Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 40: Heavy Duty Care
Title: Heavy Duty Care
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word count: 4,700
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter conducts a physical examination after he and Sylar have a fight. Sylar can't get past the idea Peter is trying to take advantage of him while he's weak.
Notes: This was a spin-off of More Between Us, Chapter 27ish. For those not familiar with that story - Peter and Sylar had a bad fight and although Sylar mostly won, he was badly concussed as a result. Peter was slightly concussed, but relatively okay. When Peter got Sylar back to Sylar's apartment and tried to examine his injuries, Sylar became paranoid that Peter was using this as a pretext to molest him.
Peter wasn't making any sense. He just wasn't. Sylar suspected that even if he were at full capacity, he still wouldn't be able to make sense of Petrelli's actions. He could recall that they hadn't made sense before the concussion, either. And right now, at his diminished ability, there was just no way of figuring the man out. Assuming, even, that Peter wasn't deliberately trying to confuse him.
At the moment, Peter was running his hands through Sylar's hair under pretense of … something. Sylar wasn't sure what. He'd said he was doing an examination, checking for injuries or something. Wasn't it perfectly clear Sylar was fucked up? It wasn't a secret; it wasn't a mystery. Why did Peter feel the need to "check" this? But here Peter was, fingers now probing around the hematoma caused when the man had hit him in the skull (what was he thinking with such a stupid blow? Knowing Peter - probably not much of anything) the week before.
Peter moved on, feeling and actually rubbing slightly at the musculature at the base of his neck, making Sylar wonder for a second if he was going to give him a massage. No. Peter moved on to the front of his neck, murmuring, "I'll get you some Tiger Balm after we're done." Sylar breathed a little faster as his exposed throat was caressed. He raised his chin at Peter's unspoken command, a minor push on his jaw, feeling like an animal at a show. Directly fighting this was still an option, but for the moment Sylar was playing for time, hoping he'd uncover motives and intentions. Peter found his pulse point with uncomfortably practiced ease, then grimaced at the non-functional watch he wore. He looked over at one of Sylar's many clocks, keeping time.
They sat there for long seconds while Sylar looked down on Peter through narrowed eyes. Maybe Peter had a doctor kink he wanted to play out. Maybe he wanted to know exactly how bad he'd hurt Sylar so he could gloat over the injuries, or so that if and when they fought again, Peter would know the weak spots to aim for. Maybe he thought Sylar was too weakened to resist him and this was Peter's way of pushing him around, getting off on Sylar's obedience and subservience under the guise of 'medical care'. Sylar's mind, sluggish as it was, continued to struggle through the options as Peter finished with his pulse and told him, "That's good. Real strong pulse. Let's get your shirt off."
Ah, yes. Disrobing. Take your clothes off and put on this gown. Turn around and cough. Whatever. So this is it, then? This is your pretext to getting me naked and even more defenseless than I already am?
"Come on, Sylar. I need to look at you."
Apparently just sitting there staring at Petrelli wasn't going to work. Sylar let his eyes wander across the floor and very slowly raised his hands to the buttons, mostly to make sure Peter didn't do it himself. Sylar sized himself up. He was concussed, easily confused, and had horrible balance. He was still strong, though, and coordinated enough to throw punches. So was Peter, and even if Peter was handicapped by a broken hand, that was more than compensated by his superior balance, reflexes and mobility. Plus, annoying and disheartening as it was to admit, Peter had him firmly on reasoning and cognitive ability at the moment, so trying to pull something sneaky on him probably wouldn't work.
One button after another was unfastened. All Peter needed to do was land one or two hard blows to Sylar's head and that would be all she wrote, upgrading his moderate concussion to severe or worse yet, to death. With some people, Sylar would have expected that knowing this about his state, they would go out of their way to avoid actually killing him. Peter was not 'some people'. It seemed very likely, given Petrelli's conduct in the last two fights, and his somewhat fogged recollections of previous ones - whether as Nathan or Sylar he didn't know or care at the moment - that once Peter got going in a fight, that death blows were the order of business if he could land them. It was a stupid, idiotic tactic to take, but this was Peter.
