More Between Us, Chapter 20/? "Standoff"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 20/?
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: 9, 420
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: Gay/drag themes along with the usual warnings.
Day 8
Peter, he saw, had already made his decision. Sylar snorted at the display-Peter sinking down into a battle pose, the blade going still and raising back up to point at the intuitive. What did I say about lying? “You are the lousiest assassin ever, Peter, you know that?” The females of your family do a better job of killing me than you! He had the urge to smear him with ‘loser!’ Stupid fucking Petrelli-is the truth anywhere in your DNA?
Sylar held his arms out, clearly taunting, eyes dark and blank with a hint of disdain, “Hmm? You know you want to…” /’Emotions make you sloppy.’/ Sylar didn’t think he was suicidal, not particularly. He wasn’t testing for the ‘would he’ any more, but the ‘will he’; as usual, he was doubting that it would come to pass. The idea of Peter having the balls and guts enough to stab someone and deal with the consequences he preached about but never seemed to observe was an obsessive interest of his. Maybe it would make him feel more at home, more at ease if I attacked him?
XXX
Peter was relieved that Sylar had, at least, stopped advancing. Even if he was making a showier invitation to harm now than before, this was something Peter could deal with. Letting the man walk up on him was a lot worse. Sylar was well within range to rush him and although of course the man would risk getting run through, he almost certainly knew Peter was no swordsman.
“Think about it, Sylar. Think. If I wanted to kill you, would I threaten you in the middle of the street with a sword?” Or would I get a rifle and set up down the street from your apartment? “If I wanted to kill you, if I even wanted to hurt you,” which I do, honestly, but it’s stupid and I don’t want to right now … we had a pretty good conversation today and even if we argued it turned out alright, “this is not how I’d do it.
XXX
Sylar gifted him with a dubious look, his arms still spread wide. How the hell would I know how you’d ‘prefer’ to kill me, Mr. Murder-Is-Wrong? You’re a very fucking creative empathetic Petrelli; it really is beyond my powers of deduction. “That may be so…but I could make push you right past that little moral boundary you seem to be happy to cling to. I could make you,” he promised. I could make you want to do it; I could make you do it without lifting a finger or touching you. You’re right, Peter. You fancied that gun a lot more.
XXX
“I’m no assassin. I just wanted to be left alone.” Peter dropped the tip of the sword abruptly to where it was only a few feet off the ground. He drew himself up a little out of the stance, but not so far that if he were charged he couldn’t still react. “You tell me what I need to do to get that.” I tried asking. Didn’t work.
XXX
Sylar snorted, he couldn’t help it. ‘Wanted’ to be left alone? Peter shifted into a more relaxed position and Sylar’s head tilted, his arms moved closer to his sides, but not dropping completely. He is really going to pass this up, isn’t he? The little…twit. That managed to annoy him, but not enough (at the moment) that he would continue to physically provoke. Not even a few slices? Nothing? Nothing set his bullshit meter off faster than something that appeared…merciful or kind. Not from this man. A Nathan-based comment was itching on the tip of his tongue as he stared Peter down, eyes flicking over him in search of….something.
Sylar expected more out of this. A second wave of provocation came to mind, this time featuring Peter’s woman-friend, the damsel in distress, Amanda. He was opening his mouth to snap something along the lines that not killing him wouldn’t help her because she was already dead, but he was cut off by Peter’s request. Stunned by it, actually. Sylar’s head slanted much further to the other side, studying the hell out of Peter. I can think of a few things, he thought. Then why won’t he play my game? Who cares if it’s deadly; he’s busy hero-ing and I’m…well, I’m just jaded and I don’t care.
Sylar was silent for a long moment, watching Peter watch him. Um….I don’t know? I didn’t plan on this…
XXX
Peter watched Sylar’s perplexed expression as the seconds ticked by. He was amused by that, really, and would have shown it if the situation wasn’t so sensitive. It told him they were in the same boat here, Sylar no surer of how to handle things than Peter was.
XXX
Finally Sylar said, “If you’re not going to use it, you can start by putting that down,” he glanced at the sword for clarity, his arms coming to rest at his sides at last. He decided he’d get comfortable and shoved his hands into his pockets, ignoring the wince he would have liked to make at his wrist being tilted around. He sure as hell didn’t make the motion to set the other man at ease, oh no. Stupid Peter gets so twitchy. Does he always have to act like I’m…yeah.
XXX
Peter eyed the blade. Of course, disarm myself, Peter thought sarcastically. No surprises that you’d want that. But … why not? It wasn’t like Sylar had been threatening him before. He wasn’t threatening him now, if you didn’t count ‘threatening to make Peter stab him,’ which Peter didn’t.
Am I going to get my way without it? he thought of the sword. Was I getting my way with it? Maybe I’ve made my point, which is that following me leads to things I don’t think he wants. It’s not like I can’t find something else to clock him over the head with later, if it comes to that. Clock - heh.
Peter lowered the sword with a brief, upward quirk of his lips. He waved it back and forth for a moment, holding it down and off to the side so there was no chance of it being interpreted as threatening. He was just getting a feel for it. He hadn’t taken the opportunity before. He wasn’t an expert on such things, but he didn’t think it was balanced very well - but maybe it was that he was using it left-handed. He made a few shallow hacking motions with it and snorted softly. He was sure it would hurt like hell to get hit with it, but it wasn’t a work of art - not that Peter expected high standards for bong shop wall decorations. He supposed there was probably a real weapon shop around here somewhere. Or a real gun shop, his mind supplied. Which is an even stupider idea than a sword, precisely because I’m more likely to be able to kill him with it. Idiot. He wasn’t sure if he was thinking about himself or Sylar with that last.
