Heroes
Title: Slouching Towards Bethlehem: Chapter One
Characters/Pairings: Mohinder/Peter, Sylar. Sylar/Mohinder/Peter in later chapters.
Rating: PG-13 at the moment; R in later chapters.
Warnings: non-con in later chapters; psychological fuckery.
Spoiler alert: Spoilers through to Homecoming.
Summary: This is a post-Homecoming AU, written because a post in a Heroes comm got my bunnies multiplying. Sylar needs Mohinder to compile the list of 'heroes' for him, and Peter happens to be the best way of keeping Mohinder under control.
It's weird, he thinks, how everything can be going to hell and yet there's this little moment of peace, lying in Mohinder's arms.
"Well, well, isn't this sweet."
Sylar's voice shatters the illusion of normalcy that they carefully built around themselves, that they always build around themselves for just one night. Just one more night, they tell themselves, a night where Mohinder isn't the scientist and Peter's not the freak empath who's Mohinder's only real way of proving his father's theories right. And only then around other 'special' people.
Always just one more night, no matter how many times they've said it in the past.
Sylar was never a part of the equation, though, and Peter sits up, watching the other man cautiously, waiting. Sylar wouldn't be here if he didn't have something planned. And if he'd just wanted Peter's brain, surely he'd have just taken it while Peter was unaware of his presence. That makes sense. Of course, Sylar doesn't always make sense. He might be a predator who glees in his prey's fear; the way he keeps his victims conscious until he kills them implies that that suspicion isn't entirely unfounded.
That's not a comforting thought, and Peter finds himself wishing that he carried the gun Nathan keeps tucked away under his jacket, citing that politicians and the family thereof can never be too careful.
"I think that's far enough," Sylar tells him, tilting his head a little, and Peter can feel the telekinesis pinning him against the bed. No indecent displays; Sylar lets them have their dignity for now, at least. They're both still tangled in the sheets, and Mohinder hadn't begun to sit up, so he's held half on his side, propped up on one elbow, and Peter's sitting partially in front of him, protective. Funny, that, that he feels like he should protect the man who's just human. Never mind that he's just human when he's not around someone else with special abilities.
Except he is, right now, but Sylar's had so much more practice with his stolen gifts, and Peter can't fight properly using abilities he doesn't know how to use and wouldn't have if Sylar wasn't here.
"You two," Sylar says, lazily hooking a chair with his foot and sitting down, resting his elbows on his knees, "are going to be troublesome, you know. Save the cheerleader, save the world, and all of that? I was supposed to be invulnerable by now."
Sylar looks like all sorts of hell warmed up, now that Peter thinks about it, certainly not invulnerable. So Claire is still safe. That's good, at least, even if he's going to die before he ends up blowing up all of New York City. Maybe it's a good thing Sylar's here, then.
He can feel Mohinder tense beside him. He still doesn't know how or why the Indian man came to the hospital after Peter saved Claire, only that Mohinder was there when he woke up, with his family and he can't imagine what explanations Mohinder gave Nathan and their mother, but it hadn't mattered after a while. Mohinder had promised to help him find out how to save himself from the horrifying future he'd seen in his dream, and things - for a little while, mere weeks, things had been all right. Peter had vanished from the public view, lending credence to Nathan's claims that he'd been in Vegas finding a therapist for his depressed, suicidal little brother, and as long as he wasn't around too many other people with abilities, he wasn't burning inside. He was keeping at a safe distance from that future.
And at some point, things with Mohinder had changed, although he can't say when.
Sylar is smiling at them, and that's almost more frightening than overt violence would have been.
"You've got a Messiah complex, haven't you, Peter? Always having to save everyone, or stick by while they crawl from life inch by bloody inch. Hospice nursing's not exactly pleasant, wouldn't you say? And you!" He laughs, seemingly sincerely amused. "You, Mohinder, with your father's special little program, you're going to end up playing right into their hands, you know."
"They?" Mohinder asks, frowning. He's always got questions, it's something Peter loves about him, but he wishes just this once that Mohinder had stayed quiet.
"The cheerleader's oh-so-pleasant father," Sylar says, still smiling. "I don't know exactly who they are yet, but they're pieces of work, that lot. And if you ever get anywhere with that list of Chandra's, they'll find it and they'll use it, just like I plan to. Well. Not just like I will. They'll keep people like me and Peter and the cheerleader in little glass boxes, studying us. Like rats in a laboratory. Somehow I don't think that's what you want for your little boyfriend."
