Title: Fourth Wall Breakage
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: R
Warnings: Implied violence, curse words
Word count: ~2,500
Genre: Crack, slash, romance
Setting: For Sylar, this is shortly after Powerless in season two. For Peter, it's closer to the end of season three. There is no time travel involved.
Summary: Sylar wants his powers back. And whaddaya know, there's Peter …
Notes: Thanks to DancingDragon3 for inspiring me, and for telling me that she liked the idea of fourth-wall-breakage stories. I have them quite often, but have never written them because I was embarrassed. If you follow my stories, you will see the introductory events from here recycled in a later, non-crack story. This was my first attempt to write to DD3's prompt, "Petlar, pre-Wall, first time sex with each other, Peter tops, force and seduction, minimal dialogue, PWP, something fun."

Sylar sat at a little table under an umbrella, sipping an expensive coffee and enjoying his freedom and his life. He was also enjoying the return of his powers and the distinct lack of Maya's whining. He hadn't had the opportunity to smack Mohinder around as much as he would have liked, but he'd at least been able to release a massive quantity of snark on the man. That was always satisfying. Sylar was free, he had his ability back, and he even, inexplicably, had telekinesis. Maybe the other abilities would come back, too, or maybe he needed another dose of whatever alchemical mojo Mo had mixed up in his mad scientist lab.

He didn't know. So he was hanging out in New York, thinking about that. He was also thinking about destiny: how much am I in control of my destiny, or is my destiny in control of me? He watched idly as an ambulance pulled up to the curb and a man hopped out, turning away from Sylar to look inside and bicker with the driver about whatever it was he was going to order from the bistro.

Sylar's eyes drifted past him, looking at a tall, red-headed woman in a bright green dress. Hm, striking. If I approach her, is that destiny guiding me to my goal, or is it me making my own future? He didn't often see women as tall as he was, even if an inch or two of her height was from heels. He craned his neck to appraise her footwear, not quite decided as to whether she was worth the effort.

"Hey, Petrelli!"

Sylar twitched, eyes jerking away and scanning the crowd. Not fifteen feet away from him, the man from the ambulance turned back towards his rig, where the driver had yelled at him and now continued with, "Make sure you get extra napkins, okay?"

"Sure!" Peter answered cheerily, then turned and walked on into the store, as oblivious to Sylar as Sylar had previously been to him.

Sylar blinked. Fate. Destiny. Fucking coincidence? A mess of thoughts stormed through Sylar's head as he watched his enemy go order a couple sandwiches. Peter was far, far more interesting than some random woman and very, very worth the effort. He has every ability I ever had. Every single one of them, if I understand correctly how his power works. I wouldn't have to wait around for mine to come back … not if I had him. When Peter came out, Sylar was gone.

Sylar was casually invading Peter's privacy when the man got in from work a couple days later. He silently replaced the book on Peter's nightstand – Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell – a fascinating comparison of the lives of successful people, which attributed their greatness to environmental and coincidental factors rather than any innate talent or specialness. He could understand why Peter was reading it. Chandra Suresh's book was dog-eared and well-worn, adorning the back of Peter's toilet – a place of honor. Sylar had begun to entertain the possibility that Peter might be worth something more to him than just another ability - even if it was a particularly good ability.

He padded over next to the door. The glass in the French doors to Peter's bedroom made it tough to hide, but Peter seemed as oblivious as he'd been at the bistro. He had put down his bag and was standing there quietly, head slightly cocked as the empath stared at a business card he was holding. Sylar pulled in a long, steadying breath. He would only get one chance at this. He raised his hand.

A minute later, he was still waiting for Peter to regain coherency. The empath didn't seem to be healing, which was very strange. Did everyone at Kirby get infected with the virus? Am I the only one with powers now? He stood over Peter, watching as Peter blinked and reached up blearily to touch the knot on his head from where Sylar had slammed him into the wall. I kind of expected more of a fight …

Peter finally focused on the killer and jumped, which was edifying. Sylar gave him a pleased smile at the obvious recognition. Peter glanced down Sylar's body, and let his hand fall to his side, where it landed inadvertently on Sylar's boot. Sylar didn't react until he felt a tingle, when he jerked his foot away with a sharp intake of breath. Simultaneously, Peter was rolling to his feet.

It was a ruse! Sylar grabbed Petrelli with telekinesis and slammed him face-first into the wall, next to the dent his head had made only minutes earlier. This time, instead of passing out on impact, Peter struggled. Sylar pinned his hands, then his whole body, waiting … And waiting some more. Nothing much happened. Peter eventually managed to turn his head enough to say, "What are you waiting for? Aren't you just going to kill me?"

Sylar stepped up a little closer, cocking his head. "Are you just going to let me?" he countered, still trying to figure out why this wasn't nearly the spectacular fight he'd expected. It was sort of a let-down.

"No!" Peter wriggled fruitlessly, still facing the wall. Sylar found himself admiring the view. He leered, but Peter couldn't see the expression. Pity. "Let me go!"

It was a ridiculous demand, under the circumstances, but it wasn't like Peter had been all that impressive of a threat so far. Sylar decided to be magnanimous and released him, but remained poised to strike should the need arise. Peter turned around and glared at him. Sylar noted the goose-egg on Peter's forehead was gone. He can heal now, but he couldn't before. He must have gained healing when he touched me. But if he gained my power, then why can't he do anything else? "Do you have … only the one power?"

Peter took in a deep breath and let it out. Sulkily, he walked over to the couch and flopped down on it, staring up at the ceiling for a moment. "Yes."

Sylar cocked his head, puzzling at this revelation. "When did this happen? After Kirby?"

Peter looked at him intently. "Nooo, those were pills."


"I lost my powers after Kirby because of the pills they had me take."

