…tell who he’d been standing with. How could he not know? Didn’t Peter care or was he trying to be politically correct? Gripping his cue with both hands, he stared back at Peter for a moment. “No, you want to know what happened to Nathan.” Sylar could, and did, say it. Nathan was dead and feeling no pain but Sylar, still alive, was in agony, living with a source of abrasion and danger how many times over. Yet still what held Peter’s interest? The dead guy.
XXX
Peter's lips made a tight line and he grimaced. “I want to know what happened to both of you - if there was even any 'both' involved or if that was just you, alone.”
XXX
“Nice save,” Sylar snarked bitterly. “Your interest has always been for him, there’s no need to pretend otherwise and placate the crazy person you admit wishing had died instead.” Sylar lined up a shot and took it, mostly missing and skidding the ball aside without much force. Angrily, he straightened and grasped the stick again. Peter knowing what happened didn’t change anything. “What I want to know, since I am the one still alive, is what would you have done if I showed up on your doorstep, looking like him,” he spat, “asking for help, and you knew Nathan was dead or that I’d killed him?” It was so morally laden and Sylar knew it; knew it and didn’t care. He wanted to know that if he could have fooled everyone including himself into believing he was that scumbag, that he could have been welcomed somewhere, had a home; if he, as whatever apparition and abomination he’d been, could have been enough for Peter that way.
XXX
“He's my brother, Sylar. Of course I care more about him than the guy who murdered him!” There was nothing to apologize for in that and it confused Peter that Sylar didn't see that. But to the rest of what Sylar had said, he responded, voice raised in anger, “And you did - showed up on my doorstep, looking like him, asking for help. And maybe I thought it was him, didn't know you'd killed him yet, but I knew it that night.” Peter pointed at him, growling, “You slept safe in my bed, all night long, Sylar, so drunk you couldn't have fought me off if you'd wanted to.” He tilted his head and took a step closer. “I knew … we both did.” That had been a long, sleepless night for Peter, confused, horrified, and helpless, trying to find something sane in an insane situation, drinking in the bitter dregs of how awful his mother was. He'd forgotten entirely the national holiday that was to come with the dawn. His mother hadn't, though. What would have happened if she hadn't come by?
XXX
Of course he’d been safe, whoever he’d been at the time - Peter would spare Sylar to help Nathan (only to kill Sylar later to completely save Nathan). It was a very dumb question, one without an answer. Sylar wondered if Peter knew how convoluted this was for him; nothing about his situation could be separated from a corpse, they were intertwined still. It was things like this that made him wish to be mortal, made him wish he’d been the one to give up if living his own life was going to be like this, leave the two obviously loving brothers together and forfeit his own body. That would have been the decent thing to do. Peter’s words reflected the hopelessness and complexity of the situation - he’d been welcomed in and cared for but the care and love wasn’t intended for him and it never would be. He wanted to cry from overwhelming stress and frustration, he could feel it begin to bubble up as the silence grew and he had nothing to say or do.
XXX
Peter watched as Sylar crumpled - no answer, no rebuttal, just the silence. Peter was still wound up though, still agitated by Sylar's outrage that he wouldn't have helped him. Had he known Sylar had just killed Nathan, then he certainly wouldn't have and it was bizarre that Sylar even thought he might. It didn't make any sense. He reviewed Sylar's words again and asked sharply, “What you mean by 'you're the one still alive'? You say that like something happened to both of you and you just happened to survive. Didn't you kill him?”
XXX
That caught Sylar’s attention. He’d been stupid to engage in this conversation with this man, holding a weapon with plenty of projectiles around and Peter was between him and the door. The hostility Peter was leveling at him made it seem like the casual game of pool was over, one way or another. An image kept running through his head, that if he answered wrong somehow, Peter would break that pool stick in half and jam the sharp edges into his hands again, pinning him to the table and…Of course, I killed him, he nearly blurted. It’s not that simple. Is he going to sit and listen to what really happened or…? Why do I get penalized for defending myself? Sylar turned around and returned his cue to the wall rack, moving towards the couch slowly. “I meant that I’m alive and he’s not. It’s complicated,” his tone sounded needy, begging and he hated himself for it, but he did not want to talk about and relive this. He sat and raked his hair back with a hand he hoped wasn’t shaking. “It’s complicated,” he said again, almost to himself, feeling his headache roaring to explode his brain with throbbing.
XXX
Peter laid the pool stick across the nearer corner of the table, following Sylar slowly and at an increasing distance. When Sylar sat, Peter stopped. Hands at his side, Peter's voice was back to near-normal as he said, “Simplify it for me.”
XXX
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sylar nearly whispered his voice was so soft. It was a request; one he didn’t expect would be understood or granted. At the same time, he was aware Peter might…snap if he didn’t answer, and answer well. He didn’t look at Peter and wondered if he, too, would have a panic attack. It felt like Nathan’s stupid ghost was hovering over his shoulder, ready to take control of his body at any minute and Peter was goading him, tricking him until it happened so he could pounce. Peter didn’t understand, he’d had a part in this, and here he was interrogating him like Sylar was required to divulge this, with no thought of how painful it was. It didn’t make sense on multiple levels, though Peter’s motive made sense. Perhaps inflicting pain was the purpose. He touched his book and wanted to sink into the couch, hide, and be safe.