"He's lying," Peter says tightly, still trying to fight the telekinesis. His brain knows what it wants his body to do, but his limbs aren't listening, are taking their instructions from a higher power.
Sylar laughs.
"Why would I bother lying to you, Peter? You're at my mercy, I've got absolutely no reason to deceive you. Do you want to know what they're doing to the artist, by the way?"
Now it's Peter's turn to tense. "You know where Isaac is?"
"Of course. Now, him I don't envy; that's a hell of a gift he's got there, and I'm not sure I'd like it myself. Especially with the way they're treating him. Do you think you'd enjoy being used as a tool, Peter? Because that's what they've got planned for all of us. They're feeding him heroin and making him paint, like he's some sort of machine." A smirk. "Worse. A farm animal, a beast of burden. Oh, they're looking after him all right, they clean him up afterwards and feed him and make sure he's as healthy as a guy who's always chasing can be, but he's still an animal to them. We'll all be animals to them, you know. My way's bloody, but it's kinder. You wouldn't condemn a dog to that sort of life."
"Bullshit," Peter spits, trying to ignore the sinking sensation in his gut that tells him Sylar isn't lying. "How the hell could you know all that?"
"You found someone else," Mohinder says quietly, and oh, there's sorrow in his voice that Peter wants to kiss away. "Someone you killed. What gift have you stolen this time?"
Sylar grins. "Persuasion. Quite a useful thing, really, I convinced the man I found to tell me everything he knew about their little operation. Of course, I could've convinced him without Eden's gift, but it would have taken so much longer. He didn't even scream, this way."
Peter can feel Mohinder tense again. "Eden?"
"Oh, you didn't know?" Sylar's voice drips with false concern. "Eden worked for them. She was collecting us and bringing us in. And she tried to kill me." He licks his lips. "Tried, and failed. You should have taken her when you had the chance, Mohinder; she was really quite delicious, and I'm sure you'd have felt the same."
Peter's hand, curled around Mohinder's arm, tightens almost without him telling it to, willing Mohinder not to react. It seems to work, at least; Mohinder stays silent, although he's certainly not relaxing any. Not that Peter really expected him to, given the situation.
"So, you see, I've got a bit of a conundrum on my hands," Sylar says, almost conversationally. "I could kill you both, take Peter's gift, leave. But then I'd have no list, and I'm sure that while he seems like an ass, Nathan Petrelli would not be happy with me for offing his dear little brother. And while your gift is impressive, it's not technically all that useful for someone like me. Someone like you, sure; you borrow gifts, and then you go back to being nothing as long as you're on your own, or with someone normal. Is that why you're fucking him? Because he's normal, so you can be? But a gift like that, it's not really that useful for someone like me. See, I'm not content with just borrowing gifts. I'm the next evolution of humanity; they will all belong to me in the end. But if I have everyone's gift, for good, why do I need the ability to borrow them? It all seems just the slightest bit pointless."
Sylar gets to his feet and wanders into the kitchen, leaving them both pinned to the bed, unable to move. Peter is wracking his brains for a plan when Sylar returns, carrying a glass of water. Well, all that monologuing would get your mouth dry after a while, Peter supposes, and has to suppress what he suspects is a hysterical giggle at the image of Sylar dressed up like Syndrome from The Incredibles.
"Now," Sylar continues, as though he'd never left, "I could just kill you, Peter, and take Mohinder with me to work on that list of his."
Peter goes tense again, hand tightening around Mohinder's arm, and growls, "like hell you will."
"I'd die first," Mohinder adds, stubbornly.
Sylar laughs, taking a sip of his water. "See, I figured you'd say that. He's so noble, isn't he, Peter? Is that what you like about him? I have to admit I am a little curious. But whatever your attraction, I have to suspect that he'd be entirely too willing to die before helping me, and I really can't devote the time and energy I'd need to break him properly, not if I want to keep his mental faculties intact. So taking him alone wouldn't work either."
"What do you want?" Peter asks, trying to keep Sylar's focus on him. He at least has more of a chance of fighting Sylar off, even if he never thought he'd be in this situation.
Sylar smiles again.
