Matters of Control Part One
Title: Matters of Control Part One
Pairing: Peter/Sylar
Length: ~5000 words
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Heroes is not mine. Not for profit, just for fun. No copyright infringement intended.
Beta by themaskedmckay Thanks again!!!!
A/N Continuing the Symphysis series. Earlier parts found here
This time around Peter had made certain he wasn't late. He reached Le Bernardin fifteen minutes early - not wishing to repeat his faux-pas at the coffee shop. Relaxing at the bar he was content to wait and watch the falling snow. Unlike most of his co-workers he still held a deep fondness for snowy weather. Some may say that he had never really grown up, but all the winter colds, travel chaos and extra accidents never managed to dent his delight at seeing the city under a pure white layer.
His dinner guest turned up exactly one minute early, no doubt utilising some power to avoid the delays that plagued ordinary people. Peter smiled as he watched the other man hand over his coat, hat and gloves to the cloakroom attendant. Over the past few days Peter had discovered a wholly unexpected appreciation for watching Sylar perform everyday activities. Seeing him in action without recourse to his stock of abilities seemed somehow voyeuristic, as if he peeking in at him without his clothes, seeing a vision of the man beneath the powers. Peter was tempted to try and drop in while he was doing his laundry, just to check if he managed to wrangle one of his abilities into that task.
Once Sylar had finished and looked over to find him, Peter rose to his feet and walked over.
"I see you managed to dress up this time," Sylar commented drolly, eyes raking over the sharp suit Peter was wearing.
Peter grinned, glad to see he seemed to have recovered from his high earlier that day. "I couldn't let you show me up again. Besides my mother's friends come here, if she heard I'd turned up half-dressed I'd never hear the end of it."
"It's interesting that you're more scared of upsetting her than you are me."
"Hey, you'd only kill me once," Peter retorted. "Ma would make me suffer for an eternity. Besides, most people seem to think I scrub up pretty nicely."
"You do indeed," Sylar agreed.
"Shall we?" Peter asked, motioning over to the maitre d'.
Once seated Sylar took a long look around the bright and airy restaurant. He was feeling more than a little nervous, having never eaten at such an upscale restaurant before. His usual response to uncertain situations was an aggressive one, but he doubted that would impress Peter. Fortunately none of the other richly dressed patrons were paying them any mind and he slowly began to relax, lulled by the murmur of conversation and the melange of enticing aromas.
"Have you eaten here before?" Sylar asked, opening the menu. He was relieved to find that it was in English, another of his worries disappearing.
"Quite a few times growing up," Peter replied. "It's Ma's favourite, she comes here all the time. I've not been here lately though so it'll be a treat for me too."
"So what's good?"
Peter laughed. "Everything," he replied. "I'm serious," he continued in response to Sylar's black look. "You're at the best restaurant in New York. Everything here is delicious. You just need to read the menu and see how adventurous you're feeling."
Sylar hummed unhappily, but returned to the menu. After a few moments he looked up again.
"Almost Raw Sea-urchin?" he demanded.
"They serve it raw too. You just have to decide if you're feeling adventurous." His host replied. "You can always go for the tasting menu if you can't decide on one thing."
"So what does sea-urchin taste like?"
"I have no idea," Peter admitted. "I was always a surf and turf diner, much to Ma's despair."
Sylar looked at him, considering. "I would have thought you were the type to try anything once."
"Oh, I am now," Peter agreed waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "But as a burger-addicted teenager my diet was strictly pedestrian."
"So what will you be trying tonight?" Sylar asked, smiling slightly.
"Anything I can get away with." Peter smiled. "Or were you talking about dinner?"
After some discussion both men chose the chef's tasting platter. Peter spent a few moments in discussion with Aldo, the sommelier who asked after his mother and wished her good health before turning the conversation to the wine list.
"Really, whatever you choose is fine." Peter was saying. "I don't pretend to know enough about wine to argue with your opinion."
"So is it a special occasion?" Aldo asked.
"It's our first proper date," Peter replied. "And my guest here is notoriously hard to impress."
"Very well." Aldo said, nodding. "I think I can come up with something suitable."
