More Between Us, Chapter 13/? "Dream Jobs"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 13/?
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 6, 917
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
A/N: Mentions of another pairing with a flash back of a sex scene from another pairing. Nothing too explicit.
A/N #2: Additional part found here.
Day 7
The pair had explored another two floors that day. Each time they left their findings in the hall and went into the individual apartment to search around. The air between them was much more relaxed and Sylar found himself enjoying it. Yes, of course, he’d been effectively stranded for three years and he was starved for companionship, but as much as he wanted to slip into it like the glove companionship or partnership should be, it felt odd. That was someone else’s glove; one he wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t crave.
They parted ways when they reached Peter’s door, Sylar following him out of habit it seemed and to get that last minute with the other man before they settled down to sleep and whatever it was Peter did. The medic didn’t watch his back almost at all and that made him feel better, not that he’d been on the alert for being attacked particularly, but still.
Sylar trooped back to his apartment after a brief stop at Ralph’s to pick up some jam and crackers since he already had his dinner in mind. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not the same like Mo-Virginia used to make. The wrong way, but still. She’d always used grape jelly. As a kid he’d thought she listened when he said he hated grape and as he grew up he knew she didn’t listen to anything he said period.
Sylar climbed the stairs to his apartment as he felt anxiety begin to creep on him again. Did I push him too hard? He’s so young and naïve-those damn rose colored glasses. Sylar tilted his head to himself in thought. He seems to be losing those and that’s probably on my head. Isn’t everyone’s loss my doing? He entered the hall, slipping into his apartment with relative silence that was inborn, shutting the door behind himself to go into the kitchen.
Mom always made the triangles. Five years old, twelve, eighteen, twenty-one; didn’t matter to her. Opening the strawberry jam and stirring it up he got out the peanut butter, specifically the chunky brand his mother hated so much. Sylar thought back to Ma’s cooking. //Strange how for a woman who could have anything she wanted in the world yet chose to cook when she had servants. He remembered getting the random peanut butter and jelly sandwich in middle school before Pete was born.
He recalled the parfaits and toast and oatmeal later on. He remembered missing it in boot camp. On the ship had been worse. Heidi hadn’t been that great of a cook either.// Sylar blinked. God, it never gets any less real. If only we had abilities, I could rewrite myself the right way, damnit. If I had abilities I could… Could what? Force Peter to do what he pleased?
Something told him he still could as he smeared the thick gooey spreads onto the white bread, slapping them together and biting into it derisively. The food he had to prepare never tasted as good as it did when someone made it for him. Maybe that explained why he liked to eat out when he could afford it; when he was allowed; when he had time; when he could get there.
Why does this hell seem to have everything I hate in it? No fiery pits or crucifixion crosses, no red demons with pitchforks because that just might make sense, but maybe this truly was Hell incarnate: having nothing of comfort with the illusion of normality. Hell was a slow-burn; it takes thousands of years, right?
But that doesn’t explain Peter. Everything came back to that blasted little man. He’s got a gift, that. Sylar moved slowly to sit at his cot and poke at his watches idly as he chewed. The headache was still present; his back was still out, his neck felt stiff as a board, and his face was swelling and throbbing. The ribs weren’t too bad, but his head was a painful mess. Back to the question at hand; had he over played his hand? Had Peter understood? I offered him heaven and hell in one package and I got…dial it back a few notches, okay?
The men may have made a truce, no, a deal; it was more binding, at least it implied more bondage. He winced at his own word choice. Strange how he wouldn’t accept me as his brother even when I was the one doing all the good deeds yet I mind my own business for once and somehow end up in Hell and he comes running for me to save this Emma girl he’s got the hots fo-
Sylar head rose, eyes widened as he stared at the wall in sudden understanding. He loves her. I’m so damn sure he…goes “both ways”, but that’s why he won’t. That and the small account of his brother. And he loves Nathan. That just made things more awkward. And somehow funny. What’s that about being the last man on earth?
For all I know he could have just come from being with her. It’s been a week and he’s been hurt and stressed and on his little hero quest I don’t know why…But he isn’t desperate. That’s why.