"That's simple enough. You're a nurse, and you have a Messiah complex. You don't like to see people get hurt, especially when it's your fault. And you, Mohinder, you're sleeping with the guy, I have to assume you at least care about him a little, if sex isn't your way of paying him for the privilege of being a test subject. So my other option is this: I take you both. Mohinder works on the list for me, because if he doesn't, I'll hurt Peter. If either of you fuck something up, the other will be punished for it." Sylar's smile brightens. "Look on the bright side, guys; you'll be together. And maybe if you're good I'll bring you more company some day."
"You're psychotic," Mohinder states quietly.
Sylar nods, agreeably enough. "Oh, probably. I'm the next evolution, there're bound to be a few hiccups. Now, I'm going to have a lot of work to do, moving everything you'll need from here to where you two will be living, and I don't think I want to have to bother keeping you lovebirds still, over there."
"You could just trust us not to attack you," Peter says sarcastically.
"Ha! Funny, Peter, really, but I don't think I trust you two that much yet." He lays a hand over his heart, mockingly. "I've been hurt, see. No, what's going to happen is this. You two are going to get up and dressed, and then you'll have a nice nap. No muss, no fuss."
"And what makes you think we'll go along with you?"
Sylar really is smiling too much today, Peter decides a moment later, as he's suddenly unable to take more than half a lungful of air with each breath, clawing at invisible hands around his throat.
"Mohinder? Get dressed, or I'll shut Peter's airway completely."
Mohinder's hand ghosts over Peter's shoulder for a brief moment as he gets up, moving slowly enough that Sylar doesn't think he's going to do something stupid. Under normal circumstances Peter would be taking the opportunity to appreciate the lines and planes of his lover's form, but his vision is already fuzzy at the edges, and he's struggling for each breath that doesn't fill his lungs nearly enough.
When he can finally breathe again, he spends a few minutes gasping, barely aware of Mohinder's hands smoothing over his back, gently. He looks up, once his lungs have stopped screaming at him, to see Sylar watching them, a half-smirk on his face.
"That's sweet. Now, Peter, your turn."
He obeys, unable to see an alternative. He's still shaking a little from the lack of oxygen, and Mohinder helps him quietly, Sylar having apparently decided that he doesn't need to make a point by putting Mohinder through the ordeal of slow asphyxiation unless Peter tries something.
When they're both clothed, they're shoved telekinetically against the wall, and Sylar stands up, setting down the glass of water and taking a syringe from his coat pocket. Peter tenses again; no matter how many movies or TV shows have people injecting other people with sedatives, it's just not that easy. Too many mistakes can be made.
Sylar seems to realise what Peter's worried about and halts, out of arm's reach.
"Do you want to do this?" he asks, sounding almost solicitous. "You probably don't want me jabbing this thing into him, do you? It's going to happen one way or another, but if you're that worried, you can inject him."
He's not sure what would be worse, being drugged by a psychopath while your trained nurse of a lover stood by helplessly, or being drugged by your lover in the first place. He glances at Mohinder, trying to silently as what the other man would rather.
Hell of a question to ask someone, really. Hey, honey, should I drug you or do you want the crazy man who eats brains to do it instead?
In the end, it's an easy enough answer; he knows what he's doing, he at least won't make it hurt more than it has to.
"I'll do it," he says quietly, holding out his hand for the needle. He can check the dosage as well, just in case Sylar is stupid enough to have grossly overestimated and drawn up enough to kill them both. "I've been taught how to self-inject, I can do mine as well."
There's something about Sylar's smile that should worry him, as the other man floats the first needle and a square alcohol wipe over to him, staying halfway across the room. Peter can move now, but Mohinder is still pinned to the wall, although a moment later Sylar relaxes his hold enough that Peter can lift Mohinder's arm, swabbing the crook of his lover's elbow and whispering, "I'm sorry," as he slides the needle in smoothly.
"It's all right," is the low reply, and Mohinder even manages a smile as Peter depresses the plunger and the sedative enters his veins. Sylar floats the second needle and alcohol wipe over, then, and Peter sits down to swab his arm and stick the needle in, as Sylar lets Mohinder slide down the wall to join Peter on the floor.
"You have a good rest, now," Sylar says, mock-solicitous, and he's blurring around the edges already. Peter wants to ask where the hell Sylar got such strong sedatives from, but he's halfway afraid of the answer and he's not sure he can form the words anyway. Sylar continues, in a voice that fades out like a bad ballad on the radio, "you'll have a lot of work in front of you when you wake up."