He looked up at the other man, studying Sylar’s face. Sylar had been patient while Peter made up his mind. Peter shifted his weight uneasily for a moment out of an ill-defined desire to move and be restless. He stifled the urge before he did more than shift, lest it look like he was going to do … something. He lifted the weapon and tossed it to the side, away from the store, letting it clatter against the pavement and roll a few times. He looked at it a moment, then back to Sylar.
In a mild tone of voice he used when he was trying to be calm but really wasn’t inside, he said, “I’m going to go get my bags. Are we done here?” He raised a brow and began walking towards the mentioned articles.
XXX
Peter grinned once, quick and swished the sword through the air at his side, doubtlessly testing the weight…or being a boy with a sword. Sylar gave it only a brief glance even as Peter hacked at the air, instead watching Peter’s face as he eyed the blade. Sylar hadn’t moved otherwise but to stare, head tilted slightly. He knew he’d won - Peter was playing the submissive dog now, running not only from a fight he would win, but from vengeance Sylar knew the man longed to enact. Why the high road, Pete? Where has it ever gotten you? Besides Hell with me, that is.
The medic’s lack of aggression annoyed him deeply. What is his problem? Why won’t he do it?
Peter tossed the weapon and Sylar didn’t blink at the loud clang it produced on the pavement. He straightened and smirked into Peter’s face.
“You’re pathetic,” he spat lowly, raising his head to look down at Peter literally in addition to his height and posture. “You won’t even take a slice at the monster who butchered your brother and for what? Some girl? I mean,” Sylar chuckled without humor, “whipped much?”
XXX
Peter managed to get three steps towards his bags, walking on through ‘you’re pathetic’ and ‘you won’t even take a slice at-‘ before stumbling abruptly on ‘butchered your brother’ as adrenalin kicked in and everything seemed to narrow and sharpen in focus. The rest of what Sylar said washed over him, hardly registering. Some automatic part of his brain probably recorded it, but he was too busy reacting emotionally to Sylar’s bald admission and the psychology of his word choice. ‘Butcher’ … like you understand how awful what you did was? How it wasn’t just hitting someone with a car and ‘killing’ them, how it wasn’t getting angry and ‘murdering’ them, but how it was cold-blooded, calculated and completely unnecessary, taking a life just because it amused you to do it, like killing an animal … ‘butchered’?
Having regained his footing, Peter just stared at Sylar for a moment while those thoughts ran through his mind, his eyes wide and hurt for that second. His heart was pounding in his ears. Without thinking his words over, Peter said with complete and biting honesty, “I’d rather be pathetic than what you are.” Take a slice at you? ‘Butcher’ you? Kill someone because I’m angry? Obviously it was in Peter to do just that, but that was a part of himself he tried to rise above.
He stood three-quarter turned towards Sylar, next to the curb but still standing on the street. His hands were at his sides and he was still somewhat in shock to have been hit over the head emotionally like that. He’s trying to provoke me, Peter’s mind supplied as it slowly came back online. Why?
XXX
Sylar smirked at the stumble, his eyes tracking Peter as he walked. Oops. Peter then turned and gave him this look - like his heart had been ripped out. It was probably true, the blind, trusting sap. (He crushed the twist his gut made at the sight). Aww, boo hoo.
Sylar couldn’t help his arms folding over his chest in typical ‘oh, yeah?’ but his smirk didn’t falter. Keeping the expression generally did its job in bugging the hell out of someone which was his current goal. Wouldn’t everyone? Was his first mental thought to Peter’s reply.
“Tell me something new, Petrelli. You’re no better than I am,” his voice lowered, “deep down inside that twisted cranium of yours.” Sylar flicked his eyes over the other man’s barely visible forehead mostly hidden in all that ridiculous hair.
XXX
Peter stared at Sylar, his brows drawing together and an expression of anger settling over his features at the assertion Peter was no better than Sylar. Yes, I am! You’re a murderer! I’m … not. But … really, we’re both human. Everyone’s the same. That would make me … no better than him. His expression shifted slightly to include mild confusion at his own contradictory thoughts. Sylar went on speaking though, giving him a wash of more provocative words and every one of them stung.
XXX
“You’re a cheap fake, trying to do a bigger man’s job. Let me know when you hit puberty and want to play with the big boys,” Sylar snarked, flipping him off in a gesture that wasn’t really his own, turning to walk away finally.
XXX
Peter stood perfectly still, watching Sylar’s face. The words stung, but none of them sunk in. Instead he found himself wondering what had caused this verbal attack. I hurt him, somewhere, earlier. That’s why he’s doing this. Revenge. Did I frighten him with the sword? Or was it that I was walking off in the first place? His eyes jumped to the single finger and he frowned, saying nothing as Sylar turned and strode away. Peter badly wanted to throw a rock or something and hit the man in the back of the head. Walk away from me, will you? But he did nothing. He looked over at the sword. I wanted him to leave me alone. This way he feels like he’s the one leaving me. Insecure asshole, isn’t he? Just let him go.
Peter took a deep breath and let it out, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. Nathan … He shook his head. There’s nothing to be done about it. Just … deal. He sighed and swallowed, walking over to his bags. Resolutely he picked them up and began the long trek back to his apartment, wherever it was in this place.
XXX
Sylar exhaled as walked, slowing to ‘meander’ as he was out of sight of the other man, sparing half a rubber-neck to see that he in turn wasn’t being followed. Let Peter be lost. His posture slumped. He tried to think why….where along the road Peter had gotten under his skin enough for Sylar to stalk him and provoke the empath like that. Sure, Peter had implied things - a bunch of things that were common misconceptions Sylar had to deal with and to be fair, he’d never really bothered, never really put much effort into correcting those false ideas. His words had fallen on deaf ears as usual and misconceptions like that never failed to grate on his own eardrums.
