Peter Petrelli (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spongetastic) wrote2010-02-12 08:09 pm
spongetastic) wrote2010-02-12 08:09 pm
Entry tags:
Writers: Judgement
Picture prompt
There was no need to sleep; no need to eat. Time melded together so he really had no concept of how long he’d been here. He didn’t bother keeping track because it didn’t matter. He would be out soon.
He had no idea when it happened, but at some point Peter’s swings with the sledgehammer became rhythmic. The clank of the metal against brick began to sound more like the ticking of a clock. That was when Peter decided to give it a break for a while.
“No luck?” Sylar asked conversationally. Peter gave a little jerk of surprise seeing the other man sitting there. Of course he shouldn’t have been surprised at all. This was Sylar’s mind, after all, so it was impossible to completely escape him. But to have the killer sitting right there…
“How long have you been sitting there?” Peter demanded.
“Three days,” Sylar answered. “I was starting to think you would kill yourself at that pace.” Peter blinked, surprised at not only beating uselessly at the wall for all that time but the fact that Sylar knew.
It was only when the time sank into Peter’s mind that he felt it in his body. Pain shot through his arms and weariness struck him. He slumped, and ironically the damn wall was what kept his legs from buckling underneath him. Sylar rose to his feet and grabbed Peter’s hand before the empath could protest.
“You’re bleeding,” the killer observed with an impatient click of his tongue. Peter’s eyes drifted down and he saw that Sylar was correct. He’d accumulated blisters and those blisters were now bleeding messily all over his hands. Bleeding hands… Peter shut his eyes, trembling.
And then he was falling, and he crumbled to the ground. It hurt but he was too tired to notice. Peter closed his eyes, thankful for some rest.
---
Peter struggled with how to feel when he found his apartment in this version of New York. Was this image from Nathan’s memory or Sylar’s, and which was worse? He decided that it was worse that Sylar often dropped by the apartment when Peter was there.
“What do you want?” Peter huffed out on one such occasion.
“Do you know what day it is?” Sylar asked. The question was so random it took a few seconds for Peter to process.
“I have no idea,” Peter shrugged.
“June second,” Sylar told him promptly. “It’s my birthday,” he added.
“Oh.” Peter stared at the other man blankly, not sure what he should say. If he was even expected to say anything at all. Apparently not since Sylar turned and walked back out onto the street. Later Peter found him pounding away at the wall and the empath soon joined him without a word.
---
Peter picked up the sledgehammer, weighing it in his head. He turned to look at Sylar. The man stood nearby but hadn’t yet picked up his own hammer. He was completely defenseless. It would be so easy for Peter to take a swing at him. But he didn’t. Instead, he put the sledgehammer back down on the ground.
“What’s wrong?” Sylar wondered.
“When’s the last time it rained here?” Peter asked him. Weather wasn’t something he paid attention to when he first got here but now… The monotony was starting to bother him.
“It’s never rained,” Sylar shrugged. Peter knew the answer already, of course.
“I think we’re overdue for a storm,” he decided. Sylar glanced thoughtfully up at the sky and sure enough, dark clouds began to roll above them. They ran to Sylar’s apartment to avoid the downpour.
They sat together on the floor drinking hot cider (Sylar was morally against tea) and listened to the thunder rumble outside.
---
While Sylar tinkered with the watch he sang a little song to himself. Peter didn’t take much notice the first time. The words were so quiet he could barely hear them anyway. But then he heard the same song as the two of them sat together watching the sun set. It was such a sad tune that Peter couldn’t help but strain to listen.
“A lark, caught in a hunter's net
Sang sweeter then than ever,
As if the falling melody
Might wing and net dissever.
At dusk the hunter took his prey
The lark his freedom never
All birds and men are sure to die
But songs may live for ever.”
Only after the last line ended did Sylar notice that Peter was watching him. Peter expected the other man to make a snide comment about the tears glimmering in the empath’s eyes, but Sylar didn’t say a word.
Peter found himself humming the song later and it didn’t bother him as much as he expected that the words reminded him of Sylar.
