More Between Us Chapter 79/? "Closed Encounters"
More Between Us, Chapter 79/? "Closed Encounters"
Day 31, January 9, Morning
Sylar stopped by Peter’s apartment. If he allowed it, both men would gladly draw out this stupid confrontation and avoidance maneuver that was fast becoming habit, much to Sylar’s disgust. What pissed him off today was the fact that he didn’t know where Peter lived, specifically. Without that knowledge he’d never know if Peter was in the building or not. This is about the time he gets up…I think. Of course he didn’t know that for certain either. When waiting in the lobby (because it was cold outside and he didn’t feel like punishing himself more than Peter was sure to) didn’t work, he wandered off. What do I know about him? He likes being thanked, playing hero, having food made for him, exercising, exploring nonsensically and asking me personal questions and taking offense at my answers and questions. I don’t feel like thanking him for starting a fight but maybe I can cook for him. Sylar swung by the diner Peter had mentioned he often ate at but it looked like he’d just missed him - the dishes were still cooling and wet where they’d been cleaned. Guess he already had breakfast. What would Peter look for? What’s he interested in? Anything that doesn’t involve me. That doesn’t narrow anything down. He circled outward, looking into buildings as he passed.
Sylar saw Peter at the damaged store; the man was slightly stooped presumably in the act of cleanup. It left his backside exposed to all kinds of contact and every flavor of sexual assault that Sylar’s overactive imagination provided. Despite his mind being consumed with filth, he approached Peter after doing a visual weapons check. There was still the broom, dustpan and a bucket. He kept what he thought was a safe distance, not wanting to tempt Peter or be tempted himself. His greeting was an attempt at casual, “Hey,” like nothing had happened.
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Peter's head whipped around at the sound of a voice where none should have been, his body following a second later as he caught sight of Sylar. Sneaky bastard! He scanned over Sylar, then around him as though Sylar might have brought backup to assist in an attack. But … he saw no danger. At least, none other than Sylar, standing there empty-handed and yet still by far the biggest danger Peter knew of. He breathed out slowly, remembering their tiff of the day before - calling Sylar 'killer', Sylar being threatening and unsettling in response, Peter deciding he was done talking to the man, and Sylar being upset by that. The possibility of going on without talking ran through Peter's mind, but it seemed petty, especially when Peter felt he was the one who had fucked things up to start with.
“Hey,” he said with the greatest of reservation and an extra glance up and down Sylar, trying to get a better read on his attitude and intentions. Peter's hand on the broom handle flexed and released a few times.
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“You’re still cleaning this?” Sylar asked with some surprise in his voice, a curious frown on his face as he surveyed the damage. Most of the glass was beneath the eaves and thus free of snow, there was a line of melted snow-drips from the gutter denoting where the eave’s protection ended. Beyond that was half-melted snow that would likely hide any remaining shards. He didn’t offer to help - this was Peter’s mess and he would be the one to clean it. When Peter seemed intent on finishing, Sylar leaned against the nearby wall.
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Peter tilted his head at the question, his brows pulling together a beat later. He maneuvered, getting on the other side of the small pile he'd swept together, which put him facing Sylar. It was polite, but he was doing it because it was safer. He felt very uneasy about having Sylar here, where they'd had their last bad fight. The location had him overanalyzing everything Sylar said, looking for possible provocation.
“It's still a mess.” He straightened a bit further, shoulders going back and chin up. The push broom was in one hand and the dustpan was dangling from his right, his index finger hooked through the hole in the end of it. “I haven't been out here since we both were, before. And I just got here,” he added with a trace of heat, not liking the possible insinuation that he'd been working at this for hours or even days without progress. He waited a long beat, eyes not leaving Sylar's. “What are you here for?” he asked with the clear implication Sylar couldn't be here just to hang out (or, God forbid, help). He had to be here wanting something and probably not something Peter wanted to give. Or he'd come here to start shit, which Peter was mentally gearing up to match in kind.
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Sylar’s heart sank. Peter was in a markedly unfriendly mood this morning, with no provocation. Sylar mentally grit his teeth over his instinctive thoughts (He started it yesterday!) He had no desire to be hit or to get into an altercation - it was cold, he was tired and strung out, lonely and sick. He didn’t doubt Peter would hit him, what with the pre-emptive broom-gripping, and the supposed-empath was already rude. Sylar considered leaving since he was so far from welcome. He didn’t enjoy being stared down; he mostly kept his own eyes on the broom when he wasn’t glancing at Peter’s eyes. I didn’t know I needed an excuse…I should have thought of that. Why didn’t I think of that? I always need an excuse (I didn’t when he was taking care of me…) His head and toe still hurt and he didn’t feel one hundred percent so that would be his go-to excuse as needed - you break it, you buy it. But he wasn’t going to be run off. “Just here to watch you work,” he snitted back, barely polite. I guess ‘good morning’ or an olive branch isn’t going to cut it with him. Then what the hell does he want?
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Great. Thanks. Just what I need - an audience. Peter exhaled heavily and went to one knee to scoop up his latest pile. It was awkward work, setting up the dustpan with his right hand and then pulling the push broom towards him with his left. The leverage was bad, but he hadn't thought he'd be doing it under observation. Under a lot of circumstances, Peter liked to be watched. This was not one of them.
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When Peter didn’t comment - actually a relief, as a comment would probably start a fight - Sylar sighed after a moment. The only sound was that hyper-quiet noise of winter, no wind, the muffled world hidden in a snowdrift, and the sound of Peter sweeping and breathing. “How do you sleep? In your apartment,” he asked randomly, but with purpose. He wanted to know if he was alone in sleeping poorly without company - Peter, who had the habit of sneaking into Nathan’s room to pester and cuddle him for the slightest little thing. It wasn’t that he’d been afraid of the dark or monsters particularly, as a kid, Peter hadn’t liked people-less void even in sleep; unlike Sylar who had reason to be afraid of the monsters under his bed, inside his apartment and its inhabitants, or within his mind. They were the kind he felt would snatch him the moment his eyes were shut and no one but him knew they existed. Sylar straightened; he was just…curious.
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“Well enough. Why do you ask?” Peter He finished pushing the broom around for what he expected to be the last circuit of the exterior. At least until the ice and snow melted. He'd gotten up everything on the outside that there was to be picked up. Fortunately there was enough of a canopy that the interior hadn't suffered much weather damage yet.
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“I was just curious,” Sylar replied and desperately tried to keep it at that. He tried to think of three or more things at once to confuse his brain into silence. Those other-person memories were rising up again, //remembering Peter as a child…the ego strokes and the hope, the comfort he’d provided to his older brother…// Pi, a complication and string theory…C’mon…He couldn’t focus too much on his expression, but he was sure it looked tense.
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Peter frowned. It wasn't enough of a reason and in fact, the passive-aggressive inquiry set him off. The polite thing to do was to inquire in return about Sylar's sleep, especially given the nightmares might have intensified in Peter's absence, and disturbed sleep might be medically important given the concussion. He wasn't feeling polite. Instead, he felt watched, confronted, and judged. And now the insinuation that Peter needed to spend his time meeting Sylar's needs for companionship? Heh. Fuck him. Maybe if he'd stop killing people, he'd have someone around who wanted to spend time with him.
