More Between Us Chapter 80/? "Hardware'ing"
More Between Us, Chapter 80/? "Hardware'ing"
Day 31, January 9, Morning
Peter watched Sylar's abrupt motions as they went about loading the cart for a second (and probably last) load. "What do you mean, a free-for-all? Do you mean the fight, that morning?" His brows were slightly pulled together, giving Sylar nearly all of his attention. This was important.
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"Yeah," Sylar nodded starting slow at first, a little jerky but getting smoother and faster. His voice strained, "Hitting me, breaking my things, stealing and using others, the food, attacking me when...when you said you wouldn't and I told you to stay across the room."
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'Stealing and using others?' What does that mean? Maybe stealing some of his stuff and using other stuff? Let's focus instead on the rest, on the things I think I understand. Peter straightened, but not in a confrontational manner - more just getting up on his feet. “You're saying … that when you started making fun of my brother's death, I should have walked out instead of going for you, right?” His expression was serious. He wasn't doubting or disagreeing; he was figuring out where Sylar drew the line.
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“I’m not telling you what to do, Peter,” Sylar scoffed, “As if you’d listen.” He noticed he was clinging protectively to the latest mannequin, keeping it between himself and Peter.
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No, Peter thought sadly, I probably wouldn't. He nodded slowly, eyes distant. “I broke my word,” he said softly. “That's why you're afraid.” He touched his forehead and sagged against the check-out counter, eyes moving uneasily between the floor and Sylar. I fucked up. How do I fix this? An apology felt wrong, especially as he felt torn between competing loyalties. He looked pained. But I told him my family was off-limits! How can he expect me to sit there and do nothing while he makes fun of Nathan's death? Peter shifted uncomfortably, talking to himself, as much as to Sylar. “But if I'm willing to break my word when all you've done is talk, then what does it mean to you about how I'd keep any other promise, when you’ve killed my brother?” Peter swallowed. What am I willing to honor? If it's Nathan's memory, then Sylar should already be dead. And if it's not, then he should be able to say what he wants. It's just words, right? Peter squirmed in place again, not at all liking where his thoughts were taking him. It tasted a lot like a betrayal of his brother and it was bitter on his tongue, leaving his chest feeling empty and hollow. Maybe Sylar had tricked him somehow. He'd have to think on it. In the meantime, there was a breach of trust to be healed or else Sylar's increasing and perhaps justified paranoid behavior was going to make life impossible.
Slowly, he said, “I see why you don't trust me. Or at least, I see it more. But we're still here together. How do we make this work?”
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Sylar retorted, “I’m not afraid.” He huffed an exasperated breath. “’We’ don’t do anything, because there is no ‘we’, right, Peter? You live with your actions because you won’t do anything different. I adjust - those are the rules.” Sylar shoved the torso into the cart roughly, glaring at Peter with challenge. “What else would you like to talk about, Peter?” he invited. It was just a formality because the Italian would talk about whatever he wished anyway. At least having this out in the open meant he didn’t have to be subtle when he watched his back, like now, reaching for yet another damn mannequin. How many did this guy take out, wishing it was me? And why am I still here helping him?
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Peter deflated, not that he had far to go. He became … less. “Yeah, I guess so,” he mumbled, face tilting down. No making up for it, no healing, no fixing. Just Sylar taking that kind of behavior from me as the new normal and adjusting accordingly, which includes being terrified of me even while he's desperate to be around me. The only reason he's doing that much is that I'm the only person to be around. If he had choices, he'd be elsewhere. Even Sylar thinks I'm a danger - a loose cannon. The corner of Peter's mouth lifted bitterly, because the irony was rich, if undesired. He didn't look up as he asked his question: “How do I get you to stop provoking me about my family?” Sylar had asked what else Peter wanted to know, after all. Maybe he could address the problem from the other end, stopping Sylar from picking fights with him, since he felt depressingly sure that given the right bait, he'd swing on Sylar again, no matter what promises he'd made. He finished loading the cart mechanically. It felt hopeless; he felt stupid. He knew it would pass, but he still felt utterly bathed in regret and self-loathing. He looked around to see if there was anything else to pick up, avoiding all traces of eye contact as he did it. “I'm not going to stop defending them.” Even the dead ones. Especially the dead ones.
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“Here’s an idea, Peter: stop asking about Nathan! You don’t fucking own him or the mention of his name. I fucking was him, Peter! I am not your gateway to Nathan. At least not until you can tell the damn difference between me and him and you understand that you and him and your family are not the only wounded victims here; not until you see what your mother and her friends did and what you’re still doing. I don’t expect you to do anything else, Peter; by all means defend those sick hypocrites. But don’t you fucking bait me! Don’t bait me and play that game! Because I promise it will get nasty and you can believe my word on that.” Once that was out it felt like he could draw a cleaner, easier breath. Hell, he had no idea if he was on topic, answering the question given. And he didn’t much care. Peter wasn’t looking at him and somehow that made it okay to speak.
“You wanted me to be Nathan, well….You can’t punish me for having any part of him just because you don’t like it after the fact - you should have thought of that before you turned me into him! Then you wonder why I won’t answer you and then say things you don’t like? Fuck!” Sylar swept his hair back and gripped it tight, turning away from Peter. He couldn’t get the emotion out and he knew he was going to do something violent; it was just a matter of what, how and against whom. Peter still wasn’t looking at him even as he grabbed the last mannequin, pivoted and slammed it onto a multi-leveled clothes table, screaming his lungs out. The damn thing crumpled and broke, shattering into dusty pieces as Sylar was left holding the metal support bar. I can break things, too! Committed now, he threw it at the counter right next to Peter, on purpose, to get his attention again or halfway threaten, whatever. It felt good but immediately after he felt guilty about everything and it was so frustrating he saw his eyes get hot and blurry. There was nothing he could do to fix his situation and what he’d done probably hadn’t helped it any.
Sniffing once, Sylar turned on his heel and stomped out through the broken display window.
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Peter had been holding very still the whole time, listening to the rant and watching Sylar's feet as they carried him about the floor and communicated his personal energy just as effectively as his face. When the metal bar hit the cash register near Peter, he jumped. He hadn't seen it coming and he raised his eyes out of self-preservation. Sylar had his attention, for a moment at least. When there was no impending attack, Peter's gaze slipped past the other man and roamed over the shattered mannequin. This place breeds anger. Or maybe it just reveals it. He felt oddly blank about that - philosophical, maybe. The strong emotion expressed on both sides left him feeling comfortably empty for the moment. He watched Sylar go without saying a word, giving a respectful silence for the things expressed. They weren't what he'd asked to know, but they were what Sylar had to say. Now that it was said, it gave Peter a different perspective on things.
'Stop asking about Nathan.' 'Don't bait me.' 'You turned me into him.' (I did not. But he thinks I did. Or at least he blames me for it.) He's frustrated. He's hurt. Nathan's almost as sore a subject for him as it is for me. And then there's my family, which was my question to start with. Peter pursed his lips and shot a last look through the window at Sylar's retreating back. Then he bent to pick up the metal rod that had been thrown at him and pushed the cart over to the new source of debris.
I asked what would get him to stop picking fights with me over my family. He said … I think he means he's mad about them, too. That's why - he's mad enough to not care if it starts a fight. (Mad because his evil plans were thwarted? That would explain why I'm included among the guilty.) Not that it matters. Sometimes the most angry are the least justified. Is that because they don't feel they're getting enough respect? Peter kept musing and mulling things over as he rolled the cart to the rear and dumped the contents. He replaced it with the other carts and began the final sweep he'd intended to do. He was mostly through when he saw Sylar coming back. After a brief pause to regard him, Peter continued with his task until Sylar was at a conversational distance. Then he stopped, leaned on the broom, and looked at Sylar steadily and expectantly.
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Sylar took yet another deep breath and stayed out of range. Hands in his pockets, curled in on himself he spoke before Peter could condemn him further, “Are you going to break in again?”
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Peter glanced around the store. All of the front windows had been reduced to empty frames (and in one case, not even the frame was left). Even the thicker glass of the door was spiderwebbed. Breaking in here a second time was irrelevant. Peter certainly wasn't feeling any urge to take out other storefronts, but he didn't think that was what Sylar was talking about. “Break in where?”