Sylar still longed to feel another’s flesh with his hands, with his body, to taste something that didn’t leave a dusty aftertaste on his tongue. He still longed for the thrill that shuddered down his spine and coiled in his loins. He longed to please and pleasure. He still longed to hear another’s voice in his ear while he-
He cleared his own throat to remind himself where things stood. Play-tonic: sans any actual play. Hell, platonic wasn’t even the right word, but he still hoped. A stray thought passed by about why he bothered to still hope for anything, but it disintegrated quickly.
It didn’t occur to him to analyze his actual attraction, if there was any at all. Sylar knew he wasn’t hard on the eyes by any means…he had his ways of getting what he wanted and he’d used them before. As his brain worked over his perceived problem and maybe it was a problem, he hit on something less pleasant.
The first time I try to hit on a guy with serious intent to fuck or be fucked and be fucked over and I get ‘dial it back’. Sylar couldn’t begin to label or process the rejection at that point so he left it unattended because it had nowhere to be filed in his mind.
The knowledge of not knowing what went on in another person’s head and for some reason the lack of the option to tear it open for the final answers was throwing him back to pre-Hunger days; pre-ability days where people’s thoughts bothered him. To think that was how most people lived their lives…it had already driven him crazy.
Sylar finished his sandwich and dusted his hands free of crumbs into the waste basket because he hated vacuuming and he was no slob, despite his apartment’s appearance. Laying back he gently propped a hand under his tender head and stared at the spot on his ceiling that had always reminded him of a set of bowling pins.
He has to come around. If you have to stall him from killing himself or play hero-trust-worthy so he doesn’t give up and leave…you know you’ll do it. He frowned as he grew drowsy. What was that he said about ‘getting to know me’? Even if what he said is true…he doesn’t need that kind of knowl- He closed his eyes; Peter needed it if he was going to be using that information to get him to save Emma.
Or….maybe…when he said mind games it went both ways; I don’t play him and he won’t play me. That seemed like quite a concept. (If only he could control his inner jester to save his mind. Wasn’t Peter here to volunteer his brain to be teased?) And awfully fucked of him to be more worried about being mentally fucked than physically tortured. Apparently being the most powerful man on the planet came with perks of paranoia. Or a paranoia of perks. Sylar’s eyes popped open and he flipped his middle finger at the ceiling at Fate. “Suck that, babe. I’m onto you.”
He found himself chuckling to himself. Talking aloud to yourself now. Wonderful developments. Just…plain…wonderful…zzz
XXX
Peter said his good-byes, such as they were, at the door of the apartment building. He didn’t want Sylar coming inside. Later, he considered why he cared as he lingered outside his apartment door, checking the keys he’d picked up that morning to see which fit. He wasn’t being territorial because the place was only tentatively his. Rather, he was trying to assert boundaries and see if they’d be respected. Sylar was sort of known for a high degree of home-invasion and breaking and entering, among his other crimes. When he wanted something, no one was safe from him. Not even the president.
But, ‘I wanted my life to change,’ he’d said. Peter thought about that as he fished around in the pantry for something to eat. How serious is he about that? Hm, tomato bisque. Is this one of those that needs milk? I don’t think I have milk. He carried the canned soup over to the refrigerator and looked inside. No milk. Huh. He read the directions on the can. Yeah, doesn’t need milk. Dinner in progress.
Change how? And why? And does it have anything to do with Nathan interfering with Sylar attacking Mom and me at Thanksgiving? Peter didn’t think Sylar would be answering these or any similar questions any time soon. He didn’t trust. The shock of Peter’s first appearance, when Sylar had been a little more forthcoming, had worn off. Of course, the watchmaker had also thought he might be talking to a figment of his own imagination then, so there had been no need to hide.