Standing next to one of the broken storefront windows, about fifteen feet from Sylar, Peter faced him, broom in his left hand, right hand empty. “How do you sleep? Given what you've done in your life?” He held the broom forward, between them, a very similar pose to that he'd adopted before their last fight here. “You talked about changing. You've had a lot of opportunities, but there you were at Mercy Heights to kick. My. Ass.” He gestured at the store with his right hand to distract from how he twisted the wooden broom handle several times with his left to unscrew it from the unwieldy base. “And here, the last time we were here. For the same reason, as far as I can tell.” Which Peter was thinking might be the same reason why Sylar was here now, hence the weapon prep. “You got pissed and picked a fight. That's not someone I want to sleep near or hang out with, Sylar. Go the fuck on. You're well enough to threaten me in your apartment; you're well enough to be in it all by yourself.”
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Sylar just stared, trying to wade through the mean, judgmental aggression aimed directly at him. It wasn’t pleasant; it hurt, but curiosity of where or why this was happening made him stay and figure it out. With a lot less emotion in general, Sylar replied, “I don’t sleep well because of things that have been done to me, too. You’re not some righteous, angelic victim who’s safe to hang out with yourself, Petrelli. Look at you: I’m defenseless, standing out of reach, trying to start a normal conversation as I understand it, and you’re getting ready to hit me,” Sylar nodded at the broom handle, now free of the weighted broom end itself.
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Peter snorted. “Sure,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “You're just as defenseless now as you were last time we were here.” He shifted the broom handle to be sure it was free from the base, since Sylar had clearly seen through his attempt at subterfuge. “And we both know how that turned out. Don't start with me. I'll mess you up, win or lose.”
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Sylar sighed and looked up at the cold grey-white sky for a moment. That much was peaceful and it made sense. How he can feel threatened by me saying ‘good fucking morning’ when he’s the one holding the damn broom is just…Control, patience, logic, those were the things what he needed right now, and, unfortunately, Peter’s company and possibly medical expertise. “I’m not starting anything. I’m just standing here, talking, without any threats but obviously you have something to say about feeling threatened.” He looked back at Peter, trying to will some sense into the kid. “So what’s going to make you feel better, safer?” Correcting himself because that was way too open-ended around the spitfire empath, “And don’t say ‘me leaving,’ because I won’t - you need to deal with whatever your issue is.”
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Peter's eyes narrowed to slits as he stared Sylar down. A few tense seconds passed as he waited. Is it a trick? (Of course it's a trick. He'd probably lose if we fought. He wants to know what he can do to calm me down.) That's probably not a bad idea - calming down. Peter drew in a deep breath, tapping the metal end of the broom handle restlessly on the ground, because he really wanted to be beating Sylar with it. But he wasn't looking at Sylar while he did it - he turned his head to the side and dipped it. A wave of anger so all-encompassing it was dizzying passed through him. He remembered the joy he'd taken in trashing this place, intermixed with flashes of their fight here and frustrated impressions of his darker desires to gouge out Sylar's eyes and torture him in various ways. He lifted the stick to jab the end of it several times against the nearby brick wall, hard. Then he walked away, ten paces, before turning, whacking the stick against the wall carelessly but intentionally, and coming back with a body language that spoke more of going from point A to B than of any preparation to charge or attack.
He stopped next to the base of the broom, right where he'd started from. Finally, he managed to bring himself back to Sylar's question and give voice to things he'd been bottling up. “What the fuck are you here for if it's not to threaten me? I try to fix lunch for you the other day and you're crowding me. I tell you to cut it out and you tell me I don't get to have my own space. Or yesterday,” he gestured, left-handed with the pole held vertically, then grimaced at it and propped it against the wall to get it out of his hand and out of the way (a very clear sign that Peter thought words might gain him more than bludgeoning instruments), “we're talking, things are okay, and then you start about killing people. That's not what I came here for, Sylar! I shouldn't have said what I did, but it was a fucking joke and if I can't … talk ...” He shook his head in frustration. “Then I won't fucking talk to you, okay?”
“Why are you here? Why are you watching me? Why are you asking me about my sleep unless it's some lead-in about how you're not sleeping well and you want me to move back in with you or something?” He didn't wait for an answer, talking rapid-fire as fast as the thoughts came to him. “And what happens when I say no and tell you to stick it? Then we have another fight, just like the last couple times I've tried to walk away from you.” He waved his hand at the broom handle, which he hadn't moved away from and was still ready at hand. “If that's what's going to happen this time, then I might as well win. That's my issue.”
He had no idea what Sylar would do with such an emotional dump, nor did he care. It felt good to give vent to the accumulated issues surrounding proximity to Sylar. He was trying to stay confined to recent events, things that had immediate bearing on his current anger. He'd even managed it without telling Sylar to take a hike, so there was that.
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Sylar watched throughout Peter’s entire process. He gave a lot of attention to it and tried to not look creepy or threatening or anything else while doing it. It was a comfort, and a small victory, when Peter set the broom handle aside. Only when Peter was finished did Sylar look away, contemplating the mostly-emotional, general information. Whatever Peter had said seemed to help him but it was of little use to Sylar as it was. How much of that am I supposed to respond to? Probably none. I don’t think he’s…listening right now. “…Okay. So what is going to make you feel safer?” I can’t promise anything but I think I should know.
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Peter snapped out the answer immediately. “Indicate in some way that you understand why I feel threatened. You're getting that I am - right, I am - but do you understand why? Do you understand that you've killed, assaulted, or threatened to kill or assault, a lot of people I care about, and that means I take threats and threatening behavior from you very seriously? Does any of that matter to you?”
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“Yes,” Sylar said simply, encompassing all the man’s questions at once with as much sincerity as he could manage. It matters, just probably not the way it matters to you. I would realize that but he doesn’t…Of course being taken seriously is important and I haven’t threatened him out of turn, just when I needed to. He’s…doing the same thing? The commonality was surprising, and obvious now that he was aware of it, but he lacked the time he would like to spend pondering it. He has to make sure I don’t feel threatened so I don’t threaten him; and I have to do the same for him, I guess? Sylar could feel his stress rising, but from somewhere, he summed up, “I don’t trust you, Petrelli, and I never will. I can live with you because I have to and you need to live with me because you have to. You can’t expect me to act any differently when you keep throwing things in my face and acting like you’re better than me. We can always keep things the way they are; it’s not shocking to me; but you don’t play by the same rules so even that doesn’t work.”
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Peter's weight shifted forward at 'yes'. He seemed to hang there for a moment, overbalanced forward until he settled back. A load of tension dropped from him - his shoulders relaxed, his color improved, his face smoothed. That helped. Maybe he wasn't just talking past Sylar; maybe they were understanding each other right now. Peter was listening when Sylar went on. His lips tightened at first, but he didn't answer right away. He blinked and looked down, eyes scanning slightly as he went over what Sylar had said, thinking about exactly what he'd said and trying to work out what he meant.
Slowly, he said, “I can understand why you don't trust me. Not completely, at least. You trust me some. That's enough. We don't … have to see each other. It's not a requirement.” He hesitated. He wasn't sure he could hack the loneliness and he was fairly certain Sylar couldn't - not with the knowledge that Peter was out there somewhere. Sylar would literally have nothing else to do but spend his time tracking Peter down, which was a really good argument against trying to deliberately avoid him. “But if you mean we're going to see a lot of each other because we're the only ones here, then yeah, I agree with that.” Grudgingly he added, “We have to be able to put up with each other and deal with our … issues.” Speaking of which, “You say I'm acting like I'm better than you. Can you tell me what I'm doing,” Peter paused to get his wording right, aiming for non-defensive and non-contradictory, “when I'm acting like that?”