So I’m an addicted murderer who enjoys killing and who only does it for personal gain. That’s not new, I don’t….think that was the problem I had with it….Maybe because it was from Peter, someone I expect more understanding from, more, well, empathy from. No, that’s just….Nathan, talking.
Currently he missed the Hunger, it could excuse almost anything and he was very used to having that alibi. His equally evil and uninhibited subconscious coiled around his brain to whisper something to him. I don’t feel important. I don’t feel feared. Peter thought he could assume those things, voice them, and give orders when all the medic wanted was assistance in rescuing an imaginary girlfriend. And I wasn’t expecting a sword…
XXX
How did I get stuck here … with him? Why did this seem like a good idea? Why didn’t I listen to Matt? Why didn’t I listen to Ma, even? Peter sighed, not bothering to try to answer himself or defend his reasoning. I’m here, that’s that; what am I going to do about it? I’ve got to do something about being so fucking moody. Getting away from him is a good start.
I can’t figure out how to react to him. I’d like to cut him to ribbons. I’d like to get him down and carve his eyeballs out. Peter grunted. You wouldn’t do that, Peter, so don’t even talk to yourself like that. He smirked and raised his head, looking at the buildings he was walking past. Wouldn’t do it? More like shouldn’t do it. I dunno. I hope I wouldn’t. What did he say, something about me having a twisted cranium? That’s brass.
How the hell am I supposed to react to him? I need his help; he’s not helping. He’s an asshole. But then he wants to talk and hang out and be all buddy-buddy friendly because he’s lonely … hello? Earth to Sylar? You wouldn’t be lonely if you didn’t kill everyone who associated with you! He huffed, aware that his mischaracterization was probably not true. Well, he hasn’t killed me yet. Which is kind of weird, but whatever. I’m not too keen on finding out if getting killed here wakes me up in the real world, or if it makes me brain dead. He looked down at his broken hand. Evidence favors the brain dead part.
XXX
Never mind that Peter had won nearly every encounter between them. Sylar had felt the burning need to lash out at him and what better tools to use than the man’s family and friends? Hell, he’d gone light actually, not desirous of a drop-kick fight with a katana in the area. He had plenty more to say about the former senator. I’ll break him tomorrow, Sylar thought of Peter, kicking at a pebble on the pavement before him, hands having been buried in his pockets after he’d left his ‘companion’.
I wanted that fight. Why wouldn’t he even attempt to hurt me? Sylar was left angry, forgotten and very confused. It’s like he’s tempting me. Challenging me? What a foolish, foolish boy. Hasn’t he learned? Sylar raised his head to look around him. He will.
XXX
Whoa, where the hell am I? Peter stopped and looked around at the buildings that were getting less familiar with every stride. Yeah, okay, must be back the other way. This is my chance to see if Asshole is still following me. He felt a surge of irrational fear and anger at the very idea, not sure what he could do to impress his seriousness if Sylar was still following him. Various half-baked scenarios filtered through his head. Peter made an abrupt turn and headed back the other way, eyes sharp, but saw nothing untoward - no villain lurking in the shadows, cackling his arrogant, heckling laugh and sneering. Yeah, really want to carve his eyeballs out, Peter thought, frustrated by the memory.
It wouldn’t kill him. He’s not even really here ... Stop it, Peter. Don’t even think about that shit. He gave himself a shake and resolved not to sink to Sylar’s level. I am not the same as him!
XXX
Son of a bitch doesn’t want to listen to the truth? Fine. I’ll just make his life hell. Sylar snarled to himself, his feet hitting the pavement harder as his thoughts spiraled down darker, deeper, more violent and generally “evil”. As there was no human, vehicle, not even bugs he could destroy, Sylar darted into an office building, slamming the door open and going straight for the reception desk he saw to his right.
When he reached it, he took hold of the basic gray keyboard, splintering it against the wall, creating a solid dent in the fancy wood. With barely a sound from his thinned lips, Sylar continued to bash the hell out of the communications implement until he broke the lower half on the desk’s edge, creating a quarter of keyboard. Throwing that away, he kicked at a heavy file metal cabinet, bruising his toes up as it failed to budge.
He growled at it, changing his balance for his foot, resting his hands atop it and giving it a death glare like he would love to be giving to Peter right then. “Son of a-“ he rasped out, a little breathless from injured toes, pivoting and using the sole of his foot to crash the cabinet onto its back, a loud echo emanating through the foyer in the otherwise-quiet.
Using his hands he swiped his hands to clear the desk of the computer’s monitor and tower creating more echoes, throwing blank papers and pens to scatter over the floor as his mind was able to blank into pure violence for release. When his mind cleared somewhat, clearer than it would have been without the Hunger of course (he was grateful), Sylar stood panting in a silent, messy and dented room feeling…forgotten. His breathing hitched as he tried to get control of himself. That implies that someone was there to think of you in the first place.
Fucking Peter. Why is he here? Son of a bi-…. He wants to point goddamn fingers at people who can’t help but be what they are? He’s a GODDAMN PETRELLI! I need no other argument! Sylar clawed back his hair, a little static-y now, just as frustrated, but less enraged
XXX
It was getting on towards the dinner hour by the time Peter found his way back to his apartment. He didn’t mind the journey so much. It was nice to just wander, without Sylar there requiring observation and response, without feeling any driving need to escape the place and being hounded by the constant fear of real-life suffocation. I’m really glad that’s over. I’ve been here a week or so. Whatever’s happened in the real world has happened. Time here is either really funky or … wait, watchmaker. Watchmaker. What if the time thing has nothing to do with Matt at all, but has something to do with Sylar’s … hobby?
