Slave Verse 2, chapter 8: Shock
All shiny-clean and washed, they climbed into bed. Peter’s hand fell on Sylar’s member like it belonged there, provoking Sylar into pulling it away and putting it higher on his body. “Peter, we’ve already done it four times in one day. Maybe it’s different for you, but for me that’s a lot. I’m kind of worn out.” At Peter’s disappointed look, he said, “How many times have you done it in a day anyway?”
Peter laughed hollowly. “A lot more than four.” He leaned in and nuzzled Sylar, who tilted his head back and enjoyed the intimacy. Peter murmured, “You know what I love? That you have no idea. None at all.” Sylar tensed a little at the implication he was ignorant and Peter moved back so they could see one another. “And for all your evil, you don’t have a patch on my brother. Not a patch.”
Sylar eyed him. “Should I be insulted by that?”
“Oh, no,” Peter smiled and melted a little. “No, baby, don’t ever be. It’s why I’m here with you, instead of with him. Just remember that - this is where I want to be.” Peter snuggled up next to him, enjoying the moment while it lasted.
It happened that night.
XXX
Sylar woke, not sure what had broken his slumber. Peter was still next to him, clinging needily, like he expected to lose him at any moment. He still wasn’t used to sleeping with someone, so he assumed Peter had moved or made a noise. He shifted his position a little and tried to go back to sleep.
A few seconds later, he realized Peter wasn’t asleep - his breathing was light, his body not as relaxed as it should have been, his grip on his body too purposeful. Sylar started to turn to him, but he heard a sound, like the scuff of a rubber-soled shoe on the tile. He jerked his head up and focused his enhanced hearing. Someone - no, four or five someones - were coming through the kitchen. Peter’s hand was on his wrist immediately. “Sylar,” he said.
At that moment, Sylar didn’t put two and two together. He thought Peter was grabbing him because he’d heard the noise and was startled or afraid. Shaking himself free of him took only a half-second, but it was critical. There was a pair of thumps and a clicking noise and Sylar wasn’t on his feet to see them throw the grenades in the room or try to block them with telekinesis. A second later he was up and moving forward when they exploded. Shrapnel perforated his body.
A moment after that there were flashing lights and he was still trying to get his bearings after the explosion. He was hit across the chest and abdomen. It felt like someone had shot him with golf balls, really hard. It knocked him back against the wall. He tried to stand up, but his legs didn’t cooperate. He was stunned suddenly, blood cascading out of parts it shouldn’t be cascading out of. They’d been bullets, although the exit wounds were probably the size of golf balls. He fell to the floor, blinking and fighting back shock as a black-clad man with a semi-automatic rifle swung the barrel of his gun to the bed, where Peter was. Terror clutched at Sylar’s heart.
A second passed. Nothing happened. That was when Sylar put it together. They didn’t shoot Peter. The barrel swung back to him as he felt sensation come back to his lower body. He began to lift an arm. Another spray of bullets punctured him. There must have been a head shot involved, because this time he lost consciousness.
He heard things before he saw them:
Peter’s voice: “Give me that and get out of the way.”
A stranger: “He’s giving commands. He’s not allowed to do that!”
Another stranger… or… was that Noah Bennet? Sylar had heard that voice before: “It doesn’t matter who does it. He has the training.”
The first stranger again: “It’s my job!”
Someone else, urgent: “Shot line! Get back!”
Noah, very calmly: “I’m right behind you, Peter. Do it.”
Somewhere in the conversation, someone touched his hip or his thigh, he wasn’t sure. And there was a scuffle, but he didn’t know the details. He blinked his eyes open. There was blood matting them and his lids were sticky. They’d turned the lights on. There were other people in the background, but he didn’t pay attention to them.
Peter was patting his face, kneeling next to him where he was still slumped up against the wall. Noah was standing behind Peter, gun to the back of his head. Peter either hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care. Sylar thought it might be both, as Peter seemed entirely focused on him.
“You with me, Sylar?” he asked softly.
He still couldn’t nod or speak. He was doing his best not to cough as his lungs struggled to deal with the blood that was in them. If he could hold back, it would reabsorb into his body. Peter was turning his arm, finding a vein. He tried to track his eyes down and saw Peter push in a syringe. He didn’t even feel it.
“Do it, do it, doit-doit” the man with the semi-automatic murmured nervously. He stood to one side where he had a clear shot. “He’s waking up.”
“He needs to heal more or this will just kill him,” Peter said with an admirable attempt at being calm. His head came forward an inch as the barrel of Noah’s gun pushed him. The tension in the room was could have been cut with a knife.
“Dead is an option,” Noah said as if they were discussing bus routes.
“It wasn’t the preferred one,” Peter said through clenched teeth, giving up the attempt to be calm. He was hunched over where he had the syringe advanced into Sylar’s arm, protecting it from interference. “Just wait. Please wait. I’m right here. I’ll stop him.” Noah didn’t back off, but he didn’t fire, either.
A few seconds passed as Sylar could feel his body knitting back together, his heartbeat steadying and that terrible urge to cough fading. His head was clearing too. He felt something cold creep up his arm and he looked down at it again. Peter had depressed the plunger. Whatever it was, it was within his body now. His eyes flew to Peter’s face and Peter mouthed, “I love you,” before pulling the needle out and saying aloud. “It’s done.”
