More Between Us, Chapter 17/? "Of Favorites and Storefronts"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 17/?
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: 7, 773
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
“My favorite ice cream flavor?” Peter asked with a little bit of a smile as he walked into the general emergency area. He gestured towards the x-ray room. “Let me grab my bag from in here before I forget it.” He had things he wanted in his messenger bag; a couple pieces of raisin bread, more pain pills, a few bandages and the antibiotic ointment. Of course there were the guitar picks and music sheets, too. He snagged it before heading off towards the storeroom.
“I dunno. I like a lot of different flavors. I probably get something different every time I buy it. I like Neapolitan. And Rocky Road. I don’t like anything with fudge in it. Or bananas, for some reason. I mean, I like bananas, but not fond of it in ice cream, you know? I had cookie dough ice cream once. Didn’t care for it much. And I don’t like really dark chocolate.”
XXX
Sylar stayed in the hall as the other man grabbed his bag. “I agree; there’s too much that goes into ice cream that shouldn’t. But fudge isn’t one of those things, Peter,” he declared seriously, intending to be humorous with the mimed threat. “Fruit is all too easy to get wrong because it’s all fake in products. Even juice is partly fake and you’d think that would be one of the things you don’t screw up.” But, boy, they have the wool pulled over our eyes, haven’t they?
XXX
“There’s something about fudge I don’t like,” Peter answered, “It kind of has a plastic taste to it. I like chocolate fine. Maybe, like you say, there’s something fake about it. I never thought about that with the banana - probably fake, yeah. I like strawberry fine. Though I prefer it with actual strawberries, now that you mention it.” Peter liked food with little bits you could pick out and savor - just a weird preference.
XXX
“More fudge for me, then, you poor misled fool,” Sylar stated firmly with a slight nod forward.
XXX
Peter snorted as he pushed open the door to the storeroom and looked around, walking in a little to clear the way for Sylar. “I guess that sounds like there’s all kinds of things I don’t like.” He looked at Sylar for a moment instead of the shelves of medicines and supplies. “You know, I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me what my favorite kind of ice cream is.” He shook his head, muttering to himself, “I never even thought about it.”
XXX
“No one’s…ever?” Sylar asked or stated slowly, coming to terms with that idea. His head tilted as he thought on it and felt a thrill of satisfaction; delighted to be the first of something to Peter, in a good way. A very good way, he decided. While he heard Peter’s mutterings, he let the man have his moment of self-conversationalism, thinking, Someone should have, Pete.
XXX
“Ah, there,” Peter said, going to where there were prepacked trauma and first responder kits. He pulled one out in its canvas bag, dropping to his knees with it on the floor. He opened it and sorted through the contents. He knew exactly what was in such a kit. He went through it wordlessly, mostly for the benefit of his companion - and it had been drilled into the medic over and over to always check medical supplies, especially if you weren’t the one who had packed them.
“I’d like to add a few things, as long as we’re here. I want another pen-light, some quik-clot, and some extra analgesics. See if they have some burn relief gel, too.” Peter stood and, instead of scanning the shelves for what he’d listed, walked down to the closed metal cabinet at the end. He reached out and checked it - unlocked, just like most things. He opened the door and looked in at the restricted materials, usually kept under lock and key even in a storeroom restricted to authorized personnel. He shut the door without comment and turned to find the additions he wanted.
XXX
Once in the storeroom and Peter found the area he was looking for and knelt down; Sylar moved over to get a good view of what was inside. Habit, potential threat and need, but mostly his driving, killed-the-cat curiosity drew him to watch, intently, the items Peter pawed through. “Quik-clot?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. What’s he planning to get into-- a fight with a pack of razors? Does he expect me to throw nitrogen on him?
XXX
“Good question.” Peter turned and rummaged through the shelves. “Here, this is quik-clot.” He handed Sylar a packet. “Anything that bleeds a lot and looks like a simple compress won’t stop it, we put that on it. I had a call once where a guy nearly bled to death from cutting himself opening a toy for his grandson.” He shook his head. “Of course, it wasn’t helping that he got upset and lost his head about it.” Peter glanced at Sylar, thinking immediately of the practice of removing the tops of people’s heads. Poor choice of words.
XXX
Giving first the packet, then Peter a bland look, he controlled his annoyance enough to reply in barely contained tone, “I know what quik-clot is,” some defensiveness and derision creeping in regardless. He assumed Peter would be clever enough to follow the string of logic to the actual meaning behind his (blurted) question, once Peter ruled out ignorance; but he didn’t press it. “Damn,” he said about the story, however brief. His lips quirked into a smirk, catching the pun. Definitely unintended.
Sylar then asked, “You ever broken bones before, Peter?”