He stood on the front step of his apartment building mulling that over, but he couldn’t figure out if it meant anything. Finally he shrugged and opened the door, glancing inside with a weird feeling there might be an ambush within. The world seemed … sort of hostile. He couldn’t put his finger on it, exactly. There was no ambush, though. He shrugged again, shut the door behind him and took the stairs to his apartment. He enjoyed the strain in his legs by the time he reached the top; the throbbing of his hand, not so much.
He dug out several more slices of raisin bread, noticing he was nearly out, and ate it left-handed as he surveyed the apartment he’d finally decided to make his own. As soon as he was finished eating, he washed down more painkillers. Without waiting for them to kick in, he began determinedly, stubbornly, moving furniture out of his apartment and into the one across the hall. The first things to go was everything from the second bedroom, bed included. Next was the coffee table, an end table, the overstuffed chair (he kept the couch), two of the four dining room chairs and a plethora of cooking utensils and devices he had no idea how to use.
He didn’t bother to put the things away in any order, not that it was really possible to be orderly when stuffing half the contents of one apartment into another. He wanted it out. He wanted the place to be his and not Sylar’s. It didn’t bother him that this was some kind of metaphorical pissing-in-the-corners. If I’m going to live here, it’s going to be my space, not his. Peter worked late into the night making it that way.
XXX
Sylar blinked, long years alone making him comfortable enough to relax somewhat to feel tired. Or maybe drained. That was it; Peter was draining, the filthy little leech. His lip twitched as he stared blankly at the destruction. Plan, I need a plan. A….goal, where’s my fucking drive? Peter had mutilated that and set them back the progress Sylar thought they had made when the medic tried for ‘smart’.
He thought back to earlier that day. Peter had also gone on a rampage with the storefront. He said he was angry that he couldn’t find me…and that he was stuck. He must know he’s stuck. There’s no rescue, Nine-One-One hero response. He snorted to himself; the irony that everyone’s favorite hero was being left out to dry.
His concussion’s headache was back as bad as the day it happened and it was crippling and made him cranky and unbalanced. His back still ached from where Peter had run him up the bedpost and not in a sexy way; his knuckles were still scabbing over. All the sensations, aches really, joined to make him focus, through or over his complaining nerves.
Peter threw down the gauntlet. He’s turned me down and belittled me and he has no idea just how dirty I can play. As he thought, he’d wandered slowly back outside, limping once he’d made sure Peter wasn’t around to watch that. Turning home absently he continued to think, continued to try to hold back his aggressive urges. His plan didn’t take long to pull together; it was merely a reiteration anyway: He’s all mine and he doesn’t know it yet. I need to mold him into shape…Such were his thoughts as he found himself in his apartment, fixing a meal and attempting to read the night away with mixed results.
Day 9
Peter woke with a start, disoriented by the very fact of being asleep. Whoa. What am I doing in bed? He rolled over and sat up, fully clothed. The room looked different, but of course it would with those boring landscape paintings off the walls. They were bare. The whole place was bare. He rose and scratched at his scalp, trying to remember going to sleep. He couldn’t, but he decided not to obsess over it. I’m in a false reality. It shouldn’t surprise me that the place is weird.
He chuckled to himself as he finished the toilet and stripped for a shower. I’m weird. Sylar’s weird. ‘Course the place is weird. ‘Weird’ - just another word for ‘special’. He put the usual gallon sized plastic bag over his right hand, secured it clumsily with a rubber band, and got in the shower.
After toweling off, Peter walked, naked, into the now-empty second bedroom. Looks like I slept right into late morning. Well, I didn’t really have anywhere to be, did I? He stretched as something nagged at his memory. I oughta drag some free weights up here. Ceiling’s not high enough for a jump rope. I could do push-ups, though. He looked at his bum hand. One-handed push-ups. He smirked. I could get all lop-sided and Sylar could make masturbation jokes. Oh, wait … Sylar … that storefront. Oh, yeah … that’s what I was gonna do.
Yeah, right. A certain lack of enthusiasm permeated his thoughts. Right after lunch. And painkillers. Lunch consisted of celery, carrots and peanut butter. He would have liked to added apple slices to that, but there was no way he was going to try to handle a knife with his left hand. He had plenty to eat otherwise. Hygiene addressed, food eaten and put away, painkillers taken and taking effect, clothing donned, Peter had no more excuses for delay. He packed a couple apples and the last two slices of raisin bread into his bag, along with keys and pills.
He paused with his hand on the door, thinking. I’m going to go find the place and … no, I should stop by the janitorial closet here and get a bucket, a dustpan and a broom. I think I’ll just be getting the debris cleaned up today. I’ll worry about fixing stuff later. For now just get rid of the trash. He paused. Sylar was a looming, unasked question in his mind. I told him to leave me alone. But this is a new day. There’s no reason why he’d think I meant forever, and anyway, I didn’t. I’m going to have to get used to him eventually. Maybe better though if I can just take him in small doses.
Yeah, right. Let’s see how well Sylar cooperates with that plan, Peter. He’s always been so cooperative in the past, after all.
XXX
Sylar woke up groggily, his head pounding the instant he lifted it. Blinking, it took him a moment to place himself, disoriented from his headache and something he couldn’t quite place. That’s right. Peter. Sylar gave a grunted growl with his dry throat, slowly rolling himself to stand. Once there his back twinged and he made a noise, trying to rub at it lightly enough as he made his way to the bathroom for morning clean-up.
