sirenspull_logs | i'm your villain

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i'm your villain

Who: Peter & Sylar
When: The morning after Sylar's post
Where: Peter's apartment.
Summary: It's the morning after Peter's begun to harbor a fugitive and let strange things happen in the night. And now Peter's making breakfast..... things're sure to get interesting, yup.
Warnings: awkwardness? shenanigans? will change if necessary

[ Peter had woken up before Sylar, something he was in fact thankful for, for a variety of reasons. One of which was so that he could stare at Sylar for an unquestionable amount of time, and try to piece together the series of events that had led them to this. Sylar was still curled awkwardly on top of the sheets, though he'd settled slightly in his sleep and Peter just couldn't stop staring. Because somehow it seemed the more time he spent around him, the more human Sylar became. The more present, Peter's own constant. And looking at the other man while he slept, well -- there wasn't much monstrous about him.

Giving his head a shake and mussing his own hair, Peter slowly eases himself out of bed, trying to move slow so as not to wake his "company." Only after he's padded out of the bedroom does he breathe a little easier, pausing at the basket to give Mr. Muggles some scritches behind the ears before Tabitha mewls and wanders by for some morning cuddles as well. Peter's apartment: a little bit like a zoo; who knows where Denzel was hiding, waiting to pounce.

But after a few more seconds, Peter stands, yawns, and heads to the kitchen because in the morning, Peter's brain is gooey at best, and coffee is an absolute necessity. Setting up the machine to brew an exceptionally full pot, Peter folds his arms over his chest, already starting to twitch with Sylar out of his sight, something he's still too warm and sleep addled to try and think about.

Because as soon as it's done, Peter's pouring himself a cup and walking slow back towards the bedroom, where he leans against the doorframe and simply watches. Stares at the fact that there's another person in his bed, that he perhaps can't curl around, and his warm-fuzzy-morning-addled mind might be pouting a little at that fact. Breathing in the warm scent of caffeine, Peter knows he can find something better to do, like make toast, or read the paper. But instead he's rooted to the spot, waiting for the rousing of Sylar. ]

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[ Unlike Peter, Sylar hadn't slept through the previous day, and the exhaustion that had come down on him had been crushing, overwhelming. Feeling safe enough to actually sleep, after the nights he's had on the streets, he'd slept through until morning, and showed every sign of sleeping on, but besides the sensation of being watched, Mr. Muggles didn't leave him much of a choice.

A few moments after Peter had taken position beside the door, the dog jumped up onto the bed and began to lick his face, yet even then it took a few moments for Sylar to wake completely, pushing the little dog off to the floor with one hand. He blinked as he sat up, as though he wasn't entirely sure where he was.

It came back to him soon enough. Peter was still standing by the door with his coffee, staring at him, and Sylar frowned, raising his hand to push back through his hair. It stayed stuck up regardless, and would probably stay that way until he showered, his eyes were half stuck together with sleep, but he went at them with his fingers, rubbing at least a little freedom back into his eyelids. ]

G'morning.

[ As soon as Sylar started to wake up, Peter couldn't help but think that maybe that was when he should stop staring, move away, go do something else. And yet he waited a few minutes longer, watching as Sylar went through the stages of wakening while Mr. Muggles ran about at his feet. The whole scene made something pull at the bottom of his stomach, and that was almost enough to drag Peter back to the kitchen table, but he waited, watched Sylar's early morning movements.

Sipping at his coffee, it didn't help that Peter still wasn't awake enough himself to have his usual constant surging of emotions; he was muted, slow to react, and more observant than he was reactive.

Even when Sylar spoke, it took Peter a few extra seconds to respond, ducking his face to nudge Mr. Muggles out of the bedroom with his foot, before he looked back up at the other man, exhaling slowly. Worriedly. ]

Morning. There's coffee if you want some.

[ It's too early in the day to be a creepy serial killer; much too early. The truth is that nobody ever sees him like this, so he's not sure what to do, or what Peter is thinking staying in the doorway and watching him. More than he has for a year now, he feels awkward, hyper-aware of himself, and his being watched - of his being humanised.

After another effort to straighten his rebellious hair, Sylar climbed off, and immediately turned back to make the bed, straightening the pillows, pulling the sheets neatly. A life of practice, and yet there, again, the lack of abilities stung.

