More Between Us, Chapter 19/? "Swordplay"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 19/?
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: 4,810
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).
Day 8
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You … need to repeat that. Two-hundred and eighty-thousand … dollars? Was it covered with diamonds or something?!?” He’d seen expensive watches, but the priciest he’d ever seen anyone wear on a regular basis was a high-end Rolex Linderman had worn. It was something like thirty grand - the subject having come up after Peter criticized Nathan for wearing a five thousand dollar watch their father had given him for his birthday. Nathan had laughed and pointed out that it was hardly expensive as watches went. Peter was happier with something that didn’t ostentatiously proclaim his wealth to all and sundry. If he was going to be differentiated from the crowd, he wanted it to be based on what he did, not what he owned, or wore.
“Are there people who actually wear those regularly, or are they just stage pieces? Or … what’s the word I’m looking for … like the jewelry actors and actresses wear to promote a brand? Maybe that’s it - promotional pieces. People do not-“ He caught himself. Sylar worked on watches. Sylar knew a lot about watches. Sylar, despite having listened attentively earlier, probably did not want to hear Peter talk about how the cutting edge of his profession was a form of conspicuous consumption that Peter disapproved of. He immediately changed what he had been about to say.
“People do not take the sort of care with the things they wear day to day, to justify putting something that valuable on regularly. It must be like a work of art.” Art, Peter was more forgiving of. It could inspire and uplift, give meaning and show depth. No one argued that a bunch of tinted petroleum on a canvas had much in the way of practical value. People paid for it what they thought it was worth, either in the regard others would give them for owning the piece, or insomuch as they thought they would enjoy looking at it personally.
He smiled suddenly, head jerking back towards Sylar as he realized something. “So, does that make you an artist?” Segueing smoothly into a similar question, he asked, “Can you draw, or paint? I’m pretty lousy at both, myself. Unless I have an ability that grants it. It was all stick figures for me until I got Isaac’s power, then suddenly I was good at it.” That was one that hadn’t entirely faded, Peter had been pleased to note. There remained some residual sense in his mind of how to frame a subject, shade a scene and draw the eye; much like how even without flight he remembered the sensations and experience.
He listened to Sylar’s answers with an active, engaged interest, his own words punctuated by loose gestures. Peter was getting more relaxed with his companion.
XXX
“Hmm hmm. Oh, that’s nothing,” Sylar intoned, “The most expensive one ever made was a thirty-three Patek Phillipe, twenty-four complications, sold for eleven million at auction. No diamonds,” Sylar chuckled. “Complications are…basically its how many functions the watch can perform. The most expensive clock I ever fixed was probably… an eitheenth century grandfather clock made in England worth probably a hundred thousand.” That kind of piece coming into his store for repair was pretty rare, but he did have some of the more high-end pieces come in-it was New York, after all.
“I’m sure there are the people who do have fifteen different and equally expensive watches that they interchange, but I imagine for most it’s just for show.” He asks like you know something about it? Sure Nathan was into expensive anything-women, clothes, cars, life style choices…and kids, but Sylar knew nothing about that kind of living. ‘Before,’ he’d had anything money could buy at a fingertip and it was kind of ironic it came at a time when it was barely useful.
He supposed it helped his lack of anxiety that he didn’t have a wife and kids, family, mortgages and loans and a job, house and car to worry about, but his monetary needs were few. And honestly he liked it that way. When he’d had everything but the wife, kids, car and his ‘house’ was an apartment and he was trying to buy back his store he’d learned that it wasn’t fun and games. Someone like Peter probably would have limited knowledge about things like that.
“People don’t what?” Sylar left off the other man’s name. He’s been sensing an aborted attempt at shoving the medic’s foot deep into his own throat-his Nathan-sense was tingling. Of course Peter would think it was a gaudy waste, a trinket token of wealth. Well, Peter could think whatever he damn well pleased because his opinion affected neither Nathan nor Sylar beyond annoying them for different reasons.
“That’s true,” he agreed congenially as Peter finished his sentence. Art? Sylar frowned at Peter. He snapped his teeth over a rather threatening reply and moved on with the additional questions after that since they were more to his taste. “I can do both passably, yes. Except watercolor-that’s a tricky one. Art wasn’t a big…deal.”
Not to mention nothing good came of that damn Mendez ability. It was a good thing he hadn’t wanted to go into art because it had been a swiftly closed door in the Gray household. Virginia pretended to enjoy his art when he’d brought it home from class for all of a second before asking what the heck it was or why he hadn’t listened; mostly why he hadn’t done better. What an art critic, he thought.
“I’m left handed primarily,” he held up his bandaged wrist which still throbbed on occasion, “and we generally don’t make the best artists, give or take Michelangelo and da Vinci. I mean…I can do it and I think I do it pretty well and all that, but it’s no Thomas Kincaid,” Sylar explained. “Always preferred just…pencil or pen and oil paints.” In the end he just shrugged. ‘I totally buy that you can’t draw’ he wanted to say to Peter.
XXX
Peter listened, but this time there was no question in return for him to answer and so they walked along together in silence for a while, their strides eating up the distance. Thoughts stirred in his mind as the quiet gave him a chance to contemplate something that had been bothering him all day. It was the root of his mood swings. He saw the library up ahead and strangely, he didn’t want to go there. He didn’t even want to be going there. What the hell am I doing, wandering around with Sylar, of all people, discussing … what? Art styles? My favorite ice cream flavor? What the hell are we doing?
XXX
Sylar didn’t pay the silence any mind; instead they just kept walking towards the large library building. Out of the blue, Peter stopped and faced him dead on and that stopped Sylar.
XXX
Peter turned to his companion and asked, “What’s going on here, with all of this … questioning? All this discussion, this talking?”
XXX
“Well, what else are we gonna-” Sylar began.