Dressed and fed, he didn’t glance at any of his clocks or his prized watch for the time - the sunlight when he’d woken told him what time it was as did his brain and the ticking surrounding him in the room. He knew Pete wasn’t up yet. He forced down memories of waking the boy as Peter had grown up, the funny little ‘h-hu-uh?’s his kid brother would make on greeting the day, his hair stuck a million directions and those big eyes still stuck on sleepy.
Walking downstairs to the road heading not for Peter’s place this time, but the storefront Peter said he’d clean today; Sylar rebandaged his wrist as his only maintenance for his injuries. Any discomfort was a reminder of being human and of being alive and again he found himself slipping into empathizing with Claire. He took a breath and exhaled it shortly in the brisk air, seeing only the barest cloud around his mouth from the chill. Everything would heal in its own way, rather, in his own way.
He arrived at the broken store, taking more time to look around at its contents seeing as Peter hadn’t arrived just yet. No katanas, guns, bats, or teddy bears, he noted instantly of the women’s clothing store. Peter had fucked up the mannequins pretty good, most of the glass was missing but the window’s edges were still prickly. Sylar stepped lightly around in the display case, idly checking out the racks of products just in case Peter decided to wait around the proverbial corner for him.
XXX
Peter arranged his supplies as he stood in the hallway outside the janitor’s closet. He had a bright yellow bucket more accustomed to a mop than the handful of rags and a dustpan that was in it now, and a fairly newish flat broom. He balanced the broom over his right shoulder and lifted the bucket with his left, looking off in the direction of the entrance. He’d already looked outside - Sylar wasn’t there, or at least he hadn’t been when Peter had looked. He still had this urge to slink off out the back way.
And why would that be, Peter? he asked in an internal voice that annoyingly sounded like Sylar’s. He leaned heavily against the wall and groaned at how his conscience was truly sadistic if it was going to sound like Sylar. I really should have listened to … but on the other hand, he sighed, since when have my mother or Matt Parkman been fonts of wisdom and good advice? He shook his head and started for the main entrance, determined to do what he should even if he didn’t like it. I don’t want to go out this way because I’m embarrassed about smashing the storefront, that’s why. I got mad and broke stuff because I was frustrated and it felt good to do it. That’s what I’m guilty about - the feeling good part.
He paced off down the street, lost in thought about his decisions and why he’d made them. Peter classified the choice to destroy the storefront as a ‘decision’, even if it wasn’t the most well-considered. It hadn’t been reflexive. Few emotional outbursts were. The emotion might be uncontrollable, evoked by circumstance and the events, but what a person did as a result … that was something he held them, and himself, accountable for.
He found his way to the building in question without much difficulty. It was four or five blocks from his apartment. He hadn’t really kept track, which was part of why he was kind of lousy at finding places. But I’m getting better! I didn’t even get lost getting here! He paused at the corner, looking over the street warily. I kind of thought Sylar might be here. Guess not. Good. Maybe we can work something out then, if he’ll give me space when I need it. He walked on, approaching the mess, eyes on the ground. He was looking at how far from the building the glass was scattered, mentally working out where he needed to start sweeping from to work his way in.
I probably need to pick up all the big pieces first, which is what the bucket is for. I should have brought a glove. He set the bucket down and looked up, intending to find a spot to prop the broom against the building while he worked. Sylar! Peter sucked in air in a sudden, noisy gasp and nearly jumped out of his skin. The creep was lurking just inside the store, totally still and silent, like one of the mannequins Peter had trashed before. The resemblance was so uncanny that for a fraction of a second, Peter’s brain wasn’t sure it wasn’t just a Sylar-shaped mannequin standing there.
XXX
Sylar heard sounds and turned towards the open display to see Peter walk up with his gear. He couldn’t help feeling totally validated at seeing a Petrelli looking like a janitor - there was something supremely ironic and satisfying at the sight. In addition to the little voice chanting in his head Peter screwed up! Peter screwed up! Not such a golden boy after all!
If there was one thing Sylar felt better about it was bringing all the high-and-mighties down to his level where they really belonged. And Peter was the best of the best, almost holier-than-thou and that had never ceased to get under Nathan’s and Sylar’s skin. He stood still, curious to Peter’s reaction time or reaction period on spotting Sylar. It took less time than he thought.
Peter went still, partially bent over after setting the bucket down and still holding the broom with those soft brown bangs covering part of his face. A few seconds passed and Peter still didn’t move, staring at him as if he was some apparition or illusion. Sylar felt that he should be flattered. As for holding still himself (and seeing just how long he could string Peter’s paranoia along, however tempting), a slow smirk spread across his face unbidden. Fear was such an ego boost and it only fed the intuitive’s addiction. He wasn’t sure if Peter could see it given the lighting differences between the outside and indoors, but he didn’t care.
He took a long, slow first step towards Peter, speeding up the second just for show and, again, that lovely reaction. Peter had been leaning next to the corner of the window, looking for something just inside it so when Sylar got close, he decided to fuck with Peter some more (admittedly risking bodily harm, but what the hell, it would be fun). Sylar walked up to Peter who had straightened up to stand, and slid between the space the man and the window created, bringing their bodies into close enough contact for Sylar to be thrilled and Peter to be….well.
