More Between Us Chapter 75/? "Death Story"
More Between Us, Chapter 75/? "Death Story"
Day 26, January 4, morning
It was a peculiar sort of mental torture to want to ask about something desperately, but have to restrain yourself from doing it. Doubly so when Peter suspected Sylar felt obligated or required to answer, if the question was put to him. It was his regard for Sylar’s mental integrity and a sense of empathy that constrained Peter more firmly than any order imposed from outside might have. The subject of Nathan’s soul, his death, or Sylar’s experience of either was of such immediate importance to Peter that forcing himself to pass up the opportunity to learn more about it was like slowly twisting a dinner fork into his own leg. But he did it, for a while anyway. He left it strictly alone for the rest of the day. He even managed to leave it alone the following day, despite repeatedly fantasizing about how he’d open such a conversation. He waited until the third day’s breakfast of pancakes was cleared away before bringing it up, and even then, he wasn’t bringing up the subject per se.
He took a seat behind the desk, resisting the urge to fiddle with the puzzle pieces in front of him, an incomplete work from the day before. He swallowed, exhaled slowly, and said, “I want to talk about which topics are off-limits and which aren't. To have that kind of a list was dumb of me. There are things we should be able to talk about, if you want to talk about them. I just … wanted to say that. There's … there's no list.”
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Sylar just looked at him. “There’s always going to be a list, Peter. I’m used to them…even if I don’t always…follow them.” He noted the irony about the use of the word ‘list,’ although it was clear Peter wasn’t referring to the other type of record. In fact, the ‘no fly’ list was helpful - it gave him boundaries and vulnerabilities to exploit.
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“You …” Me? Because I’m the one who wants to know stuff here. Selfish. “Shouldn’t be limited in what you want to talk about. If you want to talk about it.” Peter glanced away guiltily, then back. He knew he was making this sound like a concession to Sylar when it was furthering his own ends. But Sylar said we weren’t really talking … This is important to him, too, right? “There are things I want to ask about, but if I don’t allow you the same opportunity, it’s not right. Like Truth or Dare where only one of us has to answer.” Peter made a small frown. “You don’t have to answer me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know.” Peter gave a short, bitter laugh. “It’s just that me getting what I want … that doesn’t have to happen.”
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Peter was babbling and that meant he had an agenda, but it was likely the most obvious choice. “You don’t want to hear your own voice that badly, so what happens if I don’t want to talk about it, hypothetically?” he tacked on the last word with pure sarcasm.
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Peter sighed. Yeah. I'm that obvious. (It's not like I was trying to be something else, after all.) “Nothing will happen to you. And nothing will change for me, either - I'll still want to know, and I still won't.”
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Sylar’s lips exercised themselves as he pretended to think, not like he had much choice. Peter thought that by poor attempts at flattery he’d appease Sylar into…therapy for…Peter about Nathan, somehow. Wait…the crap about me is obviously false so he just wants to know about Nathan. Is there any way this can backfire on me? I could disappear…He’d only see me as a portal to Nathanville and Nostalgia City. Or does he really just want or…even need to know this? If someone killed…my mom, I’d…yeah, I’d just want to know. “It sounds like I really want to talk about this whether I want to or not.” Before Peter could butt in, he went on, “Peter, the thing is, you’re not…going to like what you hear.” And you’re going to get upset and when you get upset, around me, there’s only one person you can tear apart, the guy who’s making you sad and upset even though he’s just doing what you wanted in the first place. I don’t trust you to ‘talk’ about this unless I’m behind a bullet-proof barrier. This can’t end well, not for me anyway. With more consideration in his voice, he asked, “I just…answer some questions? And you’ll leave me alone after?”
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Peter gazed at him steadily over the puzzle-strewn desk. “Yes.”
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“Fine. But you sit across the room from me,” Sylar pointed to back up his demand.
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Peter looked at him blankly at first. What? Why? But the answer was clear: He thinks I'll punch him in the face. He doesn't even know what I'm going to ask! He frowned, unhappy that Sylar thought such precautions were necessary. Sylar raised a brow, just as pointedly as his finger had been. If Peter wanted his answers, then he needed to move. With an abbreviated roll of his eyes, Peter got up, rolling the chair around the desk to the space before the front door, while Sylar moved to his bed, putting the desk and distance between them. Peter sat down, both feet on the floor, both hands on his knees.
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Once Peter had done it, Sylar uncoiled some. “What do you want to know?”
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This was easy enough to say. Harder, he knew, to hear the answer. “I want to know how Nathan died. I want to know why you killed him.” He carefully didn't put it as a question itself, nor as a demand - 'tell me how Nathan died' or 'how did Nathan die?' It was just a statement of what he wanted.
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This is going to be fun. He knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant but there less complicated and graphic things Peter could have asked. Sylar licked his lips and looked away. He’s not doing this to put me in the hot seat. That thought helped immensely. “I cut his throat. He died quickly in a chair.” Sylar and Nathan had both seen enough deaths to know when one was good and quick.
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A chair? Why a chair? Was he sitting down? Peter leaned forward, eyes narrowing. It was a hard thing to hear, even though he knew it had happened (or at least knew that as much as he could know something in this world of changeable reality). Even the smallest detail gave him something to hang onto in the face of the emptiness he felt inside when he thought about his brother.
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“He’d crash-landed in the suite and was…standing up to re-engage me.” He wasn’t stupid - that self-defense card was thinner than air when he had his powers, including regeneration. He could have easily held Nathan off without even being touched or breathed on. They both knew that. Nathan never stood a chance and Peter had little more of one but he hadn’t been there at the end. The senator had chosen to be defenseless, aside from Peter.
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“You,” Peter paused to take a deep breath and swallow. His emotions were starting to rage inside him despite his intention to learn as much as he could. “You used telekinesis. Why didn't you just … hold him, choke him or whatever, like you did to me at,” Peter tried to clear his throat. It was getting tight. “At Kirby Plaza?”
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Ever the pacifist, Peter was obviously aware of that contradiction. “Killing him became…part of my plan and…he’d hunted us, all of us.” It didn’t have anything to do with you! I swear. If anything, I did it for you and Claire and everyone. It felt like walking on his own grave to speak of this, choking, sorrowful, but it wasn’t regret over killing the man, but that he had, in a way, killed himself.
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“Was that how it was for all the people you killed? Were they 'part of your plan' and that made it okay?” His ability to speak was fine, apparently, if he was using his voice as a weapon against Sylar. Now it was raised and vicious. Peter started to get to his feet, aborting the idea before he finished rising so instead he just lurched in the chair. He was restless. It was a damn good thing Sylar was on the other side of the room and if he didn't want this to descend into violence, he'd better keep his ass in the chair. “Did he ever hunt you? Was it personal somehow?” Like that would help - Peter didn't know if it would, but he wanted to know anyway. He wasn’t abreast of what Nathan had been up to with Homeland Security - for all he knew, he'd had Sylar trapped in a cell and personally tormented in … no, Peter couldn't, wouldn't think that of Nathan. Not Nathan. Teeth slightly bared, he looked to Sylar for an answer.
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Sylar ignored Peter’s angry spitting, including things that weren’t involved with the topic. “He never took up a gun or a syringe against me in person, but he went after all of us: me, Luke and his mother, Micah, my dad - not that I’d mind seeing him carted away - Claire, you. It was the same thing you always do: stop the bad guy from whatever threat and save all the innocents.” Sylar tilted his head at Peter to make his point about their similar views/goals then shrugged. “Nathan had to pay for what pointless shit he’d already done and…he needed to keep his head down until…Well, he didn’t take his chance to keep his head down.”