Finally satisfied, he turned back to the door, crossing to Peter's side. ]

Coffee sounds great. [ A tilt of his head toward the kitchen. ] Peter.

[ As soon as Sylar begins to get up, Peter has every intention of turning and heading back into the rest of his apartment, but it's the fact that Sylar fixes the sheets that catches Peter off guard all over again, and has him watching for another few moments.

Peter doesn't even make his own bed, and holding his mug against his chest, he can't imagine why Sylar would feel the need to make his.

Lost in thought for a few more seconds, he's slightly startled by having Sylar at his side and he flinches before he can even try to stop it, before he clears his throat, pushing away from the door frame. ]

Right, sure. [ Taking another long pull from his mug, Peter pads back towards the kitchen, practically a pied piper as the two cats follow at his heels. It's breakfast time for everyone, apparently. And yes, Peter is fully aware that this scenario makes him seem an old cat lady, but there's absolutely nothing he can do about that either. ]

[ Meticulous, that's what he is. Meticulous and neat, everything in its place, everything in order. He follows Peter a step behind the cats, an extension of the troup, but watching them all curiously as though he's about to be let in on the mystery.

But Peter is as normal as they come, still padding into the kitchen, and though Gabriel pauses just before the threshhold, the image doesn't change. It's disorientating, because Peter is - as far as Sylar is concerned - the most powerful person on the planet, yet here he is, feeding cats and fetching coffee for murderers.

Sylar doesn't offer to help. Instead he finds a seat and sits forward, watching Peter to see what he does, whether he uses his powers in he morning or not. There's nothing even remotely judgemental about the study, for once. ]

What are their names?

[ Peter is fully aware that he could use his abilities to pull out a mug and pour coffee, but in the morning he just doesn't see the benefit to it. He doesn't want to dehumanize himself, doesn't want to sit in a chair and watch his abilities rule his every movement, though he lives in fear of when that may happen.

Not to mention, it's partially habit; the rituals of morning. But this -- Sylar being here -- is breaking every single rule, and so to avoid eye contact, once Sylar's own mug is filled, Peter waves his hand gently towards it with a brush of telekinesis to send it to the other man, while turning to attend to feeding the cats. ]

Tabitha and Denzel-- [ He nods to each one as he says their names; Tabitha the tabby, and Denzel who's fully black. ] -- And before you even ask, I didn't name them. A friend of Spike's got Denzel and we got her she went back home. And Spike named ours. [ sigh ] And now they're mine.

[ Gabriel takes the cup, curling his hands carefully around it as Peter sets to feeding the cats. It's not the warmth of the coffee so much as the hope that he might residually feel the telekinesis used to brush it toward him as he caught it. It doesn't work, not really.

Instead he studies the cats as they twist around Peter's feet, and wonders why he wants a life like this. ]

I've never had a pet. We couldn't keep them.

[ And not really because of anything but the most practical reason--their rental agreement hadn't permitted it. But that had only ever made him jealous of the other children. He'd come home with a goldfish once, and been forced to tip it into the river. ]

What happens to them if you die?

[ To continue avoiding the inevitable sense of closeness Peter knew he'd get with Sylar still being in his apartment, Peter hopped up onto the kitchen counter, reaching for his own coffee, and taking a sip while he watched the cats for a few more seconds.

But it was the second question that caught him off guard, finally lifting his attention up and over to the taller man. ]

Someone else would take them, probably. Or the pound. I don't know, haven't really thought about it. [ Running a hand through his hair and undoubtedly mussing it more than fixing it, Peter sighed, setting his mug down directly next to his thigh. But then his brow furrowed and he looked back at Sylar. ]

Why?

[ He was still struggling with the idea of Sylar actually caring about him, whatever the actual reason was. It wasn't as if he'd forgotten what Sylar had said last night -- if anything, he couldn't stop thinking about it. But he was still curious, still wanted to know why Sylar was so intrigued by all of this. ]

[ He wondered whether Peter actually cared about what would happen to the animals when he died, but since Peter did seem to be having trouble caring about himself the likely answer was 'no'. But he still fed them every day, and he had still petted them, so the answer was definitely, despite the slim possibility, yes.