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Sylar opened his mouth, but his brain stalled so he closed it. There’s something to that question…He can’t make things much worse - it’s not that. It’s the fact that he is better than me and he wants me to say as much. “Ah…mmm….You just keep thinking things happen the way you say they happen,” he changed the subject with half the force he could muster. Avoiding eye contact, he looked everywhere but at Peter.
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And …? What other way would they happen? Is he saying I'm lying? Wait, he's acting weird. Peter tracked Sylar's sudden absence of eye contact. There was a small family of related emotions that could explain it: guilt, duplicity, shame, submission. It made what little Sylar had said be suspect of truth. Peter pressed for more information. “Yeah? Tell me more. It sounds like that's an 'issue'. I want to know what's causing it.”
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“I’m not gonna chase you down if you won’t move closer. It’s…” a dumb idea? “It’s just more convenient.” Sylar hunched his shoulders, turning aside. He paused before clearing his throat. How is seeing each other not a requirement? “Is this the last of your projects or…?”
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Peter's brows rose at Sylar's complete evasion of the topic he'd been the one to bring up - confronting issues and making things better, or at least survivable, between them. He's embarrassed - embarrassed that I asked him what I was doing that meant I was acting better than him. Is that … because he doesn't want me to stop acting better than him? Or … because he thinks I am better? “Not going to answer my question, are you?”
Peter shrugged. He certainly wasn't going to push it if Sylar wasn't feeling up to enumerating Peter's faults. Instead, he reached for the broom, screwed the handle into the base, and headed for the ruined doorway, social convention and habit preventing him from stepping through the equally smashed display window, even if that would have been a shorter route to where he was going. Over his shoulder, he agreeably changed to Sylar's proffered substitute subject, saying, “This is what I was planning on doing this morning. I thought I'd be able to get everything cleaned up before lunch. Then I'd have to figure out how to actually fix it.”
To Peter's surprise, once it was clear he was going inside the building, Sylar followed him in, sticking closer to him than he'd like. His goal now was to sweep up everything on the inside, clear out the ruined displays, and throw away anything that couldn't be salvaged. He assumed that once in the trash, the stuff would eventually disappear. It was interesting it hadn't vanished from the ground already. Peter suspected the damage had some kind of psychic significance. He wondered if maybe, in some way, it had accomplished exactly what he'd initially intended in striking a blow at Sylar's consciousness and forcing Sylar to take notice of him. He wondered, too, if the fact he'd given Sylar such a bad concussion at their fight here wasn't coincidental either. Musing, he swept as busily as a one and a half-handed man can, at one point telling Sylar in a low voice, “Get further back. You're in my way and I'm not going anywhere.” What Peter had interpreted as Sylar's embarrassment had broken the impression of haughty, superior disapproval Sylar had been dishing out earlier. Now he was just there and his presence bothered Peter so much less.
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After putting his foot in his mouth - and worse, being called on his backpedaling - Sylar was inclined to stay quiet. It wasn’t necessarily a happy quiet but he wasn’t exactly brimming with ways to further embarrass himself and call Peter’s wrathful attention down on him. It was a little more insulated inside but the fact that it was shaded and without sun compared to where he’d been standing outside evened things out. He was leaned against the checkout counter, still out of Peter’s immediate range with the broom, comfortable to watch since he hadn’t been directed to and couldn’t see how to help with only one set of tools anyway (besides, shouldn’t Peter fix his own mess?) Sylar’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he frowned a little. Why would he need to say he’s not going anywhere? Either way, given how aggressive things had been just moments before, any warning to get back was well-heeded. Sylar hustled back, unsure how far ‘further back’ was, luckily not tripping on any glass or merchandise as he went and keeping an eye on Peter as he did so.
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“Sylar, we live, like, a block apart. Two if you count that alley, but really, it's one block's distance. That's a lot more convenient than I'm comfortable with most days.”
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Sylar slumped, hands in his pockets. I know but I can’t keep tabs on you from two blocks away! I don’t even know where you live and it’s not fair. (I’m still worried I have to move…I don’t want to. What if he disappears and I can’t…) Sylar was only dealing with the lack of proximity because he had no choice and felt he would come unglued if he didn’t and he feared the loss of his sanity more than most things but in the process of holding himself together, felt he was still coming apart, just more slowly. It stung to hear the part where even that proximity made Peter uncomfortable (to say the least). He thought he’d moved back far enough that he wouldn’t be near any glass but he found an escaped piece, about the size of a marble, perfect for kicking around for the hell of it. And I can hang onto it, hide it, and tell him he missed it after he’s finished, he thought sadistically. As it was, Sylar amused himself with that piece of glass and his shoe. He must have hit the window really hard to get glass back this far, realizing some more, how angry and dangerous Peter was. He said he did this before he found me.
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Peter kept half an eye on Sylar. The guy looked really unhappy. Peter had rarely seen anyone who looked so much like they needed a hug - not that Peter was interested in giving one, but he would like to see Sylar happier. The source of Sylar’s despondency could be any of several topics - Peter not wanting to be near him, some reflection on the destruction, the ‘better than you’ issue, or maybe something Peter had said in the course of his ranting. Or maybe it was all of those, since none of them really made for a cheery mood. Together, yeah, he could see how they could grind Sylar down and shut him up. It was satisfying in a way, but disturbing in another. Peter didn’t like knowing he was the source of someone else’s misery, even when that someone else was Sylar.
“You doing okay?”
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Sylar just nodded and kept the eye contact to a minimum. Not only do I terrify him, I make him uncomfortable when he’s aware of me when I’m not around. (Is that…fair? He does the same to m-) I’m not afraid of him and his fucking broom handle. He knows what I’m capable of and he’s treating me like a credible threat like he fucking should. (Hmm…I’d use plywood to cover the windows…)
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Huh. Kay. I’m getting the cold shoulder, but he’s still here. And I swear he’s getting closer. Sylar hadn’t moved that far off when asked - maybe a couple arm’s lengths and when Peter looked back up the next time, he didn’t even seem to be that far away anymore. He was messing with something underfoot and shuffling back. Peter finished the main part of sweeping and went to lean against the counter where Sylar had been earlier. The broom was left against the front wall of the store some ten or twenty feet away. “That’s it with sweeping for now. Next I’ll get all that stuff out of the way and haul it back to the dumpster.” He gestured at the ruined displays. “I think they’ll have a dumpster, right? It’s a big store.” He looked to Sylar for an affirmation even though he already knew the answer.
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A glance told him Peter was looking at him. Sylar nodded and went back to playing with his find of destroyed window.
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Peter kept going with the small talk, not letting silence fall between them even if he was struggling to find things to say. “Once I get all that out of the way, I’ll sweep again.”
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Why not just pick up all the big stuff then sweep once? But whatever keeps you busy and not…assaulting me is a good thing, I guess. “Are you going to need hardware supplies?” He was curious if Peter’s intent still matched the words Sylar thought he remembered, about fixing the store completely or as best he could given the circumstances. Is he doing it out of guilt, do-rightness, or…does he know it would make me feel better?
