More Between Us Chapter 78/? "Cold Shoulder"
More Between Us, Chapter 78/? "Cold Shoulder"
Day 30, January 8, afternoon
Peter walked along with shoulders hunched, brow beetled, and arms held tight to his body for a few strides, still steaming about the slip he knew was a slip and felt compelled to do something about. But Sylar was now acting like Sylar and every moment Peter didn't do anything made it even more awkward to belatedly make an issue of it. Whatever, he finally thought. What did he ask? Oh yeah, what I did after I woke up from the coma. “I was going to leave the city. I was on the phone, booking tickets and trying to hail a cab to the airport when I saw this guy I'd seen in the nightmares, but he was a stranger.” Peter shrugged. “He wasn't the only stranger I saw in the dreams, but I knew he was important. In the nightmare I'd wished he'd left when he had the chance. So I thought … I don't know what I thought, maybe that I'd warn him? But as I left the curb and went over to him, he was rifling through this woman's wallet right in front of me, like no one could see him. 'Course, no one could; he was invisible.”
Peter continued to the center of the athletic facility. “He and I got in a fight. He said he knew what my ability was, then he took off and told me to stay away from him. He was the first person I'd run into who seemed to know something about abilities, so I followed him.” Peter shrugged and gave an ambivalent head tilt. “He wasn't happy about that. I think he threatened to kill me.”
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Not for the first time, Peter sounded quite insane. Sylar’s eyes narrowed at the man’s back, only slowly increasing his pace so he walked more abreast of the man. I wonder if he has some kind of mental problem. But I guess I’d have to look closely at his parents to determine that and I’m not doing that. Dreams are a big part of his…flights of fancy, though, that much is clear; ‘I dreamed about it so it will happen and I will do it.’ Maybe Sylar was following along with what Peter was saying and maybe he wasn’t, either way he inquired, “Did he try?”
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“Eventually, yeah.” Peter snorted. “But not right then. He caught up with me later that day. He said he'd changed his mind and he'd teach me how to control my abilities. I'm not sure that's what he was trying to do, especially knowing what I know now about my parents ...” Peter's expression was pained and dark for a moment, a scowl passing over his features. “He had a history with the Company. I think he was taking it out on me because of my last name, but I didn't know that at the time. He got me mobbed, nearly arrested, beat the crap out of me a lot, made fun of me and my family, and threw me off a thirty story building when I didn't know how to fly or regenerate. As far as he knew, it would have been fatal and he admitted that, said he didn't care.” Peter crossed his arms defensively, breathing out heavily. Not happy. Murder attempts tended to have that effect. “Then he knocked me unconscious. The next lessons were with sticks.” Peter rolled his eyes, remembering how partial Claude was to whacking him in the nuts. Regeneration or no, that was highly unappreciated. “Or rather, 'a' stick, since I didn't get one.”
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Someone taking it out on you because of your family? Hmm…That must happen a lot. Peter nearly getting arrested was a funny, fitting image, though, even more so because it was voluntary and self-induced. What interested him more was that someone had already tried Sylar’s primary idea: beating some sense into Peter. Obviously it hadn’t worked. You’re so dumb, Peter, letting some weird stranger beat you up in the name of…whatever. And sticks? How…Karate Kid. “He doesn’t sound very competent,” Sylar remarked. I wonder what his name was.
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“He wasn’t. I don't know that I learned much from him, except about the bad side of the Company. They - Noah and Rene - came after him and he left. Got away and cleared out, leaving me to deal with everything myself.” Peter didn't mention his role in getting Claude to safety. It sounded like bragging so he left it out. In a sarcastic and bitter voice, he said, “That was my wonderful mentor experience, Sylar - the one I was so lucky to have.”
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Sylar’s eyebrows arched a little. Then I can see why you still almost blew up New York and have a complex about your abilities and you still can’t handle them properly. “Didn’t-didn’t you ever just…you know, sit and experiment with your powers so you could understand them better?” That seemed the obvious course of action but he didn’t know if it had ever been tried.
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Peter stopped in the central atrium of the building, where hallways and stairs made access easy to the rest of the facility. He turned to face Sylar, looking at him like he had suggested Peter should have tried stripping naked and painting himself green to achieve control over his powers. It was that nonsensical (and scandalizing that it might be that simple). Peter's brows pulled together and his lips pressed against each other. “Why-” He tilted his head a little. “I mean, that's-” He huffed and reached up his right hand, scratching at the middle of his forehead with the back of his thumb, then tugging off the headband he'd been wearing to keep his ears warm. “All alone?” He looked down, obviously not done thinking and not intending Sylar to answer right away. “I learned your ability from Gabriel in the future, but he was standing right there, telling me what to do. I didn't-, I mean, yeah, I figured it out, but I'd had your ability for years and never really … I needed him there.” He shrugged helplessly and then shook his head in denial. “My ability doesn't work that way. I use my abilities. I don't … 'experiment' with them.” The last was said in a tone that implied such experimentation was a waste of time at best and an analog for self-pleasure at worst.
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Sylar was confused by Peter’s thought process: he ‘needed’ outside help when he seemed so confident that he had all the answers for everyone and possibly everything else. To hell with it. “Why would you think a person with a single ability could help you anyway? You’re kind of a special case - we’re kind of special cases,” Sylar corrected himself, gesturing between them.
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Peter shifted his weight in the start of a movement like taking a step, but aborted before actually moving his feet more than a shuffle. He crossed his arms, unhappy about having his obviously poor judgment called into question. Yeah, okay, it was stupid. (Of course it was stupid!) I didn't know what else to do … “He was the only one with an ability who I thought I could get to talk to me.” Peter fell silent, feeling his face heat, and tried to find somewhere else to look. He sounded like such a loser. He felt like one, too. Funny how it took so few words to stir his insecurities - that people didn't like him or want him, that he was inferior and second-rate. Absently he noted he was breathing harder. Calm down. I didn't have anyone else to go to. I did the best I could. As it so often was, it wasn't good enough.
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Sylar positioned himself about five feet away, more or less in front of Peter. Whether he was looking or not, he saw Peter’s reaction to that and heard the honest admission. He’s ashamed when that happens occasionally. I have to live it. Can he understand that? As it was, Sylar looked at Peter briefly, but didn’t stare or call it out - what was there to say? “What was his name?” I wonder if I ‘met’ him.
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“Claude.” Peter sighed. “He called himself Claude Rains. I don't know what his real name was.” Peter tugged the glove off his left hand and stuffed it into a jacket pocket before starting to fiddle with the glove on his right. Once they were both put away, he unzipped his jacket. YMCAs were always warm and usually humid. This one, even in the middle of winter, was no exception.
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Sylar’s eyebrows quirked up, almost disbelieving that one. I’m not sure if that’s classy or dumb. “What was he like?”
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“He was … angry. Antisocial. He didn't like people. I think he'd been hurt and hadn't worked out how to forgive the world for it. Or himself.” Peter leaned against the railing around the central open area. Stairs spiraled up and down for those too athletic to be seen making use of the elevators set in the walls. On the other side of the railing and glass half-wall Peter was resting against was empty air to the floor below. He didn't mind. “Or do you mean what he looked like? He was middle-aged, white male, about six foot, medium build, able-bodied, short beard and brown hair, neither kept very well.” Or clean. Peter kept that part to himself. No need to be any more disparaging than he already was. The guy's behavior was fair game; his hygiene less so. “English accent.”
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“How did he treat you?” Was it anything like Chandra or…well, it obviously wasn’t helpful like Danko was. Sort of. Better late than never.
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“What do you mean? We didn't 'hang out' together. He helped himself to my beer and anything else I had that he wanted. He punched me in the face after I saved his life.” Peter was silent a moment, thinking back on his tumultuous relationship with the invisible man. By comparison, Sylar was a lot easier to get along with. “He wanted me to dump my life and everyone in it. Renounce everyone and everything. Give people up. Never love them again, never think of them.” Another moment of quiet passed. Peter's voice had a lot of resolve in it when he finished with, “I refused.”
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Sylar snorted. It wasn’t a half bad idea. Maybe this Claude wasn’t a total loss. “That’s what the Company does to you, Peter.” Whoever thought pushing specials out of normality, leaving them no options but to be on the run, stressed and most likely having accidents or committing crimes was an absolute moron. How could they expect anything other than what fell into their laps? So long as the ‘normal’ people were kept ignorant, if not safe, then all was well in the Company’s eyes.