Peter didn’t ponder it too much. After eating, he looked to his hurts, rebandaging everything that needed it and noticing that the blisters on his feet were looking better. He gave one last thought to Sylar opening the compression bandage for him that morning and being helpful, then went on to bed. He laid in the dark, wearing boxer shorts and nothing else, staring up at the bland, featureless ceiling. He had no idea what time it was and he didn’t care. No alarm clocks, no schedule, no nothing. He smiled to himself and let himself relax more deeply than he had for months. Maybe years.
He slept deeply, waking while it was still dark out. He considered, briefly, getting up and doing something useful with himself, then discarded the idea and sunk back into slumber. This time his rest wasn’t as sound. Relaxed, wandering, near-formless thoughts seamlessly slipped into dream-state. He supposed the dream had started with him considering the guitar and what he might do with it. He was back in the cluttered bedroom where they’d found it. Sylar was standing nearby and Peter was trying to put the instrument down. He couldn’t manage it for some reason. He kept getting distracted. But by what? Oh yes, that was it! There was a ... thing on the bed, the faceless model from the cover of the porn magazine he’d found earlier. Sylar was tapping his foot impatiently, because Peter was supposed to have sex with … it.
For some reason, this made perfect sense. And just as Peter had every intention of attempting the coupling right in front of the other man, he also had absolutely zilch interest. Plus, he couldn’t manage to put the damn guitar down and he was still fully clothed.
The weird scene changed in the abrupt manner that dreams often did. Sylar was gone; Peter was naked, the guitar was on the bed, and his partner was no longer faceless. Or at least, he thought she wasn’t, because her face was turned from him. He was unclear as to whether they were having sex or just playing. The guitar kept bumping against them and he kept trying to catch a look at her face. She was blonde and familiar. He was sure he should be able to place her even from the snatches of profile he was able to make out.
She rolled him over on his back and the scene changed again, just as suddenly and with the change came recognition: Elle. What the hell am I doing having sex with Elle? Wait, what? I’m thinking? I must be dreaming. Peter had had lucid dreams before, but they weren’t common for him. More often, the simple surprise of realizing he was dreaming woke him up and ended the experience. But not now. Now he was seeing things from the point of view of the man on the floor, busily engaged in intercourse with one Elle Bishop. An unwanted arousal flushed through him.
His shoulder hurt and Peter knew with certainty that he’d dislocated it earlier, even as he knew it was Sylar who had experienced the injury. A phantom memory of agonizing pain and Elle popping it back into place came to mind. He, or Sylar, had no powers. The eclipse. I was in Haiti. Where this memory fell in his internal timeline was very clear - something else that was bleeding over from Sylar. Other glimpses of what had gone before flitted through his mind: kissing, undressing, wanting and needing, his hands tweaking and pinching her pert nipples, her tiny hand on his penis, then her mouth. How that had felt - Peter remembered how that had felt. He was hard. And panting. Or remembering panting. Or both.
The memory played forward to this moment: a haze of grunts, growls, groans from him and squeaks and whimpers from her. Peter began struggling for out, trying to wake up in earnest, but his thrashing against the sheets took on a rhythmic quality that was appropriate to the recollection, but not to leaving it behind. He didn’t know if he’d waited too long or what, because the next moment he remembered - or rather, Sylar remembered - how good it had felt when he’d burst inside her with a white-hot fire, crying out.
He hung in that instant of ecstasy for a long moment before floating down from it. He felt rubbery and spent. Or maybe he was just remembering how Sylar felt, the other man’s thoughts drifting to considering how he hadn’t expected his first time to be like this - on the floor in an empty house with only ripped clothing and a sleeping bag. The tiny body that lay on him was warm and sweaty, but it felt great. Sylar held her face and kissed her. Peter made another, less determined effort to wake himself up. Bits of the post-coital conversation came back to him, as well as the striking affection, passion and gentleness Sylar showed his lover. Peter paused to consider that. It was a side of Sylar he had never seen.
He didn’t have much time to dwell on it. Elle grabbed her partner suddenly and yanked him to the side, just as a gunshot went off and a bullet crashed through the wood floor where his head had been a half second before. This time, the shock finally propelled Peter into wakefulness. He blinked his eyes open, breathing hard, blood racing.