While they waited for their food to arrive, Peter made sure they didn't sit in silence by telling Sylar stories of his work as a paramedic. The type of stories that Sylar thought would have seen them evicted from McDonalds let alone a Michelin star restaurant, but amazingly no one seemed to notice.
"So Hesam and I walked into the apartment and there are four firemen in the hallway nearly killing themselves trying not to laugh." He was saying. "We go into the kitchen and the guy is stark naked, porno-mag open on the draining board, crouched in the sink with the faucet stuck up his ass." He giggled. "And the whole time the guy just won't stop telling us how he was only trying to wash his feet in the sink when he slipped and accidentally sat on the tap."
"So what did you do?"
Peter shrugged. "We had the fire crew cut the tap free from the sink and we stretchered him off to the ER with the tap still in place. Of course half the apartment block had heard the commotion and were hanging out of their doorways to watch us take him down."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their meal and for the next twenty minutes their focus shifted to their dining.
"You have to try this one."
"Mmmf, yes."
"Are you going to eat the octopus?"
"You first."
"Together then, one, two.."
"Actually that's really good."
"The lobster is amazing."
"Everything is."
As they were picking the last morsels from their plates they were interrupted. "Peter." The older woman practically purred. "What a surprise to see you here."
"Hi," Peter responded. "Um, this is Millie Houston, a friend of my mother's," he introduced her. "Millie, this is Gabriel Gray."
"A pleasure to meet you," she replied, not offering her hand. "I had expected to see Angela here tonight." Millie continued.
"She let us have the table." Peter replied.
"Oh, dear. I hope she's not unwell. I saw the newspapers this morning. Such a fuss. She must be so worried about Nathan."
"Oh, yes she is, a little," mumbled Peter, not knowing what to say.
"Still, I'm sure they will find him," she replied chirpily. "Probably off having fun with some young thing and lost track of the time. Men at that age are so predictable. You must tell Angela I said so and that I hope to see her soon, when she's feeling up to it."
"I will." Peter nodded as she swept away. "Sorry," he apologised to Sylar. "She's never really liked me."
Sylar was staring at the woman's retreating back. "I know her," he mused.
"You probably met her while you were Nathan." Peter replied, dismissively. "She spends a lot of time with my mother and she always liked him better than me."
"She was lying," Sylar declared.
"About what?"
"Nearly everything. She doesn't hope that your mother is well or that she gets better. She doesn't think they will find Nathan soon and she certainly doesn't think he's off somewhere enjoying himself."
"Well you know Gabriel, sometimes people say comforting things they don't mean, it's called being polite."
"No," Sylar disagreed. "I can tell the difference between a platitude and a straight out lie. That woman knows Nathan isn't going to be found."
"You think she knows something about Nathan? What do you rememb... No, wait. We can talk about this later," Peter finished, remembering where they were.
Peter remained subdued and lost in thought until the dessert menu appeared in front of him.
"Looks like I'm not the only one with a sweet tooth," commented Sylar at seeing him perk up.
"You only get to mock after you've tasted dessert," Peter replied. "Because you have no idea what you're in for."
Sylar mused over the menu for a minute before asking "Do you think they would give me two desserts?"
Smiling once more at his guest, Peter said that they would.
"So if you got two as well we could share." Sylar continued, eyes never pausing in their consumption of the menu.
"Having trouble choosing? I thought you were too single minded for that?"
"Single minded?" Sylar raised an eyebrow.
"Focused, ruthless in pursuit of your goal. I could go on."
Sylar narrowed his eyes and leaned forward conspiratorially. "Right now my goal is the entire dessert menu. I can achieve this by taking the kitchen hostage and forcing them to make everything. However I think that would upset you and prevent me achieving my secondary objectives, so I'm settling for sharing four desserts."
Peter stared at the impassive face of the killer opposite him trying to work out if he was serious. After a few seconds Sylar's mouth began to twitch and a smile burst through his serious expression. "So easy." he declared. "You are so easy to tease."
"Unfair!" Peter protested amiably. "I'm not allowed to tease you."
"Get four desserts and I'll allow you to do whatever you want to me."
Peter smiled, steep-ling his fingers. "Bribery always works well with me," he agreed. "But I just might hold you to that."
