More Between Us, Chapter 12/? "Dial It Back A Notch"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 12/?
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, 032
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: Brief M/M innuendos.
Day 7
Just when Peter thought things were easing between them, Sylar rose and took up an odd pose - not quite confrontational or defensive, but way too tense. It put Peter on alert. ‘Sweetheart?’ Did he just call- But by then Sylar had delivered the rest of his sentence and “What?!?” was pulled from Peter’s throat despite (or maybe because) of what Sylar had just said. It was almost comical in the startled, yelped delivery. His mind repeated Sylar’s line to himself several times as he fairly jumped off the bed, guitar in hand. His skin tingled where Sylar’s eyes swept over it and he bared his teeth slightly. His initial expression was somewhere between guilt and fear. It took a little bit too long for ‘outrage’ to register.
XXX
Peter actually stood in shock, the tone of his voice reading a little offended, too. He grit his teeth and purposefully didn’t move a single muscle. The other man was squirming and mentally wrestling with what he’d said, but the outcome was impossible to discern. Sylar fully expected the fastest shut-down since high school with this, but….It had been a week. Which in retrospect was nowhere near enough time; Peter was still a baby here and not sure at all how he wanted or how he needed to handle living his life.
Sylar kept his gaze steady and non-threatening on Peter’s face, catching the grimace he made head-on. He hated the prickles of doubt that signaled the loss of hope; it felt like being in a landslide, but he kept on. What more could he do? The check-up look he received was the usual; clinical and heartless. When was the last time someone checked you out with serious intention? He didn’t want to consider.
XXX
The need to have a weapon in his hand rose fast in his mind. All he had was a guitar. He liked the guitar. He wasn’t going to hit Sylar with it. His eyes darted up and down the other man’s form, but there was nothing in Peter’s look that spoke of lust. He was just unsure. Sylar’s hands were still in his pockets. Peter looked past him at the door. He’d have to walk closer to him to get out. But really, rather than running away, he knew he ought to say something; something other than squawking ‘what?’ at the man like a dog who’d had its tail stepped on. This couldn’t go unanswered. And despite the reflexive desire to meet the statement with violence … they’d been getting along. Where the hell is this coming from? Wait … was that an actual come-on rather than … some kind of challenge? We were getting along - that’s exactly what this is. Whoa. Talk about zero to sixty!
Peter stood up a little straighter and blinked. “Maybe I just enjoy kicking your ass, Sylar. If you want to talk about nailing people, you’re the one who went for a hammer as soon as I got here. Let’s just dial it back a notch, okay?” Peter thought he knew what was going on here. He moved his right hand in gesture of de-escalation. He was certain he wasn’t ready for whatever it was Sylar was implying here, but overreacting to it was … well, overreacting. And that looked suspicious.
XXX
The glance Peter made at the door finally made him look away with a mental noise of ‘ah’. Is it really that bad? He must be more righteous than I thought, giving up a chance to beat the hell out of me and get laid pretty much however he wants. Or he just came from Amanda and he’s in shock. Peter spoke about his enjoyment of kicking Sylar’s ass and he was confused, a slight furrow making its way between his brows.
His head tilted completely at the mention of his running for the hammer. True…Surely he understands why I did it, though…right? Then again, this was Peter. He could pull off ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about’ with perfect innocence and ease and no one would ever know the difference. Is he being dense?
He straightened a little at ‘Let’s just dial it back a notch, okay?’ While he knew that was just Peter being Peter (a nurse and empath at that), it was still the adult-to-child tone with ‘Let’s just…’ Is he mocking me? I don’t think he knows what just happened. That explains it. Better clarify it for him then.
Sylar let out a false chuckle that probably read ‘real’ to someone who didn’t know him (i.e. Peter) and pasted a grin on his face, “That’s supposed to be the part where you say ‘yes, it was amazing’ or ‘no, I didn’t enjoy it.’” His kept his tone almost corny it was so light as to be teasing. He didn’t fancy picking splinters out of his face from a guitar from the look on Peter’s face. ‘Let’s not patronize the serial killer, o-kay?’
