More Between Us, Chapter 26.2/? "Soup do jour at Cafe Gray"
Chapter 26.2/? "Soup du jour at Cafe Gray"
Day 10
Peter opened the cabinets one after another until he found a pan. Then he opened the drawers one after another until he found a can opener. He wasn’t making any great attempt at being quiet now, unlike earlier. If he woke Sylar, all the better, because he wanted the man to wake up and eat. He opened the can of soup he’d already set out and spooned the contents into the pan, then filled the empty can with water, stirring it around with the spoon. He poured that on top and stirred a little, dissatisfied with the lack of dissolving.
He fiddled with the stove settings until he was sure it was on. He spent another restless moment stirring, then set the spoon aside as he remembered something he needed to do before he got too involved. He walked out to the couch. At least to casual observation, Sylar looked asleep. Peter bent carefully for the plate of cold, stale toast and, more importantly, the Tylenol. After he stood with the plate, he said at a normal, conversational volume, “I’ll be serving lunch pretty soon.” He paused for a moment to see if Sylar responded.
“Do you want to eat at the table, or out here? It’s tomato soup.” He wondered how dizzy Sylar was and whether he could manage sitting unsupported for an entire meal, but that uncertainty was why Peter was asking.
XXX
Sylar was awake when Peter came back and still admirably faking sleep even as the man got very close, leaning down for something. The toast. And painkillers. Neither were of consequence. Peter’s voice would have woken him anyway, seemingly louder than normal. Cranking his eyes open he locked them onto his companion, pausing for a moment to see how Peter would react before answering calmly, “Table’s fine.” I can make the table, right? I totally won’t fall over and face-plant into the soup. (What if I can’t? What if I do?)
XXX
Peter took away the plate and pill box to the kitchen, trashing the toast and setting aside the pills where they were out of easy sight. He agitated the soup a little more, then got out bowls, spoons and glasses, setting them on the table for the time being. He put out a box of crackers, too, along with, eventually, the warmed soup. What he didn’t set on the table were the painkillers. Peter wasn’t going to give those up without Sylar actually eating something. He hoped Sylar would be cooperative about that, but the look from earlier about the toast was why Peter was engaging in subterfuge.
XXX
The other man buzzed away and Sylar began to work at sitting up which came before getting up, pushing the blanket towards his feet. The world spun as his blood pressure and heart rate adjusted themselves. Blinking to clear his vision and swallowing to try to soothe his suddenly cranky stomach, he inched towards the edge of the couch. Okay….I can do this. Just a brief walk to the table. Don’t think about the smell, don’t think about passing out, don’t think about your leg or falling or otherwise humiliating yourself. Ignore Peter on the way in and sit down. If it’s poisoned, it’s poisoned.
That decided upon, he pushed himself up to stand, swaying and very dizzy as his lack of blood sugar made itself known. “Hmm,” he said to himself in displeasure. Get it together. When the black tunnel vision faded, he took a few wobbling steps to the kitchen, using the wall like a prop as soon as he could. Just his luck Peter would turn around quickly and splash him in hot soup and burn his face off or something. Sylar remembered catching a near-boiling bowl of watery green beans all down the front of him as an eager, would-be helpful child. The bowl had tilted onto him from where he’d been taking it down from the counter. But he hadn’t dropped the bowl, that much he remembered and he hadn’t gotten burned.
He tugged out the nearest chair, feeling the pulsing vessels in his skull complain mightily and with a roar, but he sat. “I’m usually more useful in the kitchen,” he murmured, his voice again low and rough from sleep, his face too stiff to bother to yawn. Sylar scratched at his scalp lightly, wincing when even that hurt, so he shifted the motion to shifting his mussed hair back in an attempt to be someone presentable and polite. I must look like crap, though. He snorted to himself although Peter might have heard. No duh he doesn’t want to fuck you, and on top of your look, you smell.
XXX
Peter watched Sylar’s progress from couch to kitchen with an exceptionally attentive eye, but although Sylar was holding onto the wall and then the back of the chair, he seemed to be making it alright. The big deal was that Sylar did not seem to be overestimating his capabilities, whatever they were. He wasn’t trying to ‘tough guy’ it out and act like nothing was wrong. “It’s no problem,” Peter murmured in reply, ladling out soup into a bowl and moving it in front of Sylar, along with a spoon. He turned and poured the rest out into his bowl. “Like I said earlier, I like helping people.” He added with a smirk, “And I managed not to burn the soup.”
XXX
This was all incredibly humiliating to Sylar. He felt like a child being called to dinner with all the expectations that came with it. “Thank you,” he said when Peter placed the bowl before him, forcing himself to remember his politest manners. He didn’t bother to fret about remembering not to put his elbows on the table; it wasn’t like Peter would care. But wasn’t soup one of those crazy table-manner dishes anyway? Scoop away from you and don’t slurp and all? It was very strange to be fed in this way. Sure he’d eaten at restaurants and diners while on the run and been served by waiters and waitresses, but that was their job. This wasn’t Peter’s job. Hell, Peter could barely cook.
