Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 6: Munchausen Syndrome
"I have a cut here on my arm I'd like you to look at."
Another one? "Let me see." Peter took Sylar's proffered wrist and rolled up his shirt sleeve. There was a thin inch long slice diagonally across his forearm, just above the wrist. It looked like a big paper cut. Sylar had been turning up with a lot of little injuries lately. They'd reached a critical mass, tipping the scale of probability for the level of accident-prone-ness that Peter would expect for someone of Sylar's care in personal conduct. "What happened?"
"I was using a screwdriver. It slipped."
"I'd think a screwdriver would have made a deeper gash." Doubt flavored Peter's voice as he looked at the cut and tried to imagine where the man's hands would have had to be to do that. It was possible, he supposed. But Peter had seen enough scars on cutters to know the back of the forearm wasn't an uncommon spot. It didn't feature any important veins, arteries or tendons and could be hidden with a long-sleeved shirt. The upper arm was even better, but a little harder to get to. Plus, forearm injuries were easier to explain - like, say, that you were using a screwdriver and slipped.
"There must have been a burr on it. It's not a big deal. If you don't care-" Sylar started to pull his arm away, but Peter's fingers tightened around his wrist and the man immediately desisted. Peter looked up at him, really intent, really trying to get into his head. In the last few weeks, he'd palpated more than his share of bruises, doctored scrapes, investigated bumps and in some cases just discussed ailments. There was something going on here. His hand around Sylar's forearm tingled warmly and Peter knew for sure this was a staged injury. He also knew that Sylar wanted his attention so desperately that it ached.
Peter swallowed and looked back down, trying to act casual. "No. You never know what might get infected. It's just that, you know, you might want to consider a safer occupation. Come on. I'll get my kit, but really, all you need is a band-aid." At most. Actually even a band-aid is ridiculous, but if I don't, what will you do next? You're hurting yourself … to get my attention? To get a few minutes of me touching you, looking at you and … looking after you?
"Sure. Of course," Sylar said cheerily, following Peter enthusiastically. His happiness confirmed Peter's suspicions, but the empath wanted to think about this before he started throwing around off-putting accusations of malingering. They'd settled into a routine for these matters, Peter realized as they walked into the rec room where he'd taken to keeping the medical kit. It had quickly become inconvenient to go up to his room for it.
Sylar knew his part to play as did Peter. They sat together on the couch so close their thighs and shoulders touched. Sylar was relaxed, pleased and warm towards him, his face open and receptive as he offered his hurt up for treatment. Peter cleaned the insignificant wound thoroughly before bandaging it, going through all the usual motions as he considered his realization about what Sylar was really trying to get from him. There was a ritual to the process and now that Peter thought about it, there was an awful lot of unnecessary closeness going on here - unnecessary from a medical standpoint, that is. Peter suspected it might not be so unnecessary from where Sylar was sitting.
Peter wouldn't deny his own feelings about it, either. He got to take care of someone, or at least pretend to, and he liked that. It made him feel important, useful and worthwhile. He wasn't sure what to do about Sylar hurting himself, but ignoring him might make the injuries Sylar inflicted that much worse - things Peter couldn't ignore with any good conscience. Right now it wasn't a big deal. He was half-holding Sylar's hand with one of his while the other smoothed down the bandage. "There," he said, smiling. "All better." He looked over Sylar's face again, taking in features he'd more than once thought were very handsome. The current expression on the man's face was one of Peter's favorites.
"Thank you," Sylar said softly, making no move to remove himself from contact with his nurse. He looked back in response to Peter's inspection, his lips moving slightly like he wanted to speak, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it.
"No problem," Peter replied in a similar gentle tone. He breathed in slowly, thinking that he should probably give some thought to other ways to give Sylar what he needed - if Peter wanted to give him what he needed. What Sylar wanted was so very human - it was basic. Peter studied his own emotions and found that he didn't blame or resent Sylar for his desires. Peter gave his the hand of his 'patient' a squeeze. After all, Sylar wasn't the only one with that need.