Or was that ‘Let’s not patronize the empathetic crazed nurse (while holding a guitar)?’
Oh, screw getting laid for the next hundred years then. No big deal. Never was a big deal. We’ll be finding out just how in love he is with his hand until that day comes. Should have fucking waited….what were you thinking? Sylar didn’t expect much of an answer as he had enough of one, not definitive, so he gave Peter lingering look of ‘checking in’ and partly turned away after a moment, keeping his face blank.
What did you expect? For god’s sake, you killed his brother and he probably still thinks you raped his niece. He’s not going to fall into bed with you the first damn chance he gets. Somehow it still confused him a little. The extent of his offer was rather broad…revenge was a kind of given and he was still getting ‘N.O.’ Actually….he was getting ‘grow up and slow down’ which wasn’t a no…yet. And the lack of specific signal (answer even) was what made him continue with his clarification earlier.
It doesn’t matter. You still have someone. And you still have such a long way to go.
XXX
“You- You … actually want an answer?” Peter looked a little nervous and thrown. He had absolutely no intention of being pinned down on this, because the truth said something about himself that he was really unhappy with. He intentionally stripped out the sexual innuendo and rephrased Sylar’s question to something that was … not a lot easier to handle, but he figured of all the people in the world (the real world), Sylar would get what he was saying. “Did I enjoy torturing you and trying to kill you? Well, I dunno. I guess we could re-enact that and find out.” His voice rose and he snarled, “In fact, I think I saw a hammer in the other room!”
He leaned forward on the verge of taking a step, before he caught himself. “Wait, wait.” Peter raised both hands because this was just about to turn into threats if it hadn’t already. He was in no condition to carry them out and even more importantly, the whole reason he was getting worked up was asinine. He looked at the guitar and put it on the bed carefully. He didn’t want it involved, no matter what happened, and he’d seen Sylar look at it a couple times like he thought he needed to be wary of it.
XXX
Sylar knew from Peter’s face that he’d struck out if not…worse; yeah, there it was. He shrugged at the comment about re-enactment. It didn’t faze him. If Peter killed him, he killed him and he would have to live with that. If he didn’t, Sylar lived and that was that. Brushes with death…rather, brushes with Peter would be exciting, full of adrenaline and heat with no powers to aid them. And he could really use some excitement.
His companion’s voice took on that deeper, close-to-breaking quality that showed he was upset. And that’s the defining moment for my…is it our? Foray onto the mere subject of sex in Hell. Well, it made a few exchanges at least. That’s looking up, he thought dully. Peter made a move for the door, doubtlessly in search of the hammer he mentioned in the living room, so he stood still, impassive, watching as the other man surprisingly stopped himself short. That’s the only way he can control himself; stopping before he starts. Wonder that that makes me?
XXX
“Wait. Please.” He hesitated, looking at Sylar’s expression, trying to read him. “I do not want to go over what has happened between us … before. Maybe for you, it’s been three years. For me, that was a couple weeks ago.” I still want to kill you. Maybe a few stories and a couple smiles made you forget that I have some reasons to be pissed at you, or maybe you’re such an out-of-touch sociopath that you can’t understand why anyone at all would be pissed at you. Peter’s thoughts paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. I don’t think that’s the case, exactly. Probably the former. “I don’t know what you’re angling for, but whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to talk about it with you.” Not that I’ve talked about it with anyone else, either.
Having someone to open up to about his life was something Peter badly needed, but Sylar was pretty much at the end of his list of candidates for it. ‘Pretty much’ at the end - but it might amuse the other man to know that Peter’s mother actually ranked lower than the serial killer. At least all Sylar was likely to do with the information was laugh at him and exploit it whenever Peter got in his way. His mother might ruin the rest of his life with it, and maybe lives of untold others. So … yeah, he trusted Sylar more than his own mother, sad to say.