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“Yeah, I will after I get this cleaned up. You walked me by a store a few weeks ago and pointed it out - I remember that. It was somewhere up north of here, but I didn’t see it when I was out canvassing the neighborhood. Could you lead me there again, after lunch?” Peter knew he was giving the impression they’d eat lunch together, but that was intentional. He’d like the company. He wondered how well Sylar had been eating. He suspected the answer was ‘not’.
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Sylar nodded once more, this time answering verbally also, “Yeah.” He wants to go for a walk. I want to sleep. With him. Around. At this point, I think it would be hazardous to my health to sleep near him. The subject of lunch was in question; Sylar’s assumed they would meet up after lunch despite the more obvious lead-in to dining together. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food but he didn’t feel like eating beyond that; certainly he wasn’t anywhere near his full strength and that motivated him to keep the peace with Peter.
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Peter nodded to him, pleased to see Sylar perking up some. He reached over in a long leaning motion and gave him a couple quick, encouraging pats on the upper arm. This was despite and maybe because of Sylar’s comment during the argument in his apartment - that Peter got in his space without asking. What did that mean? Did this count? Was Sylar going to object to what Peter saw as normal, casual touch or had he been talking about his apartment rather than his person?
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Sylar’s eyes widened a little and he went still. It was a slow, purposeful motion, Peter’s hand coming towards him, but it could easily be used to gain a handhold and yank him off balance or worse… Yet he allowed it. And nothing came of it. He didn’t want to admit he breathed easier when Peter moved away.
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“Come on. Help me load up a couple of those shopping carts with trash, then we’ll push them out back to the dumpster.” Helping made people feel better. Peter strongly believed that. If Sylar wasn’t going to be difficult about the patting, then maybe they could get through doing something together without trying to kill each other.
The debris consisted of a handful of battered, headless mannequin torsos (not that Peter had ripped off arms, legs, or heads - they were made that way), a lot of scattered clothes, pegboard and display backboards, some signs, and pieces from one of the window frames Peter had bashed on repeatedly enough to dislodge it from the brick facade. He rolled a shopping cart over nearby, hoping that Sylar would join him, and tried to figure out how to get as much of the stuff as possible in it. “I suppose the big things, like the pegboard and stuff, should go on top, last. Maybe we should put the mannequins and clothes in first.” He glanced over to Sylar for his opinion.
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“Hmm. I can hold the big stuff on top.” Sylar said, surveying what needed transport. His eyes caught on the mannequins - white, but still clearly and intentionally humanoid in structure, just as clearly lacking arms, legs and heads. This was probably the closest thing to a life-sized human around, except for Peter. There were pictures of people in any kind of printed material but they lacked faces. Sylar tried not to find it karmic and creepy that these torsos were mocking him, otherwise existing in his Hell. He still didn’t want to touch them (rather, maybe he wanted to touch them too much, representing humans as they did, disgusting as that was - it wasn’t like he could touch Peter). Carefully, Sylar squatted down and began to gather the clothes, standing and moving to squat again because it was easier on his head than bending over…and he still didn’t want to be doing that anyway around Peter. When he had an armful, all the while keeping track of Peter, he dumped them in the cart, thinking how very similar it was to when he killed someone and had to handle the body. I took Zane’s clothes. He swallowed and left the rest of the mannequins to Peter. “Maybe we should keep these for the next time you get angry,” he muttered about mannequins and Peter’s violent habits.
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“Haha. Yeah, right.” Peter took it as a joke, which was a deliberate choice. He had every reason to be angry at Sylar and the man's comment implied those reasons were insufficient. But Peter didn't want to fight, so he laughed it off. He hefted a mannequin over his shoulder in a faux show of strength (they were really light weight). “Better than beating on each other, that's for sure.” He thought about tossing it into the cart in a further display of prowess, but … he'd never been happy about people taking liberties with the emergency services training dummies. He set it in the cart after pulled the metal pole out of its posterior. “I thought about getting a hanging bag for the workout room. Maybe I'll do that someday. It would give me something safe to hit when I get tense.”
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Meaning he has to hit something when he’s ‘tense.’ Great. Sylar deliberately avoided considering that depressing reality, instead beginning to gather up the signs, righting what clothes hangers he could. It was a little more time consuming because he had to move slower, get lower to grab them up. He went after things he thought Peter couldn’t, literally, handle with a single hand - the window frame and most of the displays.
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The largest piece of pegboard was awkward in size and weight. Peter pulled it free from the other store displays and hauled it noisily and clumsily over next to the carts, where he paused while he tried to figure out how to deal with it in a way that didn't endanger everything nearby. “It's a little thick to kick in half,” he mused. “I'm not sure it will stay on the cart, though.” He reached down and lifted the nearest corner, not sure what he was going to do.
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Sylar hastened to help Peter get the board up. It was heavy and unwieldy, a two-person job, assuming Peter would allow that. Sylar took the other end and helped lift and maneuver it onto the cart where it seemed likely to slide off regardless of placement. “I’ll hold it.” And then he noticed that the loaded cart was well inside the building - with the pegboard, it was unlikely to fit through the door. I should have…thought of that. Why didn’t I? Well, he brought it in here, which was half-smart.
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“Okay,” Peter nodded. “Then we'll just take one cart out at a time.” He backed it up slowly, craning his head towards the back of the store. “You're taller. Do you see the way out back there? There should be a couple double doors.”
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Oh, good. Maybe he already scouted- “Yeah. There,” he pointed, carefully, to his right, supporting the board on the cart with his left. “To your…left.”
XXX
They walked it out, slow and easy, down the central aisle of the store and through the double doors in the back. There was, as Peter had expected, a set of freight doors in the back. A little exploration showed the dumpster not far from there. The stuff was piled in it without a problem, although they had to work together on the pegboard. Peter side-eyed Sylar as they headed back. Sometimes he was too close, like earlier; now he was staying oddly far away. It was like he was afraid Peter might try to run him down with the cart or something. Peter didn't miss the slight cant to Sylar's head that let him see Peter in his peripheral vision. There were moments when the man's fear of him was palpable.
What did I do? So I kind of threatened to hit him with a broom handle. I don't think that's what his deal is. Yesterday I wouldn't talk to him and he got upset. A few days before that, we argued in his kitchen and he kicked me out. He wasn't afraid of me like this then. He was … he was pretty off yesterday, too. Not like this, though. He's not going to want to answer, 'what are you afraid of?' I need to make it less direct.
As they returned to the front, Peter asked, “When we were arguing in your apartment last time, you said I get in your space all the time … and you said I couldn’t go around with my own space. What’s going on with that? I don’t understand. It sounds contradictory.”
XXX
“It means if you treat my apartment like a free-for-all, then you don’t have any right to personal space yourself. If I tried to act like you in your apartment, you’d…” Sylar sighed. Kill me. Pull a gun. Something of that nature. “You’d kick or drag me out.” He opened his mouth to say more but it was off topic - Peter hadn’t asked for it - so he didn’t voice it. “It’s very simple.”
Reluctantly, Sylar crouched to get his hands on a mannequin. He threw it into the cart, glanced at Peter, having no idea how the other man would take anything he was saying as usual, and went for another figurine. He couldn’t explain his discomfort about Peter, the topic, the damn life-like dolls, and he didn’t try. He was beginning to realize his distresses would be or had to be overlooked to preserve a working interaction between them and he had to accept it.
XXX
Continued...