XXX
Peter cut him off, saying, “You used to kill people for a living.” And you were still doing that, as little as a few months ago. I doubt Nathan was your last. You almost got Matt shot to death.
XXX
The ‘you’re a murderer’ place-card stopped Sylar for a moment. Ah. That’s how it’s gonna be, is it. That was no surprise, really, he’d been shocked he’d gotten this far. He’d been so sure Peter was relaxing… What went wrong? I just answered the question he asked…
XXX
“Or a hobby. You said you wanted to change your life.” Peter waved vaguely at the city around them.
XXX
“Yes, I do want to change,” Sylar said in a tone that combined anger, determination, and ‘so there!’ Hobby?! He thinks I do this for- Sylar’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits at the man. He was being mocked at the very least.
XXX
“Is this the change?” Peter asked. “Are you all trustworthy now and if we somehow got out of here you’d go help stop that atrocity at the carnival out of the brand new goodness of your heart, or maybe some sort of common decency you’ve discovered?” Since getting Nathan’s memories maybe? Since obviously you couldn’t find it on your own.
XXX
Sylar’s voice was rising in indignation, “Oh, yeah! Because this is totally what I think of when I think of change! It’s a total beach resort plan!” he left of the ‘you moron!’ part.
Sylar pointed an impotent finger at Peter and stepped closer, standing taller, “And what the hell do you know about anything, Peter? I’ve saved your life out of common decency, but in hindsight that was probably a bad move.” Of course he was completely avoiding his own selfish ends that naturally went unfulfilled by saving Peter. It wasn’t even out of the duty he claimed it to be at the time. But if Peter wanted to fucking nitpick, he would fucking nitpick right back. “God, does it really fucking matter why I do a good deed? Are you some motivational police?”
XXX
Peter railed right back, “Seriously, what do you think’s going to happen here? Is it that you think that one of these days I’ll forget you killed my brother and tell you it’s all okay, because a few hundred discussions about ‘favorite this’ or ‘worst that’ have ground me down to where I don’t care anymore?”
XXX
Sylar faltered, but covered it quickly, hoping Captain Motivational didn’t notice because that would be bad, very bad. “I- no!” the fib was quick out of his mouth before he could stop it and he wasn’t big on lying, either. He hoped it hadn’t sounded too quick or too high-pitched to read as an obvious denial or lie.
XXX
Peter continued on, “You’re a smart guy - really smart. Do you really think that’s going to happen?” Or are you just taking what civility you can get while you don’t have your ability eating you up?
XXX
Then Peter went about claiming that if Sylar believed that, then he was just stupid, rather, choosing to be stupid. That kind of accusation had him shoving Peter back, lightly enough, both hands to his chest, but the action read as ‘stay back’ and ideally, ‘shut your mouth’. It was a warning and it also covered his lack of answer.
XXX
Peter seemed unfazed by the shove. “You’re going to get out of here one of these days and I have no guarantee that you won’t go right back to how you were. I’ll probably be victim number one and I know that because I’ve had your ability. It’s not like Nathan ever went light on me either.” Just make a clean sweep of us. Go after Ma next (again!) and you’ll have wiped out the whole family. Probably better for the world, really.
XXX
“Again, Peter, what the fuck do you know? You had it for, what? A day? I’d be interested to know how you got rid of it. There’s no way you’re still controlling it, and, oh yeah, your ability is fucking broken! You get to trade off abilities, I don’t!” Sylar was glaring and looming over the shorter man. He’s right-Nathan loved him as his precious baby brother, but I’m not so inclined. “And that’s my fault? What do you want, a fucking Hare test?” he spat about his ‘recovery’ or whatever Peter chose to label it as.
XXX
Peter glared up at him, unmoved by Sylar’s height. “I have no indication here that you’ve gotten ‘better.’ You talked about getting control, last year. I know it’s possible. What happened to all of that? Did you just give up?”
XXX
Every movement in Sylar stopped as the annoying medic touched on something closer to home. Head tilting, a sure sign he’d just stepped up to the plate, he stared down at the man. “No, Peter, I didn’t give up. I got screwed by all of you,” Sylar delivered, voice low and calm, not a hint of psychosis to be found in it before he roared, “AGAIN! Each and every one of you-Matt, Bennet, Angela, you, Sam and Claire. I went for help. Again! That’s what happened!” And now I’m here…I’m the most powerful man in the world, now one of two men period and I’m just as trapped. I’m always so trapped…
Sylar walked past his companion, smacking shoulders with him on purpose as he went, snarling and baring his teeth. “Don’t fucking preach to me about help. Fuck help! The only help I get comes at a price and that’s not including your entry fees. It’s not just ‘sell my soul again’, its humiliation, degradation, lies and manipulation when I’m not being locked up, drugged up and killed on a daily basis while you plot my demise or my usefulness. So tell me, why the hell would I go back to that?” It hardly mattered if he could do it on his own, he had no reason to. The whole ‘my life is my business’ thing. It was a horrible Catch-Twenty-Two, being unable to get help period, being unable to get help without being screwed and being unable to help himself, hell, being unable to really care much about it otherwise. Tears pricked at his eyes at the horror of the choices he might someday have to face again.
Something bothered Sylar that he hesitated to ask about ‘I know it’s possible’. “It doesn’t matter if it’s possible any more, you’ve got one ability in your head right now and even if I held you down and cut in to get it, I wouldn’t get it because my head is clear! My head is clear!” He’d turned back to give Peter some kind of look, but what it said, he didn’t know. Sylar just knew how it felt-relief. He could feel and think and…attempt to interact without drooling and manipulating and jumping a target, or even someone who stood in his way. Perhaps he was begging to stay this way, but…he did want people around. I’m fucking clean! I can feel it! I know it! I can’t hear the Hunger here…why….why, oh why would he drag me somewhere for therapy for no reason?