Sylar parted his shirt and stiffly shrugged it off his shoulders, sliding it down his arms. He tried to do this part fast, because otherwise he'd be a sitting duck in front of Peter, hands tied up behind him. He pulled. He tugged. The cloth tightened around his wrists, bunched and wouldn't let go. He considered panicking, jerking and fighting free. His eyes widened for a moment and he stared at Peter, who was watching him calmly. Peter smirked a little, realizing the problem.
Yes, the problem is I have a fucking concussion and I didn't think to unbutton my cuffs first. I am so fucked up I can't even outthink my own shirt. There is no way I can fight Peter. All I have to do is survive this. Just do whatever I need to do to survive.
Sylar surrendered, leaning forward, panting from the brief surge of fear at being trapped, and because his sinuses were hopelessly clogged. His hair fell across his face and he looked up at Peter through it, putting as much vulnerability as possible in his features. Peter noticed. His face changed; he smiled nervously. Sylar rasped out, "I'll do whatever you need me to do, Peter."
Peter's brows raised just slightly. He didn't miss the invitation, the offer, the unconditional nature of what Sylar was putting on the table. Complete compliance would, Sylar hoped, minimize how much he was hurt, at least physically. Peter would not need to beat him or threaten him to get whatever it was Peter wanted. And maybe if he made the offer this baldly, Peter would finally clear up what, exactly, his intentions were.
"What … um …" Peter touched the bare point of his shoulder and Sylar dropped his head and his gaze. His hands were bound helplessly behind him. He sat before Peter, defeated by his own clothing. It was humiliating. Peter gave him a nudge. "Turn around and I'll help you out."
Tie me up tighter, no doubt, Sylar thought as he shifted and turned obediently, presenting his hands to his captor. As he expected, Peter didn't immediately move to release him. Instead, he twitched the cloth down and looked at Sylar's back. But then, surprisingly, he moved his hands to Sylar's wrists and started fumbling at them. Mostly one-handed as he was, it wasn't all that easy. "You have a pretty big bruise back here," Peter observed. "What's that from?"
Sylar took a deep breath and lowered his voice to a husky, velvet tone that intentionally conveyed a lot of things so far left unsaid between them. "You pushed me down on the bed, climbed on top of me and straddled me. Don't tell me you've forgotten?"
Peter was silent, working off one of the cuffs and then pushing the sleeve up so he could get at the other, even though he could have left the task to Sylar. "I didn't know it bruised you up so bad." His voice was a little tight, but with an effort towards being normal. Certainly he wasn't responding to the obvious invitation in Sylar's tone and so Sylar dropped it for the moment. Peter got the rest of his shirt off and distracted Sylar completely by moving his fingers down Sylar's spine, touching and seeming to measure out the spaces between vertebrae. The sensation gave Sylar a shiver and he didn't bother to suppress it. Let Peter see the effect he's having.
Peter, for his part, was shocked at the size and discoloration of the bruise, but he recalled walking out to see Sylar stretching shortly after their first fight. He didn't think there was a broken rib and it was just a little too high to have hurt the kidney. He was pretty sure it was just a bad bruise. "I'm going to feel along your ribs, here." He traced the ones well above the injury, applying enough pressure to get a feel for how undamaged tissue responded - how much flex there was in the cartilage and how giving the muscle was. Sylar had excellent muscle tone. He dropped down to the next rib and repeated, skirting the edge of the blue-black skin and paying careful attention to Sylar's breathing as an indicator of pain. There was no change.
The next one down caused a more rapid intake of air than before. "Does that hurt sharply," Peter asked, "or is it just sore?"
Sylar hesitated, not sure what answer 'Dr. Petrelli' wanted. Peter repeated the touch, probing at him again as if he might need a repeat of the pain to better judge it, or maybe just motivation to answer. "It's mostly just sore," he said quietly, straining to tell if that was the answer Peter wanted.
Peter moved down without comment to the next one, which was also sore as hell, and used a similar pressure as before. "Is this the same, worse or better?"
Sylar considered Peter's voice - it was just the same, no more brusque or demanding, just asking. His touch was no rougher or harder, so Sylar guessed he was giving the right answer, or at least an acceptable one. "It's the same."
"Okay. I don't think there's anything broken, but it's something to think about for how you lie."