XXX
Peter swung to face him, a series of expressions crossing his face one after the other: surprise and outrage (what the hell are you implying? I’m some sort of psycho who fucks up his patients? Why would you even think that?!?), then mystified (that doesn’t make any sense at all. You wouldn’t think that) and finally, realization. “Oh! You mean have I ever broken my bones …” He laughed a little nervously. Peter might have adopted a friendly, open demeanor, but he had not forgotten who he was dealing with here, or what Sylar was. “If I’ve had any broken bones other than this, then?” He lifted his right hand demonstratively.
XXX
Sylar leaned back as Peter gave him a sudden look. It was something I said, yeah? He watched; standing rather still as the medico’s face shifted around through his thinking process before his expression loosened as he came to an understanding. “Yeah,” he said in a way that conveyed ‘duh, what else?’ He nodded, of course other than your hand, silly Peter.
XXX
“Aside from, you know, being thrown off stadiums, out of seven story buildings and hit with parking meters you mean?” Peter smiled a little to convey he wasn’t harboring grudges for any of that. He was upset about a lot of things Sylar had done, but the violence wasn’t one of them. “I broke a finger skateboarding when I was thirteen. That’s all, far as I remember, until I had abilities.” He reached up without thinking and rubbed the left side of his chin, under his lip and over the nerve-deadened area. His mind shied away from whatever connection his subconscious made. “What about you? Favorite ice cream, ever had any broken bones, that sort of thing?”
XXX
“Yes, aside from those,” Sylar admitted with an amused sort of annoyance, giving Peter that point almost with a grin that failed to be sadistic. “Ah. So this is nothing new for you then.” Just a new way to do it in.
Something ticked in his head at Peter’s reply, but more so from the man’s gesture-rubbing his insensate lip. Nathan knew about it, of course. Sylar knew it was a cover story, the typical Petrelli lines:
//Nathan walked through the front door, calling out “Ma? Pete?” Dad walked past the hall between the stairs in the solar, reading glasses on his nose and papers in hand, looking up at the sound of his voice to greet him, “Nathan, you’re back.” Loud thuds and thumps of lumber and hammers, some metal clangs in the mix that sounded out through the house; Nathan winced and Dad sighed. “What’s…goin’ on?” he asked and his father began to answer him, “Ah, your mother has been harping on me to fix those rotten boards on the back porch, so I-“
“Nathan?” he heard his brother’s whispery voice, quiet, suddenly so quiet.
“Pete? Hey, buddy, what’s-” Then he caught sight of his brother’s lip and knew something was wrong with it, but not necessarily with the situation. Kneeling, he frowned in concern at the nine year old who seemed very withdrawn and shy, words not used to describe Pete. “What happened to your lip, Pete?” he asked gently.
Poor Peter had just blinked, licked his lip and Nathan saw that the left side didn’t move as it used to, as it should. “I…fell. Off the bike. That’s what Mom said.”
Dad sighed again in the background, “He was fooling around the construction. You know how young boys are, Nathan.” And looking back, he knew it had been some sort of dodge. Peter suddenly hugged him and shuddered a little and it only served to amp up his worry. “Shh, I got ya, Pete.”//
Until the day he died, Nathan never got the full story out of Peter, if there was one to be had or if Peter himself even knew it.
The other man inquired about his favorites and he paused, thinking back. /Mom had taken him out to ice cream, a few months after Dad left. She’d muttered something about ‘going against God’s will’ but he knew that was just Mom-speak for ‘make him jealous’, how he didn’t know. In the end it meant a whole lot of nothing because Dad was gone, not…dead or whatever Mom liked to fool herself into thinking.
He’d stopped asking about Dad, didn’t really care; he didn’t want to deal with the ‘why’ (Mom had made it abundantly clear why he’d left) or the fallouts Mom would have at the mention of Dad. He didn’t want to hear the blame. Sure, Mom was hurting and now she had no one else to turn to (or blame), but…somehow he was just expected to deal with it. He hadn’t realized it yet, but he was the man of the house now. And that was really scary. It terrified an already quiet boy into irreparable silence when faced with his needy mother and absent (“He’s not gone, Gabriel. He’s coming back.”) father.
“Gabriel, quit your twitching,” she’d hissed at him when he shifted, “Behave, we’re in public.” As if he didn’t know that? He was too self-conscious to go out with her anymore, no, at all now. It wasn’t he that embarrassed her; it was the other way around. When did shifting his weight qualify as ‘twitching’? Since Mom wanted control of a situation, a person, she couldn’t.
He stared blankly down at the treats in their round buckets in the display, tuning out his mother’s crazy-voice next, “Ooh, which of the pretty flavors do you want?” The server didn’t miss the switch his mother made, oh no. No such luck. The teenaged server just shook his head at the pair, mostly (he hoped) at his mother and went about scooping the ice cream into bowls, not cones - “You’d ruin your clothes, Gabriel.”