Characters/Pairings: Mohinder/Peter, Sylar. Sylar/Mohinder/Peter in later chapters.
Rating: PG-13 at the moment; R in later chapters.
Warnings: non-con in later chapters; psychological fuckery.
Spoiler alert: Spoilers through to Homecoming.
Summary: This is a post-Homecoming AU, written because a post in a Heroes comm got my bunnies multiplying. Sylar needs Mohinder to compile the list of 'heroes' for him, and Peter happens to be the best way of keeping Mohinder under control.
It's weird, he thinks, how everything can be going to hell and yet there's this little moment of peace, lying in Mohinder's arms.
"Well, well, isn't this sweet."
Sylar's voice shatters the illusion of normalcy that they carefully built around themselves, that they always build around themselves for just one night. Just one more night, they tell themselves, a night where Mohinder isn't the scientist and Peter's not the freak empath who's Mohinder's only real way of proving his father's theories right. And only then around other 'special' people.
Always just one more night, no matter how many times they've said it in the past.
Sylar was never a part of the equation, though, and Peter sits up, watching the other man cautiously, waiting. Sylar wouldn't be here if he didn't have something planned. And if he'd just wanted Peter's brain, surely he'd have just taken it while Peter was unaware of his presence. That makes sense. Of course, Sylar doesn't always make sense. He might be a predator who glees in his prey's fear; the way he keeps his victims conscious until he kills them implies that that suspicion isn't entirely unfounded.
That's not a comforting thought, and Peter finds himself wishing that he carried the gun Nathan keeps tucked away under his jacket, citing that politicians and the family thereof can never be too careful.
"I think that's far enough," Sylar tells him, tilting his head a little, and Peter can feel the telekinesis pinning him against the bed. No indecent displays; Sylar lets them have their dignity for now, at least. They're both still tangled in the sheets, and Mohinder hadn't begun to sit up, so he's held half on his side, propped up on one elbow, and Peter's sitting partially in front of him, protective. Funny, that, that he feels like he should protect the man who's just human. Never mind that he's just human when he's not around someone else with special abilities.
Except he is, right now, but Sylar's had so much more practice with his stolen gifts, and Peter can't fight properly using abilities he doesn't know how to use and wouldn't have if Sylar wasn't here.
"You two," Sylar says, lazily hooking a chair with his foot and sitting down, resting his elbows on his knees, "are going to be troublesome, you know. Save the cheerleader, save the world, and all of that? I was supposed to be invulnerable by now."
Sylar looks like all sorts of hell warmed up, now that Peter thinks about it, certainly not invulnerable. So Claire is still safe. That's good, at least, even if he's going to die before he ends up blowing up all of New York City. Maybe it's a good thing Sylar's here, then.
He can feel Mohinder tense beside him. He still doesn't know how or why the Indian man came to the hospital after Peter saved Claire, only that Mohinder was there when he woke up, with his family and he can't imagine what explanations Mohinder gave Nathan and their mother, but it hadn't mattered after a while. Mohinder had promised to help him find out how to save himself from the horrifying future he'd seen in his dream, and things - for a little while, mere weeks, things had been all right. Peter had vanished from the public view, lending credence to Nathan's claims that he'd been in Vegas finding a therapist for his depressed, suicidal little brother, and as long as he wasn't around too many other people with abilities, he wasn't burning inside. He was keeping at a safe distance from that future.
And at some point, things with Mohinder had changed, although he can't say when.
Sylar is smiling at them, and that's almost more frightening than overt violence would have been.
"You've got a Messiah complex, haven't you, Peter? Always having to save everyone, or stick by while they crawl from life inch by bloody inch. Hospice nursing's not exactly pleasant, wouldn't you say? And you!" He laughs, seemingly sincerely amused. "You, Mohinder, with your father's special little program, you're going to end up playing right into their hands, you know."
"They?" Mohinder asks, frowning. He's always got questions, it's something Peter loves about him, but he wishes just this once that Mohinder had stayed quiet.
"The cheerleader's oh-so-pleasant father," Sylar says, still smiling. "I don't know exactly who they are yet, but they're pieces of work, that lot. And if you ever get anywhere with that list of Chandra's, they'll find it and they'll use it, just like I plan to. Well. Not just like I will. They'll keep people like me and Peter and the cheerleader in little glass boxes, studying us. Like rats in a laboratory. Somehow I don't think that's what you want for your little boyfriend."