XXX
Peter could see that something about Sylar’s face changed, but he couldn’t make out the expression immediately. It didn’t matter - the other man was the real deal, not a mannequin or a hallucination signaling Peter had lost touch. At least, I don’t think I’ve lost touch with … reality, such as this is. I don’t remember going to sleep, but it’s usually the waking up you don’t remember if you’re in a dream, isn’t it? He blinked a few times and fell back a step as Sylar took one forward, feeling that hindbrain fight-or-flight instinct telling him to Run! when Sylar’s second step was faster. Which is probably why he’s doing it, the asshole.
Peter set himself then, resisting the urge to take the broom in his left hand like a weapon. One - it wasn’t that heavy-duty a broom. It would make for a shitty, undignified and unintimidating weapon. Two - he’d already seen how trying to escalate with Sylar worked out, and that was ‘badly’. Three - his face still hurt from getting tagged time after time a few days ago and his fucking hand was still broken and going to stay that way for a long time. Fighting almost certainly equaled losing and Peter was not fond of losing. Especially when there was nothing much other than ego he was fighting over.
But knowing all that didn’t stop the adrenalin, or the stiff posture, or the accelerated breathing, or the thinning of his lips. He stood his ground, refusing to move, making Sylar turn sideways a little to brush past him. Which might have been Sylar’s point, but Peter wasn’t about to let that goad him into doing something that looked like backing down.
XXX
Sylar spared a nano-second glance for the broom as he passed it, noting with sadistic amusement that Peter didn’t shift it around. Learning his lessons, I see. Good. Peter made a face which Sylar was happy to ignore. Not here for your pleasure, big boy, Sylar mocked in his head. Peter didn’t budge and Sylar was forced to tilt his lanky body around to get by, but he made contact and thus was satisfied in his effort. He moved to stand a few feet (in range of the broom, should Peter choose), facing and beside Peter.
Stepping out of the display, brushing past the medic, he stood on the sidewalk and eyed Peter, snarking, “If you wanted to cross-dress, you could have used the door, Peter.”
XXX
Peter snorted at Sylar’s comment and quipped back immediately, “I went to a party once in drag. Got some action. It was pretty cool. You ought to try it." He regretted his words almost instantly, because … well … they were mean. And it said far more about himself than he’d intended to be sharing with this particular audience.
XXX
Sylar’s head inched to the side after he gave a slow blink in response before answering, “Try what? Going in drag or getting action? I, unlike some, don’t have the face to pull off the first one. And I don’t actually have to troll to get laid,” Okay, that was an exaggeration if not an outright lie. He had reasons for not looking and not being interested. IF he so desired, he could snag any person off the street to the nearest hotel (or alley) and….Sylar crossed his arms in front of him, standing straight in smug assurance although his brain was still turning over the whole drag secret not even Nathan knew about. Then he really, really tried not to picture Peter in…Holy shit. Focus.
XXX
Peter had turned mostly to follow Sylar’s progress, but still had the broom over his right shoulder, balanced under his right forearm. He figured it was way too late, but he tried changing the subject anyway. “Um … I mean, good afternoon to you, too,” he said rather lamely, pretty sure he’d just ruined any fractional chance he’d had of getting out of this encounter without some kind of fight.
XXX
Peter then switched tactics and went for polite, if faked and it had Sylar’s brows arching slightly. Wait, was he implying that he just ignored my comment and thought I was greeting him? That’s…that’s….clever. Would have had more punch if he hadn’t spilled his…that whole thing. Sylar was eager to both know more of and ignore the information.
He grunted in reply, looking out onto the street and away from Peter, rolling his eyes.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a very long look, exhaled disdainfully, and slowly unlimbered the broom. He set it against the wall like he’d been planning to do anyway, and scooped the rags and dustpan out of the bucket. His motions were gradual and a little exaggerated even. But then he changed pace and tossed the brown, plastic dustpan at the base of the broom, in a sudden flick of motion. It was hardly dangerous, but he kept a particular awareness of Sylar in his peripheral vision to see if the man was jumpy or not. Not happy about him standing right there, kind of on top of me. There’s no reason for him to be here at all … or at least no good reason. He’s just here to pass the time and getting in my face about things is probably the most entertaining thing on his schedule.
XXX
Sylar felt the look, but ignored it just to be a dick. He mentally crowed when no response came, Peter taking the insult like some kind of annoyed housewife. That image was certainly amusing and Peter’s own admission of dressing like a fucking woman wasn’t helping the medic’s case at all. If anything, it only fueled Sylar on with more ammunition. He made sure to check on Peter with a side-glance as the man moved and he allowed himself to feel some gratitude at the speed. A sudden move with a broom would certainly set him off and Nathan knew enough about prison, both military and domestic, to know a few gay broom jokes.
Sylar turned his head a little fast at the faster motion Peter made in throwing the dustpan, his eyes staying on it for a second before glancing over Peter once and looking away again.
XXX
With a little huff, Peter stuffed the rags in his left pocket and moved the bucket over next to some of the larger pieces of glass. He squatted, pulled out a rag, and picked one up, using the rag to avoid cutting himself. He looked at the fragment, eyes narrowing, a memory coming to him of looking around Mohinder’s apartment in desperation, at the realization a second too late of what a somewhat younger Sylar intended to do to a somewhat younger Peter. He’d seen the field of glass suspended in the air. He’d turned and started towards the door when … his life ended for the third time.
XXX
Peter crouched down and Sylar moved over to the outer edge of the building just beside the broken display, leaning a shoulder against the store to settle in and watch Peter work. Oh, yeah, he really was going to sit and watch. He initially had thought nothing of the glass shards until he saw Peter linger. He was in no position to see Peter’s face in any detail so he couldn’t divine what the other man was feeling, but he could sure guess at his thoughts. Oh, yeah, Sylar chuckled to himself inaudibly. What the hell did he need to see stupid ‘Mohinder’ for anyway?