Day 31, January 9, Morning
Sylar stopped by Peter’s apartment. If he allowed it, both men would gladly draw out this stupid confrontation and avoidance maneuver that was fast becoming habit, much to Sylar’s disgust. What pissed him off today was the fact that he didn’t know where Peter lived, specifically. Without that knowledge he’d never know if Peter was in the building or not. This is about the time he gets up…I think. Of course he didn’t know that for certain either. When waiting in the lobby (because it was cold outside and he didn’t feel like punishing himself more than Peter was sure to) didn’t work, he wandered off. What do I know about him? He likes being thanked, playing hero, having food made for him, exercising, exploring nonsensically and asking me personal questions and taking offense at my answers and questions. I don’t feel like thanking him for starting a fight but maybe I can cook for him. Sylar swung by the diner Peter had mentioned he often ate at but it looked like he’d just missed him - the dishes were still cooling and wet where they’d been cleaned. Guess he already had breakfast. What would Peter look for? What’s he interested in? Anything that doesn’t involve me. That doesn’t narrow anything down. He circled outward, looking into buildings as he passed.
Sylar saw Peter at the damaged store; the man was slightly stooped presumably in the act of cleanup. It left his backside exposed to all kinds of contact and every flavor of sexual assault that Sylar’s overactive imagination provided. Despite his mind being consumed with filth, he approached Peter after doing a visual weapons check. There was still the broom, dustpan and a bucket. He kept what he thought was a safe distance, not wanting to tempt Peter or be tempted himself. His greeting was an attempt at casual, “Hey,” like nothing had happened.
XXX
Peter's head whipped around at the sound of a voice where none should have been, his body following a second later as he caught sight of Sylar. Sneaky bastard! He scanned over Sylar, then around him as though Sylar might have brought backup to assist in an attack. But … he saw no danger. At least, none other than Sylar, standing there empty-handed and yet still by far the biggest danger Peter knew of. He breathed out slowly, remembering their tiff of the day before - calling Sylar 'killer', Sylar being threatening and unsettling in response, Peter deciding he was done talking to the man, and Sylar being upset by that. The possibility of going on without talking ran through Peter's mind, but it seemed petty, especially when Peter felt he was the one who had fucked things up to start with.
“Hey,” he said with the greatest of reservation and an extra glance up and down Sylar, trying to get a better read on his attitude and intentions. Peter's hand on the broom handle flexed and released a few times.
XXX
“You’re still cleaning this?” Sylar asked with some surprise in his voice, a curious frown on his face as he surveyed the damage. Most of the glass was beneath the eaves and thus free of snow, there was a line of melted snow-drips from the gutter denoting where the eave’s protection ended. Beyond that was half-melted snow that would likely hide any remaining shards. He didn’t offer to help - this was Peter’s mess and he would be the one to clean it. When Peter seemed intent on finishing, Sylar leaned against the nearby wall.
XXX
Peter tilted his head at the question, his brows pulling together a beat later. He maneuvered, getting on the other side of the small pile he'd swept together, which put him facing Sylar. It was polite, but he was doing it because it was safer. He felt very uneasy about having Sylar here, where they'd had their last bad fight. The location had him overanalyzing everything Sylar said, looking for possible provocation.
“It's still a mess.” He straightened a bit further, shoulders going back and chin up. The push broom was in one hand and the dustpan was dangling from his right, his index finger hooked through the hole in the end of it. “I haven't been out here since we both were, before. And I just got here,” he added with a trace of heat, not liking the possible insinuation that he'd been working at this for hours or even days without progress. He waited a long beat, eyes not leaving Sylar's. “What are you here for?” he asked with the clear implication Sylar couldn't be here just to hang out (or, God forbid, help). He had to be here wanting something and probably not something Peter wanted to give. Or he'd come here to start shit, which Peter was mentally gearing up to match in kind.
XXX
Sylar’s heart sank. Peter was in a markedly unfriendly mood this morning, with no provocation. Sylar mentally grit his teeth over his instinctive thoughts (He started it yesterday!) He had no desire to be hit or to get into an altercation - it was cold, he was tired and strung out, lonely and sick. He didn’t doubt Peter would hit him, what with the pre-emptive broom-gripping, and the supposed-empath was already rude. Sylar considered leaving since he was so far from welcome. He didn’t enjoy being stared down; he mostly kept his own eyes on the broom when he wasn’t glancing at Peter’s eyes. I didn’t know I needed an excuse…I should have thought of that. Why didn’t I think of that? I always need an excuse (I didn’t when he was taking care of me…) His head and toe still hurt and he didn’t feel one hundred percent so that would be his go-to excuse as needed - you break it, you buy it. But he wasn’t going to be run off. “Just here to watch you work,” he snitted back, barely polite. I guess ‘good morning’ or an olive branch isn’t going to cut it with him. Then what the hell does he want?
XXX
Great. Thanks. Just what I need - an audience. Peter exhaled heavily and went to one knee to scoop up his latest pile. It was awkward work, setting up the dustpan with his right hand and then pulling the push broom towards him with his left. The leverage was bad, but he hadn't thought he'd be doing it under observation. Under a lot of circumstances, Peter liked to be watched. This was not one of them.
XXX
When Peter didn’t comment - actually a relief, as a comment would probably start a fight - Sylar sighed after a moment. The only sound was that hyper-quiet noise of winter, no wind, the muffled world hidden in a snowdrift, and the sound of Peter sweeping and breathing. “How do you sleep? In your apartment,” he asked randomly, but with purpose. He wanted to know if he was alone in sleeping poorly without company - Peter, who had the habit of sneaking into Nathan’s room to pester and cuddle him for the slightest little thing. It wasn’t that he’d been afraid of the dark or monsters particularly, as a kid, Peter hadn’t liked people-less void even in sleep; unlike Sylar who had reason to be afraid of the monsters under his bed, inside his apartment and its inhabitants, or within his mind. They were the kind he felt would snatch him the moment his eyes were shut and no one but him knew they existed. Sylar straightened; he was just…curious.
XXX
“Well enough. Why do you ask?” Peter He finished pushing the broom around for what he expected to be the last circuit of the exterior. At least until the ice and snow melted. He'd gotten up everything on the outside that there was to be picked up. Fortunately there was enough of a canopy that the interior hadn't suffered much weather damage yet.
XXX
“I was just curious,” Sylar replied and desperately tried to keep it at that. He tried to think of three or more things at once to confuse his brain into silence. Those other-person memories were rising up again, //remembering Peter as a child…the ego strokes and the hope, the comfort he’d provided to his older brother…// Pi, a complication and string theory…C’mon…He couldn’t focus too much on his expression, but he was sure it looked tense.
XXX
Peter frowned. It wasn't enough of a reason and in fact, the passive-aggressive inquiry set him off. The polite thing to do was to inquire in return about Sylar's sleep, especially given the nightmares might have intensified in Peter's absence, and disturbed sleep might be medically important given the concussion. He wasn't feeling polite. Instead, he felt watched, confronted, and judged. And now the insinuation that Peter needed to spend his time meeting Sylar's needs for companionship? Heh. Fuck him. Maybe if he'd stop killing people, he'd have someone around who wanted to spend time with him.