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The Company does … what? It makes you forget about everyone? (Like Rene did to me?) Or it twists your thinking so much that you think hiding from everyone is a good thing? (Like what Claude was doing?) Peter huffed and stared at Sylar, trying and failing to will him into elaborating. Whatever he's trying to say is bitter and cynical and probably not something I want to hear anyway. So he changed the subject. “What about your experiences with mentors?”
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“I already told you,” Sylar said, annoyed. “Did you kill him; Claude?”
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“No.” The answer came immediately, but then Peter gave Sylar a weird look. He thought I'd killed Gabriel's son, Noah, too. What does that mean about him that he keeps thinking I kill people? Peter shook it off. It was another subject he didn't really want to explore at the moment. Instead, he went back to something Sylar had said earlier. “What do you mean about sitting around and experimenting?” He had an ambivalent, prudish interest in the question. While Peter could certainly understand people experimenting with sex, or drugs, or altered mental states, the idea of using powers when you didn't know how they worked just seemed … wrong. And more than a little self-indulgent. Peter was of the opinion that abilities were divine, even if he was fuzzy on the details. To use them for selfish purposes seemed inappropriate in the extreme. Sacrilegious, maybe.
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Something about Peter’s tone or facial expression read of disapproval or outright moral shock. It had Sylar laughing at how out of character that was, or how hypocritical it was. “You’re seriously going to turn your nose up at ‘experimenting’? You’re the one with the dildo and I caught you hard at work trying to ‘experiment.’ I take it you never played with the fun side of telekinesis or shapeshifting,” Sylar intoned in a rumbling voice, with a naughty, knowing, smirking, smug expression. Who’s the experienced one now?
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Peter's response to that ran through the gamut - shock that Sylar would be vulgar enough to bring up Peter's sexual history, confusion about which dildo he was even talking about (it wasn't like Peter had one here; he hadn't even successfully jerked off, much less anything more involved); anger that Sylar had to be using some memory of Nathan's, embarrassment when Peter placed the college incident and wondered what else Sylar knew (he'd always assumed Nathan's lack of further questions to mean he knew more than he did), and then a double-take at Sylar's other insinuation about him being hard at work. What is he talking about? When did he catch me using abilities like that? Or did Nathan? I never did any of that! Is he talking about that look I gave Nurse Hammer in the elevator? And wait, what could you do with telekinesis? A vision of Mohinder on the ceiling came to mind. Whoa … His face heated and his body tingled in a manner that he really wished it wouldn't. He never even got to the part of speculating about shape-shifting. His coat was stiflingly hot all of a sudden.
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Eventually sobering after watching Peter make a few faces, he said, “I don’t know from experience since my ability is understanding things and I didn’t exactly hang around with other specials,” meaning I killed them because I knew their power better than they ever could. “I meant exactly what I said. You never sat down and tried to learn your powers so you wouldn’t have accidents or explosions. If you do it without stress and distractions, immediate danger, then you should be able to apply it to those situations. In theory,” he shrugged, admitting it might not always be possible. “Abilities are fueled or…controlled even, by adrenaline. That much I do know.”
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Peter gladly tried to put aside the undesired mental image of sex on a high, shadowed ceiling with a crowd of oblivious onlookers below. “Like shooting a gun,” he said, not sure if that fit in with what Sylar was saying. Dragging his mind out of the gutter wasn't exactly easy, but he was managing it. “Fate, destiny - I don't think that has anything to do with practice. It's not the same thing. It takes … faith. Belief. Abilities are not ordinary. They don't work that way.”
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“Practice works,” Sylar stated firmly, not buying into the cop-out of ‘faith and destiny.’ He couldn’t count the ways to reason why ‘faith’ didn’t work, especially for Peter, who was the perfect example. The man should be able to feel his way through everything far better than logic-and-mechanics-oriented Sylar, instead Peter was constantly impulsive and half-cocked.
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Peter touched his brow with one hand, then lowered it to swing his jacket open at the waist. “Listen, I'm not a theologian. I don't know. And I'm not a scientist who studies abilities, either.” He paused a moment as a thought occurred to him. “The last person I knew who wanted to 'experiment' with abilities came at me with a syringe full of who-knows-what, but I'd seen what it did to the guy he gave it to before me.” Peter grimaced, taking off his jacket even though the feeling of being overheated in it was fading. “He died, covered with cancerous growths. Mohinder thought I was a better subject since, as he said, my body was primed to accept abilities.” He hesitated again, then said, “You know about that. You were there. You stopped him and saved my life.” 'That's what brothers do for each other.' Peter's expression softened and he tilted his head, regarding Sylar searchingly. Holding his coat by the collar, he swung it back and forth slowly.
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“I can prove practice works and ‘faith’ doesn’t. I don’t put any ‘faith’ into my abilities. They’re reliable and they do what I tell them to,” sometimes they act up when I don’t want them but Peter didn’t need to know that. “I practice and understand my abilities, ordinary or not. You use the ‘pray and play’ method and…well, how has that worked for you? The only other option is a crash course.” Sylar remembered Elle’s tortured past and his own, learning to hunt and kill people efficiently and effectively. “That…only works for some. Just…trust your abilities, they already know what to do. You’re thinking too much and making a mess of your instincts and control.” Sylar waved his hand dismissively. “Like you said,” he spared a look over Peter’s coatless body, “Your body is primed for a lot of things.”
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Peter wasn't exactly bursting at the seams with the urge to argue back, but he was lining up his answer. Then at Sylar's last words, the man checking him out and their brief meeting of the eyes, Peter's brows went up and his desire to debate vanished. A second passed, then another, both accompanied by continuing swishes of his swinging coat and the absence of Sylar doing anything threatening. Peter grinned suddenly, smirking to himself. He thinks I'm hot! Ego thoroughly stroked, Peter threw the coat over his shoulder, laughed lightly, and started towards the elevators. “Come on, killer. Let's go check out the third floor. I think I want to add some resistance bands to my collection.”
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Sylar started to follow until Peter called him ‘killer.’ It shouldn’t shock him but maybe he thought Peter would try to avoid the word and the reality, that Peter would have more tact. For all the other names he was frequently called to his face, that one didn’t crop up often and it certainly was not a compliment. He couldn’t say it was rude or even mean because it was true but…Sylar stopped, frowning at Peter’s retreating back. He didn’t know what to do; he was angry and…yes, hurt, but neither were acceptable responses. Is he going to keep calling me that like it’s funny? I’m not a freak show. That’s all he sees. Peter was significantly ahead of him before Sylar got over himself enough to put his feet into motion, not wanting the medic to get to the elevator, turn around and have to watch Sylar finish the walk under his joyful gaze. Just…pretend that’s normal. It happens all the time, right? Quietly, keeping his head down, Sylar slipped into the car beside Peter. I wanna add you to my ‘collection,’ he thought darkly.
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As they stood in the elevator car, Peter thought about what Sylar had said. Now, instead of trying to refute him, he tried to understand. “I don't get what you were saying. You say 'practice', but then you say 'trust my instincts' and 'don't think about it too much'. Which is it?” Before Sylar could answer, Peter cut in with, “Or are you saying I need to practice enough so it's instinctive, like swinging a bat? A lot of the time, I don't even think about using my abilities. I just think of what I want to do and they activate all by them-, um, themselves.” He cleared his throat, realizing one compliment and moment of open admiration had him gushing like an idiot about things that made him sound like the fucking loose cannon he often saw himself as. He didn't want Sylar or anyone else thinking of him that way - they'd lock him up or worse and he'd already seen how that worked out.
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No surprise there. Sylar’s theory/suspicion was confirmed. “Yeah, I know,” he remarked about that. “You’re making it a…mental thing when it isn’t that. Abilities are a tool, they’re an extension of you so they should do what you want. You don’t think twice to reach for a cup because you practiced it enough as a kid and now it’s instinctive - you’re thirsty, you reach for the cup because you know you the outcome. Killing is instinctive for me; I’ve had a lot of practice,” Sylar smiled widely, shark-like and toothy. He wasn’t about to let that ‘killer’ nickname stick. If Peter was trying to rub it in or make him feel bad, Sylar would throw it right back and make Peter sick with it. He leaned back against the rail and crossed his arms. “So…who is it you want me to kill?” Probably his mother, ender of worlds, behind every plot, killing her own son and Peter hasn’t forgiven anyone for that. He can’t do it himself so he hires out. When did I become the Petrelli’s favorite hit man?