Day 8
That was not a normal dream. That was … He wasn’t sure what that was. He rolled over on his stomach, feeling a wet patch in his boxers. Great. I wonder if I should feel like I was molested? I suppose that depends on whether Sylar knows he’s doing it. Or knows … hell, it might just be some lousy effect of being here. He threw the tangled sheets off and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing at his face. It was getting light outside. He waited, but nothing else happened. He was just alone in his room, the world silent all around him. Might as well get up.
He went through his morning routine, playing the memory, dream, whatever it was over and over in his head, focusing on details, making sure it wasn’t a fabrication of his own imagination. He thought about the other thought-leaks he’d had that had held enough information to matter: the ones of Sylar as Gabriel the watchmaker, or of Peter hitting him (though Peter had been pretty distracted during the last). He had, without consciously thinking about it, resolved to ask Sylar about it. He didn’t want to know the sordid details of Sylar’s life. Well, he did, sort of, but not like this. This was dishonest. Did Sylar even know he was sharing this sort of thing?
Peter took another round of painkillers. The only thing he really needed them for now was his wrist and hand. The swelling was down a tiny bit on his face, even if his right eye was still ringed by a fascinating shade of blue-black. He didn’t think he’d ever had his eye this blacked before. The skin under the left side was grayish. His feet were fine and the dull ache from all that walking had finally left his thighs and lower back. He stretched carefully and thoroughly, working on the spot where Sylar had kicked him. The knot there was fading, too; though he still limped and probably would for a week.
He grabbed up his bag and three slices of raisin bread for breakfast, walking out to the stairwell and heading down it. He went down two flights, then summoned the elevator. His thigh was starting to give him twinges - too much, too fast. Must not have stretched enough. He did a few shallow lunges until the elevator arrived, then took it the rest of the way down. By the time he was walking out, it was almost sunrise. He finished his bread and looked around for Sylar.
XXX
Sylar woke slowly, stiff, as he was finding himself to be of late but that was probably mostly to be accredited to one Peter Petrelli. Ambling up into the bathroom as he heard a few joints readjust themselves, he used the facilities, wincing at the light, washing up and leaned against the sink counter, staring into the mirror for a moment.
Why do I feel a hundred years old? The bruises from the fight and the tired circles under his eyes weren’t helping him look any younger. Sylar sighed, briefly checking in his hair again to be sure he wasn’t overly concussed still then tried to avoid creaking his way to the dresser to change clothes.
Once he’d done that, he rubbed and stretched at his back and neck. Let’s see what new trouble we can get into today just to spite the boredom and remember that we’re alive. It sounded like a good game plan to him, as it usually did. He’d been here a whole week with Peter and the addition was already making his life more interesting, both in good and less-than good ways. As he was leaning over to tie his shoes, he felt a dull pressure shift to the left side of his head, as if there was a bowling ball crushing his forehead from inside his skull and knew it was there to stay.
Sylar then eyed the medicinal cupboard behind the mirror in the bathroom in debate; his wrist was still a concern, too, twingeing painfully as he moved and twisted it. The headache is just starting now…it’s only going to get worse and that’s before Peter starts talking. The question stood however; was it enough cause to take a painkiller in advance?
Ignoring it for the moment, he went into the kitchen and grabbed up a muffin. As he munched on it he considered milk, but his internal clock was telling him Peter would be up by now so he ditched the idea and finished up, tossing the wrapper into the trash. Brushing his teeth quickly he stared himself down in the mirror, spitting and rinsing out before shutting the door behind himself as he left.
It didn’t take him long at a brisk pace in the brisk air to reach Peter’s place, rough knuckles scraping his jeans as he walked. They were supposed to go on a tour or something for a guitar pick today. He snorted to himself and tried to burrow further into his coat as he approached-it had sounded like a date in his head. How ridiculous.
As he drew closer, he saw Peter was already emerging, chewing on what must have been his own breakfast, but it just made him look a little funny given the dead nerves in his lip. Sylar felt his lips quirking up at the sight and he nodded in greeting.