But he remembered last night, remembered that Peter had told him that he thought nobody cared for him, and yet here was another reminder that he was wrong. But they were only animals. ]

They would probably be destroyed. There are, after all, an excess of animals in the city. If homes couldn't be found for them, they'd be euthanised, and then it wouldn't matter if they had once been Spike's or yours, or anything else. They'd be burned.

[ He leant forward. ]

But you wouldn't want that to happen, would you, Peter? [ He seemed for a moment as though he would turn the screw, but instead he just sips is coffee and says: ] You should write a will.

[ Listening to Sylar speak, Peter's hands tightened their grip on the edge of the counter, feeling his stomach nearly drop out from under him, his expression falling. Just because he was still warm from sleep didn't mean he couldn't feel remorse, some form of guilt.

Of failure.

Swallowing thickly, he drags his gaze away from Sylar and stares at the refrigerator instead, simply because it's there, because it doesn't twist him in all the wrong ways quite like looking at the other man does. For a few seconds he contemplates saying that he has work, that he has to leave, that he has things to do because he can't imagine the conversation getting any better from here, but instead picks up his cup of coffee again, holding it between his hands and almost imperceptibly shrugging. ]

Maybe I should. Won't really matter either way if I go back home, though. [ But that makes him feel equally sick to his stomach to think about, his expression showing just as much, though Peter tries to hide it behind another sip of coffee. ] But I guess I see your point.

[ It's a perfectly valid suggestion, he thinks. Will someone the animals, someone safe, and someone else in case that person dies or is unavailable. A whole list of people, but anyone to keep what is safe safe, even if Peter himself is taken away. ]

It's not about whether it matters. You can't feel guilty if you're dead, or back home and not remembering anything about this place. It's about the guilt you carry now, and lifting it by knowing that if the worst happens, you're prepared for it.

[ But Sylar can see that Peter is thinking about home, and that the thoughts are gloomy, and he looks away too. Because the only thing telling him that he's still alive is Claire's vitriol, and the same probably goes for Peter. He was going to explode, after all, and what a thing to look forward to. ]

You can't expect to stay here forever, Peter.

Yeah, and why not? [ His attention snaps sideways again, looking angrier than he did a moment ago. ] There're people who've been here for years, Sylar. Years. People who don't know when they might go home and are pretty damn sure they never will.

And all I have looking forward to at home is finding out whether or not I killed Nathan, which isn't any better than all the guilt i've to deal with here.

[ .... oops. Snapping his jaw shut, Peter's shoulders sink and all he keeps thinking is that he doesn't want to have another day full of emotional outbursts caused by Sylar. But at this rate, he'll be falling apart at Sylar's feet in no time.

The other man was the only one who seemed to be able to say all the right things -- or wrong things, really-- that made Peter snap, twist until he spilled what he wouldn't say to anyone else, not even other people who said they cared. Because they didn't understand and never could. Swearing under his breath, Peter goes right back to ducking his face down, staring at the mug he's stil holding in his hand.

Maybe he really should escape while he still can, but Peter couldn't imagine getting up and leaving. He didn't know why, but he couldn't leave, didn't want to, and perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Sylar cared and it affected Peter far more than it should have. ]

[ Gabriel gives him his privacy as he snaps like that, and smiles into his coffee in an effort to hide how amused he is by Peter's ourburst, but regardless, it's out now, and he can see that hoping he can stay here is all that's holding him together. He finally takes a sip, collecting himself, and sets the cup back down on the table, just in time to reach down and lift Mr. Muggles into his lap.

Which makes him think. ]

Have you considered asking Claire? She would know. Or would you prefer if I asked her?

[ Which is a serious question, because Peter isn't good at opening up to anyone, and the only reason he opens up to Sylar at all is because he's got the pliers twisted right in there. ]

Of course if you'd rather punish yourself for something you might not have done, who am I to complain?

Don't. [ He throws Sylar a sharply firm look, because it's obvious that he hasn't asked Claire yet whether or not his brother is alive, but that's hardly the point. Because the point is that he put his brother in the hospital in the first place, and even if he comes out the other side of it, Peter was the one who did it to him.

