Acts of Kindness 7: Tea Time
Peter's mother was not amused. Under other circumstances, as the dutiful son who really did love his mother despite all the awful things she'd done, Peter would have felt chastised by her icy gaze. But he'd very recently dredged up all those awful things, and only last night he'd seen Sylar save Emma and thereby thousands, against her advice. As far as he could tell, that last was because she'd rather see any number of people killed than see Sylar walk free, redeemed or not. Even at his most angry, Peter wouldn't have made that trade.
He might have even been able to feel sympathy for her at least on that last - after all, as little as a few days before he'd thought Sylar's death would serve the world well - except that she had been the one to orchestrate that atrocity of trying to force Sylar to become his brother. It was not lost on Peter that had she gotten her way, he'd have never known Nathan was dead and the man he'd still look up to, warmly embrace, support and look for support from, for years to come, would have been Sylar inside, on some level. Not only was that an unfathomable punishment on Sylar, but the level of deception it inflicted on all of Nathan's loved ones was profound - not just his brother, but his sons, estranged wife, and Claire.
And so when Angela opened the door and gazed disapprovingly at Peter and Sylar's mirth, it only set Peter off even more. He broke into new gales of laughter and the more dismayed she looked by his behavior, the more hilarious it was. Infectious as it was and already laughing, Sylar couldn't help but join in.
Very shortly, Angela's face went from angry to livid and then, oddly, to mortified and ashamed. When she could take no more of this humiliation, she turned on her heel and stalked off, leaving the door hanging open behind her. Slowly, still wracked with giggles and snorts, the two men's laughter subsided and they staggered inside. Peter led the way to the parlor and collapsed in a chair, wiping at his eyes and chuckling. Telekinetically, Sylar summoned the tissue box to himself, withdrew a couple and then physically tossed the box to Peter, bouncing it off his lap. Peter grabbed at it and yanked a few out for his eyes.
After getting himself somewhat back under control, Peter stared at the ceiling and said, "I needed that. She's going to kill me, but at least I'll die happy."
Sylar snorted. "She's not going to kill you, Peter. That woman can devise tortures far worse than mere physical death."
Peter rolled his head to the side and looked at Sylar for a moment, then back up. "Point taken."
"Remember that time when…" Sylar paused. Peter looked at him again. Sylar coughed and went on, obviously changing his word choice a little, "when Nathan took you out to the boardwalk and then a movie without telling anyone, and she thought you'd been kidnapped or run off? She was worried all day long." He grinned. Peter chuckled and nodded. "The hell we-, I mean I, shit! You, and Nathan, caught." Sylar pursed his lips, annoyed with himself.
"You really can't stop that, can you?"
"No! And I'm trying, Peter. I really am."
"I know. I've figured that out. Sorry it took me so long."
"You always were a little slow."
"Hey!" Peter grabbed up the tissue box and flung it at Sylar, who, to his surprise, let it hit him. He could have easily caught it with telekinesis. If he could stop bullets, then he could stop boxes hurled in mild outrage.
Sylar just laughed and used telekinesis after the fact to scoop up the fallen box and replace it on the end table he'd swiped it from originally. He sighed. "It's not like Nathan's memories come with labels. It's like… think of all the things you've done in your life. Now imagine all the things that happened on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays happened to someone else. They still seem like your memories, no matter what day they happened on. I have to really stop and think about it, because something happens and it sparks a memory and it seems so normal... Maybe it will straighten out after a little while. It's only been a month or so. I'm getting better," he finished apologetically. Peter nodded.
At that point, Angela came to the entrance, carrying a tray with cups and, of all things, cookies. She paused and looked between them. "If you've composed yourselves, I thought we might have some tea."
Peter nodded. He thought about apologizing. He didn't. His mother lifted one cup and glanced at Sylar, obviously about to hand it to him. She stopped though and just seemed to freeze in place for so long that Peter looked to see if Sylar was holding her telekinetically. But the other man looked as baffled as Peter was. She seemed merely lost in thought, like something had struck her in the middle of the action and now she was absorbed by her contemplation.
"Ma?" Peter said. It had the desired effect. She twitched, coming back to reality, and looked down at the cup. She frowned resentfully at it and offered it to Sylar, who leaned forward and took it. She handed one to Peter and then took up her own. Sylar was studying his drink, brows drawn together.
She regarded him and said archly, "You came here for my help. If you can not accept even refreshments from me, then you may as well leave now."
"Tell me it's not poisoned," Sylar said, reminding Peter the man could detect lies.
"No." Angela drew herself up a little more stiffly, which was an impressive accomplishment given how unyielding she already was. "I will not."