XXX
Peter asked…told? him to wait; so he replied, completely calm, “I’m not going anywhere.” Peter went about explaining himself and he stood still to take it in, his head having turned back towards the man at this time. “It’s not a big deal, Peter. And it has been three years,” he prompted softly, but firmly, looking up at Peter from under his brows. Of course Peter was still struggling; he hadn’t healed yet, not even close. Sylar had been…forced into therapy, such as it was. //”But today we’re gonna course-correct.”//
“I wasn’t asking you to talk about it. I realize it…probably…came across that way,” his voice shifted back to uncertain and soft, stuttering lightly, “I was...just making an...analogy," he sputtered out a little quickly. "Just forget I said anything, if you can. It’s not important,” he pressed a hand towards Peter, but kept his elbow close to his side in a placating gesture. He gave a tiny grin just to show he was serious and meant no harm, fighting the need to shrink back and pretend he wasn’t there. Invisibility was always a good power.
“I’m, uh…gonna go…check the kitchen,” If that’s okay, Sylar almost added, hooking his thumb in that direction. Ducking his head he shuffled out into the kitchen like he’d said, taking a moment for a deep, shaky breath once he found himself there. His hands shook as he leaned them on the counter top, staring blankly at it as he tried to reassemble after such a botched effort.
XXX
Peter stayed where he was until Sylar left, then sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. What the hell was all that? ‘Sweetheart?’ Sarcasm, sure, but even the most snarky wouldn’t call me ‘sweetheart’ unless they were a woman or playing at being gay. Or unless they were gay. Or trying to say they were gay. Or were completely unconcerned about being perceived as gay. He looked at the door. O-kay. I think this answers the ‘Is Sylar even gay’ question. Peter thought about his own rather broad preferences that didn’t have a lot to do with gender. Hm. Actually, technically, it doesn’t, really. All it says is that I’m not outside his range of candidates, which is a little creepy.
He shrugged. Sylar had walked off. Previously he’d asserted he wanted his partners willing. And now, he’d even demonstrated a realization of the awkwardness of the situation, so there was that. Sylar making a come-on was less upsetting than the idea that Sylar was making a come-on by referring to a highly upsetting moment in Peter’s life, when he’d pretty much hit his nadir and tried to kill Sylar with his bare hands. More-or-less, depending on how someone counted Rene’s ability, but then aside from that there was the nails and a few bits of near-gratuitous torture, which in retrospect bothered the hell out of Peter. That Sylar would even mention it so easily was bizarre.
XXX
Sylar was left totally in the dark if Peter caught his meaning at all. What if he did? he asked himself. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to talk about it anyway. You’re going to have to deal with that. He’s…I forgot how fragile he can be. What had gone wrong? Was it the delivery? Yeah, ‘Hey, Pete, remember that time you took my powers and hit me in the head with a fucking 2x4?
‘Then we beat each other up until you pinned me to a table with some handy nails…I think you wanted your brother back, but you know, that’s really Parkman, Bennet and your Mom’s fault cause they raped my mind and left me like a crushed, empty beer can. Forgive me for misinterpreting your fucking grinding as sexual when you were panting and sweating over me, eyeing my face like candy. Did I take the whole ‘nailing’ thing too far? I thought it was a good analogy. I’ve been here for three years and I need a goddamn connection. Thought you might be it. We'd fit oh-so-well at the hips; I'm sure you know the drill. What? You don’t wanna fuck? What’s your problem?’
Closing his eyes he scraped a hand rapidly through his hair, which completely failed at the ideal goal of keeping it back due to speed, but he had other things on his mind. Shit…now I have to be around him and wonder what he knows? Goddamnit….I had to back off, too. His knuckles rubbed at his eye socket for a moment, ignoring the ache of the roughed- up knuckles for a moment, his headache screaming at him. Bastard Peter, he thought uncharitably, left to stew on his own.
He heard the sounds of someone from out of sight and he stood straight and tried to smooth his face into innocence in case Peter was headed his way to take up the more painful option he’d offered a minute ago. Even if he had succeeded or had Peter come in, he wouldn’t read as innocent, would he? Three years without a single sound hearing something he couldn’t see set him off anyway and his nerves jangled again.
Another softer breath was taken before he began to mindlessly go about opening and shutting cupboards, moving utensils and cooking equipment around in the kitchen. He hoped the noise would fool Peter into thinking he was actually looking around in here for something so god-awful important where there had been silence from the kitchen not long before.