XXX
He watched Sylar approach, thinking about how the other man had come here specifically to see Peter, to spend probably his whole day with him. He was the center of someone’s attention and that made Peter stand up a little straighter and lift his chin. It’s like I have my own private … what? Person? He has nothing else to do but come hang out with me. To be fair, though, I have nothing else to do either.
He glanced to the side briefly. No, there’s other things I could be doing - exploring, thinking, sleeping, music, swimming (hey, that sounds good), I could take up jogging … anything to pass the time, really. I suppose he does, too. He looked back to Sylar. But yeah, I guess I have to admit that company is better than none. For the last couple days, Peter had been with Sylar only because Sylar showed up and inflicted himself on him. That was starting to change as he began to accept the other man’s presence.
“Good morning,” Peter said cheerily. “You still on to show me around?” He paused for some sign of assent, then went on, “There’s some other places I’d like to see besides just a music store. I need to find a pharmacy or a hospital supply store, or even a hospital itself. I’d-“ Images of fighting Sylar at Mercy Heights ran through his mind. Very deliberately, he ignored them. That isn’t part of this. “like to know where the closest one is, in case we ever have an emergency. I’d like to see what works there and what doesn’t, so I know if there’s even any point to trying to get there.”
XXX
Sylar felt himself being watched, but for once it didn’t seem to be in a bad way, so he watched Peter right back for a moment before looking off to the side as he drew near. He grinned and nodded at the greeting, the other man surprisingly in a good mood for how rough he- they both looked, “Yup. Place to find a pick is on the way. Music store, art district.”
He was ready to go and started to turn to walk to the art district, or so he’d named it, when Peter spoke up about additional places. Normally something like that would irk him no end…but he had no schedule and nowhere else to be. Peter had his undivided attention and limitless time. He quirked an eyebrow in question which Peter answered.
He didn’t give any indication that the part about the hospital bothered him-it actually didn’t occur to him this once. For all Peter’s promises he knew they would eventually end up at each other’s throats once or a dozen times in the next hundred years, however long they lasted. All that to say, Peter’s planning ahead was a good idea.
Sylar assumed Peter was referring to medical equipment ‘working’ so he didn’t press it. He was happily along for the ride since he himself had no needs to meet; not really anyway.
XXX
“There’s a music store here?” Peter wondered if Sylar had just thought one up overnight, but decided not to press it. “That sounds cool. A lot better than a dish scraper.”
He scuffed his shoe along the curb, looking down. “And I was kind of wondering if there was a hotel nearby.” A hotel will have a pool. So would a school, come to think of it. I’d have to ditch him first. I could go at night. Yeah, that would work. He moved the conversation along; unable to avoid smiling a little at himself because he knew he looked guilty as hell and for it to be over something so silly was funny. He held up his right hand. “At a hospital or pharmacy, they ought to have a proper brace for this.”
XXX
Sylar squared more directly towards Peter as he acted…shy all of a sudden, or perhaps it was avoidance; tilting his head as he waited for some explanation to the behavior.
Hotel? Did he change his mind? Did he understand? Or…medical equipment as in scalpels and rib-spreaders and a gurney before the hotel use? He brushed it off. It would happen either way and it would happen anyway. Whatever. The smile was slightly unnerving, but everything Peter said made sense, perfect sense. Then again everything either of them had ever done, good deed or sin made perfect sense to the one doing it. Such an odd little man.
“Sure. There’s a hotel between you and the hospital, but the music store is closest. And we can always stop for food on the go or whatever when we get hungry. There’s plenty of places to raid for food around here.” He supposed that was a small blessing in its own way even if it did drive him crazy: having food at his fingertips instead of having to cultivate it himself.
He turned and walked slowly at first off towards the music store since it was the nearest. Everything else would be circling back towards Peter’s apartment. He couldn’t think of anything to ask that didn’t violate their tentative deal and engage their tempers other than, “So what kind of music do you play?”