"He's lying," Peter says tightly, still trying to fight the telekinesis. His brain knows what it wants his body to do, but his limbs aren't listening, are taking their instructions from a higher power.
Sylar laughs.
"Why would I bother lying to you, Peter? You're at my mercy, I've got absolutely no reason to deceive you. Do you want to know what they're doing to the artist, by the way?"
Now it's Peter's turn to tense. "You know where Isaac is?"
"Of course. Now, him I don't envy; that's a hell of a gift he's got there, and I'm not sure I'd like it myself. Especially with the way they're treating him. Do you think you'd enjoy being used as a tool, Peter? Because that's what they've got planned for all of us. They're feeding him heroin and making him paint, like he's some sort of machine." A smirk. "Worse. A farm animal, a beast of burden. Oh, they're looking after him all right, they clean him up afterwards and feed him and make sure he's as healthy as a guy who's always chasing can be, but he's still an animal to them. We'll all be animals to them, you know. My way's bloody, but it's kinder. You wouldn't condemn a dog to that sort of life."
"Bullshit," Peter spits, trying to ignore the sinking sensation in his gut that tells him Sylar isn't lying. "How the hell could you know all that?"
"You found someone else," Mohinder says quietly, and oh, there's sorrow in his voice that Peter wants to kiss away. "Someone you killed. What gift have you stolen this time?"
Sylar grins. "Persuasion. Quite a useful thing, really, I convinced the man I found to tell me everything he knew about their little operation. Of course, I could've convinced him without Eden's gift, but it would have taken so much longer. He didn't even scream, this way."
Peter can feel Mohinder tense again. "Eden?"
"Oh, you didn't know?" Sylar's voice drips with false concern. "Eden worked for them. She was collecting us and bringing us in. And she tried to kill me." He licks his lips. "Tried, and failed. You should have taken her when you had the chance, Mohinder; she was really quite delicious, and I'm sure you'd have felt the same."
Peter's hand, curled around Mohinder's arm, tightens almost without him telling it to, willing Mohinder not to react. It seems to work, at least; Mohinder stays silent, although he's certainly not relaxing any. Not that Peter really expected him to, given the situation.
"So, you see, I've got a bit of a conundrum on my hands," Sylar says, almost conversationally. "I could kill you both, take Peter's gift, leave. But then I'd have no list, and I'm sure that while he seems like an ass, Nathan Petrelli would not be happy with me for offing his dear little brother. And while your gift is impressive, it's not technically all that useful for someone like me. Someone like you, sure; you borrow gifts, and then you go back to being nothing as long as you're on your own, or with someone normal. Is that why you're fucking him? Because he's normal, so you can be? But a gift like that, it's not really that useful for someone like me. See, I'm not content with just borrowing gifts. I'm the next evolution of humanity; they will all belong to me in the end. But if I have everyone's gift, for good, why do I need the ability to borrow them? It all seems just the slightest bit pointless."
Sylar gets to his feet and wanders into the kitchen, leaving them both pinned to the bed, unable to move. Peter is wracking his brains for a plan when Sylar returns, carrying a glass of water. Well, all that monologuing would get your mouth dry after a while, Peter supposes, and has to suppress what he suspects is a hysterical giggle at the image of Sylar dressed up like Syndrome from The Incredibles.
"Now," Sylar continues, as though he'd never left, "I could just kill you, Peter, and take Mohinder with me to work on that list of his."
Peter goes tense again, hand tightening around Mohinder's arm, and growls, "like hell you will."
"I'd die first," Mohinder adds, stubbornly.
Sylar laughs, taking a sip of his water. "See, I figured you'd say that. He's so noble, isn't he, Peter? Is that what you like about him? I have to admit I am a little curious. But whatever your attraction, I have to suspect that he'd be entirely too willing to die before helping me, and I really can't devote the time and energy I'd need to break him properly, not if I want to keep his mental faculties intact. So taking him alone wouldn't work either."
"What do you want?" Peter asks, trying to keep Sylar's focus on him. He at least has more of a chance of fighting Sylar off, even if he never thought he'd be in this situation.
Sylar smiles again.