Vanilla had been the answer because everything else would have a fault in it somewhere. /
“Vanilla, actually,” he said softly, not entirely returned from the memory. I could have anything in the world and I pick…that. That’s really messed up, even now, especially now.
Sylar didn’t give himself time to think that over, didn’t want to. “Broke my wrist, hairline fracture to my forearms, some knuckles and my foot. I can’t actually remember if I’ve broken my nose or not, same goes for my collarbone, but I assume you don’t mean having my neck snapped or-” pushing you to drop me off Mercy Height’s roof, “things that have happened here, which I’ve already told you about.” His delivery was, again, that of reading off a list with some bitterness.
XXX
Peter watched as Sylar got lost in memory and then gradually pulled free of it. He didn’t think it was the question about broken bones. Sylar’s face was smooth and distant; his breathing regular; his stance the same as it had been before. Questions about past injuries made people tense up and give tells. EMTs were trained to watch for those abortive indications of past trauma. Someone who spoke of an affliction without the right body language was probably lying or exaggerating. And sometimes people’s words became confused when they were in pain or agitated - they might say they broke their hip and point at their knee, or tell him the pain was on the right side of their chest and lay their hand over the left.
So it was the ice cream. Too much the empath, Peter made a deliberate attempt to pull the other man out of it. “Vanilla, huh?” he said as Sylar finally came back, mostly, from his reverie and spoke. “That’s weird. I would have pegged you more a ‘chunky monkey’ kind of guy myself,” he lied easily. He exaggerated it to make it clear he was ribbing the other man. “You know the type - drowning your sorrows in a tub of ice cream, every time you had setback or things didn’t go your way.” He laughed. “Nah, you’ve accomplished a lot with yourself. I don’t think either one of us are the sort to spend a lot of time sampling ice cream flavors.” Even if most of what you’ve accomplished has been pretty awful, it’s … undeniably an accomplishment.
XXX
Sylar blinked and turned to face Peter, unaware how of how much time (he assumed some) had passed. He blinked again, this time in surprise before he chuckled, almost a laugh as he shook his head, muttering, “Chunky monkey…” Oh, that’s totally me. Wind up in a cell block? ‘Can I get a bucket of chunky monkey, HRG? Pretty please?’ Get stabbed through with a samurai sword, wake up in Mexico? ‘Where’s the goddamn chunky monkey in this god-forsaken country?’
Sylar raised an eyebrow at the other man. Accomplished sounded like a compliment of sorts, in its own weird way to me, Pete. Go easy or you’ll break my ego. Of course the hero medic disapproved and hated Sylar because he was on the receiving end of some of the intuitive’s…accomplishments.
XXX
Peter zipped up the trauma kit and stood with it. He shifted it around uneasily, trying to figure out how to carry it and keep his hands free. It was fairly light, but bulky. He considered the other things Sylar had said. “For the injuries, I wasn’t counting what’s happened to … us … since getting abilities.” He opened his mouth for a moment, not sure what he wanted to say, but it had something to do with Claire, getting hurt a lot, and getting numb to it. “I suppose I’ve …” he looked off to the side for a moment, then smirked at the floor. “I suppose I’ve gotten kind of heedless of getting hurt. I didn’t used to be like that.”
He gave himself a shake. “So, this was everything I wanted here.” He patted the trauma kit. “On with the tour, huh? I think you were going to show me a hotel or … wasn’t there somewhere else we were going, too? Any big tourist sites around here we could go look at?” He grinned at the idea.
XXX
Sylar still held the shears in his hand he realized rather late (hopefully not too late); it had him shifting and sliding the sharp-ish ends into a back pocket of his jeans. It wasn’t a holster; it was just to keep his hands free.
“Of course not,” Sylar shook his head at the idea of post-ability wounds, looking towards Peter as he cut himself off. He wanted to think on that fact before he voiced anything about it. Because it was the same for him as well-the numb, carelessness of regeneration.
“The show must go on,” he delivered, inhaling then exhaling the breath, turning to leave the store room and head for the exit, the same way they’d come before, finding his direction with ease.
Laughing genuinely this time at the idea of a tourist attraction, he answered with, “You’ve already seen the biggest one-my apartment,” voicing it with a certain arrogance that was partly true. Being the only inhabitant made him pretty darn special alright. Yay him.