Standing next to one of the broken storefront windows, about fifteen feet from Sylar, Peter faced him, broom in his left hand, right hand empty. “How do you sleep? Given what you've done in your life?” He held the broom forward, between them, a very similar pose to that he'd adopted before their last fight here. “You talked about changing. You've had a lot of opportunities, but there you were at Mercy Heights to kick. My. Ass.” He gestured at the store with his right hand to distract from how he twisted the wooden broom handle several times with his left to unscrew it from the unwieldy base. “And here, the last time we were here. For the same reason, as far as I can tell.” Which Peter was thinking might be the same reason why Sylar was here now, hence the weapon prep. “You got pissed and picked a fight. That's not someone I want to sleep near or hang out with, Sylar. Go the fuck on. You're well enough to threaten me in your apartment; you're well enough to be in it all by yourself.”
XXX
Sylar just stared, trying to wade through the mean, judgmental aggression aimed directly at him. It wasn’t pleasant; it hurt, but curiosity of where or why this was happening made him stay and figure it out. With a lot less emotion in general, Sylar replied, “I don’t sleep well because of things that have been done to me, too. You’re not some righteous, angelic victim who’s safe to hang out with yourself, Petrelli. Look at you: I’m defenseless, standing out of reach, trying to start a normal conversation as I understand it, and you’re getting ready to hit me,” Sylar nodded at the broom handle, now free of the weighted broom end itself.
XXX
Peter snorted. “Sure,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “You're just as defenseless now as you were last time we were here.” He shifted the broom handle to be sure it was free from the base, since Sylar had clearly seen through his attempt at subterfuge. “And we both know how that turned out. Don't start with me. I'll mess you up, win or lose.”
XXX
Sylar sighed and looked up at the cold grey-white sky for a moment. That much was peaceful and it made sense. How he can feel threatened by me saying ‘good fucking morning’ when he’s the one holding the damn broom is just…Control, patience, logic, those were the things what he needed right now, and, unfortunately, Peter’s company and possibly medical expertise. “I’m not starting anything. I’m just standing here, talking, without any threats but obviously you have something to say about feeling threatened.” He looked back at Peter, trying to will some sense into the kid. “So what’s going to make you feel better, safer?” Correcting himself because that was way too open-ended around the spitfire empath, “And don’t say ‘me leaving,’ because I won’t - you need to deal with whatever your issue is.”
XXX
Peter's eyes narrowed to slits as he stared Sylar down. A few tense seconds passed as he waited. Is it a trick? (Of course it's a trick. He'd probably lose if we fought. He wants to know what he can do to calm me down.) That's probably not a bad idea - calming down. Peter drew in a deep breath, tapping the metal end of the broom handle restlessly on the ground, because he really wanted to be beating Sylar with it. But he wasn't looking at Sylar while he did it - he turned his head to the side and dipped it. A wave of anger so all-encompassing it was dizzying passed through him. He remembered the joy he'd taken in trashing this place, intermixed with flashes of their fight here and frustrated impressions of his darker desires to gouge out Sylar's eyes and torture him in various ways. He lifted the stick to jab the end of it several times against the nearby brick wall, hard. Then he walked away, ten paces, before turning, whacking the stick against the wall carelessly but intentionally, and coming back with a body language that spoke more of going from point A to B than of any preparation to charge or attack.
He stopped next to the base of the broom, right where he'd started from. Finally, he managed to bring himself back to Sylar's question and give voice to things he'd been bottling up. “What the fuck are you here for if it's not to threaten me? I try to fix lunch for you the other day and you're crowding me. I tell you to cut it out and you tell me I don't get to have my own space. Or yesterday,” he gestured, left-handed with the pole held vertically, then grimaced at it and propped it against the wall to get it out of his hand and out of the way (a very clear sign that Peter thought words might gain him more than bludgeoning instruments), “we're talking, things are okay, and then you start about killing people. That's not what I came here for, Sylar! I shouldn't have said what I did, but it was a fucking joke and if I can't … talk ...” He shook his head in frustration. “Then I won't fucking talk to you, okay?”
“Why are you here? Why are you watching me? Why are you asking me about my sleep unless it's some lead-in about how you're not sleeping well and you want me to move back in with you or something?” He didn't wait for an answer, talking rapid-fire as fast as the thoughts came to him. “And what happens when I say no and tell you to stick it? Then we have another fight, just like the last couple times I've tried to walk away from you.” He waved his hand at the broom handle, which he hadn't moved away from and was still ready at hand. “If that's what's going to happen this time, then I might as well win. That's my issue.”
He had no idea what Sylar would do with such an emotional dump, nor did he care. It felt good to give vent to the accumulated issues surrounding proximity to Sylar. He was trying to stay confined to recent events, things that had immediate bearing on his current anger. He'd even managed it without telling Sylar to take a hike, so there was that.
XXX
Sylar watched throughout Peter’s entire process. He gave a lot of attention to it and tried to not look creepy or threatening or anything else while doing it. It was a comfort, and a small victory, when Peter set the broom handle aside. Only when Peter was finished did Sylar look away, contemplating the mostly-emotional, general information. Whatever Peter had said seemed to help him but it was of little use to Sylar as it was. How much of that am I supposed to respond to? Probably none. I don’t think he’s…listening right now. “…Okay. So what is going to make you feel safer?” I can’t promise anything but I think I should know.
XXX
Peter snapped out the answer immediately. “Indicate in some way that you understand why I feel threatened. You're getting that I am - right, I am - but do you understand why? Do you understand that you've killed, assaulted, or threatened to kill or assault, a lot of people I care about, and that means I take threats and threatening behavior from you very seriously? Does any of that matter to you?”
XXX
“Yes,” Sylar said simply, encompassing all the man’s questions at once with as much sincerity as he could manage. It matters, just probably not the way it matters to you. I would realize that but he doesn’t…Of course being taken seriously is important and I haven’t threatened him out of turn, just when I needed to. He’s…doing the same thing? The commonality was surprising, and obvious now that he was aware of it, but he lacked the time he would like to spend pondering it. He has to make sure I don’t feel threatened so I don’t threaten him; and I have to do the same for him, I guess? Sylar could feel his stress rising, but from somewhere, he summed up, “I don’t trust you, Petrelli, and I never will. I can live with you because I have to and you need to live with me because you have to. You can’t expect me to act any differently when you keep throwing things in my face and acting like you’re better than me. We can always keep things the way they are; it’s not shocking to me; but you don’t play by the same rules so even that doesn’t work.”
XXX
Peter's weight shifted forward at 'yes'. He seemed to hang there for a moment, overbalanced forward until he settled back. A load of tension dropped from him - his shoulders relaxed, his color improved, his face smoothed. That helped. Maybe he wasn't just talking past Sylar; maybe they were understanding each other right now. Peter was listening when Sylar went on. His lips tightened at first, but he didn't answer right away. He blinked and looked down, eyes scanning slightly as he went over what Sylar had said, thinking about exactly what he'd said and trying to work out what he meant.
Slowly, he said, “I can understand why you don't trust me. Not completely, at least. You trust me some. That's enough. We don't … have to see each other. It's not a requirement.” He hesitated. He wasn't sure he could hack the loneliness and he was fairly certain Sylar couldn't - not with the knowledge that Peter was out there somewhere. Sylar would literally have nothing else to do but spend his time tracking Peter down, which was a really good argument against trying to deliberately avoid him. “But if you mean we're going to see a lot of each other because we're the only ones here, then yeah, I agree with that.” Grudgingly he added, “We have to be able to put up with each other and deal with our … issues.” Speaking of which, “You say I'm acting like I'm better than you. Can you tell me what I'm doing,” Peter paused to get his wording right, aiming for non-defensive and non-contradictory, “when I'm acting like that?”