Peter tried to smile, but the tension in the room made his expression only fleeting. He offered, "You can trade cups with me if you want."
Sylar shrugged and shook his head. He said, "Iocane powder," and took a generous drink, eyes never leaving Angela's face.
"Inconceivable," Peter muttered. Sylar choked on his tea, coughing and sputtering. Peter snickered that he'd managed to time that one right.
When Sylar could breathe again, he shot Peter a look that might have been murderous under other circumstances, but Peter let it roll off without effect. Sylar pointed at him and said, "I'm supposed to be worried about her killing me with the tea, not you!"
Peter pulled his best innocent face. "You started it."
Sylar shook his head and rolled his eyes. He set his drink aside though.
Angela harrumphed, probably not getting the reference, but noticing that much of the tension had defused. She picked up the plate of cookies and offered Peter one, then Sylar. They both took one to be polite, though neither was hungry. She took a seat and arranged herself meticulously.
Peter pulled out the passport pictures and put them on the coffee table. "We got pictures. So what now?"
Angela sipped her tea, considering what Peter had said. She regarded Sylar coolly over the brim of her cup. Finally she said, "I'll pass those along to the right people. I should have identification by this time tomorrow. But there are answers I will need before I can do that."
She took another sip and ate half her cookie - either in no hurry, or wanting to annoy her audience by making them wait. Peter and Sylar exchanged a look, then waited patiently. After long enough, she narrowed her eyes at Sylar and asked, "What are you going to do with yourself, Sylar? Are you going to go back to being Gabriel Gray, move back to Brooklyn and resume working for your uncle? Perhaps you could find a nice young woman to marry and have children with." Her voice fairly dripped with disdain. "How droll. How normal." She gave a small shrug with one shoulder. "You never seemed the type for it."
He smiled at her slyly, the same expression he'd given Peter in the cab when Peter had asked about whether Claire was going to be safe. "No, I don't like to think that I am." He let his eyes wander the far wall for a moment before continuing, "But that's what I want the identification to read - Gabriel Gray, son of Martin and Virginia, former watchmaker - all true. I want everything on it to be true." At that last he met her eyes decisively.
"Everything?" she asked. He nodded at her. She lifted her brows slightly. "You do know that Gabriel Gray is still wanted for questioning for the death of his mother? I am sure if that investigation revealed anything inappropriate, a link might be made between her murder and that of-"
"Homicide," Sylar cut in.
"What?"
He elaborated, "She wasn't murdered. Murder involves malice aforethought. It was an accident - not premeditated. I know; I was there, and if you doubt my recollection ask Hiro Nakamura, who witnessed it. The worst I should suffer for that is a sentence for involuntary manslaughter. Don't forget - I have all of Nathan's legal knowledge at my disposal. I know what I'm guilty of and the usual sentence. For that, for her, I bear little responsibility. It is for others that I should suffer."
Peter eyed him uneasily, not sure what to make of that. Sylar's tone had become clipped and authoritative. He sounded like Nathan did when he argued a court case. He had even leaned back, one leg casually crossing the other in an affectation of disinterest, a posture he'd seen his brother take up frequently when he was trying to goad someone.
If Angela recognized the shadow of her son's behavior in his killer's body language, she didn't show it. Instead, his attempt to provoke her seemed to be hitting the mark. Her lip curled slightly. "You killed your own mother, Sylar, and then you painted a mural with her blood."
"The painting was not a voluntary decision on my part, a characteristic that could be argued for many of the killings I committed soon after my ability was induced." He tipped his head to her. "Such induction and activation, including facilitation of the first killing, having been carried out by your very own Company. You were a member of the board of directors at that point, and thereby ultimately responsible for the Company's policies and actions, were you not?"
Her face froze.
Sylar went on, "If you doubt the influence of my ability upon the sanity and self control of a person, I will point out that your own son here," he gestured lazily at Peter, "attempted to kill you, shortly after the inducement of that ability. Again," he dipped his head, "such inducement was facilitated and suggested by you."
"He saved your life, Ma," Peter added, not entirely sure whose side he needed to be taking here.
"I know what happened!" she hissed at him, barely able to contain herself. She turned back to Sylar. "You killed my son!"
"Self defense," Sylar said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He attacked me. As far as anyone can prove, I was doing nothing dangerous at the time." Peter stiffened in his seat, lips thinning, but he kept his mouth shut. Sylar was playing his mother, something he'd rarely seen done, by anyone.
"You're a monster!" she said, standing.
Sylar leaned forward slightly in his seat. "And how do you think poor Bridget would see you, after you locked her in a cell with me while I was in Level 5? You had to be able to hear her screaming as you walked away. At that point, I probably could have controlled myself, but after a certain number of killings, you get a bit numb. Is that what happened to you, I wonder…'Ma'?" He stared at her, his gaze implacable and giving not an inch.