Sylar shook his head. "You're far too moral to take advantage."
"You just wait," Peter promised.
Having achieved his aim, Sylar settled back contentedly to wait for dessert. "We need coffee as well," he decided, sipping at his glass of wine.
"We'll need coffee and a fork-lift truck to move me after this meal," Peter agreed, relaxing in his chair.
The arrival of dessert provoked a flurry of activity at the table. Both men straightened in their chairs and picked up their forks as if about to do battle. After a few fork clashes, where he came off worse, Peter decided he was outmatched. He managed to take a fork-full here and there before settling back to watch his guest eat. He'd known of Sylar's sweet tooth before, but to see him savouring the pinnacle of the Pastry Chef's art was a treat in itself.
Biting the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh Peter watched Sylar. Accompanied with small exclamations of 'mm' and 'oh' his face pulled into a myriad of pleased expressions. "I wonder if he looks like this during sex" Peter thought to himself, and quickly stifled that thought before he said something inappropriate. All too soon the show was over as Sylar slowly pulled the last forkful from his mouth, pressing hard against it with his tongue. He noticed Peter staring at him.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"No" Peter replied shortly, thankful that he managed not to squeak.
"You're watching me again."
"I like watching you. Have you finished?"
Sylar leaned back in his chair and stroked a hand across his stomach. "Definitely," he agreed.
"Perhaps a wafer-thin mint?"
Sylar smiled slightly at the joke and shook his head.
Once Peter had paid for the meal they bundled themselves up in coats, hats, scarves and gloves and stepped outside into the falling snow. The icy chill of the night air cleared Peter's head from the warm muzziness of his full stomach. He was turning to speak to Sylar when a woman stepped in front of him, shoving a Dictaphone in his face.
"Are you Peter Petrelli?" she asked.
"Yes." Peter replied without thinking.
"Moira Ray, New York Post. Who's this?"
Once more Peter's lips moved automatically. "Gabriel Gray, my boyfriend."
Moira nodded. "On a date. So your brother's disappearance hasn't upset you then?"
Peter was about to respond when he felt an invisible force clamp his jaws shut. Sylar was stepping in between him and the reporter.
"You have a power," Sylar purred, looming over her, the warning clear to anyone who knew him.
The woman either didn't see the threat or wasn't bothered by it, she continued unabashed, brandishing her Dictaphone like a weapon.
"Mr Gray, what do you know about Nathan Petrelli's disappearance?"
Whatever Sylar would have said was lost when the doorman from the restaurant stepped in.
"Excuse me Ma'am. I have to ask you not to bother our patrons," he began.
Peter didn't wait. He grabbed Sylar's hand and pulled him along with him as he ran down the street. Once they had covered two blocks he slowed to a walk to catch his breath. He looked behind him to see if they were followed. "I think we lost her." he panted.
Sylar raised an eyebrow. "Unless she follows our footprints in the snow," he disagreed. "Of course you could always fly."
Peter frowned. "It was a little too public to take off. Besides I didn't think of it. I was just trying to get away, you were scaring me there."
His companion frowned. "I guess I scared myself a little there," he admitted. "It was a shock. She appeared right in front of me. I was just acting on instinct."
"And now?" Peter asked. "Do you want to go back for her power?"
Sylar grimaced. "I won't lie to you, the desire is there. She seems to have some kind of compulsion, forcing you to answer her questions. I'd like to see if it can be used for more than that." He sighed and looked Peter in the eyes. "But I'm not going to find out, because I'm not killing people anymore, remember?"
Peter nodded. "Good" he smiled taking Sylar's hand once again. "Because I'd hate to end our date that way."
The pair continued walking through the snowy streets.
"You know." began Peter. "I think I know how to make sure she doesn't follow us." he gestured to Central Park appearing at the end of the block.
Sylar smiled. "Going into Central Park at night isn't exactly safe."
Peter scoffed. "Like you're scared of muggers? I bet they're all staying at home out of the snow."
"Fine, Central Park it is then," Sylar agreed.
Once they were inside the boundaries of the park Peter unconsciously relaxed. The vista of bare black trees against a backdrop of fresh white snow gave the park an unearthly quality. It was easy to believe he had stepped away from the real world and its problems.