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“My apartment, my door, attacking me, is that going to be a…a thing?” He did not want to move. His apartment was more or less a home; it had been a very safe place until recently. As a killer, he wasn’t supposed to have anything like that, but he’d made it anyway, made it himself, gathering up every book and treasure to keep close to him as a comfort and now…The idea of being on the run was nearly beyond his comprehension. He’d gotten soft and he badly wanted, perhaps even needed the stability of having something of his own.
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Peter breathed out slowly and said very clearly, “No. Breaking in to your apartment is not going to be a 'thing'.” In a slightly lower voice, he added in an attempt to excuse himself, “I've been knocking.” He felt like an ill-trained dog, or that Sylar was insinuating he was. He thought he should argue and stand up for himself, but he didn't have it in him at the moment. He had, after all, broken into Sylar's apartment without a knock, a thought, or the slightest regard for Sylar's obvious fear. At the time, none of that had mattered to Peter, any more than he'd cared about smashing this store. He'd wanted something from Sylar and was blithely and callously willing to damage anything necessary to get it, including Sylar himself. It left Peter feeling ashamed of himself. He knew he'd been wrong and so he dropped his eyes in apology, watching Sylar's feet again, and waited.
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Sylar’s gaze was locked on Peter while he answered. It was the distinct lack of promise coupled with the explicit finality that worked. It made sense, simple yes or no, and he…he trusted it. Being attacked wasn’t addressed but any polite/conceding/warning knocking equivocated no breaking and entering for an attack; not that Sylar would be inviting Peter back any time soon, if he could help it. I don’t have to move. Relief made his ears ring from a sudden pressure being lifted, the burden eased. “Okay.”
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Peter looked up to watch the man go. Sylar was moving more freely, he noticed. He believes me? After I broke my word? Well, he might not believe me, but he at least trusted me enough to ask. My answer meant something to him. Peter finished the clean up and loitered around the place for another half hour, in the full knowledge that he was waiting in case Sylar came back to join him for lunch. Peter straightened things and tidied up, but there was no one here who wanted to be with him.
Day 32, January 10, Morning
Peter hadn't felt like spending the afternoon searching for the hardware store alone, so he frittered the time away playing pool and haphazardly searching some of the apartments in his building. It was frustrating and dull - the rooms in his building were nonsensically plain and boring, not at all interesting like the ones across the street in the Pegasus. Eventually he'd given up on it and made an early night of it.
He felt better in the morning. After a leisurely workout, a shower, and a trip down to a Starbucks that shared space with the Y, he'd returned with a pair of parfaits. He sat on the curb across from Sylar's apartment, eating one of them very slowly, wondering idly if boredom, the cold, or Sylar would be the first to stir him from his seat.
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Still sour and pained, Sylar got up if for no other reason than to keep Peter away from his apartment. He’d been undisturbed all night, except for nightmares so that counted for something. Limping and bundled up against the cold like some overstuffed winter bird, he caught sight of Peter sitting outside his building. That sent up a warning flag before he rationalized the innocence of it - Peter was munching up some kind of ice cream or something…It was too odd a sight to hold much threat. Do I need to say something about…stalking me or…? It depended on Peter’s word (not in his good graces at the moment) and the medic’s stance on ‘killers and rights to privacy.’ After the brief tangent, he dismissed it scornfully, Why would he stalk me? Why is he even here? He doesn’t want to be. He wasn’t…upset when I…about yesterday so this isn’t an apology.
Slowly Sylar walked out, looking up and down both sides of the street as if checking for traffic. He approached Peter and stood eight or nine feet away this time, out of lunging distance. He saw that Peter’s plastic cup held fruit and non-frozen yoghurt instead of ice cream.
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Peter was mostly done with his meal and really starting to feel the chill on his butt when Sylar emerged. He was glad of the distraction from his discomfort, but not so glad about the way Sylar regarded him, like Peter was a danger. Oh well, he mentally (attempted to) dismiss it. Another distraction was Sylar's continuing limp. That's the same foot he's been favoring since … before the concussion? It's been weeks. Those aren't jammed toes. They're broken. Or at least one is. There wasn't much to be done about it. The injury might have benefitted from being buddy-wrapped had Peter noticed it early on, but being in shoes and mostly off his feet immobilized the toes about as well or better than any brace or treatment might.
He picked up the plastic-wrapped spoon and then the container, both with his left hand, and extended them. “Have you had breakfast?”
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Sylar glanced between the offering and Peter’s eyes several times. It was clearly for him, unless Peter was especially hungry to eat two or sadistic to offer but renege. He’s not apologizing, right? Of course not, that’s unheard of. Tricking me? To do what? Taking care of me?...Why? I’m still alive like I said I would be, taking care of myself. He didn’t greet with any obvious good morning and didn’t ask what Peter was doing or how he’d slept. Slowly, he was learning. “Not really,” he hedged to admit because his buffet of crackers, soup and reheated frozen meals wasn’t doing him very well. He snuck forward to take the cup from Peter’s hand. He looked it over carefully, then at Peter again. It was real food and his woeful stomach was in open rebellion because it even smelled good with the lid on. “Thanks.” This time he sat about two feet away, what he hoped was still a polite (and safe) distance. Sylar popped the lid and stuck his spoon in, closing his nostrils to get the bite into his mouth. The granola was crunchy, the parfait fresh. He wondered if Peter had made it or found it; either way it was tasty, suitable, and satisfied his needs, nutritional or otherwise.
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Peter shifted his weight a few times after Sylar settled. It warmed and relaxed him that Sylar hadn't taken the food and stomped off, or stood there looming over him to eat it. Instead, he'd sat close, or at least at a normal distance, and was being … okay about things. That was good; Peter was happy as he used his spoon to dig out the last bits of blueberry and yoghurt from the bottom of the tall, plastic cup.
Finished, he set it aside and leaned back, turning his head to regard Sylar for a moment. When Sylar looked up at him, Peter asked, “Would you still be interested in showing me where the hardware store is?”
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Sylar paused, a little surprised headstrong Peter hadn’t gone exploring on his own to find it. He hadn’t expected the other man to wait or plan to involve him. Am I needed or is he trying to suck up? But he has no reason to suck up. He looked the empath over, giving a small nod, “Yeah.” One word answers; keep it very short, that’s the key. After several quiet, slightly awkward moments of chewing (because Peter kept looking at him and that wasn’t the most comfortable thing now), Sylar remarked, “I’ve never had one of these before.”
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“Yeah?” Peter smiled a little, hoping that was a good thing. Since Sylar had been very expressive so far about things he didn't like, Peter took the lack of condemnation as approval. “Hm,” he said, a short, throaty noise of approval. He let his gaze roam around Sylar's face for a moment. Do I really use him as a gateway to Nathan? I guess I had been thinking of him as the repository of Nathan's memories. And the guy who's supposed to save Emma. And the guy who killed all those people, along with me. The past and the future - do those really define a person - what they've done, what they will do - or is who they are something else? Who is Sylar?
Sylar was a person who didn't like being stared at, so Peter looked away when his scrutiny was noticed. “Yeah, um, I had a friend in college who had yoghurt in his cereal every morning. Or maybe he had a little cereal with his yoghurt. He said having milk with cereal was nutritionally the same as putting a few tablespoons of sugar in a glass of milk.” Peter looked back at Sylar, using the opportunity to catalogue his features - big nose, dark brows, pale skin that made the dark of his facial hair so much more pronounced than it would have been on a tanner person. He supposed he needed to keep acting like he was having a conversation rather than scoping Sylar out, which wasn't exactly what he was doing. “Personally, I never saw the distinction. I mean, yoghurt's still basically milk, right?” Peter shrugged, realizing he was having this 'conversation' by himself. “Yeah.” He picked up his empty cup and rolled it between his hands, his elbows on his knees and eyes on the cup. He could go on about Kevin's opinions on protein and fats and whatnot, but Peter wasn't in love with the sound of his own voice so much that he'd inflict it on an uninterested audience.
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“I guess.” Really, he wouldn’t have thought yoghurt had so much sugar in it or…wasn’t as healthy as he’d previously thought. Maybe all the processing and curing and preservatives or something.
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After a few more moments of silence, Peter twitched as he remembered something more pertinent to Sylar than Peter's college stories. He pulled a bottle of painkillers from his pocket, opening it and shaking out a few pills. “Here, you should take these.” He didn't bother to ask if Sylar had taken a dose this morning; he doubted he had. “They're the same painkillers you were taking before. I went back to the hospital the other day and got some stuff, including more of these.” He'd brought them along thinking the trip to the hardware store might be an all-day excursion and if so, Sylar would need to take a couple doses throughout the day.