Sylar's brows lifted. "The Company?"


"Ah." Okay, that's consistent. They gave me an injection, according to Mohinder. They gave you pills. Maybe they didn't want it to be total for Peter? Or maybe they didn't know what they were doing and overdosed me? Or underdosed him? They're incompetent and prone to human experimentation, so either is possible. "How did you get out?"

Peter's confused look intensified. "Why do you care?"

"I'm just trying to figure out what happened." The timeline is kind of important. And if I cut your head open, I won't have the chance to ask you questions later. It's a kind of good-looking head, after all. I'm not sure I will cut it open …

Peter interrupted his thoughts with a snort. "My dad took my powers and I got an injection to get them back. Now I have this crappy abridged power, but you still have yours full-blast." He looked off to the side, obviously resentful at how the universe worked.

"I don't have my power full-blast," Sylar found himself admitting before he could catch his tongue. Peter gave him a thoughtful look. If Peter didn't have his full ability, then taking it from him was much less appealing. If all he could do was copy someone's ability for a while … that was next to useless. Sylar's own ability was much more powerful, letting him integrate an ability forever, though admittedly it required killing. Well, he looked over the handsome man who had just admitted he was virtually powerless, he still has other uses.

Sylar drew over a chair with telekinesis and sat down, slouching a little and giving Peter another leer now that Peter could see his face to appreciate it. Peter, though, was not being attentive. That was annoying. Instead he seemed lost in thought. Sylar huffed, considering face-planting Peter into the wall again. He did not like being ignored.

"Youjust got your powers back?" Peter asked. Sylar's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, wondering what was on Peter's mind. Peter went on, shaking his head, "This isn't right. You're from season two!"

Sylar's considerable brows rose at the very rude and unnecessary fourth wall breakage. It was almost obscene to discuss something like that, and definitely profane. This would have to be edited out later and it tended to be a lot healthier for everyone all around if the need for revision to the story was kept to a minimum. "What of it?" he bit out, teeth bared slightly.

"I'm from the end of season three," Peter stated, and Sylar sat up suddenly.

"What? No, you're not! What are you doing here, in New York then? You should be in Texas!" Sylar snapped, demonstrated much more knowledge of the timeline that he was supposed to have, but what the hell. This whole section was going to have to be cut anyway.

"That's my point!" Peter said sharply. "This is season three, at the end."

"No, it's not," Sylar insisted. "It's season two, at the end," he growled, coming to his feet as if being intimidating would help. It usually worked for other things.

"Then why do I only have one power?" Peter asked, looking up at him with an honest question on his face and not a bit of fear. They'd been written together too much for the casual posturing to affect Peter.

Sylar blinked, hesitating. He didn't know the answer to that. "We … we could say you were injected too, with the virus."

"But that didn't happen in canon!" Peter pointed out.

Sylar struggled. The whole situation was fucked up. "This is supposed to be porn without plot. Why are we even worrying about canon in a slash story?" he asked in exasperation.

Peter made a chuffing noise. "I've read the prompt. How the hell are you going to get me to top you if we have no relationship, very little dialogue, you have all the powers and I don't? I mean, you know, without throwing characterization right out the window?"

"I …" Sylar tried to work out a solution. "I suppose that I could … force you."

Peter tilted his head. "The prompt includes 'fun'. Since when is rape fun?"

Sylar frowned. "Well, there was that time in The Prisoner …"

"Oh, really?" Peter leaned back on the couch, slouching arrogantly. "Was that really 'fun' for you? I seem to remember you couldn't even keep it up."

Sylar snarled viciously and paced. "You were crying! It was your fault! You should have heard yourself. You had no dignity at all."

"And since when is rape dignified?"

Sylar stopped, giving him a sidelong glance and then looking away. "Okay, fine. No force."

Peter sighed, shaking his head. "I just … I don't think we can make this work."

Sylar sighed too and collapsed back in his chair. "Fine. I agree. Bad scenario anyway. The Writer should have done more research on the fucking timeline before investing two thousand words into this."

"Yeah," Peter agreed glumly, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin in one hand.

A few moments passed. Sylar eyed the laces on his boots, making a few small adjustments to them with telekinesis. Peter scratched his ear briefly.

A few more moments passed as they sat in silence. Finally Sylar said irritably, "Why is the Writer still wasting time with this scene?"

Peter shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe she's bored."

Sylar looked at the door, then the window. "Well, so am I."

"Hm," Peter hummed, staring at the bottom of Sylar's boots. "Since when did you start wearing boots? You've always been in such flat shoes before."

Sylar rolled his eyes. "When I'm a villain, I'm in boots. Makes me even taller and scarier. Surely you've noticed," he said dryly.

"Yeah, I've noticed."

More silence passed between them. Sylar fidgeted.

Peter smiled slightly, still making eyes at Sylar's footwear. "I like you better in flat shoes," he said in a soft, gentle voice.

Sylar's head snapped around to him. After a long pause, he confessed, "I wasn't looking forward to killing you. I was talking myself out of it, in fact, when … you know."

Peter looked up at him, smiling. "That's good to know. As a general rule, I don't sleep with people who want to kill me."

"Well …" Sylar looked suggestively at the doors to Peter's bedroom, then back to him, "since I don't want to kill you …?"

Peter smiled wider. "Sure," he said, answering the unasked question. "You know me."

Sylar got to his feet and Peter followed suit. "God, do I ever," Sylar said in a low, velvet voice. He moved to Peter, drawing him close. "I think we might have been written fucking a hundred times by this Writer." Sylar let his lips drag slowly and softly across Peter's forehead and down the bridge of his nose, pulling away when he got to Peter's lips and the shorter man tried to kiss him. "It hasn't gotten old yet."

Peter grinned. "Let's make it a hundred and one."