Angela stared back at him, the outrage on her face giving way to horror.
Sylar leaned back in his seat, raised his cup and took another drink, a faint smile playing across his lips. Angela was shaking with emotion. Silence held for nearly a minute, before she sank slowly back into her seat, looking away and regaining her composure.
Peter sipped his tea, feeling not at all sorry for her. He hadn't known that his mother had any role in deliberately arranging to put specials in Sylar's path. He'd suspected, sure, but never known. Whoever Bridget was, it sounded like Angela had brought her to Sylar's cell and locked her in with him - a chilling and frightening prospect. Sylar could lay part of the blame for his death toll at the feet of his ability, constantly urging and provoking. Peter couldn't think of any similar excuse his mother could make for what she'd done, confining someone with Sylar, knowing what he would do to them.
Sylar put both feet on the floor and sat up. He put his elbows on his knees and sighed. "I want everything on the identification to be true. I'm going to confess what I've done - all of it. I'll leave you both out of it." He shrugged. "Except insomuch as you tried to stop me, and I didn't allow it."
Peter put his cup down. "You… they'll lock you up!"
"Maybe - maybe not. I know who to approach." He pulled the four business cards Claire had given him from his pocket and regarded them. "Claire…" He shook his head. "She had the right idea, but she didn't know what she was getting into. I can take her place. I can give her another chance, so she can accomplish her goal without having to give up her life." He looked up at Peter. "There's no proof that was her on the Ferris wheel last night." He shifted shape rapidly into Claire, then back to himself. Angela gasped, but said nothing. Sylar glanced at her.
"You would sacrifice yourself for her?" Angela said, wonderingly.
Sylar shrugged. "I have memories of her as my daughter," he said, looking down. "And of how you talked Nathan into giving her up before she was born, when he first found out he was a father, then how you duped him into thinking she'd died, all those years ago. She doesn't have any leverage with the government or any experience navigating bureaucracy. She doesn't know what rights she has or what she's legally entitled to. I do."
"You don't have to do that," Peter said.
"Everything's changed, Peter. My range of abilities is unparalleled. I truly am special. If I pitch this the right way, I'm sure I'll get a stay of execution at least. They won't risk losing a limited resource. Claire's the only one they know about for sure and I can distract them from her to me. My cooperation will be more valuable to them than finding my limits. These won't be clandestine Company scientists who already understand abilities, who have no reason to preserve their test subjects and every reason to destroy them. It will be a larger organization, operating in the open, who have to answer to the public. Claire's blown this wide open. There will be Senate committees and agencies and organizations and corporations who all want a piece of this. If they have only one subject, they're not going to throw me into a hole somewhere and brick over it."
A ghost of a smile flickered over Peter's face as he remembered his thought that morning of Sylar's love of dramatics. This would make him the center of attention - a position he'd craved all his life, wanting to be somebody, to be somebody special and influential. Strangely, this was exactly what he wanted - an opportunity to use his powers in front of adoring, or at least attentive, masses. "You don't know for sure this is going to turn out well for you."
"And what if it doesn't, Peter?" Sylar studied Peter's face. "What loss is it if I finally pay penance for the actual murders I've committed? Make no mistake, there were many I killed because I wanted to, because they were inconvenient to me, and because I'd become numb and insensitive to the value of life after having been forced to take it so often. I deserved what Matt did and probably worse. If anyone should take this risk, I should. I need to be monitored. I need to be controlled."
Peter looked at him intently. "What you need is to think this through before you do anything rash."
Sylar nodded. "Of course. I want to at least sleep once on that couch we bought." He chuckled. "And," he said, gesturing at Angela, "I want to wait until I have all my paperwork in order, give the government a while to examine the interviews Claire gave, that sort of thing."
Angela gave him a reserved nod. She leaned forward and took the pictures from the coffee table, examining them carefully. "I'll have everything together tomorrow afternoon."
"Thank you," he said. She gazed at him levelly past the photographs, lips tight, and said nothing in response.
Peter put his cup down and straightened in the tense silence. They'd gotten what they wanted - it was time to leave before things screwed up. He said, "I need to get to work soon. Let's take off so we can get you a phone and a change of clothes - this shape shifting thing doesn't feel right. Then I want to drop by the apartment and make sure Claire's good. She might be up by now."
Sylar nodded. "I need to talk to her about what she said in the interviews, so I'm prepared." He stood and gave a mocking half-bow to Peter's mother. "Angela, thank you for tea. I'll see you tomorrow."
They headed out.