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“Oh,” Sylar said, surprised again. Those would help. The illusion of the same caretaking Peter had given him before was making him feel better, almost disgustingly so. You’re so easy. He gives you a treat and you’re ready to forget he lied and attacked you? He felt terribly conflicted, desperate for the comfort yet ashamed and insulted to need it or have it offered. “Thank you,” he said, genuine but quiet, taking the pills and downing them quickly. Sylar kept his mouth full to avoid asking or saying anything offensive. It was silent aside for his spooning, because he was eating alone at this point. He wondered if he was supposed to converse, if that was…required or repellant. Picking the most neutral thing, Sylar cleared his throat and voiced softly, “What were you thinking of getting at the store?”
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“I hadn't really thought about it. I don't know if they sell …” It's not really selling. There's no one here to sell it. “Um, if they have windows like that at a hardware store. I don't know how big they sell- um, carry. Maybe we'd have to find a specialty window place? I guess if they don't have windows, I could get some boards until we- or at least,” he shot Sylar an uncertain look, not wanting to rope him into a project he might not want anything to do with, but not wanting to exclude him either, “until I find a glass store.” I hate glass, his mind tacked on unnecessarily. He could deal with 'windows', but the combination of glass and Sylar bothered him. He was also feeling super-awkward about the conversation and very insecure about his own performance in it. It had started out well enough, but now? He couldn't even speak correctly. He got to his feet to pace and stretch his legs after sitting for so long.
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Sylar frowned down at his meal, snack-like cup. About Peter’s unnecessary self-correcting, he thought, Please don’t have a complex about taking things without paying. I won’t be able to handle that; it’s so stupid. Do you even know what you’re doing? Sylar wasn’t aware the medic knew how to fix a window when he didn’t know how to clean a dish (far less skill or technique involved). All that aside, he was warmed by it, almost as much as receiving breakfast if not more so, about the complete restoration of the building. (He wants to fix it, for me, most likely. He thinks I care or he feels bad). It meant less than nothing outside of a gestural, intangible demonstration of….care? Friendship? Healing? Fixing was very much within his ken; it felt like Peter was speaking his language, for a little while at least. It dampened a bit when Peter glanced at him strangely. Oh. He wants to work…alone. That makes sense, I guess. I can’t- shouldn’t talk and throw things.
He barely repressed his bodily jerk in reaction to Peter standing up, leaning away in case he needed a quick escape. Fuck, he thought of the other man’s pacing. He’s impatient. What can I…? Sylar regarded his two-thirds gone cup. I guess I don’t need to finish. He stood also, gathering his trash, dumping it to show his readiness. “It’s this way,” he edged around Peter to be closer to the street as he passed to head north then west for the hardware store. Maybe I can find a couch to sit in somewhere while he works and check in to…make sure…I don’t know. Maybe just leave him alone. He likes that.
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Peter rubbed at his forehead, chagrinned as he realized Sylar had read his standing and moving around as a signal to go, and was now foregoing finishing his food. Do I stop him and … and what? Tell him to sit back down and finish his breakfast like he's a kid? Peter shook his head once and fell in, a step behind Sylar and a companionable distance off to the side. He had more to eat than he would have otherwise. I'll just make sure we stop early for lunch - and next time, think before I jump up. He blew air out, disgusted with himself again, but there was nothing for it. They didn't have the sort of comfortable relationship where he could explain without making a scene, and the failure of Sylar to eat the last of the parfait wasn't worth it. 'You live with your actions … I adjust - those are the rules.' Peter wasn't happy about it, but the one at fault here was him.
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“So what’s your favorite fruit? You had fruit in your cup. If you don’t mind my asking,” he hastily tacked on the last as if it would help if Peter was upset by the question. Does he like small talk? His small talk is different than mine. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll…(I don’t like this, he thought for the billionth time already. It was part of the adjustment period, he knew, but that didn’t make it any easier). Suck it up. With the most recent incident, Peter had fallen into a category finally. While that was a relief, it was only so manageable. Peter was someone he wanted something from, a person who he would have otherwise hero-worshipped to the point of restraining order. Now, friendliness was gone, and Peter was someone he wanted to be around but had to avoid and yet had to deal with and perform for; walking on eggshells around a man who would snap at a single wrong word.
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Peter waited a beat, increasing his pace to come even with Sylar. The earlier conversation that had seemed like such a mess to him had died and they'd spent the next several minutes walking in silence. He'd begun to wonder if their whole journey would pass like that, but he wasn't about to be the one to run his mouth without prompting. He was grateful for the topic. “No, I don't mind. Grapes.” He gave a brief smile. “They're always different. They're sweet. They're small - self contained, individual bites. I like that. They don't stain like blueberries; they hold up better than strawberries; and they taste great with cheese.”
He paused, thinking that it had been a while since he'd had grapes - a couple months, maybe more. He remembered popping a few in his mouth after interrupting brunch on his brother's terrace, spinning an impromptu line for a reporter and being the good Petrelli his family wanted him to be. He made a wry roll of his eyes. Surely he'd had some since then. That was years back, but since then he'd been … all over the place, and rarely buying groceries and never attending the sort of events where they were served. He cleared his expression before looking over to Sylar. “What's yours?”
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This was the forced, uncaring conversation Sylar loved so much. You don’t care, so why ask me? ‘Forbidden fruit?’ he almost said, but didn’t, knowing it wouldn’t be appreciated. “Apples.”
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Peter nodded. “Can I ask how your toes are doing? I was noticing you're limping.” He used the usual EMT phrasing without any leading comments, saying strictly what he'd seen and leaving it at that.
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Sylar swallowed his fear of what the line of questioning might mean. “I…They’re…still sore?” Already they felt better after the painkillers.
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“I was thinking if they're still bothering you, they're probably broken. There's not much that can be done for them. It's like my hand - a brace if you need it, but really that's only to keep you from using them. You were off your feet a lot and that's the main thing. But getting out and walking some, now, is probably good, too.” He looked ahead at the buildings, trying to remember how far afield they'd gotten on their walk last time. He was pretty sure the hardware store had been closer than the hospital, so he didn't expect the distance to be unmanageable. Especially since this time, he assumed Sylar would be taking him straight to their destination.
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“I’ll be fine,” he assured, mild but serious. I don’t see how walking is going to help except to justify your errand, Peter. Just don’t make me run, but you can’t promise that, can you? Why is it that I have to give my word to help him if he gets hurt but his word is worthless?
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Peter walked along in quiet. I don't know what else to say. Did he like the parfait? Kind of stupid to ask, though, because he's not going to tell me if he didn't. What is there to talk about with Sylar that isn't related to our past? Isn't everything related to that? 'What would you like to do with your life?' isn't really fair. It's too big, too philosophical. How do I get to know a person? What would I say to a date? “What do you like to do for fun?” he blurted. This world wasn't exactly a fun place and Peter feared hearing something like 'killing people', so he clarified quickly, “I mean, before the abilities, back when things were more normal.”
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“I mostly worked…” Sylar began slowly, feeling like he’d already answered this but maybe the previous answer wasn’t good enough so he needed to come up with new material, if not outright lie. If only he could think of something to lie about, hobbies (aside from horology) weren’t really his strong suit. “I’d go to the library, go for a walk,” to see if anyone would notice me. Not in New York anyway. “See the sights if they were close enough; watch TV sometimes. Fix clocks. Play cards with my mom,” whom I’m not talking about and it was fun to play with her only if she wasn’t talking; play solitaire by myself. “Boring stuff,” he shrugged.
“What did you do, Peter, besides working out and beating up bad guys?” Sylar cringed. It had just slipped out but he’d obviously meant it enough to say it. “I’m sorry,” he said as he stopped walking and stood there. Peter thought he and all those other villains deserved the beating so that sufficiently justified it. He only needs me for… “The-the hardware store is off Fourth Street, up there and to the right,” backing up as he gave directions. When Peter made no move towards him, Sylar turned away with the intention of heading back to his apartment. This wasn’t going to work anyway.
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“Sylar … N-” Peter cut himself off from forbidding Sylar to leave or making any demands. The snark was so transparent he wasn't bothered by it. He was upset much more by the evidence of simmering anger under Sylar's facade. “Please.” He held his hands up and to the sides, palms out. “It's okay. Will you show me?”