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Peter could not get out of that elevator car fast enough. He'd been elated by the earlier compliment, concerned that he'd put his foot in it by over-blurting, and then discovered his real error had been a casual, thoughtless slip of the tongue. And Sylar couldn't just leave it alone, or even simply make sure Peter knew it was unappreciated. No. Peter moved the fractional distance he had left to him to be against the far wall of the elevator car, waiting impatiently for the damn thing to get to the third floor. He said nothing, his mind having seized up with a failure to find anything physical that he could do to better the situation.
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Well? Sylar raised an eyebrow impatiently. Peter wasn’t jumping on the Petrelli bandwagon with gusto - what was up with that? Maybe he needs a little prompting. “You wanted me to ‘save’ a bunch of people, didn’t you? Including your girlfriend?” Still, Peter was ignoring him, so Sylar badgered further, leaving it open for Peter to respond, “So…?”
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Peter swung around in front of Sylar, abandoning the futile and unconscious effort to distance himself. So he went the other way, getting in Sylar's face. “You're going to do what I want you to do, is that what you're offering? Then never kill anyone again, Sylar! It's simple!” The doors dinged open behind him. Revolted, skin crawling, Peter got the hell out of there before the doors were finished parting, turning sideways in his haste to escape.
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“I wasn’t offering,” Sylar was…confused, insulted and doubting Peter’s believability. That cannot be all he wants. It was that simple. As it was, he felt vindicated that Peter was so upset that he literally squirmed and dashed away. That is who you’re dealing with, Petrelli. You’re the one making things…messy, so deal with it. But you can’t. Don’t fuck with me. In a gruff voice, he barked at the man’s back, “You said you couldn’t stop either! Don’t…don’t even!”
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Peter paced off down a hallway at random, ignoring whatever Sylar had to say behind him. He went inside of the furthest room from the elevator, thinking it would have served Sylar right if he'd just taken the stairs down and left the guy not quite sure where he went, or if he'd be back. The room he found himself in looked like a dance studio, with a smooth-finished wood floor, mirrors lining three walls with a rail at waist height, and lockers on the last wall. He paced in a slow circle, raking at his hair, throwing his coat against one of the walls. When he tired of moving himself around pointlessly, he put himself in the corner of the room, hands on the rails, staring at the door and the little glass window in it that allowed him to see a narrow slice of the hall. I hate him. Those words, those thoughts, could not convey the depth of his loathing at that moment, even though they were the strongest and simplest he had at his disposal.
He didn't know how Sylar would save Emma. It was possible it involved killing or hurting someone, or several someones. Peter knew that, which was why he was so upset. There was no way he was going to let it come to that if he could at all help it. But there was the rub: he didn't know how to prevent it. He couldn't control Sylar. Once they got out, he wouldn't be able to stop him. How many times could he pull off something like at Mercy Heights? His gut tightened into a knot. Sweat formed on his skin. There's no way. He felt trapped. He felt stupid. Stupid to have come here. Was I stupid to have trusted the dream? But what else did I have? Should I have trusted Ma? She wanted to let them die, just like before. I don't know what else I could have done! He took in an unsteady breath, eyes locked on the bit of hallway he could see, waiting. He was perched in the corner of the room like a boxer ready to come out of his corner at someone. Fighting would make it easier.
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Someone running away. How familiar. Sylar let him out of sight, let him have his moment to freak out or calm down, whichever; it wasn’t important. It piqued Sylar’s predatory nature; he could feel himself sliding into that well-worn suit, half-heartedly searching for his next victim to overpower. It was a head rush bordering on arousal of some kind. Slowly, he paced down the hall, peering into the door windows with curiosity. Here, Petey, Petey, Petey… At the last door, he sighted him and Peter was staring right back at him - nervous, excited, cornered and hostile. Concussion or not, the idea of a fight, Peter being visibly ready, was wonderful. Sylar stared at him a moment, unwavering eye contact and largely unspoken but still very clear threat or dare being given. Then, in a calculated move, he turned and disappeared from Peter’s vision, leaving him to wonder where he’d gone and what he was doing. Enjoy the uncertainty, Petrelli.
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Peter remained keyed up and on high alert for long minutes after Sylar had quit the window. He imagined the man lurking just out of sight, probably leaning against the wall waiting for Peter to stop overreacting (while simultaneously fueling that overreaction with his own behavior - it was like poking someone with a stick and then questioning why they jumped). Peter finally exhaled heavily and leaned his head back in the corner of the room, staring up at the ceiling. A few moments after he’d achieved that much equilibrium, he shut his eyes.
A few seconds of closed eyes was all he could manage right now in the way of calming down. He left the corner and started going through the lockers. Compulsive, he noted about his actions. Like going through the apartments. Huh. In any event, he didn’t find anything he wanted - the lockers contained what he assumed was ballet paraphernalia. Mostly this took the form of straps, ribbons, and what looked like harnesses of some kind. He labeled them as ballet-related because he recognized the shoes (and also the room he was in).
The last locker he searched was next to the door. Peter carefully leaned, getting as much angle as he could to look out the window. If he’s out there, he’s either flat to the wall, on the other side, or not close at all. Or crouching on the floor. That’s where I’d be. But I don’t think his mind works that way. Peter moved to the other side of the door, checking that direction. To get there, Sylar would have had to duck under the window or crossed it when Peter wasn’t looking, like when he was messing noisily with the lockers. That would have been a good time. But he’s not there either. Peter double checked. You know, what do I really think he’s going to do, anyway? No real fear materialized in his thoughts. Mostly, he was concerned Sylar might continue to talk to him about things he didn’t want to hear. That social pressure was the danger and Peter didn’t discount it just because it wasn’t physical. Yet it was nice to realize he wasn’t physically afraid of Sylar. Not at the moment, at least.
He opened the door, walking out and checking both sides anyway, but Sylar was gone. Fine. Peter moved down the hall and went into the next room, setting his sights back on his original mission. Maybe, hope against hope, Sylar had been embarrassed and went home. Not likely. And Peter found that was not the case when he finished with his search of the other rooms that led off the hallway. He emerged back to the central atrium, finding Sylar leaning against the wall near the elevators.
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Peter was either too stupid to see what he’d nearly started or he was ignoring it - or, more likely, making a show that he wasn’t intimidated. Whichever it was, he appeared. Sylar’s arms and legs were crossed, the picture of casual comfort as if nothing had happened. He wanted to see what Peter would do about the change. In an innocent voice, he inquired, “Find what you were looking for?” If you didn’t, you sure found me. Peter insulting him was really getting on his nerves so…it was called for.
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“Yeah.” Peter ignored Sylar’s tone, lifting his loot to show it off, which consisted of three resistance bands and some hand grips. His coat, since recovered from the floor of the dance room, was folded over his arm. He looked past him at the buttons to the elevator, then back at Sylar. Peter’s expression was one of disgust and frankly, loathing at the idea of getting back in an elevator car with the guy. No telling what he might say this time. Peter had nothing else he wanted to do here besides go swimming, which he certainly wasn’t going to do with Sylar around. “When are you going home?” he asked bluntly, knowing the answer wouldn’t be anything he wanted to hear, and knowing that just like Sylar, he was poking his adversary with a stick.
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Kinky. Gonna strangle me with those, too? Sylar snorted at the rude question. “When you’re ready to put me to bed,” he shot back, only a little seductive because Peter was so unappreciative. A glance was directed at the giant rubber bands before he turned around to open the elevator doors. When he turned back, Peter was gone, leaving only the sound of his heavy boots on the stairs.
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Peter snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that happening,” and headed off down the stairs. No elevator ride for him. The stairs sounded like a nice stretch of his legs. That's what I need. Just get away from him - more, longer, again. It's not 'leaving' him if I'm still around. I never promised to keep him company - just not to leave the world. He didn't hurry. It would be undignified to make it seem like a race and besides, with the elevator car right there and Peter heading down three flights of broad, curving stairs with his hands full, it wasn't likely he'd win if it was.
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Sylar made a face. He wanted to follow after Peter, just…not using the stairs. If he didn’t use the stairs, he might lose Peter in any number of floors, rooms, or even the building. Most likely Peter had to pass through the lobby at some point. Sylar stepped into the car, hitting the ‘L’ button. When the doors opened, he slid out and scanned the atrium. He tried to remind himself this happened all the time - Peter being out of his sight, location unknown, leaving him by himself. It seemed too easy to accomplish and it didn’t make him feel any better. There was no sign of the man. Did I miss him? Or did I beat him? Sylar began to wander about and physically search, in case Peter was hiding or…waiting to ambush him…
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Peter turned the last corner, seeing Sylar on the ground floor looking up at him. Peter huffed and then grunted unhappily, but kept coming down. He felt a great upwelling of aversion. He wasn't angry; he just didn't want to be near the guy. He didn't want the memories Sylar stirred up inside him. He didn't want to think about why he was here and how frustrating it was that Sylar couldn't be trusted to save anyone without killing someone else to do it. Peter didn't want to talk to him and have that occasional normal thing of getting excited and happy about interacting with someone only to have his enthusiasm crushed because of some accidental error of his. Peter knew he made too many mistakes. He couldn't not make them - he wasn't that good and no amount of training by his father, coaching by his brother, and getting hit in the face by life was going to make him something he wasn't. The only way to avoid fucking up was not to talk to Sylar at all, which was fine with him.