XXX
Peter growled in frustration. All of this talking and being chummy, letting Sylar help him with the brace, an injury that stemmed from a fight Sylar had provoked, sharing stories and facts that Sylar almost certainly already knew from his unearned memories - was this some mind-game Sylar was playing? It was no better, really, to think that the more likely answer was just that Sylar was lonely and planning on using Peter to while away eternity. Peter didn’t intend to stay here forever and he wasn’t all that interested in being some sort of interactive television for the other man.
“That’s part of my problem, Sylar. Your head … How do I know, that when we get out of here, that your mind will be any different than it was a few months ago when you were all set to make yourself President of the United States?” Other than, you know, having Nathan’s memories in your head now, and Nathan wasn’t all that trustworthy either, really. So, great - not only might you still want to be president, but with Nathan’s background you might be able to actually pull it off!
XXX
Sylar was a little surprised Peter didn’t react physically, but then again he had a gimp hand. As the man spoke, he stopped his vulture-like circling, standing beside the man, staring at him as Sylar’s own attitude shifted. Ooh, your problem now, is it? “People…told me things that…changed the game plan. I’m not interested in being President. You can’t know and obviously you don’t know.” I understand that. So help me, but I do.
XXX
Peter exhaled forcefully and took a different tact. “Maybe you had trouble finding help,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s not like,” Peter frowned and looked off to the side, “like there’s much in the way of resources for … people like you. Or me.”
XXX
“Well, you’d think for the worst man of all, he’d get some help at different stages from people who claim to be in the business of helping. Unless of course you needed your ‘bad guy’,” here Sylar pointed to himself, “to keep your damn jobs.” Think, just think, won’t he, of all the good I could do if- “I think you like having power to lord over who gets your accepted/pass stamp and who gets the ‘shoot on sight’ label.” So sue me if I wanted some ‘political change’, too. Maybe set the hunt on the Heroes, see them run from agents.
Licking his lips quickly, he went on, “I know for a fact that you had options, Peter, they were just difficult ones. This is totally different.” So Nathan was hunting Peter’s ass. He’d go to a nice cushy penthouse cell. He still could’ve gone to Angela. Or Heidi. Or Uncle Tim.
XXX
Peter looked back, his gaze implacable, unblinking, because on this next subject, he did not forgive Sylar. “But by the third time, you should have done something. The first maybe was an accident. I can buy that. I’ve felt your ability. Maybe you didn’t understand it. The second time, maybe you thought you could control it. The second time could have been a mistake. Those happen,” he said, voice clipped. He paused, still without blinking. “But before that third time, you should have done something. Their lives were worth no more, or less, than yours. Two-to-one. You should have stopped it.” Finally, Peter blinked. He looked away and took a deep breath.
XXX
The medic began jumbling up his thoughts and it was difficult for Sylar to follow with all the number jumping, but he managed to keep up. Sylar’s eyebrows went up. “I don’t understand my ability? So you’re saying three-strikes-you’re-out. Just up and stop, huh?” He burst out again, “I’m not interested in their lives! I’m interested in mine!” Oops, did that change Peter’s outlook? Will he still help now that you’re ‘selfish’? Again, what does it fucking matter why I do it? “I can’t….” he took a calming breath so he didn’t freak himself out or work himself up. “It ends…badly for me and I’m trying to…stop,” he concluded lamely. Surely a little honestly would get him somewhere, right?
Sylar sighed and glanced aside as well, finally speaking a low voice that said he was imparting a secret, “I…I was at Parkman’s house to get him to…” he waved loosely at his head, “take them away.” So I attacked his wife, she snuck up on me! I never harmed a hair on her head and I really fucking could have.
XXX
Not looking at Sylar, Peter said, “Degradation, humiliation, get killed a few times, drugged daily - yeah, sounds familiar. Lies and manipulation by people you thought you could trust?” Peter looked back at Sylar, feeling rage boiling up, but he knew the emotion had little to do with Sylar this time. “Being used as a tool to advance other people’s corrupt power plays, then trapped and locked away when you’re inconvenient? Yeah, real familiar.”
XXX
Suddenly Peter was making a lot more sense than Sylar had thought possible and he really didn’t want to consider it, but there it was, in his face. “That just shows that I shouldn’t trust you people and I’m back at square one. I should have added torture to the list,” there he gave Peter a pointed look to indicate how lightly he surely got it, a little Elle amusement notwithstanding. “Because what they did was against a hell of a lot of human rights, broke the fucking Geneva Convention in half.”
XXX
Peter shook his head. “None of that justifies being a murderer. Not on the scale you are.” And it’s probably kind of stupid to be standing here provoking him. What have I got to lose though, really? Peter snorted a little, feeling his momentary wrath ebb. Sylar wasn’t the cause of it, so he put that portion away for now. Other emotions were vying for the moment anyway.
XXX
Sylar then gaped that Peter thought he was looking for an excuse or justification for his own deeds. That was simply not true. His eyes read of shock and surprise as he stared back at the empath, “Justification was not my point. Nothing justifies what I’ve done. I’m…” he hesitated for only a second, just to ensure that his voice didn’t betray him, but it probably did waver and dip roughly anyway, “very aware of that.” Shit, now this is all going downhill. My ‘scale’, like he thinks I’m too stupid or too- that’s it, psychopathic to understand just how deep in I am.
XXX
Peter’s voice took on a slightly less hostile tone. “Maybe your head is clear if you realize what you did was wrong. But,” he paused, brows drawing together in genuine question, “is it going to stay that way? Or is it that, all by yourself, here in this fucking prison, is the only way you can be someone who isn’t a menace to society?”