XXX
“A lot of different things,” Peter said immediately, then gave Sylar a more piercing look. He knew, or should know, from Nathan’s memories, exactly what sort of music Peter played. But then again, as Peter looked back down the street, Nathan had been overseas on assignment for much of Peter’s late teen years, returning and enrolling in law school shortly after Peter’s graduation. For a while they’d been in college together - not the same college, or even similar courses - but it had been the first and only time they’d really shared a life experience. Well, that and abilities.
Still, Sylar had asked. Even if he already knew, it was polite to give him an answer. “I like rock, mostly. Grunge, punk, and metal.” He chuckled. “Anything that gets the blood pumping. That’s for guitar. But as far as sitting around and playing, I do slower stuff. I learned the guitar doing the Beatles, Paul McCartney, Gordon Lightfoot, all that old stuff-” What do I call her to him? Ma? Angela? It’s not like they’re strangers, even aside from Nathan’s memories. “-my mother liked. Of course that’s never what I ended up playing with the guys, but I probably put twice as many hours in on the old stuff compared to the new. For the piano it was mostly classics and hymns.” ‘Church music’, Dad always called it. “It’s not like I got into anything exotic with either of them.”
XXX
Sylar kept his head down and nodded as Peter began, doing his best to weather the look that was leveled at him. He had no idea what that was about, but the other man continued. He chuckled, too, mostly at picturing Peter and his goofy bangs flying everywhere while rocking out. “That sounds about right for you,” he conceded in amusement. “Hmm, the originals,” was his desirous reply. He was an oldies fan himself.
His eyebrows did take a hike in that Angela liked something that wasn’t Mozart or something upper-class. “Hymns?” Sylar winced a little when Peter got to the part about piano. Why is that so fitting for him? He is a freaking choir boy; he just wasn’t raised as one.
XXX
“I banged around on the drums a little bit. I can keep a beat, but it’s not really my thing.” Peter looked around as they passed through an intersection, rubber-necking like a tourist. He remained in good spirits. I have someone who’s actually listening to blabber at. That is so weird. Usually he was the listener, picking up cues, taking in what others said and repeating back to them what they wanted to hear - which tended to be a simple restatement of whatever they’d told him. He was content with that - it worked, and, wow, did it ever work in dating and medicine (with totally unrelated results) - but it sometimes left him feeling unimportant. The attention he was getting now was sort of going to his head, making him more loose-lipped and full of himself than normal.
XXX
Sylar just nodded about the drums, a little surprised, but Peter would probably like to have his hands on or involved in the instrument, not just his fists. Ha.
XXX
Peter continued, “I wouldn’t mind stopping for coffee. I didn’t make any this morning. I think that diner I’ve eaten at a couple times now is right up there.” The diner. That night I slept in the furniture store on a recliner. That’s the night I had that watchmaker dream.
XXX
Peter chatted away, even going so far as to make a suggestion for coffee and that had Sylar glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. Sounded like an invitation to me. Is this one of those coffee-use-you-for-the-tour-then-take-you-to-hotel-to-….what? things? Never been out to coffee with someone before. Sylar began to actively look around when Peter mentioned he ate nearby, a little surprised that he would let that slip, but enjoying the information flow greedily.
XXX
Peter pursed his lips. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, too. If you want me to know about your past - tell me. Just like we’re talking now. This is normal.” As opposed to some sort of psycho memory insertion. Okay, Pete, you agreed no mental patient stuff. Don’t even go there. He huffed.
XXX
Suddenly Peter’s tone changed and he looked over to him, expecting the same ‘what do you know about this place?’ routine. “What?” He was taken aback and it showed on his face-complete surprise and incomprehension as to the topic. His head reared back as he began to feel some verbal attacking going on in Peter’s delivery. Oh, it’s back to ‘normal’ is it?
XXX
Peter grimaced, explaining, “I don’t want your watchmaker flashbacks. I don’t want your … intimate moments, especially with Elle.” Of all people. But that was fascinating, to see her being normal and him being kind. Like a glimpse into Bizarro world.