Peter walked past Sylar like he wasn't there, heading for the door. He stopped near it to put on his headband and coat, leaving the gloves off because he needed the dexterity to hang onto everything with his left hand. He didn't look at Sylar or talk to him, even though he heard the man come up behind him.
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“Where are you going?” Sylar frowned, walking to him. Peter wasn’t hustling to get away from him, putting on his gear indoors, but he wasn’t lingering around for Sylar. He didn’t get close and Peter didn’t let him get closer, hell, he’d barely looked at him. What am I supposed to do, just…take his crap? This is not all my fault! It was dawning on him that Peter wished to be left alone when the silence reigned loudly even over the noises of the man’s rustling clothes. “What are you gonna do?” he asked more softly.
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Peter glanced at Sylar at that softer tone. Yeah, hurts, doesn't it? To have someone take something you said and react totally different from how you wanted them to? How the hell did you expect me to react, Sylar? He huffed again and headed out the door. He didn't want to actually say any of that to Sylar because he didn't want to deal with the response. He hunched against the cold, trying to tuck his right hand into the pocket of the jacket. It was only a couple blocks, but he knew it would feel longer with Sylar trailing along after him. This time, Peter made no attempt to regulate his pace to Sylar's, an act that left him feeling weirdly disjointed inside.
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“Peter…” Sylar tried. He then followed at a distance when Peter made no effort to let him keep up yet he tagged along anyway, not knowing what else to do. He started it…He made me do it; why would he think that was funny? Him, to me, of all people. That’s all he sees me as? But I thought…I don’t know what I thought. Sylar resolutely kept after Peter, maybe not being aggressive or knowing how to counter this behavior…yet. He was only slightly worried about being attacked; his concern about letting Peter out of his sight was ever present. It’s been days since I’ve seen him! he felt he whined like some kind of addict needing his fix, rationalizing things (like Peter) that were very bad for him.
XXX
Peter dropped off his stuff in the exercise room of the Pegasus, which was the name of the apartment building across from his own - the name of the one with the piano and recreation room. It was a weird name, but he supposed it was better than the Icarus. He smiled a little. English had been one of his better subjects in school and Greek mythology, with the tales of heroes and gods, had been a favorite. He supposed he should look around for the name of the building he lived in, but he hadn't done it yet. He turned towards the door was Sylar was just showing up. The smile vanished, replaced by a deepening frown.
XXX
Sylar followed him in all three doors, hovering anxiously inside the personalized gym room. Am I even supposed to be here? What are the odds he’ll suddenly answer me or talk to me? “Are you just going to try to ignore me…today?” he threw on the last word in an attempt to see how long Peter was going to try to punish him. He asked this as Peter neared him to leave the room, assuming it wasn’t called for to punch his face or any other body part. It’s just one of those days when my voice is…upsetting. That depressed him. It wasn’t like the cure was not talking - that wasn’t working either.
XXX
Yes, I'm going to try to ignore you. It was better than physical violence, Peter assumed, although he knew it was still 'violence' of a sort to refuse contact with someone so desperate for it. At the same time, he was so fucking tired of trying to play nice with the guy who had killed his brother. Passive though the silent act was, it was at least a blow against someone whom Peter, at times, dearly wanted to hurt. He walked out past Sylar without response.
XXX
Still, Sylar refused to shake. “That’s not fair, you know. You started it. What did you expect me to do about it?” Obviously not what I did but… Even though I just reminded him of something he thought was…casual and accepted and I didn’t even do anything bad, so what the hell? “Why do you keep expecting me to take your shit, Petrelli? Is it…personal, the person you want me to kill; is that your issue?” Like his fucking mother?
XXX
He was going out the doors towards outside while Sylar talked, with the 'you started it' leaving Peter not sure if he'd missed something over the noise. Standing outside, he stopped to put on his gloves and, truth be told, hear the rest of what Sylar had to say. Ah, the 'killer' thing. That's what he thinks I started. Okay. And yeah, you're right. I started that. I fucked up. Thanks for reminding me why I shouldn't talk to you. At all. He turned left, walking off towards the river that was a few blocks away, in the opposite direction of Sylar's apartment and the rest of the city. I wonder if the river's iced over enough for me to walk across it? I wonder if I'd die if I fell through the ice and … um, died? Would I really die? Would Sylar save me? I think he'd try. But that's because I matter to him. He'd be alone otherwise. But a thousand strangers in Central Park? Meaningless to him. Peter shook his head, disgusted by that attitude.
XXX
Okay, last or first resort of communication (depending on how you looked at it) a failure, so Sylar moved on to his next option, something he hoped was peaceable enough. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Sylar yelled about the continued rudeness. “Goddamnit…” he said and sped up to grab Peter’s arm and turn him forcibly around, standing none too close as he did it. “I won’t go away just because you ignore me!”
XXX
I should have been walking faster. Peter got jerked around, Sylar's hand on his right bicep, Peter's left hand curling into a fist in case this was a fight. He'd let his 'ignore Sylar' mode extend beyond the man's words to his proximity as well. Peter stared at him. Sucks for me, then, he thought in response to Sylar's words, but he couldn't think of anything snappy enough to justify breaking his silence. By now, talking would be conceding defeat; admitting Sylar had won and forced him to engage. Somewhere along the line, it had stopped being convenient and started being a contest. He reached across and pried Sylar's fingers off his arm, staring threat at the guy the whole time, trying to communicate with eyes and expression alone that grabbing him was crossing the line into physical, which Peter would allow without retaliation only this once.
XXX
It was the glaring eye contact, demanding his submission, that got to him; that and the slow, cold way Peter pried his hand off like he was a some insect to be brushed aside, as casual as that. Sylar stood there and stared, feeling somehow betrayed by the continued treatment and silence. Not a single word, not an acknowledgement or affirmation. Sylar didn’t really think about it - Goddamnit, he wanted a reaction of some kind! As soon as Peter looked away, Sylar raised that same shrugged-away hand and used it to shove at Peter’s back. To show how much he equally failed to care, he turned on his heel and walked in the direction opposite of where Peter was going. He left his back exposed and the jumpy little Italian had strangulation devices, motive and now inclination to use them. (Maybe I want him to do something like that again). Or maybe I just don’t care. That’s beyond rude - it’s mean. He consoled himself with daydreams of Peter becoming lonely, looking for and finding him in his need, and saying something far-fetched about how Sylar wasn’t just a killer; however impossible that was.
XXX
Peter jerked at the unexpected shove, turning and bringing up his hands defensively. Eyes wide, he took in Sylar's retreating back, comprehending that the contact wasn't the first blow in a fight, but rather the last word in an argument they'd been carrying out without speaking. Huffing for his part in the 'conversation', Peter turned away again and headed off.
XXX
Sylar was more than happy to avoid Peter in turn. He holed himself up in his apartment, first sitting down with his clocks. It had been days since he’d touched them. It was almost as if Peter had never been here except for Sylar’s raging head pains and aching toes. He was angry, the unfortunately-too-familiar low simmer of being treated unfairly with no solution but to suck it up and take it with the expectation of receiving more of the same. He thinks I won’t hurt him. His wants and needs aren’t the only things here. Still, he focused on his refusal to let Peter treat him like some lesser creature. (At the same time, a smaller part of him knew that his neediness would outweigh Petrelli’s stubbornness and Sylar would be the one crawling back). He was wound up but forced focus on his precious mechanisms helped. Ironically, that included the one Peter had shaken a few weeks ago (that one was less therapeutic). When he began to overanalyze, he moved to the couch to curl up and read. It almost worked. Time felt slow without Peter even with all his clocks surrounding him, ticking away in perfect time in a place where that was meaningless except to his sense of order and contentment. When it grew dark, he got up and fixed himself dinner but mostly poked at it without interest. He spent another miserable night alone.
XXX
Continued...
