Walled In, Chapter 5, Concessions
Peter had come to this place with the intention of getting Sylar out so the man could fulfill a prophetic dream and thereby save thousands of lives. As soon as Peter had arrived, he'd asked Sylar to help. Instead of agreeing to help, Sylar had agreed to let Peter get him out - a very different proposition, and Peter knew it. But after only a half-second's hesitation, he'd put his hand on Sylar's shoulder and tried anyway, trusting that fate would work it's magic and all would work out.
It didn't work. He'd had years now of being stuck here with Sylar and not a single time had the man agreed to do as asked once (and if) they got outside. Peter brought it up occasionally. The conversation never went anywhere he wanted. Sylar would accuse him of trying to manipulate him and use him; the killer would get defensive and angry; Peter would get his back up. Was it really so hard to agree to help people? To give a little of yourself? Apparently it was.
Peter feared Sylar would "save" the others by killing Emma. He wondered if what the dream meant was that he should have found Sylar, duplicated his shape-shifting, and used his form to infiltrate the carnival so that it was actually Peter, disguised as Sylar, who was saving Emma. He wondered why he didn't see himself in the dream - was it because as soon as they left here, Sylar killed him?
Peter had come here in an act of faith, ready to accept whatever happened if it saved all those people he'd sensed in peril in the dream. He'd thrown himself into this mental prison even while Matt's words and thoughts hammered at him in warning. Now that he was here, he tried to tell himself he was still as willing to make that sacrifice as before, but it was like every doubt was magnified. He was frustrated, both with himself and with this recalcitrant other man.
His play for affection had been ill-thought-out at best. Hell, he was still thinking it was possible the man might murder him when they got out. Why was he getting in bed with him? A few kind gestures and touches did not constitute redemption, even if it had stirred Peter's heart (and loins) for the first time in relative years.
Days passed. Peter kept to himself, leaving the room whenever Sylar tried to join him. He did a lot of walking, jogging and lifting weights - anything to tire himself out. The craving for the other man's company faded, but it never went away entirely. Sylar looked him up every few days for a while, trying to pull him into conversation. Or at least, that's probably what he thought he was doing. Really he just showed up and was obnoxious, condescending and sarcastic until he ran out of snarky things to say. This was the 'railing at him' part of their pattern. Usually when it wound down, Sylar would fall silent and become patient. Eventually one of them (usually Peter) would say something casually and the other would reply cautiously, then they would go from there.
But now the pattern was broken. Instead of falling silent after the other man tired of insulting the empath, he'd move as close to Peter as allowed and speak in a low voice. Sometimes he'd make promises that things could go back to how they were before the sex, or he'd tell Peter how much he'd enjoyed what they'd done and how much he wanted to do it again. Sometimes his descriptions were lewd and sometimes his words were earnest. Peter continued to ignore him and Sylar would eventually walk away, dejected. He wouldn't stay and wait quietly, reading or working - he'd just leave - sometimes snarling, but usually merely sulking. A few times Sylar came back, but only a few. Weeks passed without one seeing the other.
It tore at Peter's heart. He wasn't just rejecting a lover (which was certainly bad enough by itself), but he was also rejecting a man who, it seemed, had come to think of Peter as his friend, even if Sylar didn't seem to understand why friendship with him was difficult for the empath. Sylar was assured that he was the only show in town. The killer seemed to think that made up for everything - that desperation would overcome any flimsy moral objection or character flaw Peter might otherwise find objectionable.
Peter was brooding at the top of a building when Sylar finally came up to see him. It had been a while, long enough that Peter was secretly glad to see him, glad of the company, glad Sylar was making another attempt after so long. And so they talked. It didn't go well. Peter punched him in the face again - ostensibly for disrespecting Emma, but there was a lot more behind that blow than Sylar's intentional forgetfulness of the woman's name and they both knew it.
Sylar was jealous of her. If only he knew how little there was between her and the empath. Peter stomped off downstairs, intending to take another long walk and avoid the other man some more. Apparently 'a month' was not long enough. Sylar followed him, nagging him about the nature of the world, which was a sore spot between them. Peter engaged him, because he really was tired of being alone. Sylar was, at least, someone to argue with.