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Sylar turned back immediately, not looking forward to a lecture or an assault. In place, he waited with the appearance of patience, gazing in Peter’s direction but not at his person.
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“Come on,” Peter cajoled. “I don't want to get lost. I need your help.” It was the sort of appeal that would work on Peter. He realized that wasn't the best tack to take with Sylar. “This is your place, your city. You know the way around a lot better than I do.” He waited a beat, then conceded, “I would like you with me.” Even if you're making mean-spirited comments. Maybe I've earned that. The only way to disprove it is to disprove it - leave it alone.
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Sylar nodded once, slowly, and approached hesitantly. Try harder, no, do better. I have to. Just don't say anything at all. He rejoined Peter, feeling comforted but mostly feeling ill by the constant threat hanging over him. "Maybe it's better if you only ask me important questions, not anything about...not-important things..." he suggested lamely. How about you don't ask me any damn thing at all? Can't talk about anything with me and of course, that's my fault.
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Peter gave a shallow nod, even as he wanted to argue about it. They weren't unimportant things. He's taking this too far. He acts like I've given him grounds to think I might attack him at any moment. It doesn't work that way! I don't work that way! Can't he see that? Peter pursed his lips and walked in silence. Sylar had said a number of things, here and there, that made Peter think that maybe he couldn't see that. At a loss as to what to do about it, he continued on.
They came to the hardware store soon enough. It was a couple blocks beyond where Peter had ranged before. Peter had noticed the street signs and building names in this world were low profile when present at all. In this case, it merely said, ‘HARDWARE’ without a brand or franchise name. At least the Starbucks and the YMCA had had proper names, although Peter had had to really look to find that much. ‘HARDWARE’ didn’t surprise him, as the hospital was ‘HOSPITAL’ and the place he ate breakfast when not at Sylar’s or his apartment was ‘DINER’. The inside of the hospital was a lot like Mercy Heights, but with enough minor differences that he couldn’t entirely rely on his memory. Then again, most hospitals had similar basic layouts, just like most hardware stores. This one, he found as they went inside, was like someone had tried to replicate a big box store’s layout in the footprint of a larger-than-usual downtown brownstone. It almost worked. Everything seemed to be there, but it was all cramped and crowded.
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Sylar hung back, aware of the stupidity of the location and its contents in glaring realism. Was this a trick? It was still stupid to come here. Worse than before, he was tense and hyperaware and it wouldn’t do to let Peter see that. Every turn was another Mercy attack waiting to happen.
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Peter wandered the aisles by himself, craning his neck to take in the placards directing him to ‘Windows’. He walked past fasteners of every conceivable kind and many he’d never imagined. He’d thought Sylar had went off on some errand of his own, so silent was the other. Peter was standing in front of the Exteriors section, hands on hips, not sure where to start, when Sylar’s voice sounded from his left. He barely managed not to start. How the hell does he manage to ghost around like that?!?
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"What are you looking for?”
XXX
Peter frowned, not entirely at the unnecessarily stealthy Sylar, but mostly at the aisles that encompassed his options. “Windows. But these are all housing windows.” I was afraid of that.
XXX
Had he been more relaxed, Sylar would have rolled his eyes. That much was obvious. He’d been inquiring about specifics. "How big a window do you need?”
XXX
“I don’t know.” He started down the aisle directly in front of him, passing square windows, rectangular windows, round windows, stained glass windows, transom windows, and various other configurations he couldn’t identify but clearly weren’t what he needed. “I didn’t take any measurements.” He wasn’t even sure how many display windows the building had. And I’ll need something for the door, too.
XXX
Whatever that fucking store was, it was quickly becoming a place to be avoided - Sylar did not want to return to take measurements, alone or accompanied. “What kind of window?” Maybe he could help here and avoid the extra stop…
XXX
Peter grunted in annoyance. “I don’t know.” He started up the next aisle, but it was mostly shutters and the beginnings of siding. He paced down it quickly and went to the other side of the first lane he’d walked down. Here, at least, he had sliding glass doors, but nothing like the sturdy, commercial door he needed. Still, he had nowhere else to look, so he loitered next to some screen doors. “I only worked construction for one summer with Dad and Uncle Tim. Most of that was just doing what they told me to.” Not that his obedience had ever been recognized.
XXX
“Do you know how to put a window in?” When Peter began to look at him, Sylar quickly cut him off, “Don't look at me - I don't know how." I could figure it out but I don’t know and I have no pride invested in admitting that, especially when it makes Peter look like a fool for not planning anything as usual. It’s his mess and he’s going to clean it up.
XXX
Peter laughed ruefully. “No, I don’t either. But I sure know how to knock them down.” Well, what do I do now? “Maybe there’s a section where they sell plate glass?” I’m not even sure what plate glass is. How is that different from normal glass? He turned and started to set off to a different part of the store.
XXX
Two minutes of normality was shattered when Peter moved towards him. In a goddamn hardware store. Sylar didn’t question it, didn’t think; he scrambled back out of the way, giving Peter a wide berth. He had only a twinge of self-conscious doubt that he wasn’t hiding his…wariness very well, but Peter knew what he’d done, had to live with it and seemed okay with things the way there were now. What else could Peter possibly expect after what he’d done?
XXX
Peter slowed immediately, face falling as he realized Sylar was virtually running from him. It shamed him all over again. He wanted to complain that Sylar was overreacting, but Sylar had the right to react however he wanted. If those reactions had been less genuine, Peter would have had something to argue about, but as it was, they were sadly sincere. He ducked his head and walked slowly, giving Sylar plenty of time to get out of his way.
XXX
Breathing faster and stressing in general had him sweating. It took a moment for his brain to reboot enough to follow the medic, who was now ignoring him like nothing had happened. What…what did happen? That first downward spiral of dread broke over him, not improving his clammy exterior. Standing in the store, with this man, was taking a lot out of him and Sylar felt sure he wouldn’t be able to last the day like this.
XXX
The store had large panes of glass along with small ones. They were thick and thin and arranged next to a book hanging on a chain that Peter scooped up eagerly. It did not hold installation instructions per se, but listed the part numbers for matching up frames and closures with the number of panes, configuration, and thickness of glass. There were a lot of tables. He stood studying one for more than a minute before flipping through the rest of the book to see what else where was. “This … might be useful. I suppose I could divide the display window in half and install two … windows … on top of each other.” He ended muttering, “But how would I brace it?” He flipped to the start of the book idly, about to put it down when a diagram caught his eye. It helpfully labeled and described the major components of a window. Another minute passed as he absorbed sashes, jambs, rails, stiles, and other terms. He reached up to tear the page out of the book and take it with him for later reference, when a slight movement out of the corner of his eye, maybe a shift of weight or just a sudden awareness, stopped him. He looked back at Sylar, standing a score or more of feet away, watching him. Tearing up more stuff seemed … unwise. He flipped the page instead, but there was nothing as useful on the other side.
XXX
Sylar’s eyes narrowed. The noise had sounded like a page being ripped. He stood there, looking at threatening as he dared until the threat seemed to pass. Some glorified page protector. I should isolate him in one of those bubble balls or maybe bubble wrap so he can’t destroy anything else. Then if I got upset, all I’d have to do is push him a little and he’d fall over or go rolling.
XXX
“I need to know what I’m doing. I saw some books when I walked in,” he said to announce his intentions, striding off towards the entrance. Sylar was behind him, so Peter didn’t need to slow his steps this time. Peter perused the ‘how to’ section of thick, glossy, soft-cover manuals describing all manner of home repairs. None were helpfully aimed at people who had destroyed commercial display windows, but there were several he thought might be applicable. He picked up three. He looked at the cash registers out of habit, his feet stirring a step in that direction before he caught himself. He hesitated a moment.
XXX
That caught his attention, despite (or maybe because of) everything else. "Does this bother you to take things 'without paying'?"
XXX
Peter’s head came around towards Sylar. He grimaced. “It’s just this place. I keep expecting people.” He shrugged. “They keep not being here.” With a huff he reminded himself that he took groceries all the time without a problem. With a single shake of his head, he started walking again, passing the registers without further pause. Once outside, he looked up and down the cold street. “I don’t want to walk all the way back to read these, then find out I need to come back here to get something. Let’s find a place near here where we can get out of the cold and sit somewhere comfortable. Okay?”
XXX
Like I have a choice? Sylar wondered about the continued pluralities, but aloud he said, “Sure.”
XXX
Continued...