The aroma was calling him, though, queasy stomach or not. Indeed, Peter hadn’t burned it and he gave a gentle snort in acknowledgement and praise, passing by the opportunity for a snide comment. He didn’t feel one was necessary right now.
XXX
Peter slid the other bowl in front of his seat and set the pan aside for the moment. He took the two glasses to the sink and filled them with water. Again, he would have preferred milk, but he was under the impression that Sylar was being sensitive (oversensitive, probably, but Peter being Peter was reluctant to label it as that) about who ate what. It wasn’t that big a deal to serve the same food, from the same dish, with the same drinks. The arsenic comment was still lodged in Peter’s brain.
He set out the drinks and paused for a moment, looking at Sylar. Peter reached over with his left hand and gave the point of Sylar’s shoulder a single, lingering squeeze. “I’m sorry you’re all banged up. I’d rather that when we fought, it would hurt for a little bit and then go away, instead of this,” he said, gesturing to indicate his right hand. He smiled wryly as he sat down and mused, “It’s a funny sort of place when a dream world is more realistic than the reality we’re from, huh? I wonder what that says about us.”
XXX
Sylar waited for Peter to dish up and bring back the drinks he was preparing, fiddling with the spoon whose every reflection seemed too intense. He was paying attention to the last glass Peter set down, which was Peter’s drink, and didn’t notice his companion’s pause. He didn’t know what he thought the man was doing, but it didn’t seem to be anything of consequence and he didn’t look over to find out. Adjusting his brace maybe, but Peter hand suddenly landed on his shoulder.
Sylar started and jangled the spoon, looking at Peter as fast as he could manage - his gaze traveling from the man’s face to his good hand resting on his shoulder. He wasn’t aware that he’d leaned away, probably preparing to take a hit, however he saw that the hand on him was Peter’s left, his good hand. Peter was not going to be doing any decking with his right for a long while, just as he said.
He gave the man a glare for startling him, angry that he’d been so caught off guard, but then modified his face and looked away as his doctor sat. That gesture was horribly familiar…to Nathan. A sign of comfort, betrayal, loyalty, love, friendship and brotherhood, trust, apology, anger, farewell and greeting. The gesture practically had a life of its own and Sylar had gone so far as to give it a name (‘The Petrelli Shoulder-squeeze’) for the amount it came up in Nathan’s memories.
It had no place on Sylar’s shoulder. “Stop apologizing,” he grunted and took up his spoon, switching it to his left hand from his right, slipping it into his soup and stirring unconsciously. Its just weird. I heard you the first dozen times. I’m not gonna lie and say I forgive you and I think this fucking amuses you to see me like this for some reason, so….whatever.
XXX
Peter stirred his soup around, noting it still hadn’t dissolved completely, which was because he hadn’t gotten it hot enough for long enough. He might not have burned it, and it was certainly warm enough to eat, but was still a little lumpy. Well, at least he’s not going to scorch himself. He turned his eyes back to his companion.
XXX
Wondering if he was losing his marbles for considering soup-aroma therapy for his sinuses, Sylar braced his right forearm on the table, he gave Peter a possessive look as if to say ‘what are you gonna do about my elbows?’ Taking hold of his utensil firmly, he raised it slowly and inched forward to put it in his mouth, giving it a cursory sniff before opening his mouth wider than he wanted to due to his facial bruises. It couldn’t be helped though.
As soon as the soup touched his taste buds, although both taste and temperature were fine (if a little colder than he preferred), his stomach rebelled and he clamped down on making a face. Instead, he finished the mouthful and swallowed, replacing his spoon to the bowl. His guts were trying to crawl up his esophagus for more food even as it protested. Sometimes biology just bit itself in the ass. I’m hungry! And sick! He demanded of his stomach, Let me eat!
XXX
Peter considered whether he should have pulled over a trashcan or something to work as an emesis basin. Doing that now would draw attention to it and by that very attention might cause Sylar to lose it. Peter glanced at the empty soup pan still on the table. He supposed that would work, if it came to it, despite the almost instinctive urge not to soil a cooking utensil with waste. It was metal and could be easily washed and sterilized. He reached over discreetly and rotated the pan slightly so the handle was more reachable. Then he went back to watching Sylar’s obvious queasiness.
Sylar had paused after the first bite to marshal himself. He didn’t look like he was getting worse but instead just taking it slow. Peter took a spoonful himself and then a second. As tomato soup went, it sort of sucked, but it was bland and nourishing and warm, which were all pluses for Sylar’s condition. And loaded with salt, which wouldn’t hurt the man’s possibly out-of-kilter electrolytes.