XXX
Sylar opened his mouth, but his brain stalled so he closed it. There’s something to that question…He can’t make things much worse - it’s not that. It’s the fact that he is better than me and he wants me to say as much. “Ah…mmm….You just keep thinking things happen the way you say they happen,” he changed the subject with half the force he could muster. Avoiding eye contact, he looked everywhere but at Peter.
XXX
And …? What other way would they happen? Is he saying I'm lying? Wait, he's acting weird. Peter tracked Sylar's sudden absence of eye contact. There was a small family of related emotions that could explain it: guilt, duplicity, shame, submission. It made what little Sylar had said be suspect of truth. Peter pressed for more information. “Yeah? Tell me more. It sounds like that's an 'issue'. I want to know what's causing it.”
XXX
“I’m not gonna chase you down if you won’t move closer. It’s…” a dumb idea? “It’s just more convenient.” Sylar hunched his shoulders, turning aside. He paused before clearing his throat. How is seeing each other not a requirement? “Is this the last of your projects or…?”
XXX
Peter's brows rose at Sylar's complete evasion of the topic he'd been the one to bring up - confronting issues and making things better, or at least survivable, between them. He's embarrassed - embarrassed that I asked him what I was doing that meant I was acting better than him. Is that … because he doesn't want me to stop acting better than him? Or … because he thinks I am better? “Not going to answer my question, are you?”
Peter shrugged. He certainly wasn't going to push it if Sylar wasn't feeling up to enumerating Peter's faults. Instead, he reached for the broom, screwed the handle into the base, and headed for the ruined doorway, social convention and habit preventing him from stepping through the equally smashed display window, even if that would have been a shorter route to where he was going. Over his shoulder, he agreeably changed to Sylar's proffered substitute subject, saying, “This is what I was planning on doing this morning. I thought I'd be able to get everything cleaned up before lunch. Then I'd have to figure out how to actually fix it.”
To Peter's surprise, once it was clear he was going inside the building, Sylar followed him in, sticking closer to him than he'd like. His goal now was to sweep up everything on the inside, clear out the ruined displays, and throw away anything that couldn't be salvaged. He assumed that once in the trash, the stuff would eventually disappear. It was interesting it hadn't vanished from the ground already. Peter suspected the damage had some kind of psychic significance. He wondered if maybe, in some way, it had accomplished exactly what he'd initially intended in striking a blow at Sylar's consciousness and forcing Sylar to take notice of him. He wondered, too, if the fact he'd given Sylar such a bad concussion at their fight here wasn't coincidental either. Musing, he swept as busily as a one and a half-handed man can, at one point telling Sylar in a low voice, “Get further back. You're in my way and I'm not going anywhere.” What Peter had interpreted as Sylar's embarrassment had broken the impression of haughty, superior disapproval Sylar had been dishing out earlier. Now he was just there and his presence bothered Peter so much less.
XXX
After putting his foot in his mouth - and worse, being called on his backpedaling - Sylar was inclined to stay quiet. It wasn’t necessarily a happy quiet but he wasn’t exactly brimming with ways to further embarrass himself and call Peter’s wrathful attention down on him. It was a little more insulated inside but the fact that it was shaded and without sun compared to where he’d been standing outside evened things out. He was leaned against the checkout counter, still out of Peter’s immediate range with the broom, comfortable to watch since he hadn’t been directed to and couldn’t see how to help with only one set of tools anyway (besides, shouldn’t Peter fix his own mess?) Sylar’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he frowned a little. Why would he need to say he’s not going anywhere? Either way, given how aggressive things had been just moments before, any warning to get back was well-heeded. Sylar hustled back, unsure how far ‘further back’ was, luckily not tripping on any glass or merchandise as he went and keeping an eye on Peter as he did so.
XXX
“Sylar, we live, like, a block apart. Two if you count that alley, but really, it's one block's distance. That's a lot more convenient than I'm comfortable with most days.”
XXX
Sylar slumped, hands in his pockets. I know but I can’t keep tabs on you from two blocks away! I don’t even know where you live and it’s not fair. (I’m still worried I have to move…I don’t want to. What if he disappears and I can’t…) Sylar was only dealing with the lack of proximity because he had no choice and felt he would come unglued if he didn’t and he feared the loss of his sanity more than most things but in the process of holding himself together, felt he was still coming apart, just more slowly. It stung to hear the part where even that proximity made Peter uncomfortable (to say the least). He thought he’d moved back far enough that he wouldn’t be near any glass but he found an escaped piece, about the size of a marble, perfect for kicking around for the hell of it. And I can hang onto it, hide it, and tell him he missed it after he’s finished, he thought sadistically. As it was, Sylar amused himself with that piece of glass and his shoe. He must have hit the window really hard to get glass back this far, realizing some more, how angry and dangerous Peter was. He said he did this before he found me.
XXX
Peter kept half an eye on Sylar. The guy looked really unhappy. Peter had rarely seen anyone who looked so much like they needed a hug - not that Peter was interested in giving one, but he would like to see Sylar happier. The source of Sylar’s despondency could be any of several topics - Peter not wanting to be near him, some reflection on the destruction, the ‘better than you’ issue, or maybe something Peter had said in the course of his ranting. Or maybe it was all of those, since none of them really made for a cheery mood. Together, yeah, he could see how they could grind Sylar down and shut him up. It was satisfying in a way, but disturbing in another. Peter didn’t like knowing he was the source of someone else’s misery, even when that someone else was Sylar.
“You doing okay?”
XXX
Sylar just nodded and kept the eye contact to a minimum. Not only do I terrify him, I make him uncomfortable when he’s aware of me when I’m not around. (Is that…fair? He does the same to m-) I’m not afraid of him and his fucking broom handle. He knows what I’m capable of and he’s treating me like a credible threat like he fucking should. (Hmm…I’d use plywood to cover the windows…)
XXX
Huh. Kay. I’m getting the cold shoulder, but he’s still here. And I swear he’s getting closer. Sylar hadn’t moved that far off when asked - maybe a couple arm’s lengths and when Peter looked back up the next time, he didn’t even seem to be that far away anymore. He was messing with something underfoot and shuffling back. Peter finished the main part of sweeping and went to lean against the counter where Sylar had been earlier. The broom was left against the front wall of the store some ten or twenty feet away. “That’s it with sweeping for now. Next I’ll get all that stuff out of the way and haul it back to the dumpster.” He gestured at the ruined displays. “I think they’ll have a dumpster, right? It’s a big store.” He looked to Sylar for an affirmation even though he already knew the answer.
XXX
A glance told him Peter was looking at him. Sylar nodded and went back to playing with his find of destroyed window.
XXX
Peter kept going with the small talk, not letting silence fall between them even if he was struggling to find things to say. “Once I get all that out of the way, I’ll sweep again.”
XXX
Why not just pick up all the big stuff then sweep once? But whatever keeps you busy and not…assaulting me is a good thing, I guess. “Are you going to need hardware supplies?” He was curious if Peter’s intent still matched the words Sylar thought he remembered, about fixing the store completely or as best he could given the circumstances. Is he doing it out of guilt, do-rightness, or…does he know it would make me feel better?