Day 31, January 9, Morning
Peter watched Sylar's abrupt motions as they went about loading the cart for a second (and probably last) load. "What do you mean, a free-for-all? Do you mean the fight, that morning?" His brows were slightly pulled together, giving Sylar nearly all of his attention. This was important.
XXX
"Yeah," Sylar nodded starting slow at first, a little jerky but getting smoother and faster. His voice strained, "Hitting me, breaking my things, stealing and using others, the food, attacking me when...when you said you wouldn't and I told you to stay across the room."
XXX
'Stealing and using others?' What does that mean? Maybe stealing some of his stuff and using other stuff? Let's focus instead on the rest, on the things I think I understand. Peter straightened, but not in a confrontational manner - more just getting up on his feet. “You're saying … that when you started making fun of my brother's death, I should have walked out instead of going for you, right?” His expression was serious. He wasn't doubting or disagreeing; he was figuring out where Sylar drew the line.
XXX
“I’m not telling you what to do, Peter,” Sylar scoffed, “As if you’d listen.” He noticed he was clinging protectively to the latest mannequin, keeping it between himself and Peter.
XXX
No, Peter thought sadly, I probably wouldn't. He nodded slowly, eyes distant. “I broke my word,” he said softly. “That's why you're afraid.” He touched his forehead and sagged against the check-out counter, eyes moving uneasily between the floor and Sylar. I fucked up. How do I fix this? An apology felt wrong, especially as he felt torn between competing loyalties. He looked pained. But I told him my family was off-limits! How can he expect me to sit there and do nothing while he makes fun of Nathan's death? Peter shifted uncomfortably, talking to himself, as much as to Sylar. “But if I'm willing to break my word when all you've done is talk, then what does it mean to you about how I'd keep any other promise, when you’ve killed my brother?” Peter swallowed. What am I willing to honor? If it's Nathan's memory, then Sylar should already be dead. And if it's not, then he should be able to say what he wants. It's just words, right? Peter squirmed in place again, not at all liking where his thoughts were taking him. It tasted a lot like a betrayal of his brother and it was bitter on his tongue, leaving his chest feeling empty and hollow. Maybe Sylar had tricked him somehow. He'd have to think on it. In the meantime, there was a breach of trust to be healed or else Sylar's increasing and perhaps justified paranoid behavior was going to make life impossible.
Slowly, he said, “I see why you don't trust me. Or at least, I see it more. But we're still here together. How do we make this work?”
XXX
Sylar retorted, “I’m not afraid.” He huffed an exasperated breath. “’We’ don’t do anything, because there is no ‘we’, right, Peter? You live with your actions because you won’t do anything different. I adjust - those are the rules.” Sylar shoved the torso into the cart roughly, glaring at Peter with challenge. “What else would you like to talk about, Peter?” he invited. It was just a formality because the Italian would talk about whatever he wished anyway. At least having this out in the open meant he didn’t have to be subtle when he watched his back, like now, reaching for yet another damn mannequin. How many did this guy take out, wishing it was me? And why am I still here helping him?
XXX
Peter deflated, not that he had far to go. He became … less. “Yeah, I guess so,” he mumbled, face tilting down. No making up for it, no healing, no fixing. Just Sylar taking that kind of behavior from me as the new normal and adjusting accordingly, which includes being terrified of me even while he's desperate to be around me. The only reason he's doing that much is that I'm the only person to be around. If he had choices, he'd be elsewhere. Even Sylar thinks I'm a danger - a loose cannon. The corner of Peter's mouth lifted bitterly, because the irony was rich, if undesired. He didn't look up as he asked his question: “How do I get you to stop provoking me about my family?” Sylar had asked what else Peter wanted to know, after all. Maybe he could address the problem from the other end, stopping Sylar from picking fights with him, since he felt depressingly sure that given the right bait, he'd swing on Sylar again, no matter what promises he'd made. He finished loading the cart mechanically. It felt hopeless; he felt stupid. He knew it would pass, but he still felt utterly bathed in regret and self-loathing. He looked around to see if there was anything else to pick up, avoiding all traces of eye contact as he did it. “I'm not going to stop defending them.” Even the dead ones. Especially the dead ones.
XXX
“Here’s an idea, Peter: stop asking about Nathan! You don’t fucking own him or the mention of his name. I fucking was him, Peter! I am not your gateway to Nathan. At least not until you can tell the damn difference between me and him and you understand that you and him and your family are not the only wounded victims here; not until you see what your mother and her friends did and what you’re still doing. I don’t expect you to do anything else, Peter; by all means defend those sick hypocrites. But don’t you fucking bait me! Don’t bait me and play that game! Because I promise it will get nasty and you can believe my word on that.” Once that was out it felt like he could draw a cleaner, easier breath. Hell, he had no idea if he was on topic, answering the question given. And he didn’t much care. Peter wasn’t looking at him and somehow that made it okay to speak.
“You wanted me to be Nathan, well….You can’t punish me for having any part of him just because you don’t like it after the fact - you should have thought of that before you turned me into him! Then you wonder why I won’t answer you and then say things you don’t like? Fuck!” Sylar swept his hair back and gripped it tight, turning away from Peter. He couldn’t get the emotion out and he knew he was going to do something violent; it was just a matter of what, how and against whom. Peter still wasn’t looking at him even as he grabbed the last mannequin, pivoted and slammed it onto a multi-leveled clothes table, screaming his lungs out. The damn thing crumpled and broke, shattering into dusty pieces as Sylar was left holding the metal support bar. I can break things, too! Committed now, he threw it at the counter right next to Peter, on purpose, to get his attention again or halfway threaten, whatever. It felt good but immediately after he felt guilty about everything and it was so frustrating he saw his eyes get hot and blurry. There was nothing he could do to fix his situation and what he’d done probably hadn’t helped it any.
Sniffing once, Sylar turned on his heel and stomped out through the broken display window.
XXX
Peter had been holding very still the whole time, listening to the rant and watching Sylar's feet as they carried him about the floor and communicated his personal energy just as effectively as his face. When the metal bar hit the cash register near Peter, he jumped. He hadn't seen it coming and he raised his eyes out of self-preservation. Sylar had his attention, for a moment at least. When there was no impending attack, Peter's gaze slipped past the other man and roamed over the shattered mannequin. This place breeds anger. Or maybe it just reveals it. He felt oddly blank about that - philosophical, maybe. The strong emotion expressed on both sides left him feeling comfortably empty for the moment. He watched Sylar go without saying a word, giving a respectful silence for the things expressed. They weren't what he'd asked to know, but they were what Sylar had to say. Now that it was said, it gave Peter a different perspective on things.
'Stop asking about Nathan.' 'Don't bait me.' 'You turned me into him.' (I did not. But he thinks I did. Or at least he blames me for it.) He's frustrated. He's hurt. Nathan's almost as sore a subject for him as it is for me. And then there's my family, which was my question to start with. Peter pursed his lips and shot a last look through the window at Sylar's retreating back. Then he bent to pick up the metal rod that had been thrown at him and pushed the cart over to the new source of debris.
I asked what would get him to stop picking fights with me over my family. He said … I think he means he's mad about them, too. That's why - he's mad enough to not care if it starts a fight. (Mad because his evil plans were thwarted? That would explain why I'm included among the guilty.) Not that it matters. Sometimes the most angry are the least justified. Is that because they don't feel they're getting enough respect? Peter kept musing and mulling things over as he rolled the cart to the rear and dumped the contents. He replaced it with the other carts and began the final sweep he'd intended to do. He was mostly through when he saw Sylar coming back. After a brief pause to regard him, Peter continued with his task until Sylar was at a conversational distance. Then he stopped, leaned on the broom, and looked at Sylar steadily and expectantly.
XXX
Sylar took yet another deep breath and stayed out of range. Hands in his pockets, curled in on himself he spoke before Peter could condemn him further, “Are you going to break in again?”
XXX
Peter glanced around the store. All of the front windows had been reduced to empty frames (and in one case, not even the frame was left). Even the thicker glass of the door was spiderwebbed. Breaking in here a second time was irrelevant. Peter certainly wasn't feeling any urge to take out other storefronts, but he didn't think that was what Sylar was talking about. “Break in where?”