Day 30, January 8, afternoon
Peter walked along with shoulders hunched, brow beetled, and arms held tight to his body for a few strides, still steaming about the slip he knew was a slip and felt compelled to do something about. But Sylar was now acting like Sylar and every moment Peter didn't do anything made it even more awkward to belatedly make an issue of it. Whatever, he finally thought. What did he ask? Oh yeah, what I did after I woke up from the coma. “I was going to leave the city. I was on the phone, booking tickets and trying to hail a cab to the airport when I saw this guy I'd seen in the nightmares, but he was a stranger.” Peter shrugged. “He wasn't the only stranger I saw in the dreams, but I knew he was important. In the nightmare I'd wished he'd left when he had the chance. So I thought … I don't know what I thought, maybe that I'd warn him? But as I left the curb and went over to him, he was rifling through this woman's wallet right in front of me, like no one could see him. 'Course, no one could; he was invisible.”
Peter continued to the center of the athletic facility. “He and I got in a fight. He said he knew what my ability was, then he took off and told me to stay away from him. He was the first person I'd run into who seemed to know something about abilities, so I followed him.” Peter shrugged and gave an ambivalent head tilt. “He wasn't happy about that. I think he threatened to kill me.”
XXX
Not for the first time, Peter sounded quite insane. Sylar’s eyes narrowed at the man’s back, only slowly increasing his pace so he walked more abreast of the man. I wonder if he has some kind of mental problem. But I guess I’d have to look closely at his parents to determine that and I’m not doing that. Dreams are a big part of his…flights of fancy, though, that much is clear; ‘I dreamed about it so it will happen and I will do it.’ Maybe Sylar was following along with what Peter was saying and maybe he wasn’t, either way he inquired, “Did he try?”
XXX
“Eventually, yeah.” Peter snorted. “But not right then. He caught up with me later that day. He said he'd changed his mind and he'd teach me how to control my abilities. I'm not sure that's what he was trying to do, especially knowing what I know now about my parents ...” Peter's expression was pained and dark for a moment, a scowl passing over his features. “He had a history with the Company. I think he was taking it out on me because of my last name, but I didn't know that at the time. He got me mobbed, nearly arrested, beat the crap out of me a lot, made fun of me and my family, and threw me off a thirty story building when I didn't know how to fly or regenerate. As far as he knew, it would have been fatal and he admitted that, said he didn't care.” Peter crossed his arms defensively, breathing out heavily. Not happy. Murder attempts tended to have that effect. “Then he knocked me unconscious. The next lessons were with sticks.” Peter rolled his eyes, remembering how partial Claude was to whacking him in the nuts. Regeneration or no, that was highly unappreciated. “Or rather, 'a' stick, since I didn't get one.”
XXX
Someone taking it out on you because of your family? Hmm…That must happen a lot. Peter nearly getting arrested was a funny, fitting image, though, even more so because it was voluntary and self-induced. What interested him more was that someone had already tried Sylar’s primary idea: beating some sense into Peter. Obviously it hadn’t worked. You’re so dumb, Peter, letting some weird stranger beat you up in the name of…whatever. And sticks? How…Karate Kid. “He doesn’t sound very competent,” Sylar remarked. I wonder what his name was.
XXX
“He wasn’t. I don't know that I learned much from him, except about the bad side of the Company. They - Noah and Rene - came after him and he left. Got away and cleared out, leaving me to deal with everything myself.” Peter didn't mention his role in getting Claude to safety. It sounded like bragging so he left it out. In a sarcastic and bitter voice, he said, “That was my wonderful mentor experience, Sylar - the one I was so lucky to have.”
XXX
Sylar’s eyebrows arched a little. Then I can see why you still almost blew up New York and have a complex about your abilities and you still can’t handle them properly. “Didn’t-didn’t you ever just…you know, sit and experiment with your powers so you could understand them better?” That seemed the obvious course of action but he didn’t know if it had ever been tried.
XXX
Peter stopped in the central atrium of the building, where hallways and stairs made access easy to the rest of the facility. He turned to face Sylar, looking at him like he had suggested Peter should have tried stripping naked and painting himself green to achieve control over his powers. It was that nonsensical (and scandalizing that it might be that simple). Peter's brows pulled together and his lips pressed against each other. “Why-” He tilted his head a little. “I mean, that's-” He huffed and reached up his right hand, scratching at the middle of his forehead with the back of his thumb, then tugging off the headband he'd been wearing to keep his ears warm. “All alone?” He looked down, obviously not done thinking and not intending Sylar to answer right away. “I learned your ability from Gabriel in the future, but he was standing right there, telling me what to do. I didn't-, I mean, yeah, I figured it out, but I'd had your ability for years and never really … I needed him there.” He shrugged helplessly and then shook his head in denial. “My ability doesn't work that way. I use my abilities. I don't … 'experiment' with them.” The last was said in a tone that implied such experimentation was a waste of time at best and an analog for self-pleasure at worst.
XXX
Sylar was confused by Peter’s thought process: he ‘needed’ outside help when he seemed so confident that he had all the answers for everyone and possibly everything else. To hell with it. “Why would you think a person with a single ability could help you anyway? You’re kind of a special case - we’re kind of special cases,” Sylar corrected himself, gesturing between them.
XXX
Peter shifted his weight in the start of a movement like taking a step, but aborted before actually moving his feet more than a shuffle. He crossed his arms, unhappy about having his obviously poor judgment called into question. Yeah, okay, it was stupid. (Of course it was stupid!) I didn't know what else to do … “He was the only one with an ability who I thought I could get to talk to me.” Peter fell silent, feeling his face heat, and tried to find somewhere else to look. He sounded like such a loser. He felt like one, too. Funny how it took so few words to stir his insecurities - that people didn't like him or want him, that he was inferior and second-rate. Absently he noted he was breathing harder. Calm down. I didn't have anyone else to go to. I did the best I could. As it so often was, it wasn't good enough.
XXX
Sylar positioned himself about five feet away, more or less in front of Peter. Whether he was looking or not, he saw Peter’s reaction to that and heard the honest admission. He’s ashamed when that happens occasionally. I have to live it. Can he understand that? As it was, Sylar looked at Peter briefly, but didn’t stare or call it out - what was there to say? “What was his name?” I wonder if I ‘met’ him.
XXX
“Claude.” Peter sighed. “He called himself Claude Rains. I don't know what his real name was.” Peter tugged the glove off his left hand and stuffed it into a jacket pocket before starting to fiddle with the glove on his right. Once they were both put away, he unzipped his jacket. YMCAs were always warm and usually humid. This one, even in the middle of winter, was no exception.
XXX
Sylar’s eyebrows quirked up, almost disbelieving that one. I’m not sure if that’s classy or dumb. “What was he like?”
XXX
“He was … angry. Antisocial. He didn't like people. I think he'd been hurt and hadn't worked out how to forgive the world for it. Or himself.” Peter leaned against the railing around the central open area. Stairs spiraled up and down for those too athletic to be seen making use of the elevators set in the walls. On the other side of the railing and glass half-wall Peter was resting against was empty air to the floor below. He didn't mind. “Or do you mean what he looked like? He was middle-aged, white male, about six foot, medium build, able-bodied, short beard and brown hair, neither kept very well.” Or clean. Peter kept that part to himself. No need to be any more disparaging than he already was. The guy's behavior was fair game; his hygiene less so. “English accent.”
XXX
“How did he treat you?” Was it anything like Chandra or…well, it obviously wasn’t helpful like Danko was. Sort of. Better late than never.
XXX
“What do you mean? We didn't 'hang out' together. He helped himself to my beer and anything else I had that he wanted. He punched me in the face after I saved his life.” Peter was silent a moment, thinking back on his tumultuous relationship with the invisible man. By comparison, Sylar was a lot easier to get along with. “He wanted me to dump my life and everyone in it. Renounce everyone and everything. Give people up. Never love them again, never think of them.” Another moment of quiet passed. Peter's voice had a lot of resolve in it when he finished with, “I refused.”
XXX
Sylar snorted. It wasn’t a half bad idea. Maybe this Claude wasn’t a total loss. “That’s what the Company does to you, Peter.” Whoever thought pushing specials out of normality, leaving them no options but to be on the run, stressed and most likely having accidents or committing crimes was an absolute moron. How could they expect anything other than what fell into their laps? So long as the ‘normal’ people were kept ignorant, if not safe, then all was well in the Company’s eyes.