"That's simple enough. You're a nurse, and you have a Messiah complex. You don't like to see people get hurt, especially when it's your fault. And you, Mohinder, you're sleeping with the guy, I have to assume you at least care about him a little, if sex isn't your way of paying him for the privilege of being a test subject. So my other option is this: I take you both. Mohinder works on the list for me, because if he doesn't, I'll hurt Peter. If either of you fuck something up, the other will be punished for it." Sylar's smile brightens. "Look on the bright side, guys; you'll be together. And maybe if you're good I'll bring you more company some day."
"You're psychotic," Mohinder states quietly.
Sylar nods, agreeably enough. "Oh, probably. I'm the next evolution, there're bound to be a few hiccups. Now, I'm going to have a lot of work to do, moving everything you'll need from here to where you two will be living, and I don't think I want to have to bother keeping you lovebirds still, over there."
"You could just trust us not to attack you," Peter says sarcastically.
"Ha! Funny, Peter, really, but I don't think I trust you two that much yet." He lays a hand over his heart, mockingly. "I've been hurt, see. No, what's going to happen is this. You two are going to get up and dressed, and then you'll have a nice nap. No muss, no fuss."
"And what makes you think we'll go along with you?"
Sylar really is smiling too much today, Peter decides a moment later, as he's suddenly unable to take more than half a lungful of air with each breath, clawing at invisible hands around his throat.
"Mohinder? Get dressed, or I'll shut Peter's airway completely."
Mohinder's hand ghosts over Peter's shoulder for a brief moment as he gets up, moving slowly enough that Sylar doesn't think he's going to do something stupid. Under normal circumstances Peter would be taking the opportunity to appreciate the lines and planes of his lover's form, but his vision is already fuzzy at the edges, and he's struggling for each breath that doesn't fill his lungs nearly enough.
When he can finally breathe again, he spends a few minutes gasping, barely aware of Mohinder's hands smoothing over his back, gently. He looks up, once his lungs have stopped screaming at him, to see Sylar watching them, a half-smirk on his face.
"That's sweet. Now, Peter, your turn."
He obeys, unable to see an alternative. He's still shaking a little from the lack of oxygen, and Mohinder helps him quietly, Sylar having apparently decided that he doesn't need to make a point by putting Mohinder through the ordeal of slow asphyxiation unless Peter tries something.
When they're both clothed, they're shoved telekinetically against the wall, and Sylar stands up, setting down the glass of water and taking a syringe from his coat pocket. Peter tenses again; no matter how many movies or TV shows have people injecting other people with sedatives, it's just not that easy. Too many mistakes can be made.
Sylar seems to realise what Peter's worried about and halts, out of arm's reach.
"Do you want to do this?" he asks, sounding almost solicitous. "You probably don't want me jabbing this thing into him, do you? It's going to happen one way or another, but if you're that worried, you can inject him."
He's not sure what would be worse, being drugged by a psychopath while your trained nurse of a lover stood by helplessly, or being drugged by your lover in the first place. He glances at Mohinder, trying to silently as what the other man would rather.
Hell of a question to ask someone, really. Hey, honey, should I drug you or do you want the crazy man who eats brains to do it instead?
In the end, it's an easy enough answer; he knows what he's doing, he at least won't make it hurt more than it has to.
"I'll do it," he says quietly, holding out his hand for the needle. He can check the dosage as well, just in case Sylar is stupid enough to have grossly overestimated and drawn up enough to kill them both. "I've been taught how to self-inject, I can do mine as well."
There's something about Sylar's smile that should worry him, as the other man floats the first needle and a square alcohol wipe over to him, staying halfway across the room. Peter can move now, but Mohinder is still pinned to the wall, although a moment later Sylar relaxes his hold enough that Peter can lift Mohinder's arm, swabbing the crook of his lover's elbow and whispering, "I'm sorry," as he slides the needle in smoothly.
"It's all right," is the low reply, and Mohinder even manages a smile as Peter depresses the plunger and the sedative enters his veins. Sylar floats the second needle and alcohol wipe over, then, and Peter sits down to swab his arm and stick the needle in, as Sylar lets Mohinder slide down the wall to join Peter on the floor.
"You have a good rest, now," Sylar says, mock-solicitous, and he's blurring around the edges already. Peter wants to ask where the hell Sylar got such strong sedatives from, but he's halfway afraid of the answer and he's not sure he can form the words anyway. Sylar continues, in a voice that fades out like a bad ballad on the radio, "you'll have a lot of work in front of you when you wake up."