XXX
“My apartment, my door, attacking me, is that going to be a…a thing?” He did not want to move. His apartment was more or less a home; it had been a very safe place until recently. As a killer, he wasn’t supposed to have anything like that, but he’d made it anyway, made it himself, gathering up every book and treasure to keep close to him as a comfort and now…The idea of being on the run was nearly beyond his comprehension. He’d gotten soft and he badly wanted, perhaps even needed the stability of having something of his own.
XXX
Peter breathed out slowly and said very clearly, “No. Breaking in to your apartment is not going to be a 'thing'.” In a slightly lower voice, he added in an attempt to excuse himself, “I've been knocking.” He felt like an ill-trained dog, or that Sylar was insinuating he was. He thought he should argue and stand up for himself, but he didn't have it in him at the moment. He had, after all, broken into Sylar's apartment without a knock, a thought, or the slightest regard for Sylar's obvious fear. At the time, none of that had mattered to Peter, any more than he'd cared about smashing this store. He'd wanted something from Sylar and was blithely and callously willing to damage anything necessary to get it, including Sylar himself. It left Peter feeling ashamed of himself. He knew he'd been wrong and so he dropped his eyes in apology, watching Sylar's feet again, and waited.
XXX
Sylar’s gaze was locked on Peter while he answered. It was the distinct lack of promise coupled with the explicit finality that worked. It made sense, simple yes or no, and he…he trusted it. Being attacked wasn’t addressed but any polite/conceding/warning knocking equivocated no breaking and entering for an attack; not that Sylar would be inviting Peter back any time soon, if he could help it. I don’t have to move. Relief made his ears ring from a sudden pressure being lifted, the burden eased. “Okay.”
XXX
Peter looked up to watch the man go. Sylar was moving more freely, he noticed. He believes me? After I broke my word? Well, he might not believe me, but he at least trusted me enough to ask. My answer meant something to him. Peter finished the clean up and loitered around the place for another half hour, in the full knowledge that he was waiting in case Sylar came back to join him for lunch. Peter straightened things and tidied up, but there was no one here who wanted to be with him.
Day 32, January 10, Morning
Peter hadn't felt like spending the afternoon searching for the hardware store alone, so he frittered the time away playing pool and haphazardly searching some of the apartments in his building. It was frustrating and dull - the rooms in his building were nonsensically plain and boring, not at all interesting like the ones across the street in the Pegasus. Eventually he'd given up on it and made an early night of it.
He felt better in the morning. After a leisurely workout, a shower, and a trip down to a Starbucks that shared space with the Y, he'd returned with a pair of parfaits. He sat on the curb across from Sylar's apartment, eating one of them very slowly, wondering idly if boredom, the cold, or Sylar would be the first to stir him from his seat.
XXX
Still sour and pained, Sylar got up if for no other reason than to keep Peter away from his apartment. He’d been undisturbed all night, except for nightmares so that counted for something. Limping and bundled up against the cold like some overstuffed winter bird, he caught sight of Peter sitting outside his building. That sent up a warning flag before he rationalized the innocence of it - Peter was munching up some kind of ice cream or something…It was too odd a sight to hold much threat. Do I need to say something about…stalking me or…? It depended on Peter’s word (not in his good graces at the moment) and the medic’s stance on ‘killers and rights to privacy.’ After the brief tangent, he dismissed it scornfully, Why would he stalk me? Why is he even here? He doesn’t want to be. He wasn’t…upset when I…about yesterday so this isn’t an apology.
Slowly Sylar walked out, looking up and down both sides of the street as if checking for traffic. He approached Peter and stood eight or nine feet away this time, out of lunging distance. He saw that Peter’s plastic cup held fruit and non-frozen yoghurt instead of ice cream.
XXX
Peter was mostly done with his meal and really starting to feel the chill on his butt when Sylar emerged. He was glad of the distraction from his discomfort, but not so glad about the way Sylar regarded him, like Peter was a danger. Oh well, he mentally (attempted to) dismiss it. Another distraction was Sylar's continuing limp. That's the same foot he's been favoring since … before the concussion? It's been weeks. Those aren't jammed toes. They're broken. Or at least one is. There wasn't much to be done about it. The injury might have benefitted from being buddy-wrapped had Peter noticed it early on, but being in shoes and mostly off his feet immobilized the toes about as well or better than any brace or treatment might.
He picked up the plastic-wrapped spoon and then the container, both with his left hand, and extended them. “Have you had breakfast?”
XXX
Sylar glanced between the offering and Peter’s eyes several times. It was clearly for him, unless Peter was especially hungry to eat two or sadistic to offer but renege. He’s not apologizing, right? Of course not, that’s unheard of. Tricking me? To do what? Taking care of me?...Why? I’m still alive like I said I would be, taking care of myself. He didn’t greet with any obvious good morning and didn’t ask what Peter was doing or how he’d slept. Slowly, he was learning. “Not really,” he hedged to admit because his buffet of crackers, soup and reheated frozen meals wasn’t doing him very well. He snuck forward to take the cup from Peter’s hand. He looked it over carefully, then at Peter again. It was real food and his woeful stomach was in open rebellion because it even smelled good with the lid on. “Thanks.” This time he sat about two feet away, what he hoped was still a polite (and safe) distance. Sylar popped the lid and stuck his spoon in, closing his nostrils to get the bite into his mouth. The granola was crunchy, the parfait fresh. He wondered if Peter had made it or found it; either way it was tasty, suitable, and satisfied his needs, nutritional or otherwise.
XXX
Peter shifted his weight a few times after Sylar settled. It warmed and relaxed him that Sylar hadn't taken the food and stomped off, or stood there looming over him to eat it. Instead, he'd sat close, or at least at a normal distance, and was being … okay about things. That was good; Peter was happy as he used his spoon to dig out the last bits of blueberry and yoghurt from the bottom of the tall, plastic cup.
Finished, he set it aside and leaned back, turning his head to regard Sylar for a moment. When Sylar looked up at him, Peter asked, “Would you still be interested in showing me where the hardware store is?”
XXX
Sylar paused, a little surprised headstrong Peter hadn’t gone exploring on his own to find it. He hadn’t expected the other man to wait or plan to involve him. Am I needed or is he trying to suck up? But he has no reason to suck up. He looked the empath over, giving a small nod, “Yeah.” One word answers; keep it very short, that’s the key. After several quiet, slightly awkward moments of chewing (because Peter kept looking at him and that wasn’t the most comfortable thing now), Sylar remarked, “I’ve never had one of these before.”
XXX
“Yeah?” Peter smiled a little, hoping that was a good thing. Since Sylar had been very expressive so far about things he didn't like, Peter took the lack of condemnation as approval. “Hm,” he said, a short, throaty noise of approval. He let his gaze roam around Sylar's face for a moment. Do I really use him as a gateway to Nathan? I guess I had been thinking of him as the repository of Nathan's memories. And the guy who's supposed to save Emma. And the guy who killed all those people, along with me. The past and the future - do those really define a person - what they've done, what they will do - or is who they are something else? Who is Sylar?
Sylar was a person who didn't like being stared at, so Peter looked away when his scrutiny was noticed. “Yeah, um, I had a friend in college who had yoghurt in his cereal every morning. Or maybe he had a little cereal with his yoghurt. He said having milk with cereal was nutritionally the same as putting a few tablespoons of sugar in a glass of milk.” Peter looked back at Sylar, using the opportunity to catalogue his features - big nose, dark brows, pale skin that made the dark of his facial hair so much more pronounced than it would have been on a tanner person. He supposed he needed to keep acting like he was having a conversation rather than scoping Sylar out, which wasn't exactly what he was doing. “Personally, I never saw the distinction. I mean, yoghurt's still basically milk, right?” Peter shrugged, realizing he was having this 'conversation' by himself. “Yeah.” He picked up his empty cup and rolled it between his hands, his elbows on his knees and eyes on the cup. He could go on about Kevin's opinions on protein and fats and whatnot, but Peter wasn't in love with the sound of his own voice so much that he'd inflict it on an uninterested audience.
XXX
“I guess.” Really, he wouldn’t have thought yoghurt had so much sugar in it or…wasn’t as healthy as he’d previously thought. Maybe all the processing and curing and preservatives or something.
XXX
After a few more moments of silence, Peter twitched as he remembered something more pertinent to Sylar than Peter's college stories. He pulled a bottle of painkillers from his pocket, opening it and shaking out a few pills. “Here, you should take these.” He didn't bother to ask if Sylar had taken a dose this morning; he doubted he had. “They're the same painkillers you were taking before. I went back to the hospital the other day and got some stuff, including more of these.” He'd brought them along thinking the trip to the hardware store might be an all-day excursion and if so, Sylar would need to take a couple doses throughout the day.