You mean what position you put me in to service you? Sylar didn't say that though. He knew his back hurt when he laid on it, but like hell was he going to lie on his stomach with Peter around. It would take that second or two extra to get up, or to even see the guy coming. Though now that he thought about it, maybe lying on his side would be okay.
"Go ahead and turn around so I can see your front." Peter pulled the shirt out of the way and tossed it on the chair.
Sylar's eyes looked after it. That was unsurprising, that Peter was putting his clothes where he couldn't get to them. He straightened so Peter could see what he was getting.
"Yeah, that's what I wanted to see," Peter murmured, which snapped Sylar's eyes rather painfully back to him. Peter was staring at the bruise and rash on his lower abdomen. About half of it was under his pants. And his underwear.
An excellent pretext to have me undress - this 'examination' thing. I'll have to remember it for the next time you're hurt worse than I am, Petrelli.
"Lie down, please," Peter said and Sylar complied, making himself as comfortable as he could. He felt very exposed - not as much as he expected to be later, though, so for now he just swallowed it down and put on a show of being unbothered. "How are your hands?" Peter asked.
"I thought what you wanted to see was a bit lower," Sylar purred. Peter glanced up at him, expression flat. Sylar quietly and lightly bit his tongue. Wrong thing to say. He doesn't like that. I'm not doing right. If I don't want to be hurt, I have to do right. What does he want? For me to be totally passive? He tried to think of the times when he'd gotten to Peter, when Peter had looked interested or aroused, and correlate them with how active or passive Sylar had been at the time. His brain hurt too much for it. And Peter was talking to him anyway, which was distracting.
"I'm concerned about your stomach, yeah, but I don't want to get tunnel vision or I'll miss things like that bruise on your back. Your gut's not going anywhere. I want to check everything. How are your hands?"
Oh, everything. Sure, Dr. Petrelli. Prostate exam included in that full check-up? I promise you that I am 'fully functional'. He didn't answer Peter's question, letting Peter pick up his hand and examine it, beginning to peel off the bandaging.
Peter spoke instead, saying, "From what I've seen you have full mobility. I'm going to take off the tape and stuff. If it's all scabbed up and sealed, then I'm going to leave them off. You're not doing anything to get your hands dirty, and they'll heal faster in the open air anyway."
Is that code for 'don't touch me, let me do all the touching'? I wish he'd just come out and say what he wants! Why does he do this and then get mad when I don't respond like he wants? It's … Peter didn't seem mad. Maybe I am doing what he wants? "Okay," he said, since it seemed like he should contribute something to the conversation. Peter had moved on to his other hand and was repeating the process of whatever it was he was doing. Sylar's back felt warm on the couch. It was nice just lying there, having someone play with his hands, touching them, tugging at them, turning them this way and that, doing whatever. He zoned out.
If Peter had stuck to fondling his hands, Sylar might have truly slipped off to sleep. But that wasn't Peter's script. Next thing Sylar knew, Peter was slipping his hand up Sylar's forearm and cupping his elbow, which startled him to more wakefulness than he wanted. He jumped and took a moment to orient himself, reviewing recent events and figuring out why he was lying on a couch shirtless with Peter Petrelli feeling up his arms.
Speaking of which, Peter rotated his forearm up and down, testing range of motion, Sylar assumed. He tried to relax again and get back into the compliant frame of mind that he suspected he needed to get through this. Peter probed at the back of his elbow. "Does this hurt?"
Peter moved his arm again and it did hurt where he was pressing, but once more Sylar was faced with the dilemma of what to say. This would be a lot easier if he knew what answer Peter wanted. "Uh … yes?"
Peter nodded and moved to the other arm, repeating the process and the question. "How about this?" But this time, even though his fingers were in the same place, he wasn't putting any pressure on it. It didn't hurt.
Sylar kept his face the same, realizing Peter was tricking him, or testing him. "No, that doesn't hurt at all," he said, letting his voice show an element of wonder. Peter nodded and Sylar could see he'd passed the test. It put him on guard. So he doesn't want a yes or no, but the truth? That's … strange. Why doesn't he already know what answer he wants?