XXX
“What am I not telling- what?!” Sylar’s own voice rose up, filled with plenty of emotions, namely shock and anger at being addressed that way with some embarrassment at the content. “What did you ca-” His eyes widened and he stopped walking, sputtering a minute for a response. He was ready to start shrieking for a start and then move on to some strangulation, ideally using Peter’s scrawny neck for a test dummy.
XXX
“If it was a stranger it wouldn’t bother me as much, but she and I …” Peter shook his head. “I’m not even sure you know you’re doing it. But you need to stop it. I do not want to learn about you that way.”
XXX
‘My what?’ was on its way out of his mouth before Peter threw down the gauntlet, a very cold, horrifying mitt that held potential to shatter many of his previous beliefs. Sylar felt his blood stream rush with total rage; that Peter would imply that he should only be sleeping with….less-thans, with strangers. That he should be careful who he fucked to save Peter’s precious ego or whatever the fuck; with no real reason when Peter himself had women, patients, and his rescued strays, his precious fucking Emma that he would actually demean Sylar enough to make demands on when, how, and who he got laid with…
“You son of a bitch,” was what actually slipped out, his gaze contemptuously raking Peter over. “I don’t even want to know what-…” He inhaled on a sobbingly gasped breath, turning away a little to stare unseeing at something else than the object of his homicidal urges, grasping at his hair to try to wrap his mind around what had been implied. He was totally acting like a jilted boyfriend, he knew, the whole cliché enchilada with toppings, but…
“What the fuck are you talking about exactly here, Peter? She is not your concern and never was,” Sylar turned back to pin the man with his eyes, pointing a would-be deadly finger towards his face. That was all he could say towards addressing…Elle. How did he know about that? And he called me watchmaker. Did he talk to Bennet? How does he know this? “I didn’t do anything. I went home and slept by myself and it’s not my fault if you hallucinate at night. For once I’m actually not responsible.”
XXX
“Whoa, whoa, whoa …” Peter took a step back and put his hands up in what was either surrender or defensive at Sylar’s pointing. He did not want this to become violent. This was nowhere on Peter’s list of things he was willing to fight for. His standard go-to of what to do when confronted with violence he wouldn’t or couldn’t return was simply to run away. That wouldn’t work out well if Sylar decided to give serious chase. When it looked like the other man was going to keep it verbal, he stopped retreating and listened.
XXX
Something occurred to him and he glared at Peter in righteousness, “You said you had Matt’s ability. Learn to respect some privacy-it’s my fucking head! For once, as a Petrelli, can’t you leave it alone?” I expected better from you, even your shoddy abilities. How did you get them in the first place, you fucking snitch?
XXX
At the reminder that he had Matt’s ability, Peter’s brow furrowed. Is that possible? Could I be pulling memories from him without intending to? Why … Didn’t Matt say something about not always being able to control it? I’ve never had a problem with his ability in the past, but right now I’m … I’m inside Sylar’s mind, completely. All of my consciousness is in here. Maybe that makes a difference. It’s not like I’ve been able to use his ability the way it should work. Peter’s face mirrored his confusion and uncertainty. He backed off physically a few more steps.
“I’m … I don’t think I’m doing it.” How would I know? All I’ve been able to get out of Matt’s ability is vertigo. “You’re sure … you’re not?” How would he know? Dammit.
He leaned forward a little, gesturing earnestly. “Sylar, I was telling you because I wanted it to end. If I was doing this on purpose, I would not be telling you about it, okay? And especially not now.”
As if to himself, Peter added, “Of course if you were doing it on purpose, I can’t figure out why you’d choose those things to send me.”
He eyed Sylar. He’d hurt him, stung him and managed to strip away the man’s defenses. Nowhere in his comportment or delivery now was the sarcasm or superiority he’d shown before. He was fragile. Peter didn’t want to have done this to him, but a very small part of him smirked at how shaken Sylar was. Peter knew a few disparate episodes in his life, when the man had the entirety of Nathan’s life, stolen and stored away in his brain. Learn to respect some privacy! Ha.