Pain filled him in a sudden wash and in the space between one heartbeat and the next, he lost his abilities permanently.
Peter laughed hollowly. “A lot more than four.” He leaned in and nuzzled Sylar, who tilted his head back and enjoyed the intimacy. Peter murmured, “You know what I love? That you have no idea. None at all.” Sylar tensed a little at the implication he was ignorant and Peter moved back so they could see one another. “And for all your evil, you don’t have a patch on my brother. Not a patch.”
Sylar eyed him. “Should I be insulted by that?”
“Oh, no,” Peter smiled and melted a little. “No, baby, don’t ever be. It’s why I’m here with you, instead of with him. Just remember that - this is where I want to be.” Peter snuggled up next to him, enjoying the moment while it lasted.
It happened that night.
XXX
Sylar woke, not sure what had broken his slumber. Peter was still next to him, clinging needily, like he expected to lose him at any moment. He still wasn’t used to sleeping with someone, so he assumed Peter had moved or made a noise. He shifted his position a little and tried to go back to sleep.
A few seconds later, he realized Peter wasn’t asleep - his breathing was light, his body not as relaxed as it should have been, his grip on his body too purposeful. Sylar started to turn to him, but he heard a sound, like the scuff of a rubber-soled shoe on the tile. He jerked his head up and focused his enhanced hearing. Someone - no, four or five someones - were coming through the kitchen. Peter’s hand was on his wrist immediately. “Sylar,” he said.
At that moment, Sylar didn’t put two and two together. He thought Peter was grabbing him because he’d heard the noise and was startled or afraid. Shaking himself free of him took only a half-second, but it was critical. There was a pair of thumps and a clicking noise and Sylar wasn’t on his feet to see them throw the grenades in the room or try to block them with telekinesis. A second later he was up and moving forward when they exploded. Shrapnel perforated his body.
A moment after that there were flashing lights and he was still trying to get his bearings after the explosion. He was hit across the chest and abdomen. It felt like someone had shot him with golf balls, really hard. It knocked him back against the wall. He tried to stand up, but his legs didn’t cooperate. He was stunned suddenly, blood cascading out of parts it shouldn’t be cascading out of. They’d been bullets, although the exit wounds were probably the size of golf balls. He fell to the floor, blinking and fighting back shock as a black-clad man with a semi-automatic rifle swung the barrel of his gun to the bed, where Peter was. Terror clutched at Sylar’s heart.
A second passed. Nothing happened. That was when Sylar put it together. They didn’t shoot Peter. The barrel swung back to him as he felt sensation come back to his lower body. He began to lift an arm. Another spray of bullets punctured him. There must have been a head shot involved, because this time he lost consciousness.
He heard things before he saw them:
Peter’s voice: “Give me that and get out of the way.”
A stranger: “He’s giving commands. He’s not allowed to do that!”
Another stranger… or… was that Noah Bennet? Sylar had heard that voice before: “It doesn’t matter who does it. He has the training.”
The first stranger again: “It’s my job!”
Someone else, urgent: “Shot line! Get back!”
Noah, very calmly: “I’m right behind you, Peter. Do it.”
Somewhere in the conversation, someone touched his hip or his thigh, he wasn’t sure. And there was a scuffle, but he didn’t know the details. He blinked his eyes open. There was blood matting them and his lids were sticky. They’d turned the lights on. There were other people in the background, but he didn’t pay attention to them.
Peter was patting his face, kneeling next to him where he was still slumped up against the wall. Noah was standing behind Peter, gun to the back of his head. Peter either hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care. Sylar thought it might be both, as Peter seemed entirely focused on him.
“You with me, Sylar?” he asked softly.
He still couldn’t nod or speak. He was doing his best not to cough as his lungs struggled to deal with the blood that was in them. If he could hold back, it would reabsorb into his body. Peter was turning his arm, finding a vein. He tried to track his eyes down and saw Peter push in a syringe. He didn’t even feel it.
“Do it, do it, doit-doit” the man with the semi-automatic murmured nervously. He stood to one side where he had a clear shot. “He’s waking up.”
“He needs to heal more or this will just kill him,” Peter said with an admirable attempt at being calm. His head came forward an inch as the barrel of Noah’s gun pushed him. The tension in the room was could have been cut with a knife.
“Dead is an option,” Noah said as if they were discussing bus routes.
“It wasn’t the preferred one,” Peter said through clenched teeth, giving up the attempt to be calm. He was hunched over where he had the syringe advanced into Sylar’s arm, protecting it from interference. “Just wait. Please wait. I’m right here. I’ll stop him.” Noah didn’t back off, but he didn’t fire, either.
A few seconds passed as Sylar could feel his body knitting back together, his heartbeat steadying and that terrible urge to cough fading. His head was clearing too. He felt something cold creep up his arm and he looked down at it again. Peter had depressed the plunger. Whatever it was, it was within his body now. His eyes flew to Peter’s face and Peter mouthed, “I love you,” before pulling the needle out and saying aloud. “It’s done.”
Pain filled him in a sudden wash and in the space between one heartbeat and the next, he lost his abilities permanently.