XXX
Does everyone around here end up in your apartment, Sylar? Peter itched to quip back. He wasn’t always slow on his feet verbally - usually it was more that his mind just didn’t work that way. He couldn’t entirely suppress the smirk at his thought. Sylar’s tone of voice just begged for a response. Peter chewed on his upper lip and fidgeted as they walked out. He looked back at the hospital as they left it behind them. He managed to keep it all inside - the words at least. He didn’t want a repeat of the flirtiness that had marred the diner experience earlier in the day.
XXX
After they’d walked a bit, discussing random, inconsequential things intermittently, Sylar noticed something up ahead as they approached. Glass strewn on the concrete, almost anything in the store that was breakable was destroyed, warped and bent or shattered and crushed. A chunk of…a parking meter lay amidst the glass on the sidewalk and he frowned. “Peter…” he slowly pointed to it, as it he’d seen a ghost.
Was…someone here? Was it Claire finally? Or…He looked to the other man. He’d had plenty of opportunities alone to do the damage and he didn’t know why its existence irked him, but it did. Sylar found himself annoyed at the medic for his temper.
XXX
“Uh … em … yeah.” Peter looked at Sylar’s face. Clearly, at first Sylar had no idea how this had come to pass. Just as clearly, he figured out the obvious suspect. In a world where there was just one other person in it, it was pretty easy to determine the guilty party for these things. “I did that,” Peter confessed, trying to look at something other than Sylar. He was not proud of himself at the moment.
XXX
“No, really. I thought the glass fairy was responsible,” was the dull, sarcastic reply. Quit now, while you’re ahead, his subconscious warned him because he was a second way from placing his hands on his hips and giving Peter a purely Nathan look while probably sounding like Arthur or the former senator. Something about the ‘you know what you’ve done, now fess up this instant’ vibe that was Sylar’s own for a start but was being overrun by the ‘other person’ in his head. Maybe it was the ‘it’s my town, don’t fuck with it’ male possessive trait was acting up which really made zero sense. Well, maybe it did if he counted that there might be a chance Peter would lie to him for some reason.
XXX
Peter looked at the scattered glass, broken out window frame and where even a few chunks of masonry were missing.Yeah, kind of made a mess. Why didn’t this disappear like trash does? It had certainly stuck in his memory more firmly than whatever he’d last thrown in a trashcan - which he couldn’t even remember, now that he thought of it.
He felt compelled to make some explanation, nonsensical as it was. He didn’t want Sylar thinking he’d just snuck out here one night and attacked a random storefront. “I was … angry. I couldn’t get out. My … my ability wasn’t working.”Well, Matt’s ability. Whatever. He swallowed, looking at the surrounding buildings. What he’d said made it sound like he’d done this after the first day, when he’d failed to get Sylar out. He hadn’t intended that implication, but it had more of a ring of dignity to it than the truth: that he’d been petulant he couldn’t find Sylar easily enough for his tastes and had lashed out with malice and impatience.
He looked back at the ruin. The head of the parking meter lay conspicuously in the middle. It was possible, he supposed, that Sylar hadn’t gotten a good look at that pipe Peter had been carrying when they first met. It seemed probable even that if Peter put on his game face, that he could bluff his way out of the worst of this. But that was lying. He’d promised not to, hadn’t he? Or, no. He hadn’t. He’d just promised not to treat Sylar like he was insane. It was Sylar who had offered, stated, that he hated liars and manipulators above all.
XXX
Sylar blinked once, slowly, listening and just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching the other man’s face as he paced. The sequence of events as Peter painted it was not lost on him. You saw him trying to get out right in front of you in your apartment, it’s no surprise that he goes out nights to beat the shit out of something (surprisingly enough, it’s not you) because he can’t “get out”. “I’m sure,” he said stiffly, voice arch as his lips pursed. Not that I expected better…I just hoped.
XXX
Peter sighed and reached up to push his hair out of his face. He paced away from the mess, from Sylar, perpendicular to their previous course. “This was … it was before. Before I found you. I thought I wouldn’t be able to find you and I … I’d be stuck here. I got mad and,” he waved vaguely in the direction of his rampage, “did that.”
I should have just lied to him. I could have. It’s insignificant! It doesn’t matter whether I convince him that I was angry I couldn’t get out or that I was upset that I couldn’t find him. They’re both the same … except that I’d rather be cast as angry than desperate. I’d rather him think I was frustrated and enraged I couldn’t get out than throwing a juvenile temper tantrum because I couldn’t find him right away. He huffed. Why didn’t I just lie to him?
His question, even to himself, was rhetorical. He knew the answer. It was because it did matter. He looked around for the address and tried to fix the place in his mind. He had an intention of cleaning it up, but at the moment he said nothing. He was wondering if there was any way to fix this. He knew nothing of setting glass. It occurred to him, belatedly, that his original intent in smashing the storefront may well have come true - maybe he’d managed to damage some small corner of Sylar’s mind, and now he had to live in that mind and deal with the consequences.