XXX
To himself now as he turned away enough, Sylar whispered, “Peter, I’ve always known,” before other man hit him with a freight train of reason. He curled in on himself, shoulders dropping fractionally in a way he prayed Peter missed. Oh, god, no, not that… And it hurt. Sylar pulled an inhalation-sniff to cover his emotional reaction and straightened from his slump, clearing his throat. “It’s not like my future was looking too bright anyway. Lucky you, you’re pretty safe.” By default, he didn’t add.
XXX
“Am I? Am I really?” Peter hesitated for a moment, trying to study Sylar’s features, what of them he could see. The man’s body language at least was apparent. As he had been doing for the entire argument, Peter stayed exactly where he was, not moving a step. “I kind of have the feeling here that I’m only safe because you have a use for me, which is keeping you from being bored all the damn time. What would happen if I wasn’t interesting to you anymore? Or if one of these days you decide that having someone around isn’t worth all the trouble?”
XXX
“Well, what the hell would you do, Peter, were you in my place?” He genuinely wanted to know. Peter, the empath, the people person-if he was somehow left in a wasteland and Sylar appeared…he would do the same exact thing. “I’ve been here three years alone and…that long is too much. I’ve already proven I won’t kill you,” Sylar referred to the fight with a raised brow, regaining some footing on his reactions and his grasp of the conversation. And I’m not getting what I want right now.
XXX
“You’re so pissed off about people manipulating you, you seem to have overlooked that it’s what people do. The only ones who don’t are helpless, and they would if they could. Everyone is trying to get something from everyone else. That’s life. That’s humanity. I’m trying to get something from you. You’re trying to get something from me.” He bit back the urge to be completely brutal and add ‘entertainment.’ “The difference is if I don’t get what I want, I’m not going to kill you over it. I am seriously worried about what you’d do. What will you do, Sylar?”
XXX
“And you’ve clearly made your peace with that fact of life,” Sylar sneered in a display of doubt; Peter just claimed to know the manipulation drill that specials like them received on a daily, hourly basis. He was drawing lines between Peter’s hero-ing and empathy and his supposed, completely false acceptance of it as human nature. The empath was human and he felt, possibly more deeply than Sylar. “I don’t understand why I, and you, Peter, would be manipulated to explode a city; to become a monster; a danger to others when we would otherwise find our own way of…of…healing, of compromise,” suicide, he didn’t add. “There is no reason for that except causing chaos and pain.” Sylar hoped he wasn’t sounding…stupid by basically asking an elaborate ‘why?’ Peter probably didn’t know or he’d be off healing the problem.
Sylar pursed his lips, “I’m not so sure you wouldn’t kill me if you don’t get what you want. You’d never let me walk away in one piece, not after what I’ve done,” he shook his head, almost back to his amused, Hungry self. “I’ve grown a lot more patience, Peter,” here he stared the man down with a slow-burning heat in his eyes. It was claiming that it would wear Peter down to get what he wanted and more. After debating whether to remind the EMT about ‘I like my partners willing’, he murmured confidently, “You have no other choice, so you’ll come around eventually and give me what I want.” Promising another eternity filled with…all things companionable? Quite possibly.
XXX
Peter looked off in the direction of the library, then back at his companion. His gaze was pitiless. His anger had largely defused, but what was left was an unflagging disgust with the choices Sylar had made in his life. He had a strong urge to put Sylar to the test and just walk away. He teetered tensely on the verge of doing just that, looking briefly off in the direction he imagined their apartments to be, shifting his weight without moving his feet. He didn’t know the best route back, but it wasn’t a real city. He was confident he couldn’t really get lost. And even if he did, so what? The worst that could happen was he might get stuck for years alone, like Sylar. He tried to tell himself that was better than being the man’s captive audience. He strongly suspected he, himself, wouldn’t be able to tolerate that, but stubborn wasn’t something Peter was short on.
He decided against leaving, for the moment. There were still a few bones he wanted to pick. The concession that Sylar knew he’d done wrong had taken most of the wind out of Peter’s sails. “If you knew the killing was wrong, then why did you keep doing it? So we agree there’s no justification. What’s the explanation, at least?” He was honestly asking and listened to the answer carefully.
XXX
Sylar noticed the other man glancing around, his intentions were quite clear, but he stood still himself. Sylar shrugged, simply, “I couldn’t.” But then he struggled to put his hazy realizations into words, “That…portion of my ability…affects my brain and I lose touch with….a lot of things, out of necessity.” Things like emotions and reactions, pain tolerances. So many things…It’s an addiction; how many people does he know that can face one without so much as a self-help book?
“I should not have to explain myself to you; you’ve had it. Who did you kill while you had it?” He raised his head to look down at the slighter man. Peter has less control that I do, there’s no way he didn’t lose it at someone.
XXX
Peter was following Sylar’s words, mind busying itself with them. He couldn’t? He couldn’t what? And yes, Peter could remember the complete lack of connection between the person he used to be, with sense and reason and compassion, and the person he was with Sylar’s ability. Why did it work that way? It was almost worth it to borrow the damn power to turn it on Sylar and figure it out, but Peter suspected that was just an echo of the Hunger still buried in his own psyche.
Sylar went on about not needing to explain himself. Peter grimaced slightly. It was an unpleasant memory and Sylar was right, there was- He flinched hard like he’d been slapped as Sylar’s next question broke over him: ‘Who did you kill while you had it?’ Peter tensed all over before dispelling it. It was just a question! He shot Sylar a quick angry glance, then looked away - again, much like he’d been hit and had elected to weather it rather than retaliate. Because the wrong-doing there wasn’t Sylar’s, not even in bringing it up, much as Peter didn’t like the subject. The blame was Peter’s, and even if it was a future reality that wouldn’t come to pass and so would never have any consequences, it had still been Peter’s hands that did it. He did not let himself off the hook any easier than he did Sylar.