XXX
Sylar threw up his arms in surrender, shaking his head in defeat. “I’m neutered here, man. Three years without sight or sound of another living thing. What more do you want?” Probably something to ease the pain of losing Nathan, he would imagine. But taking away a semi-genuine experience, one-of-a-kind, at least for him was…cruelty he didn’t know he could handle. “What kind of…additional punishment would you place on me?” He really did want to know. Nothing was good enough for these people: Petrellis and heroes.
XXX
Peter raised his hands in a calming motion. “I’m not trying to punish you. I’d like to talk about this. It sounds like neither one of us wants this. I think it’s been happening every time I go to sleep. I have these weird dreams. I thought at first … that they were, like you said, hallucinations or something.” And then there was that moment during the fight. But … I don’t know what that was. You know, if I’m really interested in full disclosure here, I should probably mention that, too. “And … when you were hitting me. I got distracted. Something happened to my concentration and it happened then, too.”
XXX
Something in him felt confirmed when had Peter backed away, and so quickly, too, raising his hands as if Sylar pointed a gun at him. It broke the head of his anger. ‘Normal’ hadn’t he said? What else does he know? Was his next capable, rational thought. His hand dropped and he sighed, looking away again as Peter spoke.
“Peter, you’re an empath, a very….trigger-happy one at that. You might not be aware of your capabilities or what powers you’re using, especially while you’re stressed, unsettled and asleep,” he felt inclined to point out, keeping the insult from his voice, instead infusing it with statement. “Do you still have Matt’s power? Can you use it?”
XXX
“I think I still have Matt’s power.” Peter pointed at his head. “It feels like I do and I’m sure you know what I mean. It’s in there. When you have an ability, you know it.” He huffed. “But it doesn’t do anything. The only thing I’ve felt from it was when … when I was touching you and tried to use it to get out. I felt a kind of vertigo, like …” He looked away, lips thinned, trying to find words to describe something that human beings felt so rarely that they had no vocabulary for the experience. “Kind of like I was dizzy, except … not dizzy exactly.”
He looked back to Sylar. “I have not tried to read your thoughts or push a command on you since I got in here. If I’m doing it while asleep, that’s entirely unintentional.” He thought about the simple sleep exercises he’d gone through in college, back when he’d been dating Brianna. I should probably start doing that again: keep a journal, focus on recognizing dreams while I’m in them, wake up for every single one of them and make a note in the journal. After enough repetition, the mind became accustomed to the new pattern, and each dream state brought with it associations of waking and thinking about the dream rationally, resulting in an awareness within the state of what was really going on. It had been part of a whole phase of tinkering with altered perceptions.
XXX
“I…” Sylar actually did stop to think, his brows furrowing in thought, “I wasn’t thinking about her. Of course I can’t control my dreams, but that’s….” Again, his head shook and he looked back to the younger man. He had been thinking about his watchmaking background when Peter first arrived; he’d asked about his Primatech file. Sylar nodded, his head hanging a little as he bit his lip; Peter was making sense again even if the situation wasn’t.
His brow crumpled completely. “I wouldn’t…be telling you those things, sending them, whatever.” He didn’t entirely believe the part about lack of punishment. Sylar closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Peter hadn’t answered his more important question, “What did you mean about her, Peter?” he looked up to stare at the man, demanding answer with his eyes. How does he even know her? He dreaded the reply.
“And what did you see?” These were things he needed to know. The idea that someone was…in his head and he was helpless against the loss of information, such personal memories at that was very troubling to him. That Peter would get a head-movie of his life every night was horrifying. He knew he’d get a new disgusted or angry look in the morning and have no clue what kind of battle he’d be fighting.
Having his life picked slowly apart, viewed, experienced and subsequently judged by someone who was still the enemy-of-my-enemy technically; and Peter was upper-class for god’s sake, a hero and empath or not; Sylar wouldn’t be understood. Was judgment part of redemption? He would become naked and so humanly ugly; Peter…of all people would see him at his lowest points even if it took years of night’s sleep.
He made no move to continue walking and wouldn’t until he had his answers. Sylar staved off his instinct of panic because once again, he feared losing his mind to another.
XXX
Continued...