Thank God it didn’t occur to me to try to set fire to the place.
XXX
Peter was acting very strangely today; flirting and inviting him to coffee, allowing him to help with his hand, asking (semi) personal questions, and now acting upset as near as he could tell over this. Sylar chalked it up to Peter adjusting. Five stages was it? He must be getting panicky. But no. The medic elaborated on the sequence and Sylar tilted his head, eyes narrowed, already fishing for the lie. I miss that ability. Don’t lie to me, man.
He knew misinformation, while probably not very effective against Sylar (who held Petrelli’s dead brother’s memories), would probably be and feel worse than no information at all. A lie meant motive and in such a limited space both men were likely to get very edgy. Were still edgy. A mystery would be fun, sure, but when it was something that was…teetering on the important scale, he would not find it amusing, never mind how many years or beatings or other underhanded attempts he might make to find out the truth. He’d do it, too; just to find out if Peter really did prefer strawberry ice cream over pistachio. Boxers or briefs.
He frowned, mostly in momentary confusion as Peter claimed it was…Was he hearing this right? A glorified temper tantrum over Sylar? “Huh,” was all he said aloud, chuckling to himself, completely pleased that he’d caused such a reaction for several reasons. First that it was Peter, which was self-explanatory. Second that Peter the empath had lashed out in rage. And thirdly that he’d done so out of a desire (okay, drive) to find Sylar himself. He grinned but as he thought further, it slowly slid away, his expression sobering.
Walking up at an angle where he would walk past Peter rather than stand in front of him and play the aggressive dick, he paused about a step diagonally from him and stared at Peter. “You must really care about her.” Sylar kept his expression at (somewhat falsely) understanding…hoping to understand, something along those lines. That you would do something like that for someone like me? Well, just me period. She sounds like a nice lady. No wonder he’s worried sick. He thinks she’s still around and he doesn’t actually want you close to her. Sylar stood there, pausing long enough to ideally wring an answer from Peter before he moved on, casual as could be, but for now he waited.
XXX
Danger. Danger, danger, danger. Peter realized he’d painted himself into a corner. All the blather about favorite whatevers - in and amongst all of that, somewhere he’d decided Sylar was worthy of trust and Peter had exposed what really mattered to him to Sylar’s penetrating, judgmental gaze. Fear passed over him like a deluge of icy water. His whole point in being here hinged on whether Sylar would help Emma, among others.
There was a right answer, and a wrong one, to Sylar’s question. Sure, it didn’t sound like a question, but there was a question in there anyway. Very slowly, Peter said, “I’ve told you, from the beginning, that I wanted your help in saving her. And it’s not just her, but thousands of others.” More people than you’ve ever killed. “So yeah, I care about that.” He swallowed. “I care about the people I can still save, Sylar. The people you can save.” Unlike Nathan, who’s dead. And gone. If I can prevent one other person from losing their brother, son or father, sister, daughter or mother, then it was worth it. His throat was tightening with emotion. Voice earnest, he tried to make it a plea. “That’s why I’m here. I saw that you would … do something good. You’d save her and all of those others. I couldn’t … not … try to save them.” No matter what’s between us.
He looked past Sylar at the wrecked shop. “I’m sorry about that over there. I’ll clean it up tomorrow. I was … angry.” At you. Trying to hurt you. Still wanting to torture you. Still do, to be honest.
He had no idea if he’d given the right answer or not. He didn’t know if it would make sense or not to the likes of Sylar, but the other man now knew, if he hadn’t before, that he held ultimate control and power in this situation. His consent was what Peter was begging for, his assistance, his willingness to reach out his hand to help others. It was a stupid request, Peter knew. ‘I’m not the savior kind,’ Sylar had said. More likely, now that he knew what mattered, he’d taunt Peter mercilessly and dangle it just out of his reach. Peter sighed. He didn’t expect things to be easy, but it would be nice for a change.
He looked off down the street in the direction they’d been heading. Can we just go? He wanted nothing more than to put this behind them and go on acting like nothing important had been seen or said. Because really, hadn’t Sylar realized this before? Why would Peter come here if not to help others? If he hadn’t cared he’d have taken his mother’s advice and stayed in New York! Maybe Sylar just hadn’t understood how Peter was willing to put aside everything that had happened, everything bad that Sylar had ever done, in order to give him a chance to do something good. In Peter’s scale of morality, saving a few thousand lives vs. refusing to let Sylar help out of spite? No contest, as much as it stung.
XXX
The other man went still as Sylar’s eyes bored into him, standing unmoving himself. Sylar had specifically not phrased his words into a question since he felt they would be better answered as a statement that was clearly a question. Peter seemed to get the message, or part of it, because his ‘answer’ was…wandering and repetitive. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Again.