XXX
Peter shook his head, got up and went in the living room, bringing the guitar along with him. He searched through stuff a little more - there was plenty here to look at, even though he’d been through the room already. He wasn’t really interested in what he was seeing, so he sat down on the chair in front of the crafting station and started tightening the strings on the guitar, plucking at them lightly as he did.
He was pretty much blowing off the whole incident. He didn’t see what else to do about it. He wasn’t going to forget Sylar said anything, but sure - he could act like he had. The guitar had a nice timbre to it. He looked forward to playing it. He knew Sylar could hear him, so he voiced out into the air, “You know, I think I might be able to play this even with my hand wrapped up, if I worked out some sort of tool to use as a pick. I suppose I’d be pretty lousy at it, but whatever. It’s not like I’m going to bother the neighbors, huh?”
XXX
Peter spoke up, loud enough over the noise of the guitar, obviously tightened enough to use now, sort of, and over Sylar’s own faked noises, which Sylar paused to hear. Why do I care, Peter? He wanted badly to blurt it, too. “Oh…” he replied at the same volume, “The neighbors, yeah, don’t get me started about those crazies.” He rolled his eyes at the lame turn in conversation, but it beat silence…and wondering.
It was at times like this he wanted his most prized ability back; telekinesis; for the sole purpose of ripping Peter’s head open to see what he was fucking thinking. That way he wouldn’t have to worry or guess or wonder at what went on in that twisted gray matter. He would know. As a bonus he wouldn’t have to feel like a chump for (attempting at) propositioning a man in a world devoid of people.
However I got here, whatever Fate or Destiny put me here didn’t have my sexual preferences I mind clearly. Sex period, actually…at any time in my life. Sylar tried not to feel less- than at that. Fate, honey? I know you can hear me and when I get there I’m going to wrap my hands around your pretty throat and wring the life out of you so slowly it will take me the rest of my life.
XXX
Peter made a semi-forced chuckle at Sylar’s answer about the crazy neighbors in this place. “You are sarcastic about everything, aren’t you?” he said quietly, in a volume that might or might not carry into the kitchen. He didn’t care, as he was talking to himself with that one. He smiled a little and continued the process of trying to get the strings adjusted correctly now that they were tight enough to be usable. Peter didn’t have the best ear for it but he wasn’t in a hurry.
XXX
Oh, so you noticed, Sylar thought. He made to casually stroll over from the kitchen to the couch where he sat and picked at a large leather album, hand-engraved and old while he kept his eyes to himself. It was a trick he’d learned as a child: not seeing the other person’s disgust helped.
XXX
Peter went back to fussing with the guitar as Sylar moved to the couch. He changed the subject, saying, “I saw a movie once. Guy alone in the world after a d-“ Peter stopped, thinking about that vial he’d been duped into retrieving by Adam. Someday I should tell Sylar that story. He’d probably get a kick out of it, he thought sourly. He frowned and went on, “after a disease wiped everyone out. He set up mannequins in the streets, gave them names, talked to them and pretended he wasn’t really alone.” He glanced up at Sylar, or at least in his direction. “I haven’t seen any mannequins around here, so I guess you’re still pretty sane.” It was an attempt at a distant sort of compliment, saying Sylar had managed to hold it together over several years of isolation, and an oblique way of agreeing with Sylar’s earlier assertion that for him, it had been that long. Peter was also rationalizing to himself why Sylar had said what he had just a bit before, in the bedroom.
XXX
“Hmm,” he made a noise in his throat, “Read about that one, I think. I Am Legend?” The only point in bringing up movies let alone discussing them was for conversation and perhaps a trip down a more pleasant Memory Lane. He went so far as to glance at the guitar Peter held and the mangled paw he tried to strum with at the mention of his sanity.
Sane as I ever was. We’ll wait for him to change his mind the next time I do something that doesn’t make sense. Think it was people that sent me over in the first place; he’d be pleased to know. Wait, did he just acknowledge the three years? Does that mean he’s coming around?
XXX
“Yeah, I think that was it - I am Legend. I saw part of it in the break room. One of the guys was going on about the differences between it and the book. I haven’t read the book or seen the whole movie, so.” Peter shrugged.