---
“Do you know what day it is?” Sylar asked. He asked that question a few times every month or so. Peter thought at first he was just being annoying but now he understood that Sylar was helping him keep track of time. As if knowing how long they’d been trapped would help make it easier.
“December twenty…” Peter hesitated, thinking. “Twenty-third?” he guessed. He figured that must be it, or else Sylar wouldn’t bring it up. “It’s my birthday.”
“Exactly,” Sylar nodded. He looked pleased that Peter nailed it down to the day. He didn’t wish Peter a happy birthday; it seemed pointless to celebrate something like that. But the fact that he even bothered to bring it up meant something.
Something good, Peter decided.
---
Sylar liked to point out that Peter fell asleep in the strangest places. When he wasn’t suffering from insomnia, of course. More than once Peter fell asleep against the wall. He regretted it since doing so gave him a stiff neck when he woke up.
One day he fell asleep against the wall but when he woke up he was lying down. He didn’t remember curling up and what was more, he had a jacket cushioning his head. It was Sylar’s.
---
Peter couldn’t help but notice that no matter how hard he and Sylar slammed against that damn wall, they never made so much as a dent. You couldn’t even tell they were even trying. When he was starting to lose heart Sylar would hammer even harder. When Sylar got thirsty Peter would get them water. When one was tired the other would stop as well and they’d sit down together.
They talked a lot, though never about Nathan. It was understood to be an unapproachable subject. One day Peter called Sylar “Gabriel”, and the killer didn’t bother to correct him.
---
It was the anniversary of Nathan’s death. Peter spent it holed up in his room. He didn’t want to see Sylar because it would just bring up bad memories. The next day Peter came to the wall and noticed there was writing all over it. Some very familiar phrases were written up there: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” was one that caught Peter’s attention since that was one of his favorite movies. “Kafka was here” was another one, and Peter had to bite back a smile.
Then another section of the wall drew Peter’s eye. It looked like lines on a chalkboard. “I will not beat senselessly on a brick wall” it read, over and over, until it got to the bottom where in big letters it read “FUCK THIS SHIT I WILL DESTROY THIS DAMN WALL” and Peter burst out laughing.
---
They stood together side by side, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And for them, it was.
There was no need to sleep; no need to eat. Time melded together so he really had no concept of how long he’d been here. He didn’t bother keeping track because it didn’t matter. He would be out soon.
He had no idea when it happened, but at some point Peter’s swings with the sledgehammer became rhythmic. The clank of the metal against brick began to sound more like the ticking of a clock. That was when Peter decided to give it a break for a while.
“No luck?” Sylar asked conversationally. Peter gave a little jerk of surprise seeing the other man sitting there. Of course he shouldn’t have been surprised at all. This was Sylar’s mind, after all, so it was impossible to completely escape him. But to have the killer sitting right there…
“How long have you been sitting there?” Peter demanded.
“Three days,” Sylar answered. “I was starting to think you would kill yourself at that pace.” Peter blinked, surprised at not only beating uselessly at the wall for all that time but the fact that Sylar knew.
It was only when the time sank into Peter’s mind that he felt it in his body. Pain shot through his arms and weariness struck him. He slumped, and ironically the damn wall was what kept his legs from buckling underneath him. Sylar rose to his feet and grabbed Peter’s hand before the empath could protest.
“You’re bleeding,” the killer observed with an impatient click of his tongue. Peter’s eyes drifted down and he saw that Sylar was correct. He’d accumulated blisters and those blisters were now bleeding messily all over his hands. Bleeding hands… Peter shut his eyes, trembling.
And then he was falling, and he crumbled to the ground. It hurt but he was too tired to notice. Peter closed his eyes, thankful for some rest.
---
Peter struggled with how to feel when he found his apartment in this version of New York. Was this image from Nathan’s memory or Sylar’s, and which was worse? He decided that it was worse that Sylar often dropped by the apartment when Peter was there.
“What do you want?” Peter huffed out on one such occasion.
“Do you know what day it is?” Sylar asked. The question was so random it took a few seconds for Peter to process.
“I have no idea,” Peter shrugged.
“June second,” Sylar told him promptly. “It’s my birthday,” he added.