Sylar’s posture, crouched over his dish and putting his arm up as a barrier to Peter’s possible interference reminded Peter of something he’d seen on TV. It was a habit of prisoners and others who had reason to believe their food might be taken from them. He’d had one hospice patient with a similar affectation whom he had manipulated into eating more of his meals by threatening to take his food away prematurely. Like many things in health care, it seemed cruel even though the purpose was benign and the result beneficial. How much would I harm Sylar’s trust doing something like that? Probably a lot. He’s eating. Slowly, but he’s eating. I should just leave him alone about it as long as he does the minimum.
But there was something he wanted to clear up: “I wasn’t apologizing for what I did. I was showing sympathy for your condition.” There’s a difference! Important fucking difference! Even though he was sure he should apologize for what he’d done, and he may well have done so earlier when he was feeling guiltier, but that hadn’t been his intention now. Peter blew out air slowly and changed the subject slightly to something that didn’t piss him off (at his own waffling inconsistency more than at Sylar), following Sylar’s suggestion from that morning. “I’ve never had a bad concussion. At least not one that lasted more than a few seconds, given regeneration. I’ve had a few mild ones, though.” Mostly through fist fights, though there had been that one time when he’d fell off backwards from a dirt bike.
XXX
Oh, Sylar thought, So you’re not sorry, but you’re guilty? He played it cool and didn’t react to the other’s tense response. Peter had to have been paying a lot more attention than he’d appeared to be because he’d picked up on a lot of Sylar’s signals. He hoped that was only because of the concussion, but Peter had read him well enough and backed off as Sylar had desired, when he had desired it. As he had time, and Peter didn’t press the issue, Sylar actually sat and thought about what the difference was. A known, unrepentant killer, Sylar supposed he himself was aware of the difference. Is it like killing Nathan? I’m not sorry, but I’m a bit guilty feeling? Of course I’m guilty in deed; no one questions that.
After a moment, he just shrugged a shoulder, once again hefting his spoon. I jumped the gun, I guess, hearing the word ‘sorry’. Of course he wasn’t apologizing - he thinks I started it, he thinks he served justice. Is justice always this guilty? He’s beat up and betrayed Nathan and felt not a lick of guilt before, not always, but it has happened.
Peter claimed he’d never had a severe concussion; Sylar frowned and looked up at that, his mouth opening to ask about Odessa when the man clarified. He’d pieced together in Mohinder’s apartment that Peter could heal, obviously, and that had answered the mystery.
XXX
Peter didn’t think Nathan knew about that one so he offered a distracting story in a calm tone of voice. “I think the worst one was when I was nineteen. I went with Justin to this dirt bike track out near Poughkeepsie. He was going to take me around the trail before I went on my own, so I climbed on behind him on his bike. No helmet, because we were just going to go real slow while he talked about the track. Never happened, though. He wasn’t used to having a passenger and he gunned the engine a little hard. I didn’t have a good grip and went right off the back. I hit my head on the parking lot pavement - cracked it really hard. That was the beginning and the end of motocross for me.” He laughed a little. “It felt like my thoughts were wading through cotton for days after that, but I didn’t have any other symptoms.”
Peter wondered if Sylar would return with a story about himself, or better yet tell Peter about how he was feeling right now. So many indicators of head trauma were invisible to the eye.
XXX
Sylar wasn’t thrilled to hear about Peter’s injuries - it was a molecule’s nudge away from shifted to ‘Remember the time when you…?’ But Peter seemed in good spirits about it, laughing once and that drew Sylar’s gaze up to his face from where it had been on his spoon playing with his lunch…or was it dinner? Peter said lunch.
Still watching his companion, a little curiously, he nodded a few times. “You got off lucky, then. You’re always supposed to wear a helmet,” perhaps his inner-Virginia speaking up there. It didn’t hit him that his statements were obvious and Peter was a grown, smart adult who already knew that before and after the incident. He ignored wanting to tell this 'Justin' a thing or two, the idiot; nineteen was old enough to know better. Boys will be boys and what's more, Peter will be Peter.
Something that Peter said stuck out at him and it took him a minute in keeping with the phrase, “I know the….cotton feeling,” he said slowly, by way of sharing. The cotton feeling wasn’t just limited to concussions for him sadly, not when his Hunger entered the picture. It was the only sharpened thing in his mind, really. He had the cotton feeling now, his gray matter growing throbbing red fuzz or something that impeded his thinking. Sylar frowned again and thought some more or perhaps tried to while he stirred the soup. Was there something else he’d meant to say?