XXX
The Company does … what? It makes you forget about everyone? (Like Rene did to me?) Or it twists your thinking so much that you think hiding from everyone is a good thing? (Like what Claude was doing?) Peter huffed and stared at Sylar, trying and failing to will him into elaborating. Whatever he's trying to say is bitter and cynical and probably not something I want to hear anyway. So he changed the subject. “What about your experiences with mentors?”
XXX
“I already told you,” Sylar said, annoyed. “Did you kill him; Claude?”
XXX
“No.” The answer came immediately, but then Peter gave Sylar a weird look. He thought I'd killed Gabriel's son, Noah, too. What does that mean about him that he keeps thinking I kill people? Peter shook it off. It was another subject he didn't really want to explore at the moment. Instead, he went back to something Sylar had said earlier. “What do you mean about sitting around and experimenting?” He had an ambivalent, prudish interest in the question. While Peter could certainly understand people experimenting with sex, or drugs, or altered mental states, the idea of using powers when you didn't know how they worked just seemed … wrong. And more than a little self-indulgent. Peter was of the opinion that abilities were divine, even if he was fuzzy on the details. To use them for selfish purposes seemed inappropriate in the extreme. Sacrilegious, maybe.
XXX
Something about Peter’s tone or facial expression read of disapproval or outright moral shock. It had Sylar laughing at how out of character that was, or how hypocritical it was. “You’re seriously going to turn your nose up at ‘experimenting’? You’re the one with the dildo and I caught you hard at work trying to ‘experiment.’ I take it you never played with the fun side of telekinesis or shapeshifting,” Sylar intoned in a rumbling voice, with a naughty, knowing, smirking, smug expression. Who’s the experienced one now?
XXX
Peter's response to that ran through the gamut - shock that Sylar would be vulgar enough to bring up Peter's sexual history, confusion about which dildo he was even talking about (it wasn't like Peter had one here; he hadn't even successfully jerked off, much less anything more involved); anger that Sylar had to be using some memory of Nathan's, embarrassment when Peter placed the college incident and wondered what else Sylar knew (he'd always assumed Nathan's lack of further questions to mean he knew more than he did), and then a double-take at Sylar's other insinuation about him being hard at work. What is he talking about? When did he catch me using abilities like that? Or did Nathan? I never did any of that! Is he talking about that look I gave Nurse Hammer in the elevator? And wait, what could you do with telekinesis? A vision of Mohinder on the ceiling came to mind. Whoa … His face heated and his body tingled in a manner that he really wished it wouldn't. He never even got to the part of speculating about shape-shifting. His coat was stiflingly hot all of a sudden.
XXX
Eventually sobering after watching Peter make a few faces, he said, “I don’t know from experience since my ability is understanding things and I didn’t exactly hang around with other specials,” meaning I killed them because I knew their power better than they ever could. “I meant exactly what I said. You never sat down and tried to learn your powers so you wouldn’t have accidents or explosions. If you do it without stress and distractions, immediate danger, then you should be able to apply it to those situations. In theory,” he shrugged, admitting it might not always be possible. “Abilities are fueled or…controlled even, by adrenaline. That much I do know.”
XXX
Peter gladly tried to put aside the undesired mental image of sex on a high, shadowed ceiling with a crowd of oblivious onlookers below. “Like shooting a gun,” he said, not sure if that fit in with what Sylar was saying. Dragging his mind out of the gutter wasn't exactly easy, but he was managing it. “Fate, destiny - I don't think that has anything to do with practice. It's not the same thing. It takes … faith. Belief. Abilities are not ordinary. They don't work that way.”
XXX
“Practice works,” Sylar stated firmly, not buying into the cop-out of ‘faith and destiny.’ He couldn’t count the ways to reason why ‘faith’ didn’t work, especially for Peter, who was the perfect example. The man should be able to feel his way through everything far better than logic-and-mechanics-oriented Sylar, instead Peter was constantly impulsive and half-cocked.
XXX
Peter touched his brow with one hand, then lowered it to swing his jacket open at the waist. “Listen, I'm not a theologian. I don't know. And I'm not a scientist who studies abilities, either.” He paused a moment as a thought occurred to him. “The last person I knew who wanted to 'experiment' with abilities came at me with a syringe full of who-knows-what, but I'd seen what it did to the guy he gave it to before me.” Peter grimaced, taking off his jacket even though the feeling of being overheated in it was fading. “He died, covered with cancerous growths. Mohinder thought I was a better subject since, as he said, my body was primed to accept abilities.” He hesitated again, then said, “You know about that. You were there. You stopped him and saved my life.” 'That's what brothers do for each other.' Peter's expression softened and he tilted his head, regarding Sylar searchingly. Holding his coat by the collar, he swung it back and forth slowly.
XXX
“I can prove practice works and ‘faith’ doesn’t. I don’t put any ‘faith’ into my abilities. They’re reliable and they do what I tell them to,” sometimes they act up when I don’t want them but Peter didn’t need to know that. “I practice and understand my abilities, ordinary or not. You use the ‘pray and play’ method and…well, how has that worked for you? The only other option is a crash course.” Sylar remembered Elle’s tortured past and his own, learning to hunt and kill people efficiently and effectively. “That…only works for some. Just…trust your abilities, they already know what to do. You’re thinking too much and making a mess of your instincts and control.” Sylar waved his hand dismissively. “Like you said,” he spared a look over Peter’s coatless body, “Your body is primed for a lot of things.”
XXX
Peter wasn't exactly bursting at the seams with the urge to argue back, but he was lining up his answer. Then at Sylar's last words, the man checking him out and their brief meeting of the eyes, Peter's brows went up and his desire to debate vanished. A second passed, then another, both accompanied by continuing swishes of his swinging coat and the absence of Sylar doing anything threatening. Peter grinned suddenly, smirking to himself. He thinks I'm hot! Ego thoroughly stroked, Peter threw the coat over his shoulder, laughed lightly, and started towards the elevators. “Come on, killer. Let's go check out the third floor. I think I want to add some resistance bands to my collection.”
XXX
Sylar started to follow until Peter called him ‘killer.’ It shouldn’t shock him but maybe he thought Peter would try to avoid the word and the reality, that Peter would have more tact. For all the other names he was frequently called to his face, that one didn’t crop up often and it certainly was not a compliment. He couldn’t say it was rude or even mean because it was true but…Sylar stopped, frowning at Peter’s retreating back. He didn’t know what to do; he was angry and…yes, hurt, but neither were acceptable responses. Is he going to keep calling me that like it’s funny? I’m not a freak show. That’s all he sees. Peter was significantly ahead of him before Sylar got over himself enough to put his feet into motion, not wanting the medic to get to the elevator, turn around and have to watch Sylar finish the walk under his joyful gaze. Just…pretend that’s normal. It happens all the time, right? Quietly, keeping his head down, Sylar slipped into the car beside Peter. I wanna add you to my ‘collection,’ he thought darkly.
XXX
As they stood in the elevator car, Peter thought about what Sylar had said. Now, instead of trying to refute him, he tried to understand. “I don't get what you were saying. You say 'practice', but then you say 'trust my instincts' and 'don't think about it too much'. Which is it?” Before Sylar could answer, Peter cut in with, “Or are you saying I need to practice enough so it's instinctive, like swinging a bat? A lot of the time, I don't even think about using my abilities. I just think of what I want to do and they activate all by them-, um, themselves.” He cleared his throat, realizing one compliment and moment of open admiration had him gushing like an idiot about things that made him sound like the fucking loose cannon he often saw himself as. He didn't want Sylar or anyone else thinking of him that way - they'd lock him up or worse and he'd already seen how that worked out.
XXX
No surprise there. Sylar’s theory/suspicion was confirmed. “Yeah, I know,” he remarked about that. “You’re making it a…mental thing when it isn’t that. Abilities are a tool, they’re an extension of you so they should do what you want. You don’t think twice to reach for a cup because you practiced it enough as a kid and now it’s instinctive - you’re thirsty, you reach for the cup because you know you the outcome. Killing is instinctive for me; I’ve had a lot of practice,” Sylar smiled widely, shark-like and toothy. He wasn’t about to let that ‘killer’ nickname stick. If Peter was trying to rub it in or make him feel bad, Sylar would throw it right back and make Peter sick with it. He leaned back against the rail and crossed his arms. “So…who is it you want me to kill?” Probably his mother, ender of worlds, behind every plot, killing her own son and Peter hasn’t forgiven anyone for that. He can’t do it himself so he hires out. When did I become the Petrelli’s favorite hit man?