"So did you have a destination in mind?" Sylar wanted to know.
Peter sighed, the spell broken. "No," he admitted. "Let's just walk and you can tell me what you remember about Millie and Nathan."
The two trudged along together as Sylar dragged up snippets of his time as Nathan and Peter struggled to make sense of them.
"Wait. Let me get this straight. So Ma covered up Kelly's death and wiped Nathan's memory, then you remember because you use your Clair-sentience on Nathan's baseball cap and then you-as-Nathan go and tell Millie about Kelly's death?"
Sylar shrugged. "That about sums it up."
"And the next day some guy jumps you in a parking garage?"
"Maybe the next day, I'm a little unsure of the exact timeline."
"And then you were you again?"
"Yes....No. I wasn't me again until I got my memories back from Porkman."
"So who were you?"
"Scared." Sylar admitted softly.
"Of what?"
"Everything. I was a blank slate, an empty shell. I dragged myself out of the ground and I had no idea who I was or where I was. I had no ID. I was covered in blood but I wasn't injured... I wasn't even sure I wanted to know what had happened."
Peter turned to face him. He was surprised at the haunted look in his eyes.
"It must have been awful." he offered.
Sylar shook himself out of his introspection and snorted. "Please spare me the empathy. I've got a lot of things in my memories that are much more awful than that escapade."
And the walls were back up again thought Peter, every time he managed to get a peek at the man inside the mask Sylar quickly reminded him of who he was dealing with and shoved him away and tonight had been going so well up to now. The two men walked in silence until Peter's conscious mind caught up with what his sub-conscious was niggling him about.
"Hold on - you dragged yourself out of the ground? You were buried alive?"
"More like buried dead," Sylar replied. "There were holes in my shirt that looked like gunshots."
"Someone murdered Nathan." Peter was shocked. "They kidnapped him from a paring garage and shot him."
"Well technically.." Sylar tried to interject.
"Did Millie do this? Did she have Nathan killed because of Kelly."
"You know she didn't actually..."
"And she's talking to my mother, telling her how sorry she is when all the time she had Nathan killed." Peter seethed.
"Peter she didn't kill..."
"And she'll be laughing at Ma behind her back all the time. Enjoying her pain. Why the evil witch." He marched on, fists clenched.
"Peter!" Sylar shouted.
Peter skidded to a halt
"As much as I'm enjoying your misplaced anger I think I should remind you that Millie didn't kill Nathan. She tried to kill me. I had already killed Nathan months earlier."
"But she thought she was killing Nathan." Peter protested, not wanting to let go of his righteous anger.
"Yes, she did, but it's deeds that count here, not thoughts."
"But she hired a man to kill Nathan, to kill you."
"And he did kill me, but I got better."
"But they didn't know that you would. That's still murder." Peter pronounced.
"That's attempted murder at best." Sylar disagreed. "The justice system is all about results. And why are we even talking about this? It's not like you can report her to the police for trying to kill me because she thought I was actually your brother."
"She shouldn't be allowed to get away with it. It's not fair," Peter cursed.
"No it isn't," Sylar agreed. "Are you mad at me again?"
Heedless of the snow, Peter flopped down on the ground and put his head in his hands. "Yes. No, I don't know." He shook his head. "Life was simpler when you were just the bad guy."
"Life was never simple," Sylar offered. "And I'm still the bad guy."
"But you're trying not to be," Peter countered. "That has to count for something doesn't it?"
Sylar shrugged. "It depends on your philosophy."
"Do you believe you're going to hell?" Peter was curious.
Sylar laughed, "I believe I'm never going to die. That way I don't have to find out."
"Do you want to now what I think?"
"Go on" Sylar urged cautiously.
"I think that my ass is wet and cold and even with my healing ability, it still sucks."
Sylar snorted with laughter then helped Peter back to his feet.
Peter staggered a few steps away then turned. "You know what? I think I've had enough doom and gloom for one evening." He grinned and threw a handful of snow into Sylar's face.
Sylar rocked back on his heels in shock. Snow dripping off of his nose. "You did not just do that." he spluttered.
"Oh, I think I did," replied Peter already grasping at more snow with his hands.