XXX
“Oh,” Sylar said, surprised again. Those would help. The illusion of the same caretaking Peter had given him before was making him feel better, almost disgustingly so. You’re so easy. He gives you a treat and you’re ready to forget he lied and attacked you? He felt terribly conflicted, desperate for the comfort yet ashamed and insulted to need it or have it offered. “Thank you,” he said, genuine but quiet, taking the pills and downing them quickly. Sylar kept his mouth full to avoid asking or saying anything offensive. It was silent aside for his spooning, because he was eating alone at this point. He wondered if he was supposed to converse, if that was…required or repellant. Picking the most neutral thing, Sylar cleared his throat and voiced softly, “What were you thinking of getting at the store?”
XXX
“I hadn't really thought about it. I don't know if they sell …” It's not really selling. There's no one here to sell it. “Um, if they have windows like that at a hardware store. I don't know how big they sell- um, carry. Maybe we'd have to find a specialty window place? I guess if they don't have windows, I could get some boards until we- or at least,” he shot Sylar an uncertain look, not wanting to rope him into a project he might not want anything to do with, but not wanting to exclude him either, “until I find a glass store.” I hate glass, his mind tacked on unnecessarily. He could deal with 'windows', but the combination of glass and Sylar bothered him. He was also feeling super-awkward about the conversation and very insecure about his own performance in it. It had started out well enough, but now? He couldn't even speak correctly. He got to his feet to pace and stretch his legs after sitting for so long.
XXX
Sylar frowned down at his meal, snack-like cup. About Peter’s unnecessary self-correcting, he thought, Please don’t have a complex about taking things without paying. I won’t be able to handle that; it’s so stupid. Do you even know what you’re doing? Sylar wasn’t aware the medic knew how to fix a window when he didn’t know how to clean a dish (far less skill or technique involved). All that aside, he was warmed by it, almost as much as receiving breakfast if not more so, about the complete restoration of the building. (He wants to fix it, for me, most likely. He thinks I care or he feels bad). It meant less than nothing outside of a gestural, intangible demonstration of….care? Friendship? Healing? Fixing was very much within his ken; it felt like Peter was speaking his language, for a little while at least. It dampened a bit when Peter glanced at him strangely. Oh. He wants to work…alone. That makes sense, I guess. I can’t- shouldn’t talk and throw things.
He barely repressed his bodily jerk in reaction to Peter standing up, leaning away in case he needed a quick escape. Fuck, he thought of the other man’s pacing. He’s impatient. What can I…? Sylar regarded his two-thirds gone cup. I guess I don’t need to finish. He stood also, gathering his trash, dumping it to show his readiness. “It’s this way,” he edged around Peter to be closer to the street as he passed to head north then west for the hardware store. Maybe I can find a couch to sit in somewhere while he works and check in to…make sure…I don’t know. Maybe just leave him alone. He likes that.
XXX
Peter rubbed at his forehead, chagrinned as he realized Sylar had read his standing and moving around as a signal to go, and was now foregoing finishing his food. Do I stop him and … and what? Tell him to sit back down and finish his breakfast like he's a kid? Peter shook his head once and fell in, a step behind Sylar and a companionable distance off to the side. He had more to eat than he would have otherwise. I'll just make sure we stop early for lunch - and next time, think before I jump up. He blew air out, disgusted with himself again, but there was nothing for it. They didn't have the sort of comfortable relationship where he could explain without making a scene, and the failure of Sylar to eat the last of the parfait wasn't worth it. 'You live with your actions … I adjust - those are the rules.' Peter wasn't happy about it, but the one at fault here was him.
XXX
“So what’s your favorite fruit? You had fruit in your cup. If you don’t mind my asking,” he hastily tacked on the last as if it would help if Peter was upset by the question. Does he like small talk? His small talk is different than mine. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll…(I don’t like this, he thought for the billionth time already. It was part of the adjustment period, he knew, but that didn’t make it any easier). Suck it up. With the most recent incident, Peter had fallen into a category finally. While that was a relief, it was only so manageable. Peter was someone he wanted something from, a person who he would have otherwise hero-worshipped to the point of restraining order. Now, friendliness was gone, and Peter was someone he wanted to be around but had to avoid and yet had to deal with and perform for; walking on eggshells around a man who would snap at a single wrong word.
XXX
Peter waited a beat, increasing his pace to come even with Sylar. The earlier conversation that had seemed like such a mess to him had died and they'd spent the next several minutes walking in silence. He'd begun to wonder if their whole journey would pass like that, but he wasn't about to be the one to run his mouth without prompting. He was grateful for the topic. “No, I don't mind. Grapes.” He gave a brief smile. “They're always different. They're sweet. They're small - self contained, individual bites. I like that. They don't stain like blueberries; they hold up better than strawberries; and they taste great with cheese.”
He paused, thinking that it had been a while since he'd had grapes - a couple months, maybe more. He remembered popping a few in his mouth after interrupting brunch on his brother's terrace, spinning an impromptu line for a reporter and being the good Petrelli his family wanted him to be. He made a wry roll of his eyes. Surely he'd had some since then. That was years back, but since then he'd been … all over the place, and rarely buying groceries and never attending the sort of events where they were served. He cleared his expression before looking over to Sylar. “What's yours?”
XXX
This was the forced, uncaring conversation Sylar loved so much. You don’t care, so why ask me? ‘Forbidden fruit?’ he almost said, but didn’t, knowing it wouldn’t be appreciated. “Apples.”
XXX
Peter nodded. “Can I ask how your toes are doing? I was noticing you're limping.” He used the usual EMT phrasing without any leading comments, saying strictly what he'd seen and leaving it at that.
XXX
Sylar swallowed his fear of what the line of questioning might mean. “I…They’re…still sore?” Already they felt better after the painkillers.
XXX
“I was thinking if they're still bothering you, they're probably broken. There's not much that can be done for them. It's like my hand - a brace if you need it, but really that's only to keep you from using them. You were off your feet a lot and that's the main thing. But getting out and walking some, now, is probably good, too.” He looked ahead at the buildings, trying to remember how far afield they'd gotten on their walk last time. He was pretty sure the hardware store had been closer than the hospital, so he didn't expect the distance to be unmanageable. Especially since this time, he assumed Sylar would be taking him straight to their destination.
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“I’ll be fine,” he assured, mild but serious. I don’t see how walking is going to help except to justify your errand, Peter. Just don’t make me run, but you can’t promise that, can you? Why is it that I have to give my word to help him if he gets hurt but his word is worthless?
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Peter walked along in quiet. I don't know what else to say. Did he like the parfait? Kind of stupid to ask, though, because he's not going to tell me if he didn't. What is there to talk about with Sylar that isn't related to our past? Isn't everything related to that? 'What would you like to do with your life?' isn't really fair. It's too big, too philosophical. How do I get to know a person? What would I say to a date? “What do you like to do for fun?” he blurted. This world wasn't exactly a fun place and Peter feared hearing something like 'killing people', so he clarified quickly, “I mean, before the abilities, back when things were more normal.”
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“I mostly worked…” Sylar began slowly, feeling like he’d already answered this but maybe the previous answer wasn’t good enough so he needed to come up with new material, if not outright lie. If only he could think of something to lie about, hobbies (aside from horology) weren’t really his strong suit. “I’d go to the library, go for a walk,” to see if anyone would notice me. Not in New York anyway. “See the sights if they were close enough; watch TV sometimes. Fix clocks. Play cards with my mom,” whom I’m not talking about and it was fun to play with her only if she wasn’t talking; play solitaire by myself. “Boring stuff,” he shrugged.
“What did you do, Peter, besides working out and beating up bad guys?” Sylar cringed. It had just slipped out but he’d obviously meant it enough to say it. “I’m sorry,” he said as he stopped walking and stood there. Peter thought he and all those other villains deserved the beating so that sufficiently justified it. He only needs me for… “The-the hardware store is off Fourth Street, up there and to the right,” backing up as he gave directions. When Peter made no move towards him, Sylar turned away with the intention of heading back to his apartment. This wasn’t going to work anyway.
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“Sylar … N-” Peter cut himself off from forbidding Sylar to leave or making any demands. The snark was so transparent he wasn't bothered by it. He was upset much more by the evidence of simmering anger under Sylar's facade. “Please.” He held his hands up and to the sides, palms out. “It's okay. Will you show me?”