XXX
Peter shuddered and dropped the piece into the bucket, moving on resolutely to the next. I hate glass. He tried to ignore that he was being watched and probably gloated over. It really wasn’t an experience that Peter had much parallel for in his life. Even when his father (or Nathan) had stood over him to make sure he did something, there had not been the feeling of sniggering self-aggrandizement he suspected Sylar was getting out of watching Peter clean up his own mess. Peter wasn’t sure what to do about it, but it was making his skin crawl.
XXX
“Maybe you should shop here. You’ve never worn this much black in your life.” And I think I know why. I think I’m the reason, too. “I bet that drives your mom nuts you dress like her, black and in size twelve.” Sylar rolled his eyes at the unflattering image. I also imagine your mom doesn’t- well…actually she might know about all the dirty little things you’ve done with her eavesdropping, mind-fucking, life-ruining, retinal-scarring ability. Serves the bitch right. He would have continued on, asking if Peter had “borrowed” Ma’s makeup or stolen his own. Freak’s probably got a bunch of gay friends, probably bummed it off them. Not worth asking about. Wait…that makes him gay? Ugh.
XXX
She has good taste. I could do worse. Peter sighed, his mind simultaneously trying to come up with a clever retort and shut down that line of thought as he continued working silently. There’s no point. Don’t argue with him. Don’t be his entertainment. He kept moving along, picking up pieces and tossing them in the bucket, then rising and moving to a new spot to do the same all over again.
XXX
Peter was apparently done “sharing” after he’d blurted out his naughty little secret. Oh, if only Nathan was still alive, I’d torture him with images of Peter getting laid dressed like a girl. Ha. The man was studiously ignoring him and that made Sylar acutely annoyed and determined to get a reaction. He licked his lips a little, dreaming up an insult while Peter shuffled around. Cleaning up after his own damn self.
XXX
Why does the color of the clothes matter? The answer came to him immediately and he said it out loud without considering the implications, “You said black was your favorite color.” Peter glanced down at his outfit - a long-sleeved black, v-neck cotton shirt, jeans (also black), and his customary, thick-soled work shoes (also … yeah, well, black). While there were a number of good reasons why his wardrobe had shifted to darks lately (beside the fact that this was what he'd found in the apartments he'd raided), and those reasons were related to the color of his work uniform, the desire to avoid sweat marks and a lack of appreciation for how heavily bleached clothes felt against his skin, it didn’t change the fact that he was entirely dressed in Sylar’s favorite color, the day after Sylar had told him that. And … I just made sure to point that out. Great. Just great, Peter. Sounds like I dress this way just to thrill him. Awesome, he thought sarcastically.
He stood with a sour expression, rubbing the spot on his thigh where he’d been kicked. It was fine now for walking - hardly a twinge except when he’d taken the stairs the day before - but the successive, deep squats he was having to do were something different. He gave Sylar his least appreciative glower.
XXX
Sylar sneered back in reply to Peter making faces at him. “Yeah, so-? Ah.” No sooner was the question voiced then the answer presented itself to him. His eyes shifted aside as he thought. Why would Peter think of that first thing? Because I said it the other day? Still… Sylar’s eyes toured over Peter’s body and not wholly for said clothes.
His eyes were significantly more amused when they returned to Peter’s face. That means something, doesn’t it? Dressing like a girl might make things weird, might have difficulty hitting him, but he’s not getting any special treatment unless he asks nicely. Who are you kidding? “You don’t have to glare. I know; it’s black, size fourteen,” he smirked. Peter the clam was no fun. “Black is my kink, Pete. You can’t have it.”
XXX
Peter snorted. “Tomorrow I’ll wear yellow, or maybe green. It’ll go great with the eye-makeup you gave me the other day.” He gestured at his raccoon-faced visage and smiled companionably. Most of the people he’d been in fights with, he’d had to keep dealing with day after day. The best way to deal with it seemed to be to make light of it and go on, and hopefully the other person would recognize that he was trying to leave the animosity behind and play along.
XXX
Sylar narrowed his eyes, head tilted. Is he mocking me? The smile Peter gave him was confusing as hell. Does he expect me to feel guilty about that or something? What the hell is with the smile? He hit me first! Twice, both times it was him. My face is a mess, too; my nose isn’t jacked up, but it my face still hurts. Boo hoo. Control your temper. With that, he decided to move on; a gracious ‘not my fault’ on his own part.
XXX
Size fourteen instead of twelve? Ah, it’s a fat joke. Didn’t catch that the first time around. ‘Yo mama’s so fat …’ Meh. Might be funny if Ma actually was fat, or even a little fat. Since she’s not … kind of falls flat. Sylar’s repeated insults to Peter’s family were starting to get under his skin regardless. Asshole.
“Don’t call me ‘Pete’,” he tacked on in a less friendly tone of voice, going down on one knee for what would probably be the last batch of glass he needed to pick up instead of using the broom. He picked up one piece and then scooted it over, using it to lever up two other pieces. There was a sharp, brief pain along his knuckle. “Dammit,” he muttered, picking up all three pieces and dropping them in the bucket. He looked at his left middle finger, which now had a thin line of blood forming. Should have worn a glove. He got back to his feet and picked up the bucket, otherwise ignoring the cut.
XXX
“What are you gonna do about it, Petey? Act like a brat in a candy store throwing a temper tantrum and I’ll call you whatever I want. I see not much has changed since you were….well, born.” Peter was worth protecting, Nathan knew, but really there was only so much he could do or put up with; especially when Peter was a legal adult and began to threaten the family’s status and Nathan’s own career. Nathan had stung back at Peter every time his kid brother got out of line…and then some. The leapfrogging between the brothers for attention, morality, power and politics boggled Sylar’s mind. At the same time he understood that the atmosphere that had been bred into them had come from the Petrelli parentals. Kind of a lose-lose.