Licking his lips, he exhaled, glancing away briefly and rolled his eyes. I wasn’t asking about all those ‘other schmucks’, I was asking about her. Tell me about her. Perhaps it was because he wanted to know about the one person he could and Peter knew her. Right?
Bitterness passed through him like a flash flood. He noticed the other man’s wording ‘I care about the people I can still save, Sylar.’ It served as a good reminder, again, that Sylar wasn’t the desired target rather the tool. He was instantly segregated in that one sentence; it did not escape him. It hinted that Sylar himself was past saving; he didn’t or couldn’t even register for it. He was already counted among the lost.
Yet he would be expected to save people and…what? Want me to pretend to be your other brother again? Get my mind wiped again? Be your wet works man? Disappear? Die? Be imprisoned? There is no pay off here, Pete; can’t you see that? God, I’d rescue two thousand people and guess what? I’d still get the psychopathic monster label. It won’t change anything. He’d still drop me like a hot potato.
He wanted to smack Peter upside the head and shake him around, make him listen-I’m not a good guy! Why are you here? Why do you persist in thinking that I’m going to save boatloads of people? What if there are specials there? I’m just going to repeat the cycle. And why in god’s name now? He said he dreamt it with his mother’s ability and nothing good ever comes from that.
“I’m no Balboa, but I didn’t think I hit you that hard at Mercy,” Sylar said succinctly, walking by the man and the mess he’d made towards the hotel. Besides, I was the one who got smacked around and dumped off a building. Peter would doubtlessly follow him, so he continued.
“I know you have difficulty controlling your powers, man, but picking up a rerun of Sixth Sense was probably not a great career move. If there were people who needed saving, I would be able to see them.” He was meanwhile thinking, Oh, shit…he’s sucking up. He’s handing himself over for my help. It’s not human to be that…caring for the world and its problems. I would know. It drove me crazy.
Does he feel the need to heal everyone and fix their problems because he’s guilty about something he did or what? People do not get fires lit under their asses for this kind of shit, especially not when they’re not getting paid enough for it. Is someone paying him to care? No. Is his bitch of a mother in on this? Possibly. Is this an illusion?...Possible. Is someone using him? Possible.
Son of a bitch. This is like some fucked up game show. Why ask me to do something I can’t do anyway? Peter, listen to me. It does. not. matter. here. No people, no saving, no heroics. Even I can let go of my Hunger because there is a personal benefit to doing so.
“I do not understand you, Petrelli,” he said over his shoulder as they walked, “And that’s why I’ll ask you about your dream vacation. What activities, who you’d take and where you’d go,” he glanced back genially.
XXX
Peter mulled over what Sylar had said. He thinks I’m deluded. Well, at least he doesn’t think I’m lying. Or if he does, he’s not mentioning it. And he doesn’t think I’m trying to manipulate him. If I was, I wouldn’t be telling him what I just did, that’s for sure.
He remembered a day in his father’s study in the summer of his eleventh year. He’d been too big for the chair and the cool leather stuck to the backs of his legs where they weren’t covered by his shorts. In his lap he’d held one of the books that had been required reading: How to Win Friends and Influence People. It was a nice book, about being nice to people and paying attention to them, but it had struck Peter as just so calculated. Of course, that was the point.
\His father came out from behind his desk, changing his tone from the usual stern pattern to something more friendly and warmer. Peter had already had the speech about tone of voice, so he caught the shift. He had also had coaching on position and body language. Behind a desk was distant and authoritarian. Now his father was pulling over a chair to be chummy and close. Peter swallowed nervously. It was tough to keep all of these things in mind. Arthur had told him that with repetition and practice it would eventually come naturally.
“Now then, let me tell you a secret,” his father said, leaning in conspiratorially. “The way to get people to do what you want them to do is to tell them they’ll be important if they do. Everyone wants to be special, Pete. If you want to sell them something, tell them you’ll offer them a bluebird special.”
“What’s a bluebird special?”
“You see a bluebird fly by and you tell them what you’re selling is on special. Limited time offer. Be special! Buy it now!” He leaned back a little. “They all want their moment in the spotlight and you tell them the one sure way to get it is to buy what you’re selling, because we’re all selling. You have to find their emotional levers and pull them. The payoff is guaranteed. That’s how people work. It’s all coded in our genes.”
He studied the uncomfortable boy for a moment, then dug in his pockets. “Here. I’ll show you.” He produced some coins and fished through them. He pushed a nickel out of his hand onto the end table next to Peter’s chair. “See, that’s just some old, nasty-looking nickel. I don’t want that. Ah-hah! Here’s what I’m looking for. See this penny?” He put the rest of his change away and held up a fairly new looking coin. “It’s bright, it’s shiny, it’s in spectacular shape.” He leaned forward, his eyes mostly on the penny but occasionally going to Peter’s. It drew his son’s eyes to it.