Sitting up like this wasn’t comfortable with his abdomen, leg and wrist. His head was unsupported except for his neck, eyes exposed in the kitchen; he’d felt better earlier. “They’re just really painful…take forever to go away,” Sylar dismissed the condition with a wave of his right hand. Telling Peter any more, even when speaking to his “doctor”, was probably unwise. Turning his attention back to his food, Sylar lifted up a spoonful, wishing to inhale the odors without being weird or impolite to assure his guts, instead placing the liquid in his mouth and holding it there.
XXX
“Yeah, sucks,” Peter said in response to Sylar’s comment about concussions being painful. There wasn’t much to say to that anyway. He could point out that the painkillers would help and had probably worn off, but Sylar wasn’t done eating yet and there was no reason to bring it up until he was. Peter intended to stay with Sylar (or at least check in on him regularly) until he thought Sylar was well enough to take care of himself. Making a point of that was also something best left unsaid so he moved on to a more neutral topic.
“I know about helmets, man. Now, of course. Then I was a teenager and yeah, I was lucky. There was this one call I went on a couple years ago, motorcycle crash right in front of a fire station. No helmet. He was probably only going 45 or so but …” Peter looked down at his soup - red, or reddish-orange actually, with lumps and flecks. He remembered the mushy way the man’s face - top of skull, cheekbones, jaw, everything - was loose and sort of free-floating on the front of his face. Peter swallowed dryly. “Yeah. Well.” He was silent for a moment, forcing himself to eat a spoonful of soup before continuing, “I heard they managed to save one of his eyes. I wish I’d known about that healing ability a long time ago.”
XXX
Sylar gave him a blank look, his mouth currently occupied with soup he was trying to acquaint his tongue with. He just said he’s never had a bad one and he thinks they suck? Oh, Empath, heal thyself, Sylar thought to himself sarcastically, yet with some affection. Just as he was working up the nerve to swallow, Peter dove into another paramedic story and even before he’d finished, Sylar’s imagination had done the rest. It appeared he wasn’t alone in being queasy on that one. It got so bad as the man continued Sylar was forced to make the choice between vomiting or swallowing to keep everything down so he swallowed the mouthful of soup, keeping his eyes anywhere but on the rest of the bowl. Neat, Peter. Let’s talk about this over tomato soup, shall we? What part of that is smart? This is gonna take forever if you keep this up.
XXX
Peter had given up that ability - that most prized and life-giving of abilities - to take flight from ‘Nathan’ and keep up with him after whatever mental transfer or reversal happened between Matt and the man Peter had thought was his brother. He’d surrendered the precious healing power in a heartbeat, thinking Nathan needed him, only to find out it wasn’t Nathan at all. Peter frowned. It didn’t seem to be a good thing to ponder. There was nothing intentional on Sylar’s part to cause Peter to lose the ability, nor, from what Peter could tell, was Sylar acting ‘badly’ at that time. Lost, confused, perhaps having an identity crisis? Yes. But also, the identity crisis - not Sylar’s fault. At least, not directly. Peter gave a small head shake to throw off the disturbing contemplation.
What were we talking about? Oh yeah, motorcycles. “I don’t even know how to drive a motorcycle. Every now and then they talk about recruiting for rescue riders around the fid-knee for downtown access but I have no interest in that at all.” Peter looked at Sylar blankly for a moment, realizing that sentence was probably about as understandable to the man as Sylar relating watch functions was to Peter. “So, uh …” I need to shut up. “Crackers?”
XXX
Taking a few, subtle deep breaths, banishing both his overactive mind’s eye and his own memories of open brain cases and bloody gray matter, Sylar got out, “I don’t know how to either. Can’t imagine it’s all that difficult.” He felt as though he gave some kind of a jerk, but he couldn’t be sure, part of him hoped he had, given the foreign nature of the thought - Nathan recalling Peter mentioning rescue riders while the lawyer focused on his own affairs. With effort, he replied, “Really? I didn’t know that.” Because there is a distinction between Nathan and I, he told himself. When Peter stared at him, he went on, assuming Peter was waiting for something, “That sounds-” Sylar had been going to continue in that vein of conversation before Peter piped up, again about food.
Crackers. Of course, so this lumpy red liquid will get all chunky and have texture and be more edible, right? Sylar closed his eyes with something of a mildly pained expression, his stomach working itself into and out of knots. “Uh…I don’t think so, not for me.”
He realized he couldn’t exactly ask Peter to stop talking about blood and guts while they ate. That would just seem odd and rather stupid, given that Sylar was the “Brain Man”, given that Sylar had sliced open Nathan’s throat. Given that Sylar had tried to kill Charlie the waitress and handle her brain tumor while eating. All those times, he reasoned, he hadn’t had an upset stomach to throw off his appetites. On the other hand…Peter wanted him to eat.
XXX
Continued...