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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[ 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. ]

[ Unnerved was a little bit of an understatement. And it wasn't just because of the pancakes, but of the talk of their pasts that was starting to rub Peter the wrong way. It didn't raise his hackles so much as set him on edge, as if he should be expecting something actually bad to happen at any moment.

But it didn't. All Sylar did was make pancakes, and then offer him a plate. That's all it was. Which was the strange part.

Watching Sylar closely, Peter slips around him and goes to sit on the couch. Because there's no way he's sitting at the table with Sylar when this all felt peculiar enough, and while they were talking about their families. He just can't. ]

Couldn't tell you what meal of the day my mom thinks is the most important. It's probably the meal we have with guests over. [ He was purposefully speaking more to himself than anything as he leant carefully to the side to put his coffee on the ground by the couch before starting to dig in. ]

[ His eyes flickered up to Peter as he left, and then with a frown he gathered up his plate and his coffee and stepped after him. He wasn't planning to continue this conversation from the kitchen, after all. He set the cup down on the top of the television, then deftly balanced his plate in one hand while he started on it with the fork. His eyes never left Peter, but he was a few sticky mouthfuls in by the time he spoke again. ]

You don't feel anything but contempt for the way you were raised, do you?

[ He took another bite. ]

No, don't answer that. You think the whole world should pity you, that nobody understands how hard it was to grow up wanting for nothing but love. Was there anything about your childhood that you don't look back on with hatred, Peter?

I don't think the whole world should pity me. [ Eyebrows furrowed intensely, he glares up Sylar, pausing in his eating to curl an arm around himself protectively. ] And I know other people get it. Understand what it's like.

[ That didn't mean he wasn't allowed to bitch and yeah, he knew that Sylar was doing this just to get to him, but Peter had always found himself an easy target, and he made it just so damn easy for Sylar that it took him another few seconds, and another sip of coffee to shake it off. And even then, he was still distressed.

Sylar was just doing this to irritate him, to get under his skin, to piss him off. None of it mattered. After a full minute he huffs, shrugging. ]

We had a dog, for one thing. I liked my dad's study, not that he liked when I was in it. I liked going fishing with Nathan -- I liked when he visited after he went to college. I liked when my mom actually asked how school went for once, and Sylar you don't care about any of this. Why does it matter to you?

[ It was with a particular firmness that he put his fork down, as though Sylar himself was frustrated. ]

Because I didn't have a dog, or a father, or a brother who visited, or took me fishing. Because, Peter, differences matter. Differences are what set us apart, differences stop you from being me. Isn't that what you want?

[ He took a sip of coffee, carefully, then set it back down, his hand shaking just slightly as he picked up the fork again. ]

I was the watchmaker son of a watchmaker. My father left, my mother smothered me, and that was my world end to end. You had everything. [ His eyes flickered up, condemning. ] But what is 'everything' to the man who doesn't know what 'nothing' means?

Why do you live like this, Peter?

[ He gestured to the apartment. ]

[ Alright, admittedly, that was a little bit of a smack to the face. Through most of Sylar's words, Peter's left staring into his cup of coffee, feeling rather guilty for hating every that he did have.

He's not trying to act like the stuck up little rich boy, Nathan always got to play that part while Peter always ran for dear life from it. It helped that his own father thought he was worthless and made that point clear until the day that he died.

But at the last question he looks up, but only just for a second. ]

Because I don't need more than this, and I can't afford much more than this, even if I wanted it. [ After a beat, he shrugs almost shamefully, taking a sip of his rapidly cooly coffee. ] Spike never complained.

[ Good. That was how he'd meant to make him feel, not to keep him on edge but to make him actually think for himself. He'd lost his identity - fine - then he had to be reintroduced to who he was, whether he liked what he found or not. ]

I thought it might be because you're still proving a point. That you live like this to prove that you can. Do you know what you tell the world, here, Peter?

[ He ate the last mouthful of his pancakes, then set the dish on top of the television. ]

You tell them that you're not special, and that you don't want to be. The smaller the box you put yourself in, the closer you get to the smallest box of all. You're happy being nobody.

I'm not proving a point, it's an apartment, Sylar. [ His tone's growing far more clipped, cut of by the irritation of having to explain this for what feels like the hundredth time now. ]

And you try getting something nicer on my salary. It's not like I work.. [ Peter works way more than he should, and he knows that, which is exactly why he goes quiet for a few seconds, searching for a better excuse than that one. Because he has money, and he knows it. ]

I never planned on being here for that long. In the Port. Why stay somewhere nice if you're only going to end up going back home in a month or two. And then a month turned into a whole year, but it's just an apartment. Haven't even had that many people over and nobody cares what it looks like.

[ He shrugs, poking at some of the remnants of his pancakes. ] I don't need a fancy apartment. I live- lived by myself, hardly spend any time here. Why have something nice if i'm not even gonna use it, huh?

I don't want you to defend the apartment, Peter. I want you to defend yourself. Nothing you've said has made me think you have any pride; nothing you've done.

[ He picked up his mug now, finishing off he cold coffee and setting it on the plate, then took a step in toward Peter.]

I know you care what other people think of you. The apartment is just an example of that. You look ill. You could care less about your appearance, or your health, you put yourself out in the Darkness fighting who knows what, and you think that having a sociopath in your house constitutes having a social calender.

You have to want it.

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