Arthur smiled a little and spoke softly, in awe. “There’s no other penny like this. It’s special. See how new it is? Yeah?” Peter nodded, brows drawn together a little with a serious expression that was almost comical. “See this ‘D’ here? That’s for the Denver mint. They don’t make many of these. It’s a very, very limited run.”
“It’s got a scratch on it,” Peter pointed out.
“Oh no! That’s not a scratch! That’s a milling mark. That’s why I’m carrying this one around. It’s very valuable. The person who owned this would be the envy of the numismatic world!” Peter perked up. He wanted people to think he was … wait. Wasn’t that his father’s point? And why would he be carrying this collector’s item in his pocket with all his other change?
Arthur smiled as he saw the realization on his son’s face. He set the penny down next to the nickel. “Those nickels - everyone has a nickel like that. Now which coin do you want to put in your pocket?”
“Neither,” Peter said sullenly.
“That’s my boy,” Arthur said, and his approval made Peter feel ill.\
So. No, Peter wasn’t trying to manipulate Sylar. If he were, he’d be telling Sylar this was his chance to be a hero, to be a good person, that it wasn’t too late, he could be special, revered, appreciated, adored; that Peter would be thankful, that people would be convinced he was a new man, trustworthy and strong. Peter had said none of that. He’d spoken to his own feelings, his own motivations, and left it at that.
Now Sylar thought he was seeing dead people; that he’d been touched; that he’d been hit too hard. Great. But … well, it was better than Sylar thinking Peter was selling to him. “I don’t think you’d want to understand me,” Peter murmured. More loudly, he said, “How about you go first with your dream vacation, then I’ll tell you about mine.”
XXX
This isn’t my idea of sharing…This isn’t what I want to be sharing (so why’d you ask him?), Sylar thought to himself when the question was turned back on him. “Heh. Honestly…I’ve never thought on it. I mean…I may be action oriented, but the location never seemed important to me.” Besides ‘away from goddamn Queens’. “Um...somewhere with nice weather, obviously. Somewhere with some nature and some sights. Maybe Venice. I always wanted to just…take pictures there. I know everyone always says Paris, but that gets cliché. If everyone is going there, you’ve got to head somewhere else, you know?” He asked, slowing his pace to allow them to walk evenly alongside each other, turning to look at Peter.
“Maybe some water activities; boating, fishing, scuba diving, jet skiing, wave riding. I like museums oddly enough, maybe some original art galleries. I like science, so maybe seeing the LHC in Switzerland…there’s Swiss watches, too. European watches in general,” he shrugged, aware that he was babbling, but he didn’t actually have a goal in mind, no ideal vacation. European women general, he didn’t add. Because let’s face it, the only way I’m going on vacation is without the Hunger, when I have a sex drive.
XXX
Peter nodded once as Sylar slowed enough that they were walking abreast. It was an acknowledgment of sorts. Peter still felt embarrassed about the storefront, but Sylar was giving him what Peter had wanted - moving on. Peter listened to Sylar’s idea of a good vacation. It was more of a list of what he liked to do, without caring about where, but Sylar was right - the physical location wasn’t the important part.
XXX
“Always kind of wanted to go camping,” Sylar added. “Something about…seeing what you’re made of in that setting. The total guy thing.” I know Nathan’s been with him so it’s nothing new to him. He probably thinks that’s stupid. ‘Ooh, camping. Big bad killer wants to go camping,’ god…that’s so …so…Peter of me.
XXX
“Testing your limits,” Peter said quietly of camping. As an activity itself, Peter could take it or leave it. He didn’t adore the Great Outdoors like many did, but he understood the appeal as a lens with which to see your own character.
XXX
Sylar paused for a significant moment to think of the other part of the question. “Once I wrangle up someone who’s into super-powered killers, I’ll write you about what my ‘type’ is,” was his succinct reply. All that to say, were there people around (and he wasn’t too sure Switzerland or Italy were still around to be honest) he lacked any kind of (goddamn) connection to take a friend or lover anywhere. Relatives, those who still lived, were, frankly, on his little black list of hits. The only way he’d get anywhere was by pretending to be harmless and fucking ‘normal’ until he fucked it up somehow.
“Your turn,” he handed the ball back into Peter’s court. They were within sight of the hotel, just a few blocks away.