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Sylar turned back immediately, not looking forward to a lecture or an assault. In place, he waited with the appearance of patience, gazing in Peter’s direction but not at his person.
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“Come on,” Peter cajoled. “I don't want to get lost. I need your help.” It was the sort of appeal that would work on Peter. He realized that wasn't the best tack to take with Sylar. “This is your place, your city. You know the way around a lot better than I do.” He waited a beat, then conceded, “I would like you with me.” Even if you're making mean-spirited comments. Maybe I've earned that. The only way to disprove it is to disprove it - leave it alone.
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Sylar nodded once, slowly, and approached hesitantly. Try harder, no, do better. I have to. Just don't say anything at all. He rejoined Peter, feeling comforted but mostly feeling ill by the constant threat hanging over him. "Maybe it's better if you only ask me important questions, not anything about...not-important things..." he suggested lamely. How about you don't ask me any damn thing at all? Can't talk about anything with me and of course, that's my fault.
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Peter gave a shallow nod, even as he wanted to argue about it. They weren't unimportant things. He's taking this too far. He acts like I've given him grounds to think I might attack him at any moment. It doesn't work that way! I don't work that way! Can't he see that? Peter pursed his lips and walked in silence. Sylar had said a number of things, here and there, that made Peter think that maybe he couldn't see that. At a loss as to what to do about it, he continued on.
They came to the hardware store soon enough. It was a couple blocks beyond where Peter had ranged before. Peter had noticed the street signs and building names in this world were low profile when present at all. In this case, it merely said, ‘HARDWARE’ without a brand or franchise name. At least the Starbucks and the YMCA had had proper names, although Peter had had to really look to find that much. ‘HARDWARE’ didn’t surprise him, as the hospital was ‘HOSPITAL’ and the place he ate breakfast when not at Sylar’s or his apartment was ‘DINER’. The inside of the hospital was a lot like Mercy Heights, but with enough minor differences that he couldn’t entirely rely on his memory. Then again, most hospitals had similar basic layouts, just like most hardware stores. This one, he found as they went inside, was like someone had tried to replicate a big box store’s layout in the footprint of a larger-than-usual downtown brownstone. It almost worked. Everything seemed to be there, but it was all cramped and crowded.
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Sylar hung back, aware of the stupidity of the location and its contents in glaring realism. Was this a trick? It was still stupid to come here. Worse than before, he was tense and hyperaware and it wouldn’t do to let Peter see that. Every turn was another Mercy attack waiting to happen.
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Peter wandered the aisles by himself, craning his neck to take in the placards directing him to ‘Windows’. He walked past fasteners of every conceivable kind and many he’d never imagined. He’d thought Sylar had went off on some errand of his own, so silent was the other. Peter was standing in front of the Exteriors section, hands on hips, not sure where to start, when Sylar’s voice sounded from his left. He barely managed not to start. How the hell does he manage to ghost around like that?!?
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"What are you looking for?”
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Peter frowned, not entirely at the unnecessarily stealthy Sylar, but mostly at the aisles that encompassed his options. “Windows. But these are all housing windows.” I was afraid of that.
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Had he been more relaxed, Sylar would have rolled his eyes. That much was obvious. He’d been inquiring about specifics. "How big a window do you need?”
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“I don’t know.” He started down the aisle directly in front of him, passing square windows, rectangular windows, round windows, stained glass windows, transom windows, and various other configurations he couldn’t identify but clearly weren’t what he needed. “I didn’t take any measurements.” He wasn’t even sure how many display windows the building had. And I’ll need something for the door, too.
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Whatever that fucking store was, it was quickly becoming a place to be avoided - Sylar did not want to return to take measurements, alone or accompanied. “What kind of window?” Maybe he could help here and avoid the extra stop…
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Peter grunted in annoyance. “I don’t know.” He started up the next aisle, but it was mostly shutters and the beginnings of siding. He paced down it quickly and went to the other side of the first lane he’d walked down. Here, at least, he had sliding glass doors, but nothing like the sturdy, commercial door he needed. Still, he had nowhere else to look, so he loitered next to some screen doors. “I only worked construction for one summer with Dad and Uncle Tim. Most of that was just doing what they told me to.” Not that his obedience had ever been recognized.
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“Do you know how to put a window in?” When Peter began to look at him, Sylar quickly cut him off, “Don't look at me - I don't know how." I could figure it out but I don’t know and I have no pride invested in admitting that, especially when it makes Peter look like a fool for not planning anything as usual. It’s his mess and he’s going to clean it up.
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Peter laughed ruefully. “No, I don’t either. But I sure know how to knock them down.” Well, what do I do now? “Maybe there’s a section where they sell plate glass?” I’m not even sure what plate glass is. How is that different from normal glass? He turned and started to set off to a different part of the store.
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Two minutes of normality was shattered when Peter moved towards him. In a goddamn hardware store. Sylar didn’t question it, didn’t think; he scrambled back out of the way, giving Peter a wide berth. He had only a twinge of self-conscious doubt that he wasn’t hiding his…wariness very well, but Peter knew what he’d done, had to live with it and seemed okay with things the way there were now. What else could Peter possibly expect after what he’d done?
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Peter slowed immediately, face falling as he realized Sylar was virtually running from him. It shamed him all over again. He wanted to complain that Sylar was overreacting, but Sylar had the right to react however he wanted. If those reactions had been less genuine, Peter would have had something to argue about, but as it was, they were sadly sincere. He ducked his head and walked slowly, giving Sylar plenty of time to get out of his way.
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Breathing faster and stressing in general had him sweating. It took a moment for his brain to reboot enough to follow the medic, who was now ignoring him like nothing had happened. What…what did happen? That first downward spiral of dread broke over him, not improving his clammy exterior. Standing in the store, with this man, was taking a lot out of him and Sylar felt sure he wouldn’t be able to last the day like this.
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The store had large panes of glass along with small ones. They were thick and thin and arranged next to a book hanging on a chain that Peter scooped up eagerly. It did not hold installation instructions per se, but listed the part numbers for matching up frames and closures with the number of panes, configuration, and thickness of glass. There were a lot of tables. He stood studying one for more than a minute before flipping through the rest of the book to see what else where was. “This … might be useful. I suppose I could divide the display window in half and install two … windows … on top of each other.” He ended muttering, “But how would I brace it?” He flipped to the start of the book idly, about to put it down when a diagram caught his eye. It helpfully labeled and described the major components of a window. Another minute passed as he absorbed sashes, jambs, rails, stiles, and other terms. He reached up to tear the page out of the book and take it with him for later reference, when a slight movement out of the corner of his eye, maybe a shift of weight or just a sudden awareness, stopped him. He looked back at Sylar, standing a score or more of feet away, watching him. Tearing up more stuff seemed … unwise. He flipped the page instead, but there was nothing as useful on the other side.
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Sylar’s eyes narrowed. The noise had sounded like a page being ripped. He stood there, looking at threatening as he dared until the threat seemed to pass. Some glorified page protector. I should isolate him in one of those bubble balls or maybe bubble wrap so he can’t destroy anything else. Then if I got upset, all I’d have to do is push him a little and he’d fall over or go rolling.
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“I need to know what I’m doing. I saw some books when I walked in,” he said to announce his intentions, striding off towards the entrance. Sylar was behind him, so Peter didn’t need to slow his steps this time. Peter perused the ‘how to’ section of thick, glossy, soft-cover manuals describing all manner of home repairs. None were helpfully aimed at people who had destroyed commercial display windows, but there were several he thought might be applicable. He picked up three. He looked at the cash registers out of habit, his feet stirring a step in that direction before he caught himself. He hesitated a moment.
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That caught his attention, despite (or maybe because of) everything else. "Does this bother you to take things 'without paying'?"
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Peter’s head came around towards Sylar. He grimaced. “It’s just this place. I keep expecting people.” He shrugged. “They keep not being here.” With a huff he reminded himself that he took groceries all the time without a problem. With a single shake of his head, he started walking again, passing the registers without further pause. Once outside, he looked up and down the cold street. “I don’t want to walk all the way back to read these, then find out I need to come back here to get something. Let’s find a place near here where we can get out of the cold and sit somewhere comfortable. Okay?”
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Like I have a choice? Sylar wondered about the continued pluralities, but aloud he said, “Sure.”
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Continued...