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“He-” Heat and chill passed over and through Peter. He wanted to point out that he didn't kill the bad guys he stopped, but Arthur's body lay between them, metaphorically. Nathan was not a 'bad guy' … but that, too, was weak. Peter himself had sworn to stop Nathan in any way possible. They had reconciled less than a day prior to his actual death. Depending on how you judged the reconciliation, it was only minutes before that terminal event. It really wasn't Sylar's fault that he hadn't gotten the memo that Nathan had reformed. Peter drew in a shaky breath, remembering how a future version of him had seemed to have few compunctions against shooting at his brother with murderous intent. He swallowed, confused by the murky morality, surprised by how such a black and white subject had suddenly become so grey. He'd almost missed the rest of what Sylar had to say, jerking his head up to seize on part of it. “What chance?” His voice had lost much of the righteous fury it had held only moments before. His words sounded as off balance as he felt.
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I guess I forgot he doesn’t know this. “I worked with Danko.” He let that sink in. It should have been obvious he had his own agenda, one that had nothing to do with supporting or aiding Nathan’s stupidity. “I was around Nathan sometimes, but he didn’t know who I was. I never met him until the night before Stanton, in his office in D.C. Danko drugged him and saved his ass when I needed him awake.” He snorted with disgusted bitterness, “I needed his memories then. I left him and later he showed up at Stanton with you.” So really, if you’d just stayed away, the only person who probably would have died was the President and a few secret service.
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“I found him in his office ...” Peter said, mostly to himself. Looking searchingly at Sylar, head slightly tilted, he asked, “Why did you leave him alive only to kill him later?”
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Sylar wondered if Peter merely didn’t understand or was focused elsewhere or if he was supposed to have some more complex masterplan when the nurse asked something he already knew. Patiently (though who knew who long that would last), he restated, "I needed him awake so I could get his memories."
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That wasn't the answer Peter was looking for. He frowned, then snapped, “And now you've got them.” Lip curled in disgust at the turn of events, he asked, “Was that you, or Matt?”
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“Matt…somehow.” Sylar made that very clear, emphasizing the name. “He gave me more than…what I was looking for. I only needed his career information.” That was weak. There was a lot more to Nathan, even he knew that now.
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Peter made a long, slow intake of breath. That verified it was Matt. Good - he wanted to know that. He wasn't sure whether or not to be offended that Sylar only wanted to use Nathan's experiences and as a result had no need for the rest of the human being he was interacting with, but it was hardly surprising. It wasn't like he'd used his other victims as anything aside from abilities on legs. He shook his head slowly. It was actually to the benefit of Peter's regard for Sylar that he'd killed people for so straightforward of reasons. Peter moved on to another lingering curiosity. “Why did he die in a chair if he was trying to re-engage you?”
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Okay, that had been a weird detail to give. “He fell back into it after…” Sylar made a waving ‘you know’ gesture since the phrase ‘get your fingers wet’ had sent Peter into a panic attack earlier. It was a slight kindness and, well, he didn’t want to remind Peter overmuch as it was counterproductive.
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“Okay,” Peter said quietly enough to be a near-whisper. His mind flashed over his memory of the wound on the neck of Nathan's corpse. The medic in him wondered how deep it was, how instantaneous the effect. Did he have time to stagger? Did it sever both carotid and jugular? If it was just the jugular, then Nathan's brain would have continued to get fresh blood until he bled to death, which even though that would have been within a minute or two, cutting the carotid would have blacked him out within seconds. Peter blinked and covered his eyes with his left hand. I don't want to think about this. The details were nauseating. Swallowing roughly, clearing his throat and sniffing, he reached for the most complicated mystery he'd entertained recently, one that had little or nothing to do with Nathan. “Do you remember any discrepancies between the time you left the room with me and the time I met you in the president's limo? How much time passed? Are there any blackout moments?”
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Sylar tilted his head, confused. Peter must have no idea when the switch occurred. Come to think of it, neither did he, not truly. “No…” he said slowly, still thinking. “The last thing I remember is seeing you in the limo. You must have…brought me to them and…” Here his eyes narrowed. “I’ll assume you weren’t there to witness what they did to me.” That was partly what it sounded like - an accusation. There was no way Peter had known - he’d been surprised and devastated to learn of Nathan’s death. What would he have done if he’d been there? Sylar couldn’t wrap his mind around the image of Peter standing there, allowing Sylar’s mind to be raped and obliterated while helpless under the influence of drugs or abilities. Would he have…protected me or…preserved Nathan? He felt his throat clench at the thought of that kind of deliverance, but a thought was all it was.
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“No,” Peter responded. “I had no idea.” He exhaled heavily, remembering that night. “We drove the car around, got you out of it, and turned it back over to the Secret Service. I gave you to Noah. He was the one who gave me the tranquilizer. He said it would work on you.” It had not been Peter's expectation that Sylar would die from the shot or even necessarily that they (Noah, the Company, his mother, whoever) would kill him later. But Peter had felt his part was done - he was neither judge, jury, nor executioner. Sylar was stopped; Sylar was turned over to what amounted to the authorities; next thing Peter knew, he was invited to Sylar's cremation, where he got to reflect on how betrayed he felt by the whole turn of events.
He didn't think any of that would be comforting for Sylar to know. Saying he hadn't expected an execution wasn't much of a defense because he'd done nothing to prevent it and several things to make it possible. He doubted Sylar would understand that Peter's following isolation from his family and even what passed as friends was the result of how morally void he'd found the whole thing to be. Disaffected, he'd turned away from everyone. What had really transpired behind the layered veils of secrecy? “Did you wake up as Nathan or were you still you? Where were you? Who was there? What happened?”
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“I…” he began but his voice failed him and he was quiet for a long time. Once more Sylar considered Peter playing an angle because of the lack of focus on anything Sylar could deem to be Nathan-related. This…sounded like Peter was asking about Sylar. He couldn’t see why the other man would even be curious. The Petrelli almost came across as understanding but that was the placating nature to squeeze his source, in the event the answer had something to do with his brother. Sylar forcibly ignored the desire to feel…comforted because it wasn’t for his comfort at all. The only thing that pushed him to continue and get it out was his sort-of agreement to answer Peter’s questions. “My body…adopted…Nathan. I…found the Carnival. You know how it went. My mind…got stuck with Parkman and the rest is ancient history.” Sylar skipped over his own story since it was hardly the focus and he hadn’t agreed to talk about that.
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I know how it went? Actually, I don't. Peter's brows lowered. Every sentence spawned new questions. First, though, he wanted to rule something out: “Can you get rid of Nathan's memories? Do you want to?”
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Sylar blinked and his head came up in surprise. “What?!” Had he ever tried to get rid of them? No…but he’d never given it serious thought because how would that even be possible? He’d gotten memories returned to him from Damien at the Carnival but that was different. He’d gone to Matt to get his powers suppressed and that was as close as he’d gotten to anyone who could (or already had) fuck with his brain. The part that stunned him was the tiniest hint that he didn’t want to get rid of Nathan’s memories, all of them. How could he not want the multitude of violating, disgusting images and feelings gone? For the most part, they were nicer than his own, everyone thought Nathan was better than Sylar had ever been and Nathan had things - love, a career and prestige and family (sort of). Of more importance right now…Nathan had had Peter. Without the memories, Sylar knew he’d be sunk with the empath. It was advantageous to have and keep them and…Sylar had always liked playing pretend until he was made to do it to survive or feel safe. How sick was he that he’d even consider keeping them? How could he want that? After all that had flown chaotically around through his brain, it struck him what Peter was either offering or threatening along the lines of his questions.
Sylar knew his eyes got wider and he got to his feet with shaky brevity. Shit and he’s by the door…With as much menace and dead-seriousness as he could exude, Sylar pointed at the other man. “I’m only going to say this once. If you try that, I will kill you.” If I even think you’re trying to Haitian me again, I’ll kill you.
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Then I won't. I didn't intend to try it. Or so Peter thought initially, almost blurting out something of that sort before his brain for once moved faster than his tongue. Wait … he wants Nathan's memories? They're not his! He has no right to them! Peter's face hardened, lips pressing together and eyes narrowing. He turned his head a little to the side without taking his eyes off Sylar. If I could, would I take them from him? Peter's eyes dropped a fraction, staring vacantly at Sylar's chest. He didn't ask for them. But he did want them. I'd take them if I could have them, but just to lose them? No. Even in his hands, it leaves something of Nathan still … alive. He looked back up, eyes more present, reading Sylar's features.
Fear. He's afraid of that, of losing Nathan's memories. They mean something to him. But not as a trophy - as something else. If I try to remove those memories, there's not going to be any 'try', I'm going to 'do'. I don't want a stand-off with him about this, though. Not until I understand what it means to him. “I have your memories. I don't think about them much. What do you want me to do with them?” Peter asked simply enough, his expression having cleared and shifted to more empathetic and open, honestly wanting to know Sylar's thoughts on that. It would give Peter insight on what Sylar felt towards Nathan's memories and perhaps some ideas about what to do with the undesired and unintentional mental baggage Peter had picked up during their battle at Mercy Heights.
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Peter didn’t respond to his very serious statement, instead he answered with something worse. Sylar couldn’t tell if it was a riposte threat or a continuation of the conversation, either way it wasn’t pleasant. Oh, God, was all he could think. He has them all. That’s how he knew...that stuff earlier. I don’t believe him that he doesn’t think about them often; how could he not? Why wouldn’t he want to? So Sylar was left with a weakened, powerless hand pointing uselessly at the other man, standing with nothing to do and nowhere to go, though he looked around for something to occupy himself with, arm dropping in the process. His throat felt scratchy and raw and he hadn’t spoke yet, the violation and vulnerability Peter had was incomparable to what he had in Nathan’s memories. For one thing, Nathan was dead and gone, a third party at that. But Peter had life ammunition, everything he could ever want to twist Sylar any way he wished. He had no way to hide or even lie.
Dumbly, he stood there, working up a response. “I’d tell you to destroy them but I know you can’t. And why would you?” That was said hopelessly, with slight acknowledgment of the irony. Once more, he searched for an escape and found none. Voice ragged, he finally answered, “Just ignore them. They’re not…I...I don’t remember things correctly…a lot. Whatever you see, it’s probably just…It’s all screwed up.” He already knows that. Jesus, how can he stand to look at me? Talk to me? He felt filthy. Sylar sat gracelessly, still reeling. One thing became clear: “That’s what it’s like for you, with Nathan’s…No one knows you better than he does and so do I and now you have those from me,” Sylar gestured with a finger, the hand itself not leaving his thigh. “At least we’re even,” he said with humor he didn’t feel. He knows me better than anyone else ever has. That…must be just as horrifying for him as it is useful.
“How did you get them?” That would give him a timeline of some kind. He said he ignores them…why? If I ask it, though, he’ll get ideas.
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That was a good question. Not that Peter didn't know - he did - but he had already been entertaining a level of uncertainty about reality-as-he-knew-it. Was there any other possibility? When I got the ability from Rene maybe? What about later, when I met Matt? Is it something about being here - is telepathy feeding me the information and I'm just thinking I had it from Mercy Heights? His brow knit slightly and he frowned - that last one was really hard to disprove. “I think I got them at Mercy Heights, using … when I took all of your ...” He shrugged loosely, eyes falling sightlessly as he realized how that must have been to Sylar, not that Peter had cared too much at the time. Even now, being ambivalent about it, he knew it was murder. Or an attempted murder. Or maybe a successful one that Sylar came back from. Peter wasn't sure what it was, but one look at Sylar's face made it clear he wasn't discussing something easy for the other man to hear.
Peter's voice softened. His brother's killer or not, Sylar was a human being who seemed deeply affected by that event. Gently, making eye contact, he said, “When you wouldn't give me Nathan, and I took everything out of you that wasn't him - I think that's when I got your memories. I'm not positive because I didn't start seeing things until I was here with you, but … there wasn't as much triggering them until I was here, either.”
It occurred to him Rene must have Peter's life story from that assault Peter had endured in the cargo container, before the torturous trip to Ireland. He sighed slightly. The thought didn't bother him much. The idea of people knowing things about him, by itself, wasn't distressing. A little embarrassing maybe, but he hardly saw Rene (instead of living with him as he nearly was with Sylar), he was a family friend (rather than enemy), and it seemed like he had some good intention in what he’d done, painful as Peter had found it (as opposed to Sylar wanting Nathan’s memories to help assassinate the president, and having them forced on him later so he could perpetrate some demented, possibly grief-fueled plan of Peter’s mother). Peter could have been talked into giving Rene the same information, whereas he would have fought Sylar possessing it.
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Sylar got the intended feeling that Peter really didn’t care much for even thinking about this. (He said ‘your’ not ‘you’). He hasn’t acted…violated or put-out except when he jumped me with accusations. But that still doesn’t make sense. “Then why do you keep asking me questions you already know the answers to?” Is it a test? Another one of those medical ones or…just seeing if I know my own story?
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Peter looked at him blankly for a moment, Sylar’s previous words now making sense, asking him to pretend the memories were false. That was only relevant if Peter had delved into them. He must think I … know, remember, have paid attention to? those memories. He shook his head. “They’re not mine. I don’t …” Peter huffed, shoulders rising and lowering as he tried to find words to explain something so purely mental. “It’s like when I dream. If I have a dream about someone cutting me off in traffic and then getting out of the car and turning into a dinosaur, stomping down the street stepping on cars, and I get out of my car to stop him but my only power is shooting lasers out my fingers, and they’re really narrow, needle-like beams that go forever, shooting through the dinosaur and anything behind it, like buildings and people and I can’t figure out how to stop it without slicing up everyone near-“ Peter cut himself off. One, Sylar probably didn’t give a fig for Peter’s weird, vivid dreams. Two, it said way too much about Peter’s insecurities and he was getting anxious just thinking about it. And three, the dream’s details were irrelevant to the current discussion.
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Right. And I’m the crazy one who needs to sleep alone. Sylar could only stare, forcefully keeping his expression blank instead of…anything else. At first he’d thought Peter was pulling things at random to make a point but…not so. Sylar grasped Peter’s underlying fear regarding his abilities. The difference was where Peter feared, Sylar had lived them - any evil thing he could have done, he had already done, intentionally or not.
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“Well, when I wake up, I know that was a dream. It didn’t happen. That wasn’t really me. That’s how it is with your memories.” Peter looked off to the side. “I don’t … think about them. They aren’t part of me,” he said, looking back. “It’s something I’ve … I’ve got, but I don’t see it unless I think about it. Like, maybe, opening a book. Or concentrating. I have to actually think about it and I don’t do that.” He gestured at his head in frustration. “I don’t want this. I don’t think you want me to have it. I don’t want you having Nathan’s memories. So if I don’t want you knowing what he knows, then I can’t be using the information I have about you. It’s … cheating. It’s wrong. I do ignore them, as much as I can.”
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“I don’t believe you, but that’s beside the point,” really it was. He would never believe or even know if Peter ‘focused’ on the memories (the most evidence he would have is Peter saying, knowing or asking about strange things).
“But you looked before, when you said you knew it was foreign…matter.” Sylar pointed out. “You were curious then, what’s to stop you from being curious later? I’m not going to tell you anything; you know that. The only way you’ll get an answer is by searching or ‘focusing,’ whatever the hell you want to call it. So when you don’t get your way, you’ll…start looking. You won’t be any different from me, except you have a choice, or so you say.”
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“I didn't look on purpose. At first I thought you were … projecting thoughts into my head. Or dreams or something, but I couldn't figure out why you'd show me that.” He grimaced, not upset at the idea of Sylar being sexual, but at the confusion he'd felt at the time about why Sylar might elect to reveal something so personal. It had been too tender to strike Peter as boasting. His grimace faded, remembering the way Sylar had thought Elle was so beautiful at that moment she nearly glowed. Seeing her through Sylar's eyes, she'd looked so lovely and heart-breakingly sweet, that something good had happened … Peter shook his head and palmed his forehead, trying to block the memories he hadn't intended to re-explore. “I- that's-” He made a low grunt of frustration
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Sylar glared, trying to see through Peter to get to the truth. “How could I ‘project’ anything at you? You’re the one with telepathy! It happened more than once; you didn’t control it; you chose to look. I thought you cared about intent,” Sylar sneered. One way or other, he was going to get a better answer out of Peter.
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Peter lifted his head enough to glare back at Sylar. He didn't like the man's tone - words even less so. He was getting the impression Sylar was deliberately calling him a liar, on something that was akin to a point of honor for Peter. Teeth slightly bared, he bit the words out: “I did not choose to look.” Peter straightened in his seat, making what was hopefully his last defense. “I was asleep the first time. I didn't have any choice and I didn't have any control. I didn't know what was happening. Since then I've left it alone.”
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“Really? How many times have you successfully ignored it? Does it build up? Does it disturb you if you don’t take a peek?” Sylar couldn’t help the feeling of betrayal he had. Peter had known something about him, regardless of what he thought it was or how it got there, and he hadn’t informed the owner, ‘hey, I’ve got something of yours. It was this moment. Did you mean for me to have that?’ The more rational part of him, the colder part, decided he didn’t want to know every thing Peter saw about him, at least that way he wouldn’t have to chase down and deal with a dozen new demons as Peter saw into his past. Why do I care if he sees it? (Because…I changed to get away from everything that happened. No one can know. And he’ll use it against me). If he didn’t know, it wouldn’t hurt him…until Peter ambushed him with whatever ghost from his closet at whim.
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Peter shifted restlessly in the chair, the wheels making slight noises with the motion. His body was tensing. Defense was not going to get him anywhere. “Just like you asked me - why would I keep asking you things if I already knew the answers?” he burst out. “Do you think I'm that bored that I'd play that kind of a game with you?” It flashed through Peter's head that whatever machinations Sylar had been subjected to made this a poor line to use with him. People had, after all, pretended to be his family. It wasn't so odd to imagine Peter might pretend to be ignorant for a few weeks. Shaking his head, Peter got to his feet. He would not be cast as the same sort of fucked up manipulator as his parents. Also, Sylar needed some perspective. His personal crisis had nothing to do with why Peter was here - to save lives, a mission to which Sylar was being a frustrating obstacle. Drawing himself up, he spat, “It's not that hard to ignore, Sylar. Despite what you might think, you and your fucking memories are not the center of my universe. I just shut it out and focus on what's important! You should try it!” The last was a challenge, complete with a jerk upward of his chin.
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Sitting on his cot, Sylar stayed where he was, aiming at contrary to upset Peter more. He was stung and angry at being dismissed so easily (but he doubted it was that easy in for Peter to do in reality). It was intentionally disrespectful but Sylar had ammunition of his own. Giving plenty of attitude, he shot back, “You’re right, Peter. The next time ‘your fucking brother’ decides to make an appearance, I expect you to shut it out and focus on what’s important. After all, he’s dead and I’m very much alive.” Well aware of the glove he’d just slapped Peter with (and he was escalating the situation), Sylar fully expected things to get violent. So much the better because it would show the empath’s true colors: the holier-than-thou and hypocrite routines.
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Peter took a step closer to Sylar, which still left them most of the living room apart. “Like you had nothing to do with that? You murdered him! Just because it was 'part of your fucking plan' or whatever!” He made a wave of his hand and arm that managed to be both dismissive and disparaging at the same time (the two weren't much different, anyway). “Your 'plan' to kill the bad guy, right? Your 'plan' was to murder someone! That's what you set out to do! And anyone else who got in your way, I'll bet.” Peter pointed, unnecessary though the emphasis was. His raised voice and snarling tone conveyed his bitter intent just fine. “If it weren't for what you did, I'd have him to go to instead of you!” Peter looked away to grimace and wince from a stabbing ache from his jaw, reaching up to rub under his ear. He looked back up at Sylar with visible loathing, lip curled and eyes dark.
XXX
Sylar’s look was incredulous. “Is that supposed to hurt my feelings? Make me feel guilty?” Peter’s ‘attack’ was a real miss as far as he was concerned, taking the easy out Sylar supposed he’d unintentionally presented. He wanted Peter riled up, angry, swinging even. “Boo hoo, your big brother is dead. Shit happens and life sucks. You’re not special that way. It sounds-”
XXX
Whatever Sylar had intended to say beyond that was lost to Peter. He was on his way across the room at 'shit happens', concepts flashing through his mind at that interesting lightning speed the mind manages when fight-or-flight is triggered. People often referred to it by saying everything seemed to slow down. Peter had never had that sense, but he didn't doubt it worked that way for some. For him, there was an instant awareness that hitting Sylar with his right hand was dumb; hitting Sylar in the head, at all, was dumb; and Sylar had a low enough opinion of him to think he'd do it. It added up to the perfect feint, because all Peter really wanted to do was get his hand on Sylar's throat and shut him the hell up. He came in with his right hand high and pulling back for a punch. His left was lower, ready to strike forward but he was hoping Sylar's attention stayed on the more obvious threat.
XXX
Mission accomplished, Peter was approaching him with a crazed look of rage. For the moment, it made Sylar feel satisfaction. And it was familiar; he knew what was coming, he knew the motions. His right…? He wondered at the choice of raised fist. ‘Oh, well; this will be funny’ was his abbreviated realization. To ensure Peter maximized his own stupidity and pain, Sylar stayed put, neither bracing nor flinching from the oncoming blow, watching as it drew closer and larger in his vision.
XXX
Peter's punch whiffed and he grunted, missing the front of Sylar's face by at least a half inch. Managing not to hit the guy took more focus and attention than he'd expected. What he had expected was for Sylar to help him out by blocking. That the guy would just sit there instead and let it happen? Bizarre. But Peter carried through with using his left hand to seize him by the throat and shove him backward as far as he'd go on the narrow bed.
XXX
Sylar’s shock - how could he have missed? - lasted only seconds. Whoa! His eyes went wide as he felt but didn’t see the grip that propelled him backwards by main force. As their lower halves mindlessly settled themselves, Sylar laughed aloud, gleeful and smug at Petrelli’s reaction. (I made him do that! That’s power!) Being strangled in his bed was ironic in a not-amusing way. Being strangled by this man had promise. Being in his bed with Peter, in this vague position (as near as he could tell) was…Okay, Peter seemed a little intent with the whole throat-crushing thing. Sylar could feel his body reacting before his mind caught on to the threat. Equally angry at being disrespected and certainly not going to take…this lying down, he jabbed his own dominant fist into Peter’s side, the other hand tangling in the empath’s hair and yanking it back to hurt and discomfit.
XXX
Peter tried to foil Sylar's body blows from the left by having his right forearm run interference. Most of his attention was on adjusting his left-handed, one-handed grip on Sylar's neck. Pressure poorly applied would take a lot more strength and (more importantly) time to have the desired effect, but if he got it right, then Sylar would have mere seconds to take potshots at him. Medical training is good for something, he thought as his fingers dug in. Laugh at this, you son of a bitch! He snarled into Sylar's face, a bestial noise emerging rather than words as all of his rage played out in his wild-eyed face. He ignored the hand in his hair as much as he could. Losing some hair was not nearly so important to Peter as losing blood flow to the brain was to Sylar.
XXX
I can breathe…I’m not hitting him…I’m not…From there any action and thought weakened. Peter wasn’t messing around. Sylar could feel his strength and cognition fading with every heartbeat and it left him with the primary emotion of powerless, phobic terror. (He’s going to Haitian me!) That much was understood. Panicking hands gripped at Peter where he could as his body felt weightless, his veins hollow yet burning; he thought he was moving his legs but he couldn’t be sure. His vision narrowed and blackened frighteningly fast. (It’s quick, it’s quick…) Death would be quick, lonely as promised.
Continued...
Day 26, January 4, morning
It was a peculiar sort of mental torture to want to ask about something desperately, but have to restrain yourself from doing it. Doubly so when Peter suspected Sylar felt obligated or required to answer, if the question was put to him. It was his regard for Sylar’s mental integrity and a sense of empathy that constrained Peter more firmly than any order imposed from outside might have. The subject of Nathan’s soul, his death, or Sylar’s experience of either was of such immediate importance to Peter that forcing himself to pass up the opportunity to learn more about it was like slowly twisting a dinner fork into his own leg. But he did it, for a while anyway. He left it strictly alone for the rest of the day. He even managed to leave it alone the following day, despite repeatedly fantasizing about how he’d open such a conversation. He waited until the third day’s breakfast of pancakes was cleared away before bringing it up, and even then, he wasn’t bringing up the subject per se.
He took a seat behind the desk, resisting the urge to fiddle with the puzzle pieces in front of him, an incomplete work from the day before. He swallowed, exhaled slowly, and said, “I want to talk about which topics are off-limits and which aren't. To have that kind of a list was dumb of me. There are things we should be able to talk about, if you want to talk about them. I just … wanted to say that. There's … there's no list.”
XXX
Sylar just looked at him. “There’s always going to be a list, Peter. I’m used to them…even if I don’t always…follow them.” He noted the irony about the use of the word ‘list,’ although it was clear Peter wasn’t referring to the other type of record. In fact, the ‘no fly’ list was helpful - it gave him boundaries and vulnerabilities to exploit.
XXX
“You …” Me? Because I’m the one who wants to know stuff here. Selfish. “Shouldn’t be limited in what you want to talk about. If you want to talk about it.” Peter glanced away guiltily, then back. He knew he was making this sound like a concession to Sylar when it was furthering his own ends. But Sylar said we weren’t really talking … This is important to him, too, right? “There are things I want to ask about, but if I don’t allow you the same opportunity, it’s not right. Like Truth or Dare where only one of us has to answer.” Peter made a small frown. “You don’t have to answer me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know.” Peter gave a short, bitter laugh. “It’s just that me getting what I want … that doesn’t have to happen.”
XXX
Peter was babbling and that meant he had an agenda, but it was likely the most obvious choice. “You don’t want to hear your own voice that badly, so what happens if I don’t want to talk about it, hypothetically?” he tacked on the last word with pure sarcasm.
XXX
Peter sighed. Yeah. I'm that obvious. (It's not like I was trying to be something else, after all.) “Nothing will happen to you. And nothing will change for me, either - I'll still want to know, and I still won't.”
XXX
Sylar’s lips exercised themselves as he pretended to think, not like he had much choice. Peter thought that by poor attempts at flattery he’d appease Sylar into…therapy for…Peter about Nathan, somehow. Wait…the crap about me is obviously false so he just wants to know about Nathan. Is there any way this can backfire on me? I could disappear…He’d only see me as a portal to Nathanville and Nostalgia City. Or does he really just want or…even need to know this? If someone killed…my mom, I’d…yeah, I’d just want to know. “It sounds like I really want to talk about this whether I want to or not.” Before Peter could butt in, he went on, “Peter, the thing is, you’re not…going to like what you hear.” And you’re going to get upset and when you get upset, around me, there’s only one person you can tear apart, the guy who’s making you sad and upset even though he’s just doing what you wanted in the first place. I don’t trust you to ‘talk’ about this unless I’m behind a bullet-proof barrier. This can’t end well, not for me anyway. With more consideration in his voice, he asked, “I just…answer some questions? And you’ll leave me alone after?”
XXX
Peter gazed at him steadily over the puzzle-strewn desk. “Yes.”
XXX
“Fine. But you sit across the room from me,” Sylar pointed to back up his demand.
XXX
Peter looked at him blankly at first. What? Why? But the answer was clear: He thinks I'll punch him in the face. He doesn't even know what I'm going to ask! He frowned, unhappy that Sylar thought such precautions were necessary. Sylar raised a brow, just as pointedly as his finger had been. If Peter wanted his answers, then he needed to move. With an abbreviated roll of his eyes, Peter got up, rolling the chair around the desk to the space before the front door, while Sylar moved to his bed, putting the desk and distance between them. Peter sat down, both feet on the floor, both hands on his knees.
XXX
Once Peter had done it, Sylar uncoiled some. “What do you want to know?”
XXX
This was easy enough to say. Harder, he knew, to hear the answer. “I want to know how Nathan died. I want to know why you killed him.” He carefully didn't put it as a question itself, nor as a demand - 'tell me how Nathan died' or 'how did Nathan die?' It was just a statement of what he wanted.
XXX
This is going to be fun. He knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant but there less complicated and graphic things Peter could have asked. Sylar licked his lips and looked away. He’s not doing this to put me in the hot seat. That thought helped immensely. “I cut his throat. He died quickly in a chair.” Sylar and Nathan had both seen enough deaths to know when one was good and quick.
XXX
A chair? Why a chair? Was he sitting down? Peter leaned forward, eyes narrowing. It was a hard thing to hear, even though he knew it had happened (or at least knew that as much as he could know something in this world of changeable reality). Even the smallest detail gave him something to hang onto in the face of the emptiness he felt inside when he thought about his brother.
XXX
“He’d crash-landed in the suite and was…standing up to re-engage me.” He wasn’t stupid - that self-defense card was thinner than air when he had his powers, including regeneration. He could have easily held Nathan off without even being touched or breathed on. They both knew that. Nathan never stood a chance and Peter had little more of one but he hadn’t been there at the end. The senator had chosen to be defenseless, aside from Peter.
XXX
“You,” Peter paused to take a deep breath and swallow. His emotions were starting to rage inside him despite his intention to learn as much as he could. “You used telekinesis. Why didn't you just … hold him, choke him or whatever, like you did to me at,” Peter tried to clear his throat. It was getting tight. “At Kirby Plaza?”
XXX
Ever the pacifist, Peter was obviously aware of that contradiction. “Killing him became…part of my plan and…he’d hunted us, all of us.” It didn’t have anything to do with you! I swear. If anything, I did it for you and Claire and everyone. It felt like walking on his own grave to speak of this, choking, sorrowful, but it wasn’t regret over killing the man, but that he had, in a way, killed himself.
XXX
“Was that how it was for all the people you killed? Were they 'part of your plan' and that made it okay?” His ability to speak was fine, apparently, if he was using his voice as a weapon against Sylar. Now it was raised and vicious. Peter started to get to his feet, aborting the idea before he finished rising so instead he just lurched in the chair. He was restless. It was a damn good thing Sylar was on the other side of the room and if he didn't want this to descend into violence, he'd better keep his ass in the chair. “Did he ever hunt you? Was it personal somehow?” Like that would help - Peter didn't know if it would, but he wanted to know anyway. He wasn’t abreast of what Nathan had been up to with Homeland Security - for all he knew, he'd had Sylar trapped in a cell and personally tormented in … no, Peter couldn't, wouldn't think that of Nathan. Not Nathan. Teeth slightly bared, he looked to Sylar for an answer.
XXX
Sylar ignored Peter’s angry spitting, including things that weren’t involved with the topic. “He never took up a gun or a syringe against me in person, but he went after all of us: me, Luke and his mother, Micah, my dad - not that I’d mind seeing him carted away - Claire, you. It was the same thing you always do: stop the bad guy from whatever threat and save all the innocents.” Sylar tilted his head at Peter to make his point about their similar views/goals then shrugged. “Nathan had to pay for what pointless shit he’d already done and…he needed to keep his head down until…Well, he didn’t take his chance to keep his head down.”
XXX
“He-” Heat and chill passed over and through Peter. He wanted to point out that he didn't kill the bad guys he stopped, but Arthur's body lay between them, metaphorically. Nathan was not a 'bad guy' … but that, too, was weak. Peter himself had sworn to stop Nathan in any way possible. They had reconciled less than a day prior to his actual death. Depending on how you judged the reconciliation, it was only minutes before that terminal event. It really wasn't Sylar's fault that he hadn't gotten the memo that Nathan had reformed. Peter drew in a shaky breath, remembering how a future version of him had seemed to have few compunctions against shooting at his brother with murderous intent. He swallowed, confused by the murky morality, surprised by how such a black and white subject had suddenly become so grey. He'd almost missed the rest of what Sylar had to say, jerking his head up to seize on part of it. “What chance?” His voice had lost much of the righteous fury it had held only moments before. His words sounded as off balance as he felt.
XXX
I guess I forgot he doesn’t know this. “I worked with Danko.” He let that sink in. It should have been obvious he had his own agenda, one that had nothing to do with supporting or aiding Nathan’s stupidity. “I was around Nathan sometimes, but he didn’t know who I was. I never met him until the night before Stanton, in his office in D.C. Danko drugged him and saved his ass when I needed him awake.” He snorted with disgusted bitterness, “I needed his memories then. I left him and later he showed up at Stanton with you.” So really, if you’d just stayed away, the only person who probably would have died was the President and a few secret service.
XXX
“I found him in his office ...” Peter said, mostly to himself. Looking searchingly at Sylar, head slightly tilted, he asked, “Why did you leave him alive only to kill him later?”
XXX
Sylar wondered if Peter merely didn’t understand or was focused elsewhere or if he was supposed to have some more complex masterplan when the nurse asked something he already knew. Patiently (though who knew who long that would last), he restated, "I needed him awake so I could get his memories."
XXX
That wasn't the answer Peter was looking for. He frowned, then snapped, “And now you've got them.” Lip curled in disgust at the turn of events, he asked, “Was that you, or Matt?”
XXX
“Matt…somehow.” Sylar made that very clear, emphasizing the name. “He gave me more than…what I was looking for. I only needed his career information.” That was weak. There was a lot more to Nathan, even he knew that now.
XXX
Peter made a long, slow intake of breath. That verified it was Matt. Good - he wanted to know that. He wasn't sure whether or not to be offended that Sylar only wanted to use Nathan's experiences and as a result had no need for the rest of the human being he was interacting with, but it was hardly surprising. It wasn't like he'd used his other victims as anything aside from abilities on legs. He shook his head slowly. It was actually to the benefit of Peter's regard for Sylar that he'd killed people for so straightforward of reasons. Peter moved on to another lingering curiosity. “Why did he die in a chair if he was trying to re-engage you?”
XXX
Okay, that had been a weird detail to give. “He fell back into it after…” Sylar made a waving ‘you know’ gesture since the phrase ‘get your fingers wet’ had sent Peter into a panic attack earlier. It was a slight kindness and, well, he didn’t want to remind Peter overmuch as it was counterproductive.
XXX
“Okay,” Peter said quietly enough to be a near-whisper. His mind flashed over his memory of the wound on the neck of Nathan's corpse. The medic in him wondered how deep it was, how instantaneous the effect. Did he have time to stagger? Did it sever both carotid and jugular? If it was just the jugular, then Nathan's brain would have continued to get fresh blood until he bled to death, which even though that would have been within a minute or two, cutting the carotid would have blacked him out within seconds. Peter blinked and covered his eyes with his left hand. I don't want to think about this. The details were nauseating. Swallowing roughly, clearing his throat and sniffing, he reached for the most complicated mystery he'd entertained recently, one that had little or nothing to do with Nathan. “Do you remember any discrepancies between the time you left the room with me and the time I met you in the president's limo? How much time passed? Are there any blackout moments?”
XXX
Sylar tilted his head, confused. Peter must have no idea when the switch occurred. Come to think of it, neither did he, not truly. “No…” he said slowly, still thinking. “The last thing I remember is seeing you in the limo. You must have…brought me to them and…” Here his eyes narrowed. “I’ll assume you weren’t there to witness what they did to me.” That was partly what it sounded like - an accusation. There was no way Peter had known - he’d been surprised and devastated to learn of Nathan’s death. What would he have done if he’d been there? Sylar couldn’t wrap his mind around the image of Peter standing there, allowing Sylar’s mind to be raped and obliterated while helpless under the influence of drugs or abilities. Would he have…protected me or…preserved Nathan? He felt his throat clench at the thought of that kind of deliverance, but a thought was all it was.
XXX
“No,” Peter responded. “I had no idea.” He exhaled heavily, remembering that night. “We drove the car around, got you out of it, and turned it back over to the Secret Service. I gave you to Noah. He was the one who gave me the tranquilizer. He said it would work on you.” It had not been Peter's expectation that Sylar would die from the shot or even necessarily that they (Noah, the Company, his mother, whoever) would kill him later. But Peter had felt his part was done - he was neither judge, jury, nor executioner. Sylar was stopped; Sylar was turned over to what amounted to the authorities; next thing Peter knew, he was invited to Sylar's cremation, where he got to reflect on how betrayed he felt by the whole turn of events.
He didn't think any of that would be comforting for Sylar to know. Saying he hadn't expected an execution wasn't much of a defense because he'd done nothing to prevent it and several things to make it possible. He doubted Sylar would understand that Peter's following isolation from his family and even what passed as friends was the result of how morally void he'd found the whole thing to be. Disaffected, he'd turned away from everyone. What had really transpired behind the layered veils of secrecy? “Did you wake up as Nathan or were you still you? Where were you? Who was there? What happened?”
XXX
“I…” he began but his voice failed him and he was quiet for a long time. Once more Sylar considered Peter playing an angle because of the lack of focus on anything Sylar could deem to be Nathan-related. This…sounded like Peter was asking about Sylar. He couldn’t see why the other man would even be curious. The Petrelli almost came across as understanding but that was the placating nature to squeeze his source, in the event the answer had something to do with his brother. Sylar forcibly ignored the desire to feel…comforted because it wasn’t for his comfort at all. The only thing that pushed him to continue and get it out was his sort-of agreement to answer Peter’s questions. “My body…adopted…Nathan. I…found the Carnival. You know how it went. My mind…got stuck with Parkman and the rest is ancient history.” Sylar skipped over his own story since it was hardly the focus and he hadn’t agreed to talk about that.
XXX
I know how it went? Actually, I don't. Peter's brows lowered. Every sentence spawned new questions. First, though, he wanted to rule something out: “Can you get rid of Nathan's memories? Do you want to?”
XXX
Sylar blinked and his head came up in surprise. “What?!” Had he ever tried to get rid of them? No…but he’d never given it serious thought because how would that even be possible? He’d gotten memories returned to him from Damien at the Carnival but that was different. He’d gone to Matt to get his powers suppressed and that was as close as he’d gotten to anyone who could (or already had) fuck with his brain. The part that stunned him was the tiniest hint that he didn’t want to get rid of Nathan’s memories, all of them. How could he not want the multitude of violating, disgusting images and feelings gone? For the most part, they were nicer than his own, everyone thought Nathan was better than Sylar had ever been and Nathan had things - love, a career and prestige and family (sort of). Of more importance right now…Nathan had had Peter. Without the memories, Sylar knew he’d be sunk with the empath. It was advantageous to have and keep them and…Sylar had always liked playing pretend until he was made to do it to survive or feel safe. How sick was he that he’d even consider keeping them? How could he want that? After all that had flown chaotically around through his brain, it struck him what Peter was either offering or threatening along the lines of his questions.
Sylar knew his eyes got wider and he got to his feet with shaky brevity. Shit and he’s by the door…With as much menace and dead-seriousness as he could exude, Sylar pointed at the other man. “I’m only going to say this once. If you try that, I will kill you.” If I even think you’re trying to Haitian me again, I’ll kill you.
XXX
Then I won't. I didn't intend to try it. Or so Peter thought initially, almost blurting out something of that sort before his brain for once moved faster than his tongue. Wait … he wants Nathan's memories? They're not his! He has no right to them! Peter's face hardened, lips pressing together and eyes narrowing. He turned his head a little to the side without taking his eyes off Sylar. If I could, would I take them from him? Peter's eyes dropped a fraction, staring vacantly at Sylar's chest. He didn't ask for them. But he did want them. I'd take them if I could have them, but just to lose them? No. Even in his hands, it leaves something of Nathan still … alive. He looked back up, eyes more present, reading Sylar's features.
Fear. He's afraid of that, of losing Nathan's memories. They mean something to him. But not as a trophy - as something else. If I try to remove those memories, there's not going to be any 'try', I'm going to 'do'. I don't want a stand-off with him about this, though. Not until I understand what it means to him. “I have your memories. I don't think about them much. What do you want me to do with them?” Peter asked simply enough, his expression having cleared and shifted to more empathetic and open, honestly wanting to know Sylar's thoughts on that. It would give Peter insight on what Sylar felt towards Nathan's memories and perhaps some ideas about what to do with the undesired and unintentional mental baggage Peter had picked up during their battle at Mercy Heights.
XXX
Peter didn’t respond to his very serious statement, instead he answered with something worse. Sylar couldn’t tell if it was a riposte threat or a continuation of the conversation, either way it wasn’t pleasant. Oh, God, was all he could think. He has them all. That’s how he knew...that stuff earlier. I don’t believe him that he doesn’t think about them often; how could he not? Why wouldn’t he want to? So Sylar was left with a weakened, powerless hand pointing uselessly at the other man, standing with nothing to do and nowhere to go, though he looked around for something to occupy himself with, arm dropping in the process. His throat felt scratchy and raw and he hadn’t spoke yet, the violation and vulnerability Peter had was incomparable to what he had in Nathan’s memories. For one thing, Nathan was dead and gone, a third party at that. But Peter had life ammunition, everything he could ever want to twist Sylar any way he wished. He had no way to hide or even lie.
Dumbly, he stood there, working up a response. “I’d tell you to destroy them but I know you can’t. And why would you?” That was said hopelessly, with slight acknowledgment of the irony. Once more, he searched for an escape and found none. Voice ragged, he finally answered, “Just ignore them. They’re not…I...I don’t remember things correctly…a lot. Whatever you see, it’s probably just…It’s all screwed up.” He already knows that. Jesus, how can he stand to look at me? Talk to me? He felt filthy. Sylar sat gracelessly, still reeling. One thing became clear: “That’s what it’s like for you, with Nathan’s…No one knows you better than he does and so do I and now you have those from me,” Sylar gestured with a finger, the hand itself not leaving his thigh. “At least we’re even,” he said with humor he didn’t feel. He knows me better than anyone else ever has. That…must be just as horrifying for him as it is useful.
“How did you get them?” That would give him a timeline of some kind. He said he ignores them…why? If I ask it, though, he’ll get ideas.
XXX
That was a good question. Not that Peter didn't know - he did - but he had already been entertaining a level of uncertainty about reality-as-he-knew-it. Was there any other possibility? When I got the ability from Rene maybe? What about later, when I met Matt? Is it something about being here - is telepathy feeding me the information and I'm just thinking I had it from Mercy Heights? His brow knit slightly and he frowned - that last one was really hard to disprove. “I think I got them at Mercy Heights, using … when I took all of your ...” He shrugged loosely, eyes falling sightlessly as he realized how that must have been to Sylar, not that Peter had cared too much at the time. Even now, being ambivalent about it, he knew it was murder. Or an attempted murder. Or maybe a successful one that Sylar came back from. Peter wasn't sure what it was, but one look at Sylar's face made it clear he wasn't discussing something easy for the other man to hear.
Peter's voice softened. His brother's killer or not, Sylar was a human being who seemed deeply affected by that event. Gently, making eye contact, he said, “When you wouldn't give me Nathan, and I took everything out of you that wasn't him - I think that's when I got your memories. I'm not positive because I didn't start seeing things until I was here with you, but … there wasn't as much triggering them until I was here, either.”
It occurred to him Rene must have Peter's life story from that assault Peter had endured in the cargo container, before the torturous trip to Ireland. He sighed slightly. The thought didn't bother him much. The idea of people knowing things about him, by itself, wasn't distressing. A little embarrassing maybe, but he hardly saw Rene (instead of living with him as he nearly was with Sylar), he was a family friend (rather than enemy), and it seemed like he had some good intention in what he’d done, painful as Peter had found it (as opposed to Sylar wanting Nathan’s memories to help assassinate the president, and having them forced on him later so he could perpetrate some demented, possibly grief-fueled plan of Peter’s mother). Peter could have been talked into giving Rene the same information, whereas he would have fought Sylar possessing it.
XXX
Sylar got the intended feeling that Peter really didn’t care much for even thinking about this. (He said ‘your’ not ‘you’). He hasn’t acted…violated or put-out except when he jumped me with accusations. But that still doesn’t make sense. “Then why do you keep asking me questions you already know the answers to?” Is it a test? Another one of those medical ones or…just seeing if I know my own story?
XXX
Peter looked at him blankly for a moment, Sylar’s previous words now making sense, asking him to pretend the memories were false. That was only relevant if Peter had delved into them. He must think I … know, remember, have paid attention to? those memories. He shook his head. “They’re not mine. I don’t …” Peter huffed, shoulders rising and lowering as he tried to find words to explain something so purely mental. “It’s like when I dream. If I have a dream about someone cutting me off in traffic and then getting out of the car and turning into a dinosaur, stomping down the street stepping on cars, and I get out of my car to stop him but my only power is shooting lasers out my fingers, and they’re really narrow, needle-like beams that go forever, shooting through the dinosaur and anything behind it, like buildings and people and I can’t figure out how to stop it without slicing up everyone near-“ Peter cut himself off. One, Sylar probably didn’t give a fig for Peter’s weird, vivid dreams. Two, it said way too much about Peter’s insecurities and he was getting anxious just thinking about it. And three, the dream’s details were irrelevant to the current discussion.
XXX
Right. And I’m the crazy one who needs to sleep alone. Sylar could only stare, forcefully keeping his expression blank instead of…anything else. At first he’d thought Peter was pulling things at random to make a point but…not so. Sylar grasped Peter’s underlying fear regarding his abilities. The difference was where Peter feared, Sylar had lived them - any evil thing he could have done, he had already done, intentionally or not.
XXX
“Well, when I wake up, I know that was a dream. It didn’t happen. That wasn’t really me. That’s how it is with your memories.” Peter looked off to the side. “I don’t … think about them. They aren’t part of me,” he said, looking back. “It’s something I’ve … I’ve got, but I don’t see it unless I think about it. Like, maybe, opening a book. Or concentrating. I have to actually think about it and I don’t do that.” He gestured at his head in frustration. “I don’t want this. I don’t think you want me to have it. I don’t want you having Nathan’s memories. So if I don’t want you knowing what he knows, then I can’t be using the information I have about you. It’s … cheating. It’s wrong. I do ignore them, as much as I can.”
XXX
“I don’t believe you, but that’s beside the point,” really it was. He would never believe or even know if Peter ‘focused’ on the memories (the most evidence he would have is Peter saying, knowing or asking about strange things).
“But you looked before, when you said you knew it was foreign…matter.” Sylar pointed out. “You were curious then, what’s to stop you from being curious later? I’m not going to tell you anything; you know that. The only way you’ll get an answer is by searching or ‘focusing,’ whatever the hell you want to call it. So when you don’t get your way, you’ll…start looking. You won’t be any different from me, except you have a choice, or so you say.”
XXX
“I didn't look on purpose. At first I thought you were … projecting thoughts into my head. Or dreams or something, but I couldn't figure out why you'd show me that.” He grimaced, not upset at the idea of Sylar being sexual, but at the confusion he'd felt at the time about why Sylar might elect to reveal something so personal. It had been too tender to strike Peter as boasting. His grimace faded, remembering the way Sylar had thought Elle was so beautiful at that moment she nearly glowed. Seeing her through Sylar's eyes, she'd looked so lovely and heart-breakingly sweet, that something good had happened … Peter shook his head and palmed his forehead, trying to block the memories he hadn't intended to re-explore. “I- that's-” He made a low grunt of frustration
XXX
Sylar glared, trying to see through Peter to get to the truth. “How could I ‘project’ anything at you? You’re the one with telepathy! It happened more than once; you didn’t control it; you chose to look. I thought you cared about intent,” Sylar sneered. One way or other, he was going to get a better answer out of Peter.