Sylar leaned over a bit, towards the window to see what had Peter muttering to himself. He caught the slightest flash of something red on Peter’s hand. Blood. /I am not a religious man. But there is one thing I do believe in: Blood./ Ironic that Peter had, in a way, drawn first blood and that it was his own by his own faults. He watched as Peter stood, doing nothing more than observing. Why am I not pounding the shit out of him again? I should be. He deserves it. (Or does he?) What’s stopping that?
XXX
Sylar had Peter’s complete and angry attention. I haven’t been called ‘Petey’ since I was a kid. He took a deep breath, bristling and glaring. ‘Petey’ was more derogatory and more of a slur, but somehow it didn’t tread over into Nathan’s memory as heavily as ‘Pete’ would have. As that thought occurred to him, it was swiftly followed by the realization that Sylar actually had done as Peter asked and not called him ‘Pete’. Well, the wonders never cease!
It was a small consolation, but it was a consolation. It calmed him down a little and, probably more importantly, loosened his tongue. “’A candy store?’ I think the stakes are a little higher than that, Sylar.” He walked over and put down the bucket, picking up the broom instead.
XXX
Sylar raised a mocking eyebrow at the bluster Peter presented. “Could’ve fooled me,” he snarked with dead seriousness, “Notice how you preface that with ‘I think’ because all of this is speculation to amuse you in circles, Petey.” His brows lowered almost in disbelief as he saw Peter heft the broom handle. Seriously? I know you’re a stubborn son of a bitch, but you need to learn when to stay down because you don’t hold a candle to me for dishing or taking pain and coming back for more. Stay down, Peter.
XXX
Peter turned to face Sylar, some ten feet from him, holding the broom perpendicular to the ground and punctuating his statements with it as he continued, “Where do you of all people get off on lecturing anyone on temper tantrums?”
Peter was arguing mainly to argue and he was aware of that. Although he figured Sylar would eventually go away if he simply refused to respond, he was weirdly cheered by getting his way, even if it only meant Sylar chose something different to insult him with. But he had chosen something different and so Peter felt like communication wasn’t necessarily off the table. Even if, at the moment, it was angry communication.
XXX
Sylar’s look shifted to annoyed when it came back to Peter’s face. “And where do you of all people get off on bashing me for having a temper when you’ve had my ability?” He paused a moment as Peter went on (Sylar was partly surprised he was getting dialogue at all).
XXX
“Me of all people?” Peter snorted and looked around rapidly on the ground, spotting where he wanted to start sweeping and taking a few short steps over to it. “You’ve had your ability for years, Sylar! Are you trying to tell me that every person that you ever killed, you did it because your ability made you do it?”
Peter stopped there, really, really wanting to go on and tell Sylar he thought the man had gotten used to killing, probably felt he was above everyone else, and might even have enjoyed it if that nasty smirk he always wore said anything about it. Peter stopped though because he wasn’t sure what Sylar’s answer was and he genuinely wanted to know it. It wouldn’t necessarily be the truth, not even as Sylar knew it, but Peter wanted to know what defense Sylar was putting forward for actions that just the day before he’d admitted were irredeemably wrong.
Indistinct, half-processed memories of killing Nathan in the future tried to surface in Peter’s head. He pushed them away. He didn’t want to deal with it. He didn’t want to ponder Sylar finding, or trying to find, an area of empathy with him, some shared horror. If Peter could keep pretending only Sylar had done wrong … Peter grimaced, recognizing how hypocritical and self-serving his own desires were on this, but not sure he had it in him to do anything about it. He made a few tentative, one-handed sweeps at the ground, watching what he was doing rather than Sylar, although his mental attention was very focused on what the other man had to say.
XXX
“Did I leave you with that impression?” Sylar snorted, honestly amused. “I won’t pretend that. I’ve killed lots of people because they had it coming or they were in my way….self-defense, too. You’d know some of them,” he hinted, aware that this honesty would probably come back to bite hard. Chandra (Peter wouldn’t know him personally); Arthur; Nathan; he’d almost killed Samson; Virginia; Peter himself a time or two. Sylar’s eyes slid to the side as he contemplated, not much showing on his face but a slight smirk, a little lost in thought.
Dozens of agents, civilians, police officers, special ops; Bob Bishop (although the allure of his handy ability had made it sweeter); Maya and Alejandro (the annoying bastards); Isaac might have been a throw-away of sorts; Trevor…the list went on and there wasn’t a prevalent amount of guilt present in him. That list was black, secret, and small. On further thought, he’d never been around people long enough to rattle off his accomplishments. Should have done that with Matt, sent him right over. First time for everything, Peter.
It was a lifetime’s worth of compressed hot air, rage, and bitter, ugly feelings that made him do the things he did. A personality flaw or a learned trait, he didn’t know. He would guess that it was an inherited genome given his father’s rather scummy existence, but he couldn’t say for sure. It sounded like he was trying to lay blame and that generally wasn’t something he did - looking for ways to dodge accountability, however, was very much his forte.
Sylar could not be blamed if the majority of his problems as a genetically enhanced man stemmed from a single family and their endeavors and business interactions. Peter knew lots of them, really. “You’ve got anger issues, too, man, so knock that halo off your head.” Part of me wants to, Peter; the ability….makes it happen. “There’s a lot about abilities and how they affect people that you don’t know.”
XXX
Continued...