XXX
Peter rocked back on his heels, brows pulled together and an expression of great concentration on his face. He crossed his arms as he regarded Sylar. What if he can't talk about it? Did he really kill Nathan? Why isn't he saying he did? (Maybe he did and thinks I'll take him out.) Yeah, true, but what if he didn't do it? If Matt can make him think he is Nathan, then he could make him think he killed Nathan, too. What if Nathan isn't dead? (What about that corpse?) Well, what about it? I saw Sylar's corpse, too, and here he is. Nathan thought I was dead while I was in Ireland. Ma must have known I wasn't and she still let him believe I was. Peter drew in a very deep breath and let it out slowly, cogitating. If she'd do that, she'd be willing to let me think Nathan was dead, too. But then what about Sylar telling me that Nathan's dead? Well, how would Sylar know? Maybe that's what he's been told happened. Maybe he's got implanted memories along with all the other memories. Is there any way for me to find out? Much as Peter wanted to pin Sylar to some flat object and bludgeon the truth out of him, he knew that wouldn't work. There might not be any truth there to get and pressuring Sylar for it was just … cruel. The guy looked like he desperately wanted to crawl off and hide under a rock at the moment. What I need is trust and collaboration. I'm not going to get that if I'm beating him up, physically or emotionally. I need to know what his side of the story is. I'm only going to get that when he's ready to tell me.
Peter walked forward slowly, going to one knee in front of Sylar and putting his left hand on one of Sylar's knees. He looked up at him and spoke in a low, steady voice. “Sylar,” Peter swallowed, “I know what I've been told you did, to Nathan and to other people. And I know what I've seen you do, in the past. I knew those things before I came here to get you and I didn't show up here to hurt you.” He paused for a moment, feeling his way through what he had to say as he was going along. “I know it's complicated, maybe even more complicated than I thought. We don't have to talk about it, but I won't understand until we do - if we do.” Peter gave Sylar's knee a pat and shifted his weight back, changing the subject and raising his voice back to normal. “I'm going to go scare up lunch for us, okay? I'll go by your apartment and get your pills while I'm out.”
XXX
So Peter left the obvious weapon behind, it didn’t mean anything; he was a hands-on guy. Sylar went still and stayed that way even through the shock of being touched. For once he didn’t want to be touched. Um…What? He stuttered and stared at Peter but not at him. That tactic usually kept him out of trouble. He keeps saying that. There was no combination of factors in which Sylar came out unscathed. Wait, what does that mean, ‘but I won’t understand until we talk’? ‘Scare up some…’ Sylar made a jerky nod, watching as Peter left. He sat there, listening intently for minutes after the doors shut behind Peter, waiting to see if he came back.
Time seemed to both slow down and speed up now he was alone. Sylar covered his face and finally remembered to breathe. What if Peter had pushed him to talk? Thinking about it, talking about it, let alone explaining it or informing the guy’s brother of all people…it was almost unthinkable. He resented Peter for wanting to know, like he lived to provide Peter with information about Nathan. What he had to say would sound stupid, it wasn’t believable, he didn’t have all the damn answers and it was literally the most personal thing he could talk about, his mind. When his hands moved away, the palms were wet, his nose was runny and clogged. Sylar didn’t know what was happening to him aside from some stress, he didn’t know what was going to happen to him and there was nothing he could do. Eventually he lay on his side and let the moisture tickle the bridge of his nose and his temple, staring at the door still until, after a quiet forever, he felt better and dozed.
XXX
Peter returned after an hour, give or take. He arrived back with the aforementioned painkillers and their lunches in the canvas carry-sack. He came to the entrance of the rec room and lifted the bag. “Sylar?”
XXX
Sylar jerked and opened his eyes with difficulty, lifting his hands on instinct. The voice wasn’t close but it was loud enough. “Huh?” He saw it was Peter, in the doorway with a bag and he relaxed. Remembering what led up to now, he wiped at his face and sat up as his headache allowed.
XXX
“I picked up some frozen dinners. Let's go up to the penthouse again to warm them up.” He forced a laugh and turned to lead the way to the elevator. “I'm starting to understand what you said early on that you spent a lot of time cooking. I'm getting tired of what little I know how to fix. You think you could take over cooking in the evenings? You could tell me what to get from the store and I'd come back with it.”
XXX
The request sounded awfully domestic. That makes me the woman doing the cooking and him the man, bread-winning and picking up groceries? Should I be insulted by that or flattered that he trusts me not to poison him and cook better than him? At least this was harmless to talk about. “Sure,” he answered after a few second’s thought. “Cooking’s easy. You have to be precise and you’ll know if it doesn’t turn out right. You won’t starve if you fail but you can do it over and over again and…not get bored. The results are fun.” He shrugged, hoping he’d made it sound more like an acceptably masculine hobby. Sylar noticed he didn’t seem to gain weight here, no matter how much or what he ate. It was almost annoying or disturbing on a mental, routine level, not needing to exercise and maintain his body. Of course, with Peter around, I should be trying to do that anyway, needing to ‘maintain my body’ for lots of reasons. I wonder if I can build any muscle? He’d often wondered if this was what it was like for Claire, living in a world that never changed and never affected her except on the inside.
When they got to the suite, Peter offered him a choice of frozen dinner; he chose spinach artichoke ravioli. He let Peter warm his own up first because he wasn’t feeling hunger as much as the other man probably was. Belatedly he hovered around to make sure Peter didn’t need help opening something or lifting the trays, otherwise he got them water and utensils. There wasn’t much to say on his part but it felt like the pressure storm from earlier had passed.
Continued...