XXX
Continued...
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: 4,810
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).
Day 8
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You … need to repeat that. Two-hundred and eighty-thousand … dollars? Was it covered with diamonds or something?!?” He’d seen expensive watches, but the priciest he’d ever seen anyone wear on a regular basis was a high-end Rolex Linderman had worn. It was something like thirty grand - the subject having come up after Peter criticized Nathan for wearing a five thousand dollar watch their father had given him for his birthday. Nathan had laughed and pointed out that it was hardly expensive as watches went. Peter was happier with something that didn’t ostentatiously proclaim his wealth to all and sundry. If he was going to be differentiated from the crowd, he wanted it to be based on what he did, not what he owned, or wore.
“Are there people who actually wear those regularly, or are they just stage pieces? Or … what’s the word I’m looking for … like the jewelry actors and actresses wear to promote a brand? Maybe that’s it - promotional pieces. People do not-“ He caught himself. Sylar worked on watches. Sylar knew a lot about watches. Sylar, despite having listened attentively earlier, probably did not want to hear Peter talk about how the cutting edge of his profession was a form of conspicuous consumption that Peter disapproved of. He immediately changed what he had been about to say.
“People do not take the sort of care with the things they wear day to day, to justify putting something that valuable on regularly. It must be like a work of art.” Art, Peter was more forgiving of. It could inspire and uplift, give meaning and show depth. No one argued that a bunch of tinted petroleum on a canvas had much in the way of practical value. People paid for it what they thought it was worth, either in the regard others would give them for owning the piece, or insomuch as they thought they would enjoy looking at it personally.
He smiled suddenly, head jerking back towards Sylar as he realized something. “So, does that make you an artist?” Segueing smoothly into a similar question, he asked, “Can you draw, or paint? I’m pretty lousy at both, myself. Unless I have an ability that grants it. It was all stick figures for me until I got Isaac’s power, then suddenly I was good at it.” That was one that hadn’t entirely faded, Peter had been pleased to note. There remained some residual sense in his mind of how to frame a subject, shade a scene and draw the eye; much like how even without flight he remembered the sensations and experience.
He listened to Sylar’s answers with an active, engaged interest, his own words punctuated by loose gestures. Peter was getting more relaxed with his companion.
XXX
“Hmm hmm. Oh, that’s nothing,” Sylar intoned, “The most expensive one ever made was a thirty-three Patek Phillipe, twenty-four complications, sold for eleven million at auction. No diamonds,” Sylar chuckled. “Complications are…basically its how many functions the watch can perform. The most expensive clock I ever fixed was probably… an eitheenth century grandfather clock made in England worth probably a hundred thousand.” That kind of piece coming into his store for repair was pretty rare, but he did have some of the more high-end pieces come in-it was New York, after all.
“I’m sure there are the people who do have fifteen different and equally expensive watches that they interchange, but I imagine for most it’s just for show.” He asks like you know something about it? Sure Nathan was into expensive anything-women, clothes, cars, life style choices…and kids, but Sylar knew nothing about that kind of living. ‘Before,’ he’d had anything money could buy at a fingertip and it was kind of ironic it came at a time when it was barely useful.
He supposed it helped his lack of anxiety that he didn’t have a wife and kids, family, mortgages and loans and a job, house and car to worry about, but his monetary needs were few. And honestly he liked it that way. When he’d had everything but the wife, kids, car and his ‘house’ was an apartment and he was trying to buy back his store he’d learned that it wasn’t fun and games. Someone like Peter probably would have limited knowledge about things like that.
“People don’t what?” Sylar left off the other man’s name. He’s been sensing an aborted attempt at shoving the medic’s foot deep into his own throat-his Nathan-sense was tingling. Of course Peter would think it was a gaudy waste, a trinket token of wealth. Well, Peter could think whatever he damn well pleased because his opinion affected neither Nathan nor Sylar beyond annoying them for different reasons.
“That’s true,” he agreed congenially as Peter finished his sentence. Art? Sylar frowned at Peter. He snapped his teeth over a rather threatening reply and moved on with the additional questions after that since they were more to his taste. “I can do both passably, yes. Except watercolor-that’s a tricky one. Art wasn’t a big…deal.”
Not to mention nothing good came of that damn Mendez ability. It was a good thing he hadn’t wanted to go into art because it had been a swiftly closed door in the Gray household. Virginia pretended to enjoy his art when he’d brought it home from class for all of a second before asking what the heck it was or why he hadn’t listened; mostly why he hadn’t done better. What an art critic, he thought.
“I’m left handed primarily,” he held up his bandaged wrist which still throbbed on occasion, “and we generally don’t make the best artists, give or take Michelangelo and da Vinci. I mean…I can do it and I think I do it pretty well and all that, but it’s no Thomas Kincaid,” Sylar explained. “Always preferred just…pencil or pen and oil paints.” In the end he just shrugged. ‘I totally buy that you can’t draw’ he wanted to say to Peter.
XXX
Peter listened, but this time there was no question in return for him to answer and so they walked along together in silence for a while, their strides eating up the distance. Thoughts stirred in his mind as the quiet gave him a chance to contemplate something that had been bothering him all day. It was the root of his mood swings. He saw the library up ahead and strangely, he didn’t want to go there. He didn’t even want to be going there. What the hell am I doing, wandering around with Sylar, of all people, discussing … what? Art styles? My favorite ice cream flavor? What the hell are we doing?
XXX
Sylar didn’t pay the silence any mind; instead they just kept walking towards the large library building. Out of the blue, Peter stopped and faced him dead on and that stopped Sylar.
XXX
Peter turned to his companion and asked, “What’s going on here, with all of this … questioning? All this discussion, this talking?”
XXX
“Well, what else are we gonna-” Sylar began.