Peter said, "That's just normal hyperextension of the joint after a fist fight. I've got it, too. It's not a big deal." He moved his hands to the center of Sylar's chest, feeling down the sternum, noting Sylar's intake of breath and then holding it tensely as Peter checked. "Everything seems firmly attached," he murmured, turning his head now to look at Sylar's face. Sylar started breathing again. Peter put his hands over the upper left quadrant of Sylar's abdomen, palpating carefully. He took his eyes away just long enough to shift down to lower left quadrant, then looked back to Sylar's face as he repeated.
Sylar wasn't sure what Peter was doing looking at him so much all of a sudden. He was squishing around on his gut - which was pretty rude, but Peter hadn't asked and probably didn't care. Sylar hoped his internals were up to par. A prostate exam looked a lot more likely, even if it was stupid given his lack of injury to said area. But then, it's not about that, is it?
Peter shifted to the upper right of his stomach, feeling around thoroughly while watching Sylar's face like a hawk. Sylar frowned at the scrutiny. Peter's hands went to lower right, over the deep bruising and Sylar's eyes twitched and face stiffened. He saw in an instant how Peter's eyes darted around his features and Peter's touch lightened. That was Sylar's answer for what Peter had been looking for - any indication of pain or discomfort and he'd gotten it where he expected, but he'd also gotten a confirmation that there was none anywhere else. Clever boy, Sylar thought.
"Tell me," Peter asked, "is this sharp pain or dull pain?"
"Dull," Sylar answered honestly. It felt like Peter was poking him with a single finger. He looked down to see it was actually three held close together. I wonder if that's how he puts his hand when he puts it into someone else's … Sylar jerked his thoughts away from that. Besides, Peter was repeating his question and moving his hand around, apparently feeling his way through all the organs that might lie under the area of bruising. Sylar reported to him a string of "dull"s until Peter seemed satisfied.
"All done?" Sylar asked as Peter straightened from where he'd been half-squatting next to the couch. That has to be a really uncomfortable way to sit. He watched as Peter grimaced, stood and stretched, confirming it. Why would he do that? Why not just make me be the one in the uncomfortable position?
"No. I need your pants off. I want to check the stability of your hips, look at your leg, and make sure I'm not missing anything."
Er … Sylar's mind locked up at the plethora of possible innuendo in that so-innocently-delivered sentence. "'Kay," Sylar said eventually, unzipping his pants, reminding himself that he was in no position to fight and Peter had proven that he was very determined about this, even if Sylar still hadn't worked out why. He pushed down his jeans a little, looking up at Peter with an open, guileless expression. "My underwear, too?"
Peter was looking at Sylar's feet and said distractedly, "No. I can just pull them aside a little for the hip. Do you have any other injuries there?"
Sylar wondered what he was supposed to answer to that. Is that an invitation? Is he feeling out how cooperative I am? I'm being real cooperative. That's me - cooperative, passive patient; good patient; doing whatever Dr. Petrelli wants. Wouldn't want to make him hurt me. I might have to slap him with a malpractice suit and no one wants that. "Um … you might need to check?" He pushed his pants down, leaving his underwear up.
Peter glanced back at him, wearing not the happiest of expressions.
He doesn't want to see me, Sylar thought. Maybe he thinks I'm dirty or malformed? His head hurt. No … I just don't know what he thinks. Fine. I give up. Do what you want to me, Peter, because you're going to anyway. Peter had taken a seat at the other end of the couch, derailing his thoughts. Peter was messing with his feet, taking off his shoes. Belatedly, Sylar realized he'd been in the process of repeating the same screw-up as with the shirt, pushing his pants down without taking his shoes off first would only result in said pants getting tangled around his ankles. Not as big a deal lying down as standing up, but apparently Peter wanted them all the way off.
Peter unlaced his shoes and slipped them off, then looked back and forth between his feet. They were big feet. Sylar felt self-conscious about them. Peter hovered his hand over one and then the other, over the toes. He had sensed something, with whatever weird paramedic-sense he possessed. Brows pulled together, Peter began to feel of his toes.
Sylar twitched his foot out of Peter's grip. He'd forgotten about his stubbed toes. Peter reached slowly for the foot and pulled it back. Sylar shut his eyes and submitted, teeth locked as tightly as he could manage without making his head ache.