He's the one who can't make his abilities work with him, no matter how hard he tries, while Sylar seems to understand them instantaneously. Even though his abilities instantly became part of his DNA, they feel so much less a part of him than something that simply controls him, and it infuriates Peter to the point where tries to stuff it all away. ]

You don't need to talk to Claire in the first place. [ It was said under his breath more than anything, because he didn't want Claire knowing Sylar was here as much as he didn't want Sylar killing Claire. It all just went to make him feel infinitely more awful. ]

Just.. leave it alone, okay? Claire already thinks that I spend too much time defending you, don't get involved. [ Which he does, but Peter's shaking his head, frustrated with only himself before downing some more of his coffee. ]

[ Sylar raises both hands high in mock surrender, but mostly because it's too early in the morning to watch Peter collapse into fitful sobs, and as easy as it would be to force it through, he has a hankering for pancakes that would be much interrupted by something like that. The serious topics can wait.

Standing, he carries Mr. Muggles over to Peter and drops him into his arms, glancing past him into the kitchen. ]

Do you have any powdered egg? What am I saying? Everyone has powdered egg.

[ He stepped through, caring little for the inevitable shock he'd leave in his wake, and beginning to go through Peter's cupboards looking for ingredients. If he can't have pancakes he'll do without, but he'll hold it against him none the less.

And while he hunts, he thinks about what Peter said, about not knowing if Nathan is alive. It clearly bothers him, but why? Brother he might be, but Nathan was a politician, and worse still a New York electoral candidate. It would be like being related to Lucifer himself. ]

[ Anything else Peter might have been wiling to say, he swallows with Sylar's sudden interest in... powdered egg of all things, especially since he's now looking down at Mr. Muggles, who's happily turned Peter's lap into his basket.

Glowering slightly as he watches Sylar search through his cupboards, Peter should have just enough to make pancakes, somewhere at least -- he's lived here long enough after all. He probably even has pancake mix hidden in the depths of the cabinets, he just hardly ever cares enough to cook for himself. Peter's content to live on his diet of coffee and peanut butter sandwiches most days.

He can only hold back his curiosity for so long, though, before he sinks back against the cupboard behind him, still glowering at Sylar for upsetting the balance to his morning. ] What're you trying to make? [ The question is grumpy at best, and Peter picks up his mug to hide behind it once again. ]

[ Sylar found the pancake mix at the very back of the cupboard, and since it was only two weeks out of date he dropped it on the side and looked for a bowl and a whisk. He found both, set them on the sideboard, and then began the process of following the instructions, humming to himself as he went.

He fetched the milk from the fridge and carried on, casting a glance up toward Peter. ]

This is a kitchen, isn't it? When was the last time you cooked in here? And I mean cooked, rather than 'made sandwiches'.

[ He dropped the whisk into the mixture and held it out toward Peter. ]

Put Mr. Muggles down and make yourself useful.

[ Peter has half a mind to tell Sylar to bite him, that he didn't ask Sylar to make pancakes, nor did he ask Sylar to make any kind of use of his kitchen.

Rolling his eyes, he lifts Mr. Muggles off his lap and hops down off the counter to put the little guy on the ground, and off he goes, running to go sit on the couch or whatever it is he does in the morning. ]

Like I keep telling you, i'm never home. Why does it matter when the last time I cooked in here was? I've got a microwave and a coffee maker, don't really need anything else.

[ But despite his complaining, Peter's whisking, and he's not even sure why. It's not like he has to stand in the kitchen and do this, but here he is. ]

You ever heard of take out? [ He says it more under his breath than anything, but slides the bowl back towards Sylar once he's done with it -- having made sure not to over mix it. It's not like he's never done this before. ]

I didn't say it mattered.

[ Which is true, he only implied it, but Sylar finds a pan, and a little butter, and lights the gas, still humming. Peter's made the mixture perfectly, so he has nothing to even comment on when he picks it up, turning back to the stove to pour out the mixture. ]

I learnt to cook by watching my mother. She wouldn't let me help, but then she didn't have to. Even without my power I can still remember enough to do this.

[ The truth was that things had faded. Even when he looked at a broken watch, the inate knowledge of how to repair it had slipped away like water, and while he still could, if he concentrated, without his power he was nothing but a lamen. At least his hands were still steady; that was one thing the lack of powers couldn't take. ]

You don't know what you have until you lose it, Peter.

Thanks for the lesson. [ Leaning back against the counter, Peter simply crossed his arms over his chest and set to watching Sylar work. This, all of this, was oddly domestic in a twisted sort of way, and it almost reminded him of Spike to the point where he looked down, glanced away. ]

Y'know, when I first showed up here, I would've done anything to get rid of my abilities. After I got yours, I would've done anything to get rid of 'em, too. But i've been voided, I understand that much.

[ Glancing back up to the pan, Peter has to wonder if he's done such a good job trying to remove himself from what he's terrified he'll turn into, from what part of him still wants to turn into, that's he's removed himself all on his own. ]

And I don't think i've ever seen my mother cook once. The nanny didn't even go in the kitchen that much.

[ Holding his attention straight forward, if Sylar was going to do some life sharing, then Peter figured he might as well, too. ]

[ Sylar had known that Peter had grown up spoiled, but the idea of not having seen his mother cook was a surprising one. If Peter hadn't been taught to cook, what was he supposed to do living alone? Eat bagels and takeout for the rest of his life? Obviously - judging by the kitchen cupboards - that was a possibility, but it still seemed like an odd upbringing to him.

Of course he resented the way he had been raised. He reseented the monotony, the blind faith in god, resented the memory of his father who had left, and his mother, who had called him a monster. Resented... Resented the strange woman that had dogged his memory ever since his first meeting with Lucifer, but didn't know why.

He almost burned the first pancake, distracted by his thoughts, but saved it just in time, and glanced over his shoulder at Peter again. ]

Do you still want to get rid of them?

[ His upbringing isn't exactly something he has any intention on speaking to Sylar about. Nannies and his older brother being the only people who had ever seemed to care, and then after Nathan had gone to college, being left alone with the household assistants while his father pretended Peter didn't exist and his mother was too busy making sure the family name never buckled under the weight of bad press and the political rumor mill to ask if he'd done his homework.

No, Peter was perfectly fine not talking to Sylar about how he was raised. Mostly because he was Sylar, but he hardly needed to give the other man any more ammunition as to how to get into his head and wrap around the things that Peter truly wanted.

The question has Peter looking up again though, from where he's been staring off into space and it takes him a minute to understand what Sylar's asking before he shrugs, moving to pull out a plate for the other man to put the pancakes on. ]

No. At least most days, I don't.

[ There were so many levels to that question, but the answer he got was expected. Peter had come to control the most difficult of his abilities - Sylar's. Or perhaps Ted Sprague had won that particular prize? In any case, he had mastered it, and there could be little that could shake him in the wake of powers so dangerous, so explosive.

But it meant that Peter, for once, was certain of something about himself, and Sylar noted it for use in a later argument, because he was serving up pancakes now, and having them thrown back at him was far from the agenda. ]

It would be different at home, wouldn't it? Knowing you're different, but never being able to tell anyone about it. It's expected here.

Do you have any maple syrup?

I have... just syrup. Somewhere, I think.

[ Ignoring Sylar's other question for a few moments in favor of going to dig through the fridge, Peter sighs, closing his eyes for the length of a heartbeat before he sets to digging around, pushing aside butter and milk and beer until the syrup reveals itself in the back of fridge, and he drags it out to set it on the counter. ]

Yeah, it'd be different at home. It always was different. Doesn't mean that it's any better here, just because we all get to know. You think I tell people about everything i've done?

[ He still rarely talked about the explosion in Kirby Plaza, or what happened with Simone. But admittedly, Peter was eyeing breakfast, and simultaneously eyeing Sylar. This wasn't his usual morning routine and it set him slightly off kilter. ]

[ He tilted his head, moving to take the syrup from Peter, and pouring it quietly into a saucepan. The kitchen wasn't exactly overequipped, but he could get by. It might drive him to madness if he had to live here as long as Peter had. He swapped the pancakes with the saucepan and began to serve up, knowing that he had Peter's attention for no more complicated reason than that he was being utterly, remorselessly domestic.

And he was doing that partly because it was breakfast time, and partly to unnerve the other man. It seemed to be working.

He found cutlery and set the two places, then returned to pick up the hot syrup from the stove, then turned to drizzle it over the pancakes. ]

In our house, breakfast was the most important meal of the day. My mother always thought I looked like I needed feeding up.

[ Sandwiches. For a moment he froze dead still, half way to sitting down, like a fox that had caught a scent, and then the moment broke and he settled into his chair, focusing on the pancakes. ]

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