And then … Sylar made a concession - a sincere agreement to help, for the first time (the only time, in years) - no strings, no sarcasm, no nothing. His expression looked genuine and despite his many flaws, deceit was not among them. Peter nodded, wondering if maybe Sylar had spent long days and longer nights pondering why someone who wanted him desperately and had no other option would choose loneliness instead of himself - why even Peter, the empath, driven to be social, wouldn't talk to him and wouldn't be near him. Sylar had showed up with a gift, but maybe that was just him trying to buy companionship. His offer now was everything and anything. He wanted to help - he finally wanted to help. Peter accepted the olive branch. A way out presented itself immediately - a wall that they had to break through.
Peter thought the offer was true, but right away Sylar didn't carry through with it. Peter found a sledgehammer and brought it to the barrier, thinking this would be easy, but resenting that Sylar was just following along placidly. He hadn't even gotten his own hammer, so how sincere was he? Peter was shocked when he couldn't so much as chip the bricks. Fucking mental constructs! Sylar suggested he was swinging the hammer wrong, so Peter had him try - no better. Then Sylar shrugged and said, "Okay. That's not the way. We should try something else."
"What else should we try?"
"I don't know." Sylar looked at the wall blankly. "I don't even know why it's here. If I'm going to help you …" he shrugged helplessly. "Well … then why can't we just leave and I'll help you?" He touched the brick with a perplexed expression on his face. Sylar spoke as if to himself, "I thought it finally made sense. That … that I just needed to get over myself. I guess maybe … I haven't?"
Peter snorted. "Just waking up one day and deciding to change doesn't make it so."
"I know," Sylar said softly, a distant, sad expression on his face as his thoughts turned to the past.
Peter looked at him intently. Has he really changed? Will it last? He looked back at the wall. "Well, I'm going to get some more hammers and keep at it."
"What good is that going to do?"
Peter pursed his lips and gave Sylar a hard look for the sarcasm that edged his comment. "When you think of a better way, you tell me. Until then, help or leave me alone."
Sylar rolled his eyes. At least this time he helped carry some of the sledgehammers over. For a while, that was the only assistance Peter got with his new project. Instead of working out and lifting weights, he now hammered at the wall. Sylar would watch, but he wouldn't heckle like he would have before. Sometimes he gave advice; other times he tried to lure Peter away with offers of food or rest. He did not offer intimacy, seemingly aware that really was off the table. 'It's over' - Sylar was taking it seriously now. Peter ignored him, growing more and more frustrated at having to do this alone. He wanted nothing more than to hit Sylar with that fucking sledgehammer, instead of the brick.
Sylar was frustrated too, that was clear. After yet another irritable, snarling exchange over something trivial (this time an accidental slip of Nathan's memory of Peter training for track), the other man picked up one of the extra hammers and told Peter he was going to end it. Peter squared off, relieved, actually. So this is it, huh? This is how it ends - me and him fighting each other with demolition tools?
But no. Sylar hit the wall - and then he kept hitting it, and clearly, he was going to keep hitting it for as long as it took. Peter joined in a few swings later. The rest of the morning burned away, then the afternoon. Sylar did not shirk; he did not malinger. He didn't suggest breaks, insist they stop to eat or give advice. He hit the wall as hard and as solidly as he could every time, time after time.
Peter kept watching him out of the corner of his eye. He kept expecting Sylar to give up. This was hard work and they were making no visible headway whatsoever. The other man had never shown the stamina for this sort of thing. Abilities were, after all, just short-cuts and Sylar was all about the short-cut. As the afternoon wore on, it was clear the other man still lacked the physical stamina for it, but his mind was undeterred. Sylar's blows rang less and less true. Peter thought at first he was finally giving up, but no - he was giving out, but not up.
"Hey, hold up there," Peter asked and moved to take the tool from Sylar's hands. The handle looked wet in a few places. Sylar looked dazed. He stood panting and didn't resist - hardly seemed to notice - when Peter turned his wrists to see that his soft, sensitive hands were now covered with burst blisters. "Come on," Peter said gently. "Let's get you home."
"Whuh?" Sylar said, blinking and refocusing from staring at the wall.
"Home. To your apartment. Let's go." Peter turned him and slowly urged the watchmaker down the alley, leading him away.
Sylar wasn't entirely spent though. He had enough energy to try to quip, "Of all the times, Peter, that you want to take me up on … take me to my … get … my place? Yeah. Now? Ha. I don't think I'm any good for what you want. I can't even talk."
Peter smiled. He reached down and patted Sylar on the ass, which earned him a truly startled look. The other man had given up all hope. A tiny flicker of it reignited in the back of his eyes. Peter said softly, "Thank you for helping me." You might be good for what I want after all. That's what I came for here - for your help, for you to find it in yourself to help someone. Maybe you have.