"What happened to your foot?" Peter asked, carefully rolling the sock off.
"I kicked a file cabinet." He couldn't remember why, exactly. It had something to do with Peter being an insufferable prick, he was sure, but the specifics eluded him. Luckily, Peter didn't ask any more about that.
Instead, Peter asked, "Do you think anything's broken here? Looks painful."
"I don't think anything is broken." Yes, of course it hurts, you dumbass! I kicked a fucking file cabinet! He scowled down the length of his body at Peter, who looked up at him a few times, but mostly examined his foot. It had to stink, but Peter didn't seem to care. It wasn't like the rest of Sylar probably smelled all that rosy. Peter moved one toe, then the next, feeling along them for angularity or deformation. Sylar sighed. Other than the occasional discomfort, the touching was nice and Peter was clearly being very careful. Just as clearly, he was going to do it whether Sylar wanted him to or not. This has got to be the weirdest foreplay on the planet.
Investigation done, Peter turned to the other foot. "How's the other foot?"
"Fine," Sylar said in a bored tone.
Peter checked it anyway, then pulled off Sylar's pants. Sylar suppressed an urge to cover himself or make more of an issue of his near-nakedness than he did. He watched Peter apprehensively, waiting for it (whatever it was) to happen. Surely it would be soon, right?
Peter went over his calves with a quick sweep, felt up his knees and looked at his good thigh. Then he looked at the one where Peter had tried to kneecap him, and had instead ended up kicking him really solidly in the muscle of his upper leg. Peter sighed and silently probed around at the swollen, discolored flesh, trying to discern exactly which muscles were affected. That would tell him how much of Sylar's limping was due to balance issues (though he now also had the toes to factor in) and how much due to concussion. When he was done, Peter tugged out the blanket Sylar had used earlier and covered his legs with it.
Considerate of him, Sylar thought, watching as Peter moved his area of interest to Sylar's groin. Whoa. Sylar's breathing sped up. Remarkably, he'd actually calmed down a lot while Peter was focused on his feet and legs. It was almost like this was a true and real physical exam, without any undertones or subtext.
Peter looked up at his face and said, "I'm going to put my hands on either of your hips and push a little. You might feel a little pressure. Let me know immediately if it hurts."
Sylar's lips were sealed, having no idea what to expect. 'Hip stability', he said. Like whether or not I'm safe to fuck? Then wouldn't he want my underwear off?
Peter did exactly what he'd said he'd do, his hands fitting around Sylar's hips and gripping him firmly in a way that made it impossible for Sylar to avoid thinking of Peter doing that while engaged in more … penetrative … activities. Then Peter looked up at him intently just like he had when feeling about on his stomach. Sylar decided to let his feelings show - maybe that would help - vulnerable, uncertain, scared, and kind of turned on because hey, he'd never had anyone grab him there … like that. Peter squeezed and pressed, then rocked his hips to one side, then the other, all while looking at Sylar's face, right into his eyes.
Jesus, Peter. How am I not supposed to think of sex at a time like this?
Peter, though, let go. "That didn't hurt?" he asked, all-business.
"No," Sylar answered, his voice small.
Peter nodded and slipped a finger under Sylar's waistband, making him jump. "I'm going to pull this aside and look at your hip. There's an abrasion that goes under your underwear. I need to make sure it didn't break the skin."
Now! Now it's going to happen! Sylar nodded too fast and held perfectly still as another man pulled his underwear down and to the side. He swallowed and his hands made fists on the couch cushions as he felt Peter's finger, hooked under the fabric, dig into his pubic hair. Oh my God, he's touching me! Not his penis itself, but … it was definitely in that area. Peter's hand was in that area. Sylar felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin, breathing hard and fast while Peter just … looked at his hip. Like it was no big deal. Sylar noted that Peter gave one deviation to that as his eyes glanced up to take in Sylar's white-knuckled grip on the cushion, but that was it.
Peter moved Sylar's clothes, such as they were, back to rights and pulled the blanket the rest of the way over him. He said, "Tell me where you keep your clean clothes and I'll get you a new set."
"That's … all?"