XXX
“A disease of super smart, super agile zombie/vampires, yeah.” Sylar’s hand barely paused over turning the page of the album he’d picked up that was surprisingly not full of photos (blank of faces as they would have been anyway). Comic strips from the newspaper filled it-of course without faces, but still. It had the dialogue bubbles and that was better than nothing.
Oh, Garfield! He chuckled lightly to himself, his lips quirking despite himself at the overweight, pessimistic cat and his
hapless ‘owner’.
XXX
Peter looked over, not sure what it was Sylar had decided to look at. It looked like an album, but it didn’t hold pictures, he saw when Sylar turned a page. He noticed the lack of eye contact. Sylar was usually scrutinizing Peter closely, eyeing him, watching whatever it was he was doing. Now - not. Well, actually that made Peter feel a lot better, because it was a normal reaction: do something embarrassing, be embarrassed about it, act embarrassed in typical embarrassed ways. That Peter could deal with. He could keep offering up casual conversation, keep inquiring gently of the man and talking about things he hoped were inconsequential and convey that faux pas or not, things were still okay between them. Or at least, as okay as they were likely to be between Sylar the psychopathic serial killer who was even more crazy than usual and Peter Petrelli the reluctant scion and black sheep of what Sylar had not yet killed off of the Petrelli family.
Peter thought, We’re certainly an odd couple, just not in any of the usual ways.
He threw out another invitation to discussion, saying, “I noticed you were collecting up some stuff. Is there anything in particular you’d,” like? Ah, bad phrasing. Very bad phrasing. “Um, you’re looking for? As far as, you know, things go. You had a lot of stuff in your apartment. What kind of stuff are you looking for? Maybe I could keep an eye out for it.”
XXX
Sylar meanwhile semi-politely ignored the other man (tried to), perhaps for the first time since Peter had appeared. He was all nerves, still tense, and he wasn’t looking for a conversation. “I’m not looking for anything. Tools and books are the things I collect.” And brains, Peter, are you volunteering? Funny how he almost goes from saying I, Sylar the psychopath, am sane to I’m messy almost in the same breath. He wasn’t bothered by it. He knew what his apartment was and he knew what he was.
XXX
“Tools and books,” Peter repeated. “Okay. I’ll watch for those.” Freaking broad categories. But what he picked up were little bitty tools. I’ll look for those.
XXX
Normally Sylar would have smirked at his admitted dick-ish behavior. It would be his way of having fun with Peter. Not giving him specifics on what he ‘wanted’-tools and books. He didn’t, instead he kept flipping through the comics as if he cared, ignoring the man’s tedious and rather useless offer. Sylar mostly hoped Peter would get over what had happened moments before and this was his way of dealing with it.
XXX
At Sylar's moment of silence, Peter resumed the dialogue, unwilling to let the conversation die. "I’m going to need a pick, but those are going to be hard to find,” he paused before continuing, "If you have any ideas, let me know, okay?" Peter put the instrument’s butt on the floor, bracing it with his right while he iteratively plucked strings and adjusted the pegheads with his left. He was trying to tune it - or at least get it to an approximation of properly tuned.
XXX
Sylar was speaking almost before Peter finished the ‘okay?’, “If you find one of those dish scrapers, I can cut it for a custom pick for your hand. But that’s if you don’t find a real one,” he said with his attention torn between the comics and his companion as he butchered the tuning, wincing at the attempts.
XXX
“A dish scraper?” Peter thought about that. His dish-washing experiences were even more limited than cooking. “I’ve seen brushes and scrubbers and stuff, but you must mean something else?” He didn’t know what a dish scraper was.
XXX
Looking at Peter for the first time since he entered the room, Sylar’s eyebrows hiked up slowly and he blinked once at the man. “I….forgot who I was talking to. Someone alternately too rich or too busy to clean a dish,” he delivered with little inflection, “It’s basically a plastic chip that you use scrape off dried-on food with. If I cut it, it would make a good pick because that’s all a pick really is. It has a nice worn down edge and-“ He shrugged, realizing he didn’t need explain how it looked.