XXX
Peter cut him off, saying, “You used to kill people for a living.” And you were still doing that, as little as a few months ago. I doubt Nathan was your last. You almost got Matt shot to death.
XXX
The ‘you’re a murderer’ place-card stopped Sylar for a moment. Ah. That’s how it’s gonna be, is it. That was no surprise, really, he’d been shocked he’d gotten this far. He’d been so sure Peter was relaxing… What went wrong? I just answered the question he asked…
XXX
“Or a hobby. You said you wanted to change your life.” Peter waved vaguely at the city around them.
XXX
“Yes, I do want to change,” Sylar said in a tone that combined anger, determination, and ‘so there!’ Hobby?! He thinks I do this for- Sylar’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits at the man. He was being mocked at the very least.
XXX
“Is this the change?” Peter asked. “Are you all trustworthy now and if we somehow got out of here you’d go help stop that atrocity at the carnival out of the brand new goodness of your heart, or maybe some sort of common decency you’ve discovered?” Since getting Nathan’s memories maybe? Since obviously you couldn’t find it on your own.
XXX
Sylar’s voice was rising in indignation, “Oh, yeah! Because this is totally what I think of when I think of change! It’s a total beach resort plan!” he left of the ‘you moron!’ part.
Sylar pointed an impotent finger at Peter and stepped closer, standing taller, “And what the hell do you know about anything, Peter? I’ve saved your life out of common decency, but in hindsight that was probably a bad move.” Of course he was completely avoiding his own selfish ends that naturally went unfulfilled by saving Peter. It wasn’t even out of the duty he claimed it to be at the time. But if Peter wanted to fucking nitpick, he would fucking nitpick right back. “God, does it really fucking matter why I do a good deed? Are you some motivational police?”
XXX
Peter railed right back, “Seriously, what do you think’s going to happen here? Is it that you think that one of these days I’ll forget you killed my brother and tell you it’s all okay, because a few hundred discussions about ‘favorite this’ or ‘worst that’ have ground me down to where I don’t care anymore?”
XXX
Sylar faltered, but covered it quickly, hoping Captain Motivational didn’t notice because that would be bad, very bad. “I- no!” the fib was quick out of his mouth before he could stop it and he wasn’t big on lying, either. He hoped it hadn’t sounded too quick or too high-pitched to read as an obvious denial or lie.
XXX
Peter continued on, “You’re a smart guy - really smart. Do you really think that’s going to happen?” Or are you just taking what civility you can get while you don’t have your ability eating you up?
XXX
Then Peter went about claiming that if Sylar believed that, then he was just stupid, rather, choosing to be stupid. That kind of accusation had him shoving Peter back, lightly enough, both hands to his chest, but the action read as ‘stay back’ and ideally, ‘shut your mouth’. It was a warning and it also covered his lack of answer.
XXX
Peter seemed unfazed by the shove. “You’re going to get out of here one of these days and I have no guarantee that you won’t go right back to how you were. I’ll probably be victim number one and I know that because I’ve had your ability. It’s not like Nathan ever went light on me either.” Just make a clean sweep of us. Go after Ma next (again!) and you’ll have wiped out the whole family. Probably better for the world, really.
XXX
“Again, Peter, what the fuck do you know? You had it for, what? A day? I’d be interested to know how you got rid of it. There’s no way you’re still controlling it, and, oh yeah, your ability is fucking broken! You get to trade off abilities, I don’t!” Sylar was glaring and looming over the shorter man. He’s right-Nathan loved him as his precious baby brother, but I’m not so inclined. “And that’s my fault? What do you want, a fucking Hare test?” he spat about his ‘recovery’ or whatever Peter chose to label it as.
XXX
Peter glared up at him, unmoved by Sylar’s height. “I have no indication here that you’ve gotten ‘better.’ You talked about getting control, last year. I know it’s possible. What happened to all of that? Did you just give up?”
XXX
Every movement in Sylar stopped as the annoying medic touched on something closer to home. Head tilting, a sure sign he’d just stepped up to the plate, he stared down at the man. “No, Peter, I didn’t give up. I got screwed by all of you,” Sylar delivered, voice low and calm, not a hint of psychosis to be found in it before he roared, “AGAIN! Each and every one of you-Matt, Bennet, Angela, you, Sam and Claire. I went for help. Again! That’s what happened!” And now I’m here…I’m the most powerful man in the world, now one of two men period and I’m just as trapped. I’m always so trapped…
Sylar walked past his companion, smacking shoulders with him on purpose as he went, snarling and baring his teeth. “Don’t fucking preach to me about help. Fuck help! The only help I get comes at a price and that’s not including your entry fees. It’s not just ‘sell my soul again’, its humiliation, degradation, lies and manipulation when I’m not being locked up, drugged up and killed on a daily basis while you plot my demise or my usefulness. So tell me, why the hell would I go back to that?” It hardly mattered if he could do it on his own, he had no reason to. The whole ‘my life is my business’ thing. It was a horrible Catch-Twenty-Two, being unable to get help period, being unable to get help without being screwed and being unable to help himself, hell, being unable to really care much about it otherwise. Tears pricked at his eyes at the horror of the choices he might someday have to face again.
Something bothered Sylar that he hesitated to ask about ‘I know it’s possible’. “It doesn’t matter if it’s possible any more, you’ve got one ability in your head right now and even if I held you down and cut in to get it, I wouldn’t get it because my head is clear! My head is clear!” He’d turned back to give Peter some kind of look, but what it said, he didn’t know. Sylar just knew how it felt-relief. He could feel and think and…attempt to interact without drooling and manipulating and jumping a target, or even someone who stood in his way. Perhaps he was begging to stay this way, but…he did want people around. I’m fucking clean! I can feel it! I know it! I can’t hear the Hunger here…why….why, oh why would he drag me somewhere for therapy for no reason?