Peter looked down at Sylar with an expression of warmth and sympathy that Sylar didn't like. "Yeah, pretty much." Peter's expression went back to normal for him and he repeated, "Tell me where your other clothes are," as he moved off towards the obvious areas to look near Sylar's bed. "We'll get some Tiger Balm on you before you get dressed, but I don't see any problems you have that I can do much about directly. You need bed rest; you're getting it. You need constant supervision; you're getting it."
Peter found Sylar's boxes of extra clothes without assistance, picking out what he needed. He brought them over and set them on the chair, dragging over the first aid tote next. He produced the mentioned warming product for strains and sprains. Sylar took it from him, regretting it a moment later because that left it to him to smear it across his skin. I probably could have gotten him to do it. Seriously, though, that's everything? Not even going to feel me up and … whatever else, while he has the chance? He felt let down.
Peter remained at his side to make sure Sylar stayed on task enough to get the Tiger Balm on the affected parts. Then he wandered off to the kitchen so Sylar could dress in 'privacy'. Sylar almost didn't want to bother. He was tired. All the stress and excitement had worn him out. He was confused. After all that build-up, nothing had happened. Despite being a Petrelli, Peter didn't seem inclined to go through all that just for a mind-fuck. All Sylar was sure of was that Peter still didn't make a lick of sense.
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word count: 4,700
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter conducts a physical examination after he and Sylar have a fight. Sylar can't get past the idea Peter is trying to take advantage of him while he's weak.
Notes: This was a spin-off of More Between Us, Chapter 27ish. For those not familiar with that story - Peter and Sylar had a bad fight and although Sylar mostly won, he was badly concussed as a result. Peter was slightly concussed, but relatively okay. When Peter got Sylar back to Sylar's apartment and tried to examine his injuries, Sylar became paranoid that Peter was using this as a pretext to molest him.
Peter wasn't making any sense. He just wasn't. Sylar suspected that even if he were at full capacity, he still wouldn't be able to make sense of Petrelli's actions. He could recall that they hadn't made sense before the concussion, either. And right now, at his diminished ability, there was just no way of figuring the man out. Assuming, even, that Peter wasn't deliberately trying to confuse him.
At the moment, Peter was running his hands through Sylar's hair under pretense of … something. Sylar wasn't sure what. He'd said he was doing an examination, checking for injuries or something. Wasn't it perfectly clear Sylar was fucked up? It wasn't a secret; it wasn't a mystery. Why did Peter feel the need to "check" this? But here Peter was, fingers now probing around the hematoma caused when the man had hit him in the skull (what was he thinking with such a stupid blow? Knowing Peter - probably not much of anything) the week before.
Peter moved on, feeling and actually rubbing slightly at the musculature at the base of his neck, making Sylar wonder for a second if he was going to give him a massage. No. Peter moved on to the front of his neck, murmuring, "I'll get you some Tiger Balm after we're done." Sylar breathed a little faster as his exposed throat was caressed. He raised his chin at Peter's unspoken command, a minor push on his jaw, feeling like an animal at a show. Directly fighting this was still an option, but for the moment Sylar was playing for time, hoping he'd uncover motives and intentions. Peter found his pulse point with uncomfortably practiced ease, then grimaced at the non-functional watch he wore. He looked over at one of Sylar's many clocks, keeping time.
They sat there for long seconds while Sylar looked down on Peter through narrowed eyes. Maybe Peter had a doctor kink he wanted to play out. Maybe he wanted to know exactly how bad he'd hurt Sylar so he could gloat over the injuries, or so that if and when they fought again, Peter would know the weak spots to aim for. Maybe he thought Sylar was too weakened to resist him and this was Peter's way of pushing him around, getting off on Sylar's obedience and subservience under the guise of 'medical care'. Sylar's mind, sluggish as it was, continued to struggle through the options as Peter finished with his pulse and told him, "That's good. Real strong pulse. Let's get your shirt off."
Ah, yes. Disrobing. Take your clothes off and put on this gown. Turn around and cough. Whatever. So this is it, then? This is your pretext to getting me naked and even more defenseless than I already am?
"Come on, Sylar. I need to look at you."