“Oh.” Peter stared at the other man blankly, not sure what he should say. If he was even expected to say anything at all. Apparently not since Sylar turned and walked back out onto the street. Later Peter found him pounding away at the wall and the empath soon joined him without a word.
---
Peter picked up the sledgehammer, weighing it in his head. He turned to look at Sylar. The man stood nearby but hadn’t yet picked up his own hammer. He was completely defenseless. It would be so easy for Peter to take a swing at him. But he didn’t. Instead, he put the sledgehammer back down on the ground.
“What’s wrong?” Sylar wondered.
“When’s the last time it rained here?” Peter asked him. Weather wasn’t something he paid attention to when he first got here but now… The monotony was starting to bother him.
“It’s never rained,” Sylar shrugged. Peter knew the answer already, of course.
“I think we’re overdue for a storm,” he decided. Sylar glanced thoughtfully up at the sky and sure enough, dark clouds began to roll above them. They ran to Sylar’s apartment to avoid the downpour.
They sat together on the floor drinking hot cider (Sylar was morally against tea) and listened to the thunder rumble outside.
---
While Sylar tinkered with the watch he sang a little song to himself. Peter didn’t take much notice the first time. The words were so quiet he could barely hear them anyway. But then he heard the same song as the two of them sat together watching the sun set. It was such a sad tune that Peter couldn’t help but strain to listen.
“A lark, caught in a hunter's net
Sang sweeter then than ever,
As if the falling melody
Might wing and net dissever.
At dusk the hunter took his prey
The lark his freedom never
All birds and men are sure to die
But songs may live for ever.”
Only after the last line ended did Sylar notice that Peter was watching him. Peter expected the other man to make a snide comment about the tears glimmering in the empath’s eyes, but Sylar didn’t say a word.
Peter found himself humming the song later and it didn’t bother him as much as he expected that the words reminded him of Sylar.
---
“Do you know what day it is?” Sylar asked. He asked that question a few times every month or so. Peter thought at first he was just being annoying but now he understood that Sylar was helping him keep track of time. As if knowing how long they’d been trapped would help make it easier.
“December twenty…” Peter hesitated, thinking. “Twenty-third?” he guessed. He figured that must be it, or else Sylar wouldn’t bring it up. “It’s my birthday.”
“Exactly,” Sylar nodded. He looked pleased that Peter nailed it down to the day. He didn’t wish Peter a happy birthday; it seemed pointless to celebrate something like that. But the fact that he even bothered to bring it up meant something.
Something good, Peter decided.
---
Sylar liked to point out that Peter fell asleep in the strangest places. When he wasn’t suffering from insomnia, of course. More than once Peter fell asleep against the wall. He regretted it since doing so gave him a stiff neck when he woke up.
One day he fell asleep against the wall but when he woke up he was lying down. He didn’t remember curling up and what was more, he had a jacket cushioning his head. It was Sylar’s.
---
Peter couldn’t help but notice that no matter how hard he and Sylar slammed against that damn wall, they never made so much as a dent. You couldn’t even tell they were even trying. When he was starting to lose heart Sylar would hammer even harder. When Sylar got thirsty Peter would get them water. When one was tired the other would stop as well and they’d sit down together.
They talked a lot, though never about Nathan. It was understood to be an unapproachable subject. One day Peter called Sylar “Gabriel”, and the killer didn’t bother to correct him.
---
It was the anniversary of Nathan’s death. Peter spent it holed up in his room. He didn’t want to see Sylar because it would just bring up bad memories. The next day Peter came to the wall and noticed there was writing all over it. Some very familiar phrases were written up there: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” was one that caught Peter’s attention since that was one of his favorite movies. “Kafka was here” was another one, and Peter had to bite back a smile.
Then another section of the wall drew Peter’s eye. It looked like lines on a chalkboard. “I will not beat senselessly on a brick wall” it read, over and over, until it got to the bottom where in big letters it read “FUCK THIS SHIT I WILL DESTROY THIS DAMN WALL” and Peter burst out laughing.
---
They stood together side by side, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And for them, it was.