XXX
Peter could not get out of that elevator car fast enough. He'd been elated by the earlier compliment, concerned that he'd put his foot in it by over-blurting, and then discovered his real error had been a casual, thoughtless slip of the tongue. And Sylar couldn't just leave it alone, or even simply make sure Peter knew it was unappreciated. No. Peter moved the fractional distance he had left to him to be against the far wall of the elevator car, waiting impatiently for the damn thing to get to the third floor. He said nothing, his mind having seized up with a failure to find anything physical that he could do to better the situation.
XXX
Well? Sylar raised an eyebrow impatiently. Peter wasn’t jumping on the Petrelli bandwagon with gusto - what was up with that? Maybe he needs a little prompting. “You wanted me to ‘save’ a bunch of people, didn’t you? Including your girlfriend?” Still, Peter was ignoring him, so Sylar badgered further, leaving it open for Peter to respond, “So…?”
XXX
Peter swung around in front of Sylar, abandoning the futile and unconscious effort to distance himself. So he went the other way, getting in Sylar's face. “You're going to do what I want you to do, is that what you're offering? Then never kill anyone again, Sylar! It's simple!” The doors dinged open behind him. Revolted, skin crawling, Peter got the hell out of there before the doors were finished parting, turning sideways in his haste to escape.
XXX
“I wasn’t offering,” Sylar was…confused, insulted and doubting Peter’s believability. That cannot be all he wants. It was that simple. As it was, he felt vindicated that Peter was so upset that he literally squirmed and dashed away. That is who you’re dealing with, Petrelli. You’re the one making things…messy, so deal with it. But you can’t. Don’t fuck with me. In a gruff voice, he barked at the man’s back, “You said you couldn’t stop either! Don’t…don’t even!”
XXX
Peter paced off down a hallway at random, ignoring whatever Sylar had to say behind him. He went inside of the furthest room from the elevator, thinking it would have served Sylar right if he'd just taken the stairs down and left the guy not quite sure where he went, or if he'd be back. The room he found himself in looked like a dance studio, with a smooth-finished wood floor, mirrors lining three walls with a rail at waist height, and lockers on the last wall. He paced in a slow circle, raking at his hair, throwing his coat against one of the walls. When he tired of moving himself around pointlessly, he put himself in the corner of the room, hands on the rails, staring at the door and the little glass window in it that allowed him to see a narrow slice of the hall. I hate him. Those words, those thoughts, could not convey the depth of his loathing at that moment, even though they were the strongest and simplest he had at his disposal.
He didn't know how Sylar would save Emma. It was possible it involved killing or hurting someone, or several someones. Peter knew that, which was why he was so upset. There was no way he was going to let it come to that if he could at all help it. But there was the rub: he didn't know how to prevent it. He couldn't control Sylar. Once they got out, he wouldn't be able to stop him. How many times could he pull off something like at Mercy Heights? His gut tightened into a knot. Sweat formed on his skin. There's no way. He felt trapped. He felt stupid. Stupid to have come here. Was I stupid to have trusted the dream? But what else did I have? Should I have trusted Ma? She wanted to let them die, just like before. I don't know what else I could have done! He took in an unsteady breath, eyes locked on the bit of hallway he could see, waiting. He was perched in the corner of the room like a boxer ready to come out of his corner at someone. Fighting would make it easier.
XXX
Someone running away. How familiar. Sylar let him out of sight, let him have his moment to freak out or calm down, whichever; it wasn’t important. It piqued Sylar’s predatory nature; he could feel himself sliding into that well-worn suit, half-heartedly searching for his next victim to overpower. It was a head rush bordering on arousal of some kind. Slowly, he paced down the hall, peering into the door windows with curiosity. Here, Petey, Petey, Petey… At the last door, he sighted him and Peter was staring right back at him - nervous, excited, cornered and hostile. Concussion or not, the idea of a fight, Peter being visibly ready, was wonderful. Sylar stared at him a moment, unwavering eye contact and largely unspoken but still very clear threat or dare being given. Then, in a calculated move, he turned and disappeared from Peter’s vision, leaving him to wonder where he’d gone and what he was doing. Enjoy the uncertainty, Petrelli.
XXX
Peter remained keyed up and on high alert for long minutes after Sylar had quit the window. He imagined the man lurking just out of sight, probably leaning against the wall waiting for Peter to stop overreacting (while simultaneously fueling that overreaction with his own behavior - it was like poking someone with a stick and then questioning why they jumped). Peter finally exhaled heavily and leaned his head back in the corner of the room, staring up at the ceiling. A few moments after he’d achieved that much equilibrium, he shut his eyes.
A few seconds of closed eyes was all he could manage right now in the way of calming down. He left the corner and started going through the lockers. Compulsive, he noted about his actions. Like going through the apartments. Huh. In any event, he didn’t find anything he wanted - the lockers contained what he assumed was ballet paraphernalia. Mostly this took the form of straps, ribbons, and what looked like harnesses of some kind. He labeled them as ballet-related because he recognized the shoes (and also the room he was in).
The last locker he searched was next to the door. Peter carefully leaned, getting as much angle as he could to look out the window. If he’s out there, he’s either flat to the wall, on the other side, or not close at all. Or crouching on the floor. That’s where I’d be. But I don’t think his mind works that way. Peter moved to the other side of the door, checking that direction. To get there, Sylar would have had to duck under the window or crossed it when Peter wasn’t looking, like when he was messing noisily with the lockers. That would have been a good time. But he’s not there either. Peter double checked. You know, what do I really think he’s going to do, anyway? No real fear materialized in his thoughts. Mostly, he was concerned Sylar might continue to talk to him about things he didn’t want to hear. That social pressure was the danger and Peter didn’t discount it just because it wasn’t physical. Yet it was nice to realize he wasn’t physically afraid of Sylar. Not at the moment, at least.
He opened the door, walking out and checking both sides anyway, but Sylar was gone. Fine. Peter moved down the hall and went into the next room, setting his sights back on his original mission. Maybe, hope against hope, Sylar had been embarrassed and went home. Not likely. And Peter found that was not the case when he finished with his search of the other rooms that led off the hallway. He emerged back to the central atrium, finding Sylar leaning against the wall near the elevators.
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Peter was either too stupid to see what he’d nearly started or he was ignoring it - or, more likely, making a show that he wasn’t intimidated. Whichever it was, he appeared. Sylar’s arms and legs were crossed, the picture of casual comfort as if nothing had happened. He wanted to see what Peter would do about the change. In an innocent voice, he inquired, “Find what you were looking for?” If you didn’t, you sure found me. Peter insulting him was really getting on his nerves so…it was called for.
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“Yeah.” Peter ignored Sylar’s tone, lifting his loot to show it off, which consisted of three resistance bands and some hand grips. His coat, since recovered from the floor of the dance room, was folded over his arm. He looked past him at the buttons to the elevator, then back at Sylar. Peter’s expression was one of disgust and frankly, loathing at the idea of getting back in an elevator car with the guy. No telling what he might say this time. Peter had nothing else he wanted to do here besides go swimming, which he certainly wasn’t going to do with Sylar around. “When are you going home?” he asked bluntly, knowing the answer wouldn’t be anything he wanted to hear, and knowing that just like Sylar, he was poking his adversary with a stick.
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Kinky. Gonna strangle me with those, too? Sylar snorted at the rude question. “When you’re ready to put me to bed,” he shot back, only a little seductive because Peter was so unappreciative. A glance was directed at the giant rubber bands before he turned around to open the elevator doors. When he turned back, Peter was gone, leaving only the sound of his heavy boots on the stairs.
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Peter snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that happening,” and headed off down the stairs. No elevator ride for him. The stairs sounded like a nice stretch of his legs. That's what I need. Just get away from him - more, longer, again. It's not 'leaving' him if I'm still around. I never promised to keep him company - just not to leave the world. He didn't hurry. It would be undignified to make it seem like a race and besides, with the elevator car right there and Peter heading down three flights of broad, curving stairs with his hands full, it wasn't likely he'd win if it was.