"Last chance," Sylar warned.
"What, you chicken?" Peter mocked, throwing his snowball.
Sylar stepped aside easily, dodging the ball. "Very well," he agreed, eyes dark.
Reaching out with his hand, Sylar summoned a snowball up from the ground.
"Hey, that's cheating." Peter protested.
"You never set any rules," Sylar smirked, as several other balls of snow coalesced and rose to hover about him.
"You wouldn't"
"Oh, I really would," Sylar laughed as he launched his barrage.
Peter fought back bravely, dodging and weaving, using his telekinesis as a shield and returning a hastily made snowball whenever he could but he was out of practice and had never managed the level of mastery of his powers Sylar displayed. It was clear he was outmatched. After he had been pelted with three score snowballs he threw up his arms in defeat.
"Enough," he panted, "You win, I give up."
"Really, Peter," tsked Sylar, "You never used to quit this easily."
Peter smiled as he walked over. "Maybe I just know when I'm beaten?"
"Gaining wisdom as you age?" Sylar returned the smile.
"Or maybe I've just got something better to do," replied Peter wrapping his arms around the taller man's neck and reaching up to kiss him.
"You're definitely becoming more gracious in defeat," mused Sylar, a note of smugness in his tone.
"Perhaps," replied Peter, rubbing noses. "Or perhaps I'm just learning other ways to fight." He dumped a handful of snow down the back of Sylar's neck. "Catch me if you can!" he crowed as he ran away.
Sylar howled, his hands grabbing at his collar as the sudden coldness ran down his back. Shivering he drew himself up. "That was your last mistake, Petrelli," he shouted. "This means war."
Peter ran laughing, gasping for breath between giggles. The treeline was close, he only had to run thirty more feet and he could disappear into cover. It was not to be. The snow ahead of him rippled and began to rise, moving towards him like a cresting wave. He skidded to a halt and turned left running at right angles to his previous course. The snow followed him. Out of the corner of his eye Peter glimpsed a second wave coasting on the other side. Gathering his wits he attempted to launch himself into the air only to find an invisible barrier an inch above his head. Redoubling his efforts Peter ran as fast as he could, determined to outpace the snow. Then there it was. A third wave heading right towards him.
"Oh, no," he whispered. Tensing his body as the waves converged. For a moment all was white. Then all he could feel was the cold as he was buried in snow. Then a moment later he was moving, Sylar was dragging him aloft by an ankle to dangle high in the air. Rotating slowly upside-down, Peter could see the taller man approaching unhurriedly, a broad grin on his face.
"That was fun.," Sylar declared, stepping up to the dangling man, his face level with Peter's.
"Are you going to let me down?" asked Peter his teeth chattering.
"I might," Sylar replied. "If you apologised for putting snow down the back of my neck."
Peter sighed. "sry" he mouthed quietly.
"I didn't quite hear that?"
"Sorry," said Peter more loudly.
"For?"
Peter grimaced. "I'm sorry for putting snow down your neck. Now are you going to let me down, I'm freezing."
"You don't sound particularly repentant," mused Sylar, "And you'll be just as cold on the ground."
"Gabriel, please let me down. The blood is rushing to my head and I'm going to be sick."
Sylar stepped back quickly, then gently lowered Peter to the ground.
"Truce?" he offered.
"Truce" Peter agreed, shivering.
Taking off his coat, Sylar wrapped it around Peter. "We need to get you inside," he decided. "You might not be able to freeze to death but it won't be very pleasant to test the theory."
Peter nodded numbly, his lips turning blue. Considering the younger man for a moment, Sylar nodded to himself. "You're coming with me" he announced. Wrapping his arms around Peter he carried them both up into the air.
Snuggling towards him, Peter wrapped his arms around Sylar. Not paying much attention to anything besides the warmth the larger man was generating. By the time they landed in a deserted street he was feeling more alert, although still very cold.
"Where are we?" he asked looking around.
Sylar gestured to a brownstone across the street. "My place," he announced.
Following Sylar over the road Peter noticed warning signs and several meters of striped tape surrounding the building.
"Gabriel, it says that this building is unsafe," he began worriedly.