XXX
Peter growled in frustration. All of this talking and being chummy, letting Sylar help him with the brace, an injury that stemmed from a fight Sylar had provoked, sharing stories and facts that Sylar almost certainly already knew from his unearned memories - was this some mind-game Sylar was playing? It was no better, really, to think that the more likely answer was just that Sylar was lonely and planning on using Peter to while away eternity. Peter didn’t intend to stay here forever and he wasn’t all that interested in being some sort of interactive television for the other man.
“That’s part of my problem, Sylar. Your head … How do I know, that when we get out of here, that your mind will be any different than it was a few months ago when you were all set to make yourself President of the United States?” Other than, you know, having Nathan’s memories in your head now, and Nathan wasn’t all that trustworthy either, really. So, great - not only might you still want to be president, but with Nathan’s background you might be able to actually pull it off!
XXX
Sylar was a little surprised Peter didn’t react physically, but then again he had a gimp hand. As the man spoke, he stopped his vulture-like circling, standing beside the man, staring at him as Sylar’s own attitude shifted. Ooh, your problem now, is it? “People…told me things that…changed the game plan. I’m not interested in being President. You can’t know and obviously you don’t know.” I understand that. So help me, but I do.
XXX
Peter exhaled forcefully and took a different tact. “Maybe you had trouble finding help,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s not like,” Peter frowned and looked off to the side, “like there’s much in the way of resources for … people like you. Or me.”
XXX
“Well, you’d think for the worst man of all, he’d get some help at different stages from people who claim to be in the business of helping. Unless of course you needed your ‘bad guy’,” here Sylar pointed to himself, “to keep your damn jobs.” Think, just think, won’t he, of all the good I could do if- “I think you like having power to lord over who gets your accepted/pass stamp and who gets the ‘shoot on sight’ label.” So sue me if I wanted some ‘political change’, too. Maybe set the hunt on the Heroes, see them run from agents.
Licking his lips quickly, he went on, “I know for a fact that you had options, Peter, they were just difficult ones. This is totally different.” So Nathan was hunting Peter’s ass. He’d go to a nice cushy penthouse cell. He still could’ve gone to Angela. Or Heidi. Or Uncle Tim.
XXX
Peter looked back, his gaze implacable, unblinking, because on this next subject, he did not forgive Sylar. “But by the third time, you should have done something. The first maybe was an accident. I can buy that. I’ve felt your ability. Maybe you didn’t understand it. The second time, maybe you thought you could control it. The second time could have been a mistake. Those happen,” he said, voice clipped. He paused, still without blinking. “But before that third time, you should have done something. Their lives were worth no more, or less, than yours. Two-to-one. You should have stopped it.” Finally, Peter blinked. He looked away and took a deep breath.
XXX
The medic began jumbling up his thoughts and it was difficult for Sylar to follow with all the number jumping, but he managed to keep up. Sylar’s eyebrows went up. “I don’t understand my ability? So you’re saying three-strikes-you’re-out. Just up and stop, huh?” He burst out again, “I’m not interested in their lives! I’m interested in mine!” Oops, did that change Peter’s outlook? Will he still help now that you’re ‘selfish’? Again, what does it fucking matter why I do it? “I can’t….” he took a calming breath so he didn’t freak himself out or work himself up. “It ends…badly for me and I’m trying to…stop,” he concluded lamely. Surely a little honestly would get him somewhere, right?
Sylar sighed and glanced aside as well, finally speaking a low voice that said he was imparting a secret, “I…I was at Parkman’s house to get him to…” he waved loosely at his head, “take them away.” So I attacked his wife, she snuck up on me! I never harmed a hair on her head and I really fucking could have.
XXX
Not looking at Sylar, Peter said, “Degradation, humiliation, get killed a few times, drugged daily - yeah, sounds familiar. Lies and manipulation by people you thought you could trust?” Peter looked back at Sylar, feeling rage boiling up, but he knew the emotion had little to do with Sylar this time. “Being used as a tool to advance other people’s corrupt power plays, then trapped and locked away when you’re inconvenient? Yeah, real familiar.”
XXX
Suddenly Peter was making a lot more sense than Sylar had thought possible and he really didn’t want to consider it, but there it was, in his face. “That just shows that I shouldn’t trust you people and I’m back at square one. I should have added torture to the list,” there he gave Peter a pointed look to indicate how lightly he surely got it, a little Elle amusement notwithstanding. “Because what they did was against a hell of a lot of human rights, broke the fucking Geneva Convention in half.”
XXX
Peter shook his head. “None of that justifies being a murderer. Not on the scale you are.” And it’s probably kind of stupid to be standing here provoking him. What have I got to lose though, really? Peter snorted a little, feeling his momentary wrath ebb. Sylar wasn’t the cause of it, so he put that portion away for now. Other emotions were vying for the moment anyway.
XXX
Sylar then gaped that Peter thought he was looking for an excuse or justification for his own deeds. That was simply not true. His eyes read of shock and surprise as he stared back at the empath, “Justification was not my point. Nothing justifies what I’ve done. I’m…” he hesitated for only a second, just to ensure that his voice didn’t betray him, but it probably did waver and dip roughly anyway, “very aware of that.” Shit, now this is all going downhill. My ‘scale’, like he thinks I’m too stupid or too- that’s it, psychopathic to understand just how deep in I am.
XXX
Peter’s voice took on a slightly less hostile tone. “Maybe your head is clear if you realize what you did was wrong. But,” he paused, brows drawing together in genuine question, “is it going to stay that way? Or is it that, all by yourself, here in this fucking prison, is the only way you can be someone who isn’t a menace to society?”
XXX
To himself now as he turned away enough, Sylar whispered, “Peter, I’ve always known,” before other man hit him with a freight train of reason. He curled in on himself, shoulders dropping fractionally in a way he prayed Peter missed. Oh, god, no, not that… And it hurt. Sylar pulled an inhalation-sniff to cover his emotional reaction and straightened from his slump, clearing his throat. “It’s not like my future was looking too bright anyway. Lucky you, you’re pretty safe.” By default, he didn’t add.
XXX
“Am I? Am I really?” Peter hesitated for a moment, trying to study Sylar’s features, what of them he could see. The man’s body language at least was apparent. As he had been doing for the entire argument, Peter stayed exactly where he was, not moving a step. “I kind of have the feeling here that I’m only safe because you have a use for me, which is keeping you from being bored all the damn time. What would happen if I wasn’t interesting to you anymore? Or if one of these days you decide that having someone around isn’t worth all the trouble?”
XXX
“Well, what the hell would you do, Peter, were you in my place?” He genuinely wanted to know. Peter, the empath, the people person-if he was somehow left in a wasteland and Sylar appeared…he would do the same exact thing. “I’ve been here three years alone and…that long is too much. I’ve already proven I won’t kill you,” Sylar referred to the fight with a raised brow, regaining some footing on his reactions and his grasp of the conversation. And I’m not getting what I want right now.
XXX
“You’re so pissed off about people manipulating you, you seem to have overlooked that it’s what people do. The only ones who don’t are helpless, and they would if they could. Everyone is trying to get something from everyone else. That’s life. That’s humanity. I’m trying to get something from you. You’re trying to get something from me.” He bit back the urge to be completely brutal and add ‘entertainment.’ “The difference is if I don’t get what I want, I’m not going to kill you over it. I am seriously worried about what you’d do. What will you do, Sylar?”
XXX
“And you’ve clearly made your peace with that fact of life,” Sylar sneered in a display of doubt; Peter just claimed to know the manipulation drill that specials like them received on a daily, hourly basis. He was drawing lines between Peter’s hero-ing and empathy and his supposed, completely false acceptance of it as human nature. The empath was human and he felt, possibly more deeply than Sylar. “I don’t understand why I, and you, Peter, would be manipulated to explode a city; to become a monster; a danger to others when we would otherwise find our own way of…of…healing, of compromise,” suicide, he didn’t add. “There is no reason for that except causing chaos and pain.” Sylar hoped he wasn’t sounding…stupid by basically asking an elaborate ‘why?’ Peter probably didn’t know or he’d be off healing the problem.
Sylar pursed his lips, “I’m not so sure you wouldn’t kill me if you don’t get what you want. You’d never let me walk away in one piece, not after what I’ve done,” he shook his head, almost back to his amused, Hungry self. “I’ve grown a lot more patience, Peter,” here he stared the man down with a slow-burning heat in his eyes. It was claiming that it would wear Peter down to get what he wanted and more. After debating whether to remind the EMT about ‘I like my partners willing’, he murmured confidently, “You have no other choice, so you’ll come around eventually and give me what I want.” Promising another eternity filled with…all things companionable? Quite possibly.
XXX
Peter looked off in the direction of the library, then back at his companion. His gaze was pitiless. His anger had largely defused, but what was left was an unflagging disgust with the choices Sylar had made in his life. He had a strong urge to put Sylar to the test and just walk away. He teetered tensely on the verge of doing just that, looking briefly off in the direction he imagined their apartments to be, shifting his weight without moving his feet. He didn’t know the best route back, but it wasn’t a real city. He was confident he couldn’t really get lost. And even if he did, so what? The worst that could happen was he might get stuck for years alone, like Sylar. He tried to tell himself that was better than being the man’s captive audience. He strongly suspected he, himself, wouldn’t be able to tolerate that, but stubborn wasn’t something Peter was short on.
He decided against leaving, for the moment. There were still a few bones he wanted to pick. The concession that Sylar knew he’d done wrong had taken most of the wind out of Peter’s sails. “If you knew the killing was wrong, then why did you keep doing it? So we agree there’s no justification. What’s the explanation, at least?” He was honestly asking and listened to the answer carefully.
XXX
Sylar noticed the other man glancing around, his intentions were quite clear, but he stood still himself. Sylar shrugged, simply, “I couldn’t.” But then he struggled to put his hazy realizations into words, “That…portion of my ability…affects my brain and I lose touch with….a lot of things, out of necessity.” Things like emotions and reactions, pain tolerances. So many things…It’s an addiction; how many people does he know that can face one without so much as a self-help book?
“I should not have to explain myself to you; you’ve had it. Who did you kill while you had it?” He raised his head to look down at the slighter man. Peter has less control that I do, there’s no way he didn’t lose it at someone.
XXX
Peter was following Sylar’s words, mind busying itself with them. He couldn’t? He couldn’t what? And yes, Peter could remember the complete lack of connection between the person he used to be, with sense and reason and compassion, and the person he was with Sylar’s ability. Why did it work that way? It was almost worth it to borrow the damn power to turn it on Sylar and figure it out, but Peter suspected that was just an echo of the Hunger still buried in his own psyche.
Sylar went on about not needing to explain himself. Peter grimaced slightly. It was an unpleasant memory and Sylar was right, there was- He flinched hard like he’d been slapped as Sylar’s next question broke over him: ‘Who did you kill while you had it?’ Peter tensed all over before dispelling it. It was just a question! He shot Sylar a quick angry glance, then looked away - again, much like he’d been hit and had elected to weather it rather than retaliate. Because the wrong-doing there wasn’t Sylar’s, not even in bringing it up, much as Peter didn’t like the subject. The blame was Peter’s, and even if it was a future reality that wouldn’t come to pass and so would never have any consequences, it had still been Peter’s hands that did it. He did not let himself off the hook any easier than he did Sylar.
XXX
Continued...