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Sylar made a face. He wanted to follow after Peter, just…not using the stairs. If he didn’t use the stairs, he might lose Peter in any number of floors, rooms, or even the building. Most likely Peter had to pass through the lobby at some point. Sylar stepped into the car, hitting the ‘L’ button. When the doors opened, he slid out and scanned the atrium. He tried to remind himself this happened all the time - Peter being out of his sight, location unknown, leaving him by himself. It seemed too easy to accomplish and it didn’t make him feel any better. There was no sign of the man. Did I miss him? Or did I beat him? Sylar began to wander about and physically search, in case Peter was hiding or…waiting to ambush him…
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Peter turned the last corner, seeing Sylar on the ground floor looking up at him. Peter huffed and then grunted unhappily, but kept coming down. He felt a great upwelling of aversion. He wasn't angry; he just didn't want to be near the guy. He didn't want the memories Sylar stirred up inside him. He didn't want to think about why he was here and how frustrating it was that Sylar couldn't be trusted to save anyone without killing someone else to do it. Peter didn't want to talk to him and have that occasional normal thing of getting excited and happy about interacting with someone only to have his enthusiasm crushed because of some accidental error of his. Peter knew he made too many mistakes. He couldn't not make them - he wasn't that good and no amount of training by his father, coaching by his brother, and getting hit in the face by life was going to make him something he wasn't. The only way to avoid fucking up was not to talk to Sylar at all, which was fine with him.
Peter walked past Sylar like he wasn't there, heading for the door. He stopped near it to put on his headband and coat, leaving the gloves off because he needed the dexterity to hang onto everything with his left hand. He didn't look at Sylar or talk to him, even though he heard the man come up behind him.
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“Where are you going?” Sylar frowned, walking to him. Peter wasn’t hustling to get away from him, putting on his gear indoors, but he wasn’t lingering around for Sylar. He didn’t get close and Peter didn’t let him get closer, hell, he’d barely looked at him. What am I supposed to do, just…take his crap? This is not all my fault! It was dawning on him that Peter wished to be left alone when the silence reigned loudly even over the noises of the man’s rustling clothes. “What are you gonna do?” he asked more softly.
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Peter glanced at Sylar at that softer tone. Yeah, hurts, doesn't it? To have someone take something you said and react totally different from how you wanted them to? How the hell did you expect me to react, Sylar? He huffed again and headed out the door. He didn't want to actually say any of that to Sylar because he didn't want to deal with the response. He hunched against the cold, trying to tuck his right hand into the pocket of the jacket. It was only a couple blocks, but he knew it would feel longer with Sylar trailing along after him. This time, Peter made no attempt to regulate his pace to Sylar's, an act that left him feeling weirdly disjointed inside.
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“Peter…” Sylar tried. He then followed at a distance when Peter made no effort to let him keep up yet he tagged along anyway, not knowing what else to do. He started it…He made me do it; why would he think that was funny? Him, to me, of all people. That’s all he sees me as? But I thought…I don’t know what I thought. Sylar resolutely kept after Peter, maybe not being aggressive or knowing how to counter this behavior…yet. He was only slightly worried about being attacked; his concern about letting Peter out of his sight was ever present. It’s been days since I’ve seen him! he felt he whined like some kind of addict needing his fix, rationalizing things (like Peter) that were very bad for him.
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Peter dropped off his stuff in the exercise room of the Pegasus, which was the name of the apartment building across from his own - the name of the one with the piano and recreation room. It was a weird name, but he supposed it was better than the Icarus. He smiled a little. English had been one of his better subjects in school and Greek mythology, with the tales of heroes and gods, had been a favorite. He supposed he should look around for the name of the building he lived in, but he hadn't done it yet. He turned towards the door was Sylar was just showing up. The smile vanished, replaced by a deepening frown.
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Sylar followed him in all three doors, hovering anxiously inside the personalized gym room. Am I even supposed to be here? What are the odds he’ll suddenly answer me or talk to me? “Are you just going to try to ignore me…today?” he threw on the last word in an attempt to see how long Peter was going to try to punish him. He asked this as Peter neared him to leave the room, assuming it wasn’t called for to punch his face or any other body part. It’s just one of those days when my voice is…upsetting. That depressed him. It wasn’t like the cure was not talking - that wasn’t working either.
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Yes, I'm going to try to ignore you. It was better than physical violence, Peter assumed, although he knew it was still 'violence' of a sort to refuse contact with someone so desperate for it. At the same time, he was so fucking tired of trying to play nice with the guy who had killed his brother. Passive though the silent act was, it was at least a blow against someone whom Peter, at times, dearly wanted to hurt. He walked out past Sylar without response.
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Still, Sylar refused to shake. “That’s not fair, you know. You started it. What did you expect me to do about it?” Obviously not what I did but… Even though I just reminded him of something he thought was…casual and accepted and I didn’t even do anything bad, so what the hell? “Why do you keep expecting me to take your shit, Petrelli? Is it…personal, the person you want me to kill; is that your issue?” Like his fucking mother?
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He was going out the doors towards outside while Sylar talked, with the 'you started it' leaving Peter not sure if he'd missed something over the noise. Standing outside, he stopped to put on his gloves and, truth be told, hear the rest of what Sylar had to say. Ah, the 'killer' thing. That's what he thinks I started. Okay. And yeah, you're right. I started that. I fucked up. Thanks for reminding me why I shouldn't talk to you. At all. He turned left, walking off towards the river that was a few blocks away, in the opposite direction of Sylar's apartment and the rest of the city. I wonder if the river's iced over enough for me to walk across it? I wonder if I'd die if I fell through the ice and … um, died? Would I really die? Would Sylar save me? I think he'd try. But that's because I matter to him. He'd be alone otherwise. But a thousand strangers in Central Park? Meaningless to him. Peter shook his head, disgusted by that attitude.
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Okay, last or first resort of communication (depending on how you looked at it) a failure, so Sylar moved on to his next option, something he hoped was peaceable enough. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Sylar yelled about the continued rudeness. “Goddamnit…” he said and sped up to grab Peter’s arm and turn him forcibly around, standing none too close as he did it. “I won’t go away just because you ignore me!”
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I should have been walking faster. Peter got jerked around, Sylar's hand on his right bicep, Peter's left hand curling into a fist in case this was a fight. He'd let his 'ignore Sylar' mode extend beyond the man's words to his proximity as well. Peter stared at him. Sucks for me, then, he thought in response to Sylar's words, but he couldn't think of anything snappy enough to justify breaking his silence. By now, talking would be conceding defeat; admitting Sylar had won and forced him to engage. Somewhere along the line, it had stopped being convenient and started being a contest. He reached across and pried Sylar's fingers off his arm, staring threat at the guy the whole time, trying to communicate with eyes and expression alone that grabbing him was crossing the line into physical, which Peter would allow without retaliation only this once.
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It was the glaring eye contact, demanding his submission, that got to him; that and the slow, cold way Peter pried his hand off like he was a some insect to be brushed aside, as casual as that. Sylar stood there and stared, feeling somehow betrayed by the continued treatment and silence. Not a single word, not an acknowledgement or affirmation. Sylar didn’t really think about it - Goddamnit, he wanted a reaction of some kind! As soon as Peter looked away, Sylar raised that same shrugged-away hand and used it to shove at Peter’s back. To show how much he equally failed to care, he turned on his heel and walked in the direction opposite of where Peter was going. He left his back exposed and the jumpy little Italian had strangulation devices, motive and now inclination to use them. (Maybe I want him to do something like that again). Or maybe I just don’t care. That’s beyond rude - it’s mean. He consoled himself with daydreams of Peter becoming lonely, looking for and finding him in his need, and saying something far-fetched about how Sylar wasn’t just a killer; however impossible that was.
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Peter jerked at the unexpected shove, turning and bringing up his hands defensively. Eyes wide, he took in Sylar's retreating back, comprehending that the contact wasn't the first blow in a fight, but rather the last word in an argument they'd been carrying out without speaking. Huffing for his part in the 'conversation', Peter turned away again and headed off.
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Sylar was more than happy to avoid Peter in turn. He holed himself up in his apartment, first sitting down with his clocks. It had been days since he’d touched them. It was almost as if Peter had never been here except for Sylar’s raging head pains and aching toes. He was angry, the unfortunately-too-familiar low simmer of being treated unfairly with no solution but to suck it up and take it with the expectation of receiving more of the same. He thinks I won’t hurt him. His wants and needs aren’t the only things here. Still, he focused on his refusal to let Peter treat him like some lesser creature. (At the same time, a smaller part of him knew that his neediness would outweigh Petrelli’s stubbornness and Sylar would be the one crawling back). He was wound up but forced focus on his precious mechanisms helped. Ironically, that included the one Peter had shaken a few weeks ago (that one was less therapeutic). When he began to overanalyze, he moved to the couch to curl up and read. It almost worked. Time felt slow without Peter even with all his clocks surrounding him, ticking away in perfect time in a place where that was meaningless except to his sense of order and contentment. When it grew dark, he got up and fixed himself dinner but mostly poked at it without interest. He spent another miserable night alone.
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Continued...