XXX
Peter lifted his head enough to glare back at Sylar. He didn't like the man's tone - words even less so. He was getting the impression Sylar was deliberately calling him a liar, on something that was akin to a point of honor for Peter. Teeth slightly bared, he bit the words out: “I did not choose to look.” Peter straightened in his seat, making what was hopefully his last defense. “I was asleep the first time. I didn't have any choice and I didn't have any control. I didn't know what was happening. Since then I've left it alone.”
XXX
“Really? How many times have you successfully ignored it? Does it build up? Does it disturb you if you don’t take a peek?” Sylar couldn’t help the feeling of betrayal he had. Peter had known something about him, regardless of what he thought it was or how it got there, and he hadn’t informed the owner, ‘hey, I’ve got something of yours. It was this moment. Did you mean for me to have that?’ The more rational part of him, the colder part, decided he didn’t want to know every thing Peter saw about him, at least that way he wouldn’t have to chase down and deal with a dozen new demons as Peter saw into his past. Why do I care if he sees it? (Because…I changed to get away from everything that happened. No one can know. And he’ll use it against me). If he didn’t know, it wouldn’t hurt him…until Peter ambushed him with whatever ghost from his closet at whim.
XXX
Peter shifted restlessly in the chair, the wheels making slight noises with the motion. His body was tensing. Defense was not going to get him anywhere. “Just like you asked me - why would I keep asking you things if I already knew the answers?” he burst out. “Do you think I'm that bored that I'd play that kind of a game with you?” It flashed through Peter's head that whatever machinations Sylar had been subjected to made this a poor line to use with him. People had, after all, pretended to be his family. It wasn't so odd to imagine Peter might pretend to be ignorant for a few weeks. Shaking his head, Peter got to his feet. He would not be cast as the same sort of fucked up manipulator as his parents. Also, Sylar needed some perspective. His personal crisis had nothing to do with why Peter was here - to save lives, a mission to which Sylar was being a frustrating obstacle. Drawing himself up, he spat, “It's not that hard to ignore, Sylar. Despite what you might think, you and your fucking memories are not the center of my universe. I just shut it out and focus on what's important! You should try it!” The last was a challenge, complete with a jerk upward of his chin.
XXX
Sitting on his cot, Sylar stayed where he was, aiming at contrary to upset Peter more. He was stung and angry at being dismissed so easily (but he doubted it was that easy in for Peter to do in reality). It was intentionally disrespectful but Sylar had ammunition of his own. Giving plenty of attitude, he shot back, “You’re right, Peter. The next time ‘your fucking brother’ decides to make an appearance, I expect you to shut it out and focus on what’s important. After all, he’s dead and I’m very much alive.” Well aware of the glove he’d just slapped Peter with (and he was escalating the situation), Sylar fully expected things to get violent. So much the better because it would show the empath’s true colors: the holier-than-thou and hypocrite routines.
XXX
Peter took a step closer to Sylar, which still left them most of the living room apart. “Like you had nothing to do with that? You murdered him! Just because it was 'part of your fucking plan' or whatever!” He made a wave of his hand and arm that managed to be both dismissive and disparaging at the same time (the two weren't much different, anyway). “Your 'plan' to kill the bad guy, right? Your 'plan' was to murder someone! That's what you set out to do! And anyone else who got in your way, I'll bet.” Peter pointed, unnecessary though the emphasis was. His raised voice and snarling tone conveyed his bitter intent just fine. “If it weren't for what you did, I'd have him to go to instead of you!” Peter looked away to grimace and wince from a stabbing ache from his jaw, reaching up to rub under his ear. He looked back up at Sylar with visible loathing, lip curled and eyes dark.
XXX
Sylar’s look was incredulous. “Is that supposed to hurt my feelings? Make me feel guilty?” Peter’s ‘attack’ was a real miss as far as he was concerned, taking the easy out Sylar supposed he’d unintentionally presented. He wanted Peter riled up, angry, swinging even. “Boo hoo, your big brother is dead. Shit happens and life sucks. You’re not special that way. It sounds-”
XXX
Whatever Sylar had intended to say beyond that was lost to Peter. He was on his way across the room at 'shit happens', concepts flashing through his mind at that interesting lightning speed the mind manages when fight-or-flight is triggered. People often referred to it by saying everything seemed to slow down. Peter had never had that sense, but he didn't doubt it worked that way for some. For him, there was an instant awareness that hitting Sylar with his right hand was dumb; hitting Sylar in the head, at all, was dumb; and Sylar had a low enough opinion of him to think he'd do it. It added up to the perfect feint, because all Peter really wanted to do was get his hand on Sylar's throat and shut him the hell up. He came in with his right hand high and pulling back for a punch. His left was lower, ready to strike forward but he was hoping Sylar's attention stayed on the more obvious threat.
XXX
Mission accomplished, Peter was approaching him with a crazed look of rage. For the moment, it made Sylar feel satisfaction. And it was familiar; he knew what was coming, he knew the motions. His right…? He wondered at the choice of raised fist. ‘Oh, well; this will be funny’ was his abbreviated realization. To ensure Peter maximized his own stupidity and pain, Sylar stayed put, neither bracing nor flinching from the oncoming blow, watching as it drew closer and larger in his vision.
XXX
Peter's punch whiffed and he grunted, missing the front of Sylar's face by at least a half inch. Managing not to hit the guy took more focus and attention than he'd expected. What he had expected was for Sylar to help him out by blocking. That the guy would just sit there instead and let it happen? Bizarre. But Peter carried through with using his left hand to seize him by the throat and shove him backward as far as he'd go on the narrow bed.
XXX
Sylar’s shock - how could he have missed? - lasted only seconds. Whoa! His eyes went wide as he felt but didn’t see the grip that propelled him backwards by main force. As their lower halves mindlessly settled themselves, Sylar laughed aloud, gleeful and smug at Petrelli’s reaction. (I made him do that! That’s power!) Being strangled in his bed was ironic in a not-amusing way. Being strangled by this man had promise. Being in his bed with Peter, in this vague position (as near as he could tell) was…Okay, Peter seemed a little intent with the whole throat-crushing thing. Sylar could feel his body reacting before his mind caught on to the threat. Equally angry at being disrespected and certainly not going to take…this lying down, he jabbed his own dominant fist into Peter’s side, the other hand tangling in the empath’s hair and yanking it back to hurt and discomfit.
XXX
Peter tried to foil Sylar's body blows from the left by having his right forearm run interference. Most of his attention was on adjusting his left-handed, one-handed grip on Sylar's neck. Pressure poorly applied would take a lot more strength and (more importantly) time to have the desired effect, but if he got it right, then Sylar would have mere seconds to take potshots at him. Medical training is good for something, he thought as his fingers dug in. Laugh at this, you son of a bitch! He snarled into Sylar's face, a bestial noise emerging rather than words as all of his rage played out in his wild-eyed face. He ignored the hand in his hair as much as he could. Losing some hair was not nearly so important to Peter as losing blood flow to the brain was to Sylar.
XXX
I can breathe…I’m not hitting him…I’m not…From there any action and thought weakened. Peter wasn’t messing around. Sylar could feel his strength and cognition fading with every heartbeat and it left him with the primary emotion of powerless, phobic terror. (He’s going to Haitian me!) That much was understood. Panicking hands gripped at Peter where he could as his body felt weightless, his veins hollow yet burning; he thought he was moving his legs but he couldn’t be sure. His vision narrowed and blackened frighteningly fast. (It’s quick, it’s quick…) Death would be quick, lonely as promised.
Continued...