XXX
Sylar finished. Now it was Peter’s turn. He sighed and said, “Yeah, that’s certainly an issue - finding someone who’s into … well, not ‘into’ into, but is safe with, able to deal with, that sort of thing … abilities.” He frowned, not sure that statement had made any sense. Peter grimaced and scratched at the new brace on his hand. His hand was twingeing. He suspected the painkillers he’d taken early this morning had worn off.
XXX
As for testing himself in the wild as he’d mentioned-Sylar wanted to know, but he was afraid to look. And no one went camping by themselves which made the entire argument/activity a large circular problem. Peter addressed it from a different angle. “Um, not much of an issue. You find someone who has an ability,” he said simply, stating it how he saw it at least. Normals weren’t….they were sheep, plain and simple. To spook them with something ‘supernatural’ or ‘divine’ or ‘paranormal’ would send them running to authorities or to check their prescriptions.
It would land them in a mental institution or get bills passed that would make the existence of specials a known fact, not too dissimilar to what Nathan tried to accomplish. That stupid bastard. Your dad does a bad deed and you take it out on all of us? Your own daughter? Your own brother? Mother? What about those brats of yours? ‘Simon and Monty’?
XXX
Peter went on with “My answer five years ago would have been totally different than it is now. Then it would have been tourist sites, clubs maybe, never been to Rio and always wanted to go, went to Mardi Gras once and that was an absolute blast … Totally different now. Now I just want to be left alone. Or get some answers. Or both.” He frowned and looked away again. I want to be alone; I can’t stand to be alone. I can’t be me when everyone else is around; when I’m alone I don’t know who I am.
“I’d like to go visit the Dalai Lama,” he said, looking back to Sylar. “I’ve never been over there - to Nepal, Tibet, the Himalayas. I’d like to go. And I wonder - if there’s people like us in the world, and there’s been people like-“ Does he know about Adam? “Like Claire, but born earlier, back in history, then I wonder if maybe, if I were to look in the right places, maybe I’d find answers. Answers to the bigger questions of existence and meaning, that sort of junk.” He opened his mouth briefly to say more, then shut it. He’d never been one for talking about religion with people. It was a resolutely personal topic.
XXX
Sylar raised a brow. “Mardi Gras, huh?” Dalai Lama? Interesting choice. He’d been about to open his mouth and correct Peter that the Dalai Lama was from Tibet when he cleared it up himself. “I think they’d just love you over there. I doubt you’d be able to get back and your-“ brother, “family would have to bail your ass out,” he chuckled, amused by the image. Then “There are other immortals? Like that…Adam guy?” That I haven’t heard about?
Poor Peter wants to be left alone? Find some answers? Well, boo hoo.
XXX
Well, that settles whether he knows about Adam. “Yeah, like him.”
Peter chewed his lip briefly. “So I just wonder if some of the stories in history about people who had special abilities might be true - saints, religious figures, heroes? If the story of the Dalai Lama’s power is true, then maybe he’d know something.” Something more than Adam, who had known a great deal, but it was like pulling teeth to get any of it out of him. Peter looked ahead at the hotel rising above them in superfluous splendor. “Even if he didn’t, it would at least be an interesting place to visit.”
XXX
“I’ve wondered that, too. Abilities in different countries. I met a girl from South America, well…” Sylar exhaled a sigh, “her twin brother, too. They both had powers of a sort.” Guh, next topic please! There’s Mohinder and Hiro and Linderman and that Haitian guy that aren’t just ‘American’.
“I mean…I know super strength seems to be common, but…that’s interesting,” he murmured the last, genuinely curious from an intellectual point of view, keeping the desire from his voice this time. It wasn’t hard, actually. He no longer possessed the Hunger and it showed. Whether he liked it or not. It was very pleasant to be able to just…talk about being ‘different’, about having powers with someone else and not having them. Also not having to worry, honestly, about having damage done to him or inflicting damage himself. It was a huge relief to him even though he knew it made Peter uncomfortable.
XXX
Peter looked down at his feet briefly. “Really - South America, huh? But you’re right. There’s not really anyone I could take with me on that sort of trip.” Claire maybe - actually, he thought she might be a really good choice were it not for his already not-entirely-pure feelings about her. Being on the road for weeks together might be too much. There had been way too much chemistry there for him to pretend that wouldn’t be an issue.
He looked at the hotel as they approached it. It actually took him a second to remember why he’d wanted to come here. He made a soft grunt as he recalled it. “This is a nice place.” He debated trying to conceal why he was here, but no good excuse came to mind. “They’ll have a pool."
XXX
He tilted his head a little in surprise. No one for Petrelli? The world really has come to an end then. “Yup.” Sylar actually spared the hotel a glance before moving his eyes over to the over man. That’s it? A pool? “Wait, that’s all you wanted to do?” No root of all evil towards yours truly? What is this world coming to?
XXX
Continued...