"Oh, it is," agreed Sylar. "It's been condemned. But the owner is wrapped up in a legal dispute with the city over the cost so until that is resolved it's sitting empty."
"You're squatting?" asked Peter incredulously.
"Not at all." Sylar smiled. "I just have a very unofficial tenancy. Where I pay in cash and don't complain about the repairs. The owner gets a very unofficial tenant, a cash income and doesn't ask any questions." Sylar paused. "Actually he doesn't ever say anything other than 'your rent is due'. I'm a wanted man, Peter. I can't exactly provide references or even use a bank account unless I shapeshift into somebody else. This works for me."
Peter nodded his understanding. "But if the building's unsafe," he began.
"Only on the top two floors," Sylar interrupted him. "We'll be sticking to the ground floor and the basement. Trust me, it's not going to fall down on top of us. Now if you don't mind I'd like to get off the street before somebody notices us."
Ducking under the tape, Sylar quickly pushed open the door and slipped inside. Shaking his head Peter followed. Inside he saw the back of Sylar's head descending the stairs into the basement. Pausing for a moment Peter looked around to make sure there weren't any cracks in the walls or other signs of imminent collapse. Although the hall was grimy and obviously in need of redecorating he found no obvious danger, though there was a cold breeze blowing down the stairwell as if part of the building was exposed to the outside. Treading carefully he followed his host down the stairs.
Sylar had left the door open behind him so Peter stepped inside trying to make out anything in the darkness.
"Can you turn on the lights?" Peter asked, wondering if the building was even connected to the mains.
"Shut the door first," Sylar's voice came from somewhere ahead of him.
Peter's mind came up with all sorts of skittering thoughts about being trapped in a dark basement with a monster before he forced them away. Taking a deep breath he closed the door behind him. Moments after that there was a spark of light which became a small flame. In the dimness Peter could make out the silhouette of Sylar crouched in front of a large stone fireplace coaxing the flame to spread.
"Come over here," Sylar beckoned. "You need to get dried out."
Peter walked over cautiously, taking care to avoid the dark lumps of furniture. Once he was near the fire he felt the warmth already beginning to radiate outwards. He held out his hands towards the flames. "Won't your neighbours see the smoke?" he asked.
"It's unlikely," replied Sylar. "It should be too dark and overcast outside for anyone to notice. Besides, you're cold." He stood up "Wait here," his instructed before disappearing through a doorway.
As the fire rose and Peter's eyes adapted to the dimness he began to look around. He was standing in a large open room, there were stone tiles on the floor and a number of what appeared to be paintings hung from the walls. The room was sparsely furnished with a large sofa and deep pile rug in front of a fireplace. Around the room several doors stood ajar.
"Gabriel?" Peter called.
"Just a minute," Sylar's voice called from somewhere deeper into the basement. There followed several metallic bangs and the whump of a boiler igniting. A few moments later he returned, carrying towels and a flannel robe. He offered them to Peter, who accepted them with thanks.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Sylar offered.
"What do you have?"
"I'm afraid your choices are coffee, tea or water. I wasn't expecting to entertain."
"Tea would be good," replied Peter thinking of the warmth it would provide him.
Once Sylar had left the room, Peter began stripping off his wet clothes. Rubbing himself off on the towels he wrapped himself in the robe before slumping onto the couch, bare feet spread out towards the flickering fire. He reached up to accept the mug offered to him, curling his hands around it. Sylar sat down next to him, sipping at his own mug.
"So," Peter began, "We've had a romantic dinner for two, a moonlight stroll, you've swept me off my feet, taken me home and managed to get all my clothes off. Are things going according to plan?"
Sylar snorted with amusement. "I didn't actually have a plan, but I'd have to agree that things are going well."
"I thought you always had a plan?"
Sylar shrugged, smiling. "Inter-personal relations are too complex to plan for - too many variables. I'm having to improvise."
"So what's your next move?"
Sylar leaned over, moving closer to Peter. "I think I'll have to wait until you finish your tea. I wouldn't want you to risk getting scalded."
Peter slurped quickly at his tea, then reached over the arm of the sofa to put it down. "So what now?" he asked.
Sylar grinned. "Now I get to have my wicked way with you."