“’C’s right there, stop,” his finger tapped the album’s cover as Peter stumbled onto the correct sound with the guitar. From there, Peter should be able to find the rest of the notes, but he lacked confidence in the man's ear. Sylar knew Peter was making an effort and he couldn’t help the ingrained sense of patronization he was getting, but he knew a lifeline when he saw it. And that’s what made him speak at all. Peter was overlooking his…mistake even if he wasn’t forgetting it.
As soon as he thought of this he stuttered over it. He is overlooking?! I hit him too hard, that’s it. Rattled his poor brain. Sylar blinked at the comics, suddenly unseeing. I take that back. I was sane before he arrived.
XXX
Peter stopped when Sylar asked, then twanged the string a few times and listened. Yeah. Yeah, that does sound right. “Thanks, man.”
XXX
He nodded in reply to the thanks and straightened comfortably in the couch, finally visualizing ‘relaxed’, not entirely sure if it was genuine or not yet. Really it was in his best interest. For the sake of his eardrums (and latent sanity therein) he wanted Peter to be in key.
XXX
Peter strummed it a couple more times, comparing the sound to the string next to it and beginning to work on that one. “That should make it easier on your ears later.” Peter frowned a little and shifted uncomfortably. “You know, if you … I don’t know if you … Well, I’m not very good.”
XXX
Sylar said, “I don’t mind. Music is music. I don’t care to learn…yet.” Give him another fifty to eighty years (not including Peter’s presence) and he would be scrambling to get his hands on something new to learn.
XXX
Peter began digging himself deeper on purpose here, playing up his insecurity. It wasn’t like he had much of his ego tied up in whether Sylar liked his guitar-playing, but he thought there was a use in showing what looked like a weakness, making an appeal for a reassuring ego stroke or setting himself up for a cut-down. He wasn’t invested in either response, but he wanted to know what the response was to Peter being less than competent at something. “Of course you know that,” he muttered to himself. “But maybe I’ll get better. It’s not like there’s not plenty of room for me to practice where you don’t have to hear it.”
XXX
Sylar just gifted Peter with a blank stare with a hint of ‘really?’ The other man was pushing his bullshit button fast enough that Sylar, rather easily manipulated all-in-all, caught on. Rapidly. “You learned years ago and you probably haven’t touched a guitar since then; it’s natural and you’re hand is broken. You’ll get better,” his voice lowered at the last sentence, indicating the end of that conversation with light threat.
After a moment Sylar cleared his throat, “Um…how about you? Looking for anything besides the pick?” Sylar felt that weird tickle that seemed to live in his guts at Peter asking what he wanted while he didn’t return the courtesy. He would be well within his reason to clam up and not give Peter anything on the communication front, but the man was working whatever Petrelli, empathy, nurse ability that seemed innate to him. And it was working, damnit.
XXX
“What am I looking for here?” Peter set the guitar down and looked around the cluttered apartment. “I know this isn’t how you take it, but … for me …” he made an expansive gesture at the place. “This is all your head, your mind, your thoughts, that we’re trapped in and for whatever reason - Parkman, your subconscious, or both - this is how it manifested.” Peter shrugged. “So maybe I can find out something about you in all of this. Or maybe if I see enough empty apartments I’ll get that little voice in the back of my head to shut up. I’m sure you know the one - the one that keeps making me want to look for people.” He snorted. “Parkman’s voice.”
XXX
What? More about me…why? That doesn’t bode well, he decided. Good luck with that. Sylar’s expression did smooth into listening mode as Peter went over what he didn’t believe yet again. While he wanted to hear the man’s goals, hearing it still didn’t help. It still made no sense; yes, the theory behind it was….sound-ish, but he didn’t buy it. Three years of solitude said differently. His mouth tightened again, “Oh, I know his voice better than you can imagine.” He found his eyes narrowing slightly. “Whoa, wait…” he held out a hand for ‘stop’, leaning back as he frowned. It took him a minute to actually formulate, “You’re changing your story.”
