bakerstreet | texts from last night, bitches.

Then why drink it?

[ Peter Petrelli, asking questions he knows the answer to. If it was surprising, it was because of everything Sylar put people through. Put Claire through. He has a lot to make up for. But, hey, five years is a long time (and a really clever way of pushing the narrative forward) ]

You can pick up my order.

[ He's more considering it, then shoots off ]

Okay. Petrelli. It should be ready in forty-five minutes. I tip well.

Felt like it.

[ Peter, please. ]

I'll be there. Was your day really that tiring?

My two days? Pretty tiring. But, they weren't bad. I didn't lose any patience. That's something to be thankful for.

You have a lot of patience, Peter.

Autocorrect. Patients. But, I didn't lose any patience, either. How was your day?

Well, I'm glad you lost neither. :) My day was uneventful.

[ Shitshitshit. ]

[ Sylar, you use emoticons? ]

Boring?

[ Don't drop down dead in shock, Peter, that would be too great an irony. ]

Yes. I'm looking forward to hanging out. What do you want to do? Channel surf? If you fall asleep I'll lock up and leave, it's no problem.

[ If Peter ever dies, it will be by Sylar's hands. And by now, that's NOT going to happen. So, you're safe from the irony. ]

We can channel surf. You can stay if you want.

[ And now he's inviting Sylar to stay when nothing has happened yet. Not that something is going to happen. Besides Peter falling asleep. After eating, at some point that will happen. ]

If I fall asleep.

[ Well, now it just sounds like he can't stay if Peter stays awake. Things are just weird. And kind of weirdly nice-friendly. But, weird. ]

I don't think you're going to rob me blind.

[ PETER IS SO CONFUSING. ]

If I rob you it won't be because what I want is in your house.

[ ... Shit, that didn't translate very well via text. ]

That was a joke.

I'm not going to steal anything. Obviously. Maybe your rice.

[ SPEAK FOR YOURSELF. HE IS ALSO TIRED AND EQUALLY CONFUSED. Out loud, he hasn't mentioned anything has changed. Or, that anything matters. Sylar still killed Nathan. And did worse. A lot worse. He may never get over that. But, they still spent five years and he still gave Sylar that present. ]

We can share the rice. I like rice.

[ And now he can't help rib him. ]

So, as a joke, does that mean what you want isn't in my house?

Let's just go with that.

[ Before I ruin this. Just being invited over is a huge deal. ]

I like rice too. [ And now he rolls his eyes because I sound like an idiot. Pick a safe topic and run with it. ] Are you allergic to anything?

[ Maybe Peter's judgment is insanely bad. Maybe he's tired. Maybe he misses having actual friends. Maybe he doesn't even want Sylar as a friend. Could never accept him as one. Maybe he's just tired of hating him.

Also, everyone likes rice. ]

No, I'm not. I'll pick up some beer. What do you like?

[ Peter, still trying to be a caretaker. Here, guy who killed my brother, took my niece's pain away after terrorizing her... ]

[ He doesn't have any adequate words to describe how dependant he became on Peter inside the Wall, nor how much it meant to him that he didn't take that sledgehammer up and do serious damage. He would have deserved it. ]

Corona. It tastes like nothing, so it's easy to keep down.

[ Deserve it or not, that's not who Peter is. ]

Especially with what you've already imbibed?

[ Are these drunk texts? ]

I've had a lot of coffee during the interim, probably will on the way over too.

[ These are Got Mildly Tipsy And Stopped Short texts. He likes knowing his own mind. ]

If something comes up, tell me. We can reschedule. It's fine.

[ Peter likes knowing his mind, too. Wait, what. Ignore the brackets, Sylar! ]

Nothing's going to come up.

[ He has no life. ]

[ IGNORING. ]

If it does, though. That's okay.

[ Already anticipating being brushed off because, sadly, that happened a lot even when he was a simple watchmaker. There was no one who found him interesting (the remembers precisely how to fix a noose's knot so it won't loosen) and now he has a ton of extra insecurities on top of that. ]

I'll be over shortly.

[ He thinks of typing if Sylar actually wants to. But, he decides against it. He reassures him again. ]

It's not going to. You know where I live.

ETA 17 mins approx.

[ He just smirks at the text. He's getting out of the shower, drying his hair. He doesn't reply back. No real reason to. He grabs a shirt and sweat pants. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he continues to dry his hair. ]

[ There's a prompt rapping on the door exactly seventeen minutes later. He has a large brown bag of Chinese food, more than either of them could eat but the product of panicking when it came to trying to find something they could share.

Hopefully Peter's in. He probably is, Sylar trusts him enough not to be jerking him around. And really, Peter is the only person who wouldn't, in his mind, quite literally speaking on that. His middle finger taps against the side of his leg as he waits, eyes down so he isn't staring anxiously into the peep-hole like a creep. ]

[ Yes, Sylar. Please to not being a creep.

But, Peter is of course home. White t-shirt, sweat pants. And he was setting the beers in the fridge. He hates putting the whole carton in there, it takes up so much space. Leaving the rest on the counter, Peter moves out of his small kitchen and to the door. He unlocks it and then opens it. ]

Hey. [ So, they're hanging out. The Chinese food smells good. ] There's an Austin Powers' marathon on Bravo. [ Other stuff, too. But, crazy-silly-stupid, right? There's also a Hitchcock marathon on TMC but... ]

[ Hitchcock is probably more inoffensive, strangely enough. It's the kind of intellectual film marathon he could appreciate from a purely observant point of view, whereas he gives a terse smile hearing that Austin Powers is going to be on. It's fine. He'll watch whatever Peter prefers if it means he can stay ~~and not get hit~~. ]

I never watched all of those movies, they should prove interesting. [ Stepping inside, he sets the bag down and takes out Peter's order, along with his own. And then the extras, of which there are four foil packets. ] I, uh. I was told they had fresh spring onions in so I got some rolled up in pancakes, that sounded kind of nice. The duck came in cashew nut sauce. You said you weren't allergic, so. There's that. [ Fingers card through his hair while his attention remains lowered to the packets he tweaks into an ordered line. ] I didn't know which fruit you like so there are banana and pineapple fritters in syrup.

[ God. Stop being twitchy. He stands in the middle of Peter's kitchen and loosely holds his hands, looking up searchingly. Five years in a mindscape and I don't know what fruit he likes best, what the fuck is wrong with me for bothering to care. He certainly won't. Peter will eat anything. ]

You said you worked forty-eight hours, that deserves some kind of congratulations, right?

[ Peter closes the door behind him, before watching Sylar move to the kitchen. He should get their beer, so he decides to do that as Sylar unpacks his order. Behind Sylar, he uses the bottle opener on two beers before putting the three warm ones into the fridge. ]

I'm not. [ He stands next to him, offers the beer. Maybe Sylar will calm down with more alcohol in his system. ]

It deserves something. [ He brings the beer to his lips, before adding, ] It's not unheard of. Some surgeons work longer hours. [ Setting the beer down, he turns, grabbing two plats. They can fend for themselves, take what they want out of each carton. He goes to open the drawer with the utensils but Sylar is standing there. His hand isn't deliberately crotch level. ]

Thanks for the congratulations, though.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject