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Claire was right, of course, in thinking that whatever she'd gone through had made him think of his years in the cells at the Company. He'd been their favorite guinea pig for a while, after all, and they could even justify it by saying what he'd nearly done made it only right that he "help" advance their knowledge of just what his blood could do. Then, he thought, they'd just done it for fun. For all she hadn't been held for 30 years, he was well aware of how much damage could be done in the time she had been held, especially by someone who delighted in inflicting pain and fear.
It was something he'd never wanted her to find out, and it was something none of the rest of them could truly fathom. For all Peter had their ability, no one had done that to him, and for all that Sylar had suffered at the Company's hands...he hadn't been able to heal then, not like they could. It was different, when they could break you down into tiny pieces and watch you put yourself back together and just do it again and again and again until you wished you couldn't, until your gift really was a curse.
He didn't talk about it either, not really. He alluded to it, flippantly, now and again, and he suspected they all knew--they'd seen enough they could guess what might have been done, but he didn't talk about it. What was there to say, really? It had happened. He'd survived. Hiro had buried him alive, and honestly, that had been as traumatic as any of the torture, and that was what woke him up in a cold sweat still more than the other nightmares, at least most nights. But he knew they'd broken him in ways he hadn't been broken before, and that all the pieces weren't back together and might never be. He was aware. You didn't go through something like that unchanged, and if three hundred years of life hadn't prepared him for it, then he was sure eighteen hadn't prepared her, and the relative spans of time it had gone on hardly mattered.
He wasn't sure what he had to offer her, beyond someone else who had been through it, who knew. And he wished to god she didn't know, because it wasn't something he'd ever wanted to have to share with another soul. But he did know that she was too young to have to bear it alone, and people were always saying talking about things helped, so. He grabbed them both a beer, because this wasn't something that should be talked about cold sober and who the hell cared if she was only eighteen--he'd been drinking beer at five as it was cleaner than the water--and knocked on the doorframe of her door instead of just wandering in, leaning there, watching her.
"So, shall we talk about it?"
It was something he'd never wanted her to find out, and it was something none of the rest of them could truly fathom. For all Peter had their ability, no one had done that to him, and for all that Sylar had suffered at the Company's hands...he hadn't been able to heal then, not like they could. It was different, when they could break you down into tiny pieces and watch you put yourself back together and just do it again and again and again until you wished you couldn't, until your gift really was a curse.
He didn't talk about it either, not really. He alluded to it, flippantly, now and again, and he suspected they all knew--they'd seen enough they could guess what might have been done, but he didn't talk about it. What was there to say, really? It had happened. He'd survived. Hiro had buried him alive, and honestly, that had been as traumatic as any of the torture, and that was what woke him up in a cold sweat still more than the other nightmares, at least most nights. But he knew they'd broken him in ways he hadn't been broken before, and that all the pieces weren't back together and might never be. He was aware. You didn't go through something like that unchanged, and if three hundred years of life hadn't prepared him for it, then he was sure eighteen hadn't prepared her, and the relative spans of time it had gone on hardly mattered.
He wasn't sure what he had to offer her, beyond someone else who had been through it, who knew. And he wished to god she didn't know, because it wasn't something he'd ever wanted to have to share with another soul. But he did know that she was too young to have to bear it alone, and people were always saying talking about things helped, so. He grabbed them both a beer, because this wasn't something that should be talked about cold sober and who the hell cared if she was only eighteen--he'd been drinking beer at five as it was cleaner than the water--and knocked on the doorframe of her door instead of just wandering in, leaning there, watching her.
"So, shall we talk about it?"