And don’t think I don’t know it. If stupid and gullible was all you got from the time I was your brother, you’re dead wrong. Possibly literally dead wrong. You have a cute face and you’re empathetic, good at getting your way by being convincing, but your last name is still in the picture here. “Why…” he shook his head and looked away, dismissing the question. That made no sense. Had it been ‘a few weeks ago’ you would have left me to “rot in my mind”. Why the hell do you care now? You’re not even here for me!
XXX
Peter replied, “I don’t know if my story has changed. It’s complicated. It’s like the blind men trying to describe an elephant, so if it seems like what I’ve said at one point isn’t the exact same as another point; it doesn’t mean I’m trying to lie to you. It might just mean we haven’t really explained much to each other because we’re both …” He hesitated. “I don’t trust you. Trust comes from being able to predict what someone’s going to do next and the reason maybe it seems like I treat you like a mental patient is because I don’t know you well enough to know what’s coming next.” He shrugged and straightened a little, lifting his elbows from his knees for the gesture. “I just don’t.”
He leaned back down. “I came here to get you out. It didn’t work. We’re stuck here. And from what I can tell, I might leave here tomorrow or in ten years or in a hundred. However long I have, my goal is still to get out of here with you and have you fulfill that prophecy that … I saw.” For some reason he shied from calling it his mother’s power, or maybe it was that he didn’t want to mention her name in this. “Thousands of people were going to be saved based on what I saw you do in that dream. And you’re right - you don’t strike me as the savior kind. Which is part of what confuses me here. I’m supposed to get you and go have you do this, and I don’t think you will.”
He shrugged again. “But … I was supposed to save a cheerleader, too, and that didn’t work. She’s dead. It’s not like the precognition stuff ever made much sense.” Or the time travel.
XXX
Oh, please. Don’t bullshit me, man. He doesn’t trust me, that sure hurts, he thought with a mental roll of his eyes. Ever occur to you, Peter, that survival is a mystery and I need one to have the other? Besides its…fun. Peter addressed something important to him and his head tilted in interest. He admits he treats me like an asylum resident. So he knows. Good. Annoyed and angry now at Peter’s flagrant use of ‘you’re not the savior kind’ despite having been saved at Sylar’s hand before…
“That’s wonderful, whatever. I’ll show you around,” he paused to draw Peter’s full attention to a (more) serious matter, his voice harsh, probably threatening, not that he cared, “but the deal is you have to stop treating me like a charity case and mental patient. Since there’s no one else here, my reputation won’t suffer by my telling you I’m not actually that insane.” Sylar leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee to get closer to Peter’s face in near-threat, “and I hate manipulators and liars.” The instant he’d spoken his body language reflected content and he’d settled back to being comfortable, throwing his arms over the back of the couch as if he’d discharged his piece of warning.
XXX
Peter snorted a little and set the guitar aside for the moment. “Is there anyone who likes them? Manipulators and liars, that is?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on knees and making direct, serious eye contact, speaking in a low, steady voice.
He smiled a little, but he was completely serious when he said, “I’ll make that deal with you - I’ll quit treating you like a mental patient when you stop treating me like a kid.” You keep reminding me of my dad, and that seriously creeps me out. I don’t think I can stand years of this arrogant condescension.
XXX
I dunno, Pete. I’m looking at one now, to a certain degree. Peter agreed and he grinned a little; the man’s body language amused him in its mimicry and seriousness. Progress is possible with this Petrelli, the sanest and most reasonable of the bunch.
His new goal had been getting “help” (what a joke), cleaning up his act, potentially ridding himself of powers if possible and making something of himself that the heroes would find…acceptable. Maybe getting a “connection” on the side, but that was…
His eyebrow went up when Peter laid it down that he knew he was being given childcare treatment. He gave Peter points for noticing (or maybe Peter got it so much he expected it. Either way, he wasn’t totally willing to bet that was all Nathan). “Better brace for responsibility and real life, Peter,” was his reply to the deal, unsure if either of them could keep their word on the bargain even though he suspected each meant well. The other man stood and Sylar followed with less speed. Peter said something along the lines of “continuing on” and he nodded.
“My week is wide open,” he said just to irk his companion, and waited for Peter to lead the way out.
XXX
Additional part here
Continued...