XXX
“Yeah, I will after I get this cleaned up. You walked me by a store a few weeks ago and pointed it out - I remember that. It was somewhere up north of here, but I didn’t see it when I was out canvassing the neighborhood. Could you lead me there again, after lunch?” Peter knew he was giving the impression they’d eat lunch together, but that was intentional. He’d like the company. He wondered how well Sylar had been eating. He suspected the answer was ‘not’.
XXX
Sylar nodded once more, this time answering verbally also, “Yeah.” He wants to go for a walk. I want to sleep. With him. Around. At this point, I think it would be hazardous to my health to sleep near him. The subject of lunch was in question; Sylar’s assumed they would meet up after lunch despite the more obvious lead-in to dining together. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food but he didn’t feel like eating beyond that; certainly he wasn’t anywhere near his full strength and that motivated him to keep the peace with Peter.
XXX
Peter nodded to him, pleased to see Sylar perking up some. He reached over in a long leaning motion and gave him a couple quick, encouraging pats on the upper arm. This was despite and maybe because of Sylar’s comment during the argument in his apartment - that Peter got in his space without asking. What did that mean? Did this count? Was Sylar going to object to what Peter saw as normal, casual touch or had he been talking about his apartment rather than his person?
XXX
Sylar’s eyes widened a little and he went still. It was a slow, purposeful motion, Peter’s hand coming towards him, but it could easily be used to gain a handhold and yank him off balance or worse… Yet he allowed it. And nothing came of it. He didn’t want to admit he breathed easier when Peter moved away.
XXX
“Come on. Help me load up a couple of those shopping carts with trash, then we’ll push them out back to the dumpster.” Helping made people feel better. Peter strongly believed that. If Sylar wasn’t going to be difficult about the patting, then maybe they could get through doing something together without trying to kill each other.
The debris consisted of a handful of battered, headless mannequin torsos (not that Peter had ripped off arms, legs, or heads - they were made that way), a lot of scattered clothes, pegboard and display backboards, some signs, and pieces from one of the window frames Peter had bashed on repeatedly enough to dislodge it from the brick facade. He rolled a shopping cart over nearby, hoping that Sylar would join him, and tried to figure out how to get as much of the stuff as possible in it. “I suppose the big things, like the pegboard and stuff, should go on top, last. Maybe we should put the mannequins and clothes in first.” He glanced over to Sylar for his opinion.
XXX
“Hmm. I can hold the big stuff on top.” Sylar said, surveying what needed transport. His eyes caught on the mannequins - white, but still clearly and intentionally humanoid in structure, just as clearly lacking arms, legs and heads. This was probably the closest thing to a life-sized human around, except for Peter. There were pictures of people in any kind of printed material but they lacked faces. Sylar tried not to find it karmic and creepy that these torsos were mocking him, otherwise existing in his Hell. He still didn’t want to touch them (rather, maybe he wanted to touch them too much, representing humans as they did, disgusting as that was - it wasn’t like he could touch Peter). Carefully, Sylar squatted down and began to gather the clothes, standing and moving to squat again because it was easier on his head than bending over…and he still didn’t want to be doing that anyway around Peter. When he had an armful, all the while keeping track of Peter, he dumped them in the cart, thinking how very similar it was to when he killed someone and had to handle the body. I took Zane’s clothes. He swallowed and left the rest of the mannequins to Peter. “Maybe we should keep these for the next time you get angry,” he muttered about mannequins and Peter’s violent habits.
XXX
“Haha. Yeah, right.” Peter took it as a joke, which was a deliberate choice. He had every reason to be angry at Sylar and the man's comment implied those reasons were insufficient. But Peter didn't want to fight, so he laughed it off. He hefted a mannequin over his shoulder in a faux show of strength (they were really light weight). “Better than beating on each other, that's for sure.” He thought about tossing it into the cart in a further display of prowess, but … he'd never been happy about people taking liberties with the emergency services training dummies. He set it in the cart after pulled the metal pole out of its posterior. “I thought about getting a hanging bag for the workout room. Maybe I'll do that someday. It would give me something safe to hit when I get tense.”
XXX
Meaning he has to hit something when he’s ‘tense.’ Great. Sylar deliberately avoided considering that depressing reality, instead beginning to gather up the signs, righting what clothes hangers he could. It was a little more time consuming because he had to move slower, get lower to grab them up. He went after things he thought Peter couldn’t, literally, handle with a single hand - the window frame and most of the displays.
XXX
The largest piece of pegboard was awkward in size and weight. Peter pulled it free from the other store displays and hauled it noisily and clumsily over next to the carts, where he paused while he tried to figure out how to deal with it in a way that didn't endanger everything nearby. “It's a little thick to kick in half,” he mused. “I'm not sure it will stay on the cart, though.” He reached down and lifted the nearest corner, not sure what he was going to do.
XXX
Sylar hastened to help Peter get the board up. It was heavy and unwieldy, a two-person job, assuming Peter would allow that. Sylar took the other end and helped lift and maneuver it onto the cart where it seemed likely to slide off regardless of placement. “I’ll hold it.” And then he noticed that the loaded cart was well inside the building - with the pegboard, it was unlikely to fit through the door. I should have…thought of that. Why didn’t I? Well, he brought it in here, which was half-smart.
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“Okay,” Peter nodded. “Then we'll just take one cart out at a time.” He backed it up slowly, craning his head towards the back of the store. “You're taller. Do you see the way out back there? There should be a couple double doors.”
XXX
Oh, good. Maybe he already scouted- “Yeah. There,” he pointed, carefully, to his right, supporting the board on the cart with his left. “To your…left.”
XXX
They walked it out, slow and easy, down the central aisle of the store and through the double doors in the back. There was, as Peter had expected, a set of freight doors in the back. A little exploration showed the dumpster not far from there. The stuff was piled in it without a problem, although they had to work together on the pegboard. Peter side-eyed Sylar as they headed back. Sometimes he was too close, like earlier; now he was staying oddly far away. It was like he was afraid Peter might try to run him down with the cart or something. Peter didn't miss the slight cant to Sylar's head that let him see Peter in his peripheral vision. There were moments when the man's fear of him was palpable.
What did I do? So I kind of threatened to hit him with a broom handle. I don't think that's what his deal is. Yesterday I wouldn't talk to him and he got upset. A few days before that, we argued in his kitchen and he kicked me out. He wasn't afraid of me like this then. He was … he was pretty off yesterday, too. Not like this, though. He's not going to want to answer, 'what are you afraid of?' I need to make it less direct.
As they returned to the front, Peter asked, “When we were arguing in your apartment last time, you said I get in your space all the time … and you said I couldn’t go around with my own space. What’s going on with that? I don’t understand. It sounds contradictory.”
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“It means if you treat my apartment like a free-for-all, then you don’t have any right to personal space yourself. If I tried to act like you in your apartment, you’d…” Sylar sighed. Kill me. Pull a gun. Something of that nature. “You’d kick or drag me out.” He opened his mouth to say more but it was off topic - Peter hadn’t asked for it - so he didn’t voice it. “It’s very simple.”
Reluctantly, Sylar crouched to get his hands on a mannequin. He threw it into the cart, glanced at Peter, having no idea how the other man would take anything he was saying as usual, and went for another figurine. He couldn’t explain his discomfort about Peter, the topic, the damn life-like dolls, and he didn’t try. He was beginning to realize his distresses would be or had to be overlooked to preserve a working interaction between them and he had to accept it.
XXX
Continued...