Apparently just sitting there staring at Petrelli wasn't going to work. Sylar let his eyes wander across the floor and very slowly raised his hands to the buttons, mostly to make sure Peter didn't do it himself. Sylar sized himself up. He was concussed, easily confused, and had horrible balance. He was still strong, though, and coordinated enough to throw punches. So was Peter, and even if Peter was handicapped by a broken hand, that was more than compensated by his superior balance, reflexes and mobility. Plus, annoying and disheartening as it was to admit, Peter had him firmly on reasoning and cognitive ability at the moment, so trying to pull something sneaky on him probably wouldn't work.
One button after another was unfastened. All Peter needed to do was land one or two hard blows to Sylar's head and that would be all she wrote, upgrading his moderate concussion to severe or worse yet, to death. With some people, Sylar would have expected that knowing this about his state, they would go out of their way to avoid actually killing him. Peter was not 'some people'. It seemed very likely, given Petrelli's conduct in the last two fights, and his somewhat fogged recollections of previous ones - whether as Nathan or Sylar he didn't know or care at the moment - that once Peter got going in a fight, that death blows were the order of business if he could land them. It was a stupid, idiotic tactic to take, but this was Peter.
Sylar parted his shirt and stiffly shrugged it off his shoulders, sliding it down his arms. He tried to do this part fast, because otherwise he'd be a sitting duck in front of Peter, hands tied up behind him. He pulled. He tugged. The cloth tightened around his wrists, bunched and wouldn't let go. He considered panicking, jerking and fighting free. His eyes widened for a moment and he stared at Peter, who was watching him calmly. Peter smirked a little, realizing the problem.
Yes, the problem is I have a fucking concussion and I didn't think to unbutton my cuffs first. I am so fucked up I can't even outthink my own shirt. There is no way I can fight Peter. All I have to do is survive this. Just do whatever I need to do to survive.
Sylar surrendered, leaning forward, panting from the brief surge of fear at being trapped, and because his sinuses were hopelessly clogged. His hair fell across his face and he looked up at Peter through it, putting as much vulnerability as possible in his features. Peter noticed. His face changed; he smiled nervously. Sylar rasped out, "I'll do whatever you need me to do, Peter."
Peter's brows raised just slightly. He didn't miss the invitation, the offer, the unconditional nature of what Sylar was putting on the table. Complete compliance would, Sylar hoped, minimize how much he was hurt, at least physically. Peter would not need to beat him or threaten him to get whatever it was Peter wanted. And maybe if he made the offer this baldly, Peter would finally clear up what, exactly, his intentions were.
"What … um …" Peter touched the bare point of his shoulder and Sylar dropped his head and his gaze. His hands were bound helplessly behind him. He sat before Peter, defeated by his own clothing. It was humiliating. Peter gave him a nudge. "Turn around and I'll help you out."
Tie me up tighter, no doubt, Sylar thought as he shifted and turned obediently, presenting his hands to his captor. As he expected, Peter didn't immediately move to release him. Instead, he twitched the cloth down and looked at Sylar's back. But then, surprisingly, he moved his hands to Sylar's wrists and started fumbling at them. Mostly one-handed as he was, it wasn't all that easy. "You have a pretty big bruise back here," Peter observed. "What's that from?"
Sylar took a deep breath and lowered his voice to a husky, velvet tone that intentionally conveyed a lot of things so far left unsaid between them. "You pushed me down on the bed, climbed on top of me and straddled me. Don't tell me you've forgotten?"
Peter was silent, working off one of the cuffs and then pushing the sleeve up so he could get at the other, even though he could have left the task to Sylar. "I didn't know it bruised you up so bad." His voice was a little tight, but with an effort towards being normal. Certainly he wasn't responding to the obvious invitation in Sylar's tone and so Sylar dropped it for the moment. Peter got the rest of his shirt off and distracted Sylar completely by moving his fingers down Sylar's spine, touching and seeming to measure out the spaces between vertebrae. The sensation gave Sylar a shiver and he didn't bother to suppress it. Let Peter see the effect he's having.
Peter, for his part, was shocked at the size and discoloration of the bruise, but he recalled walking out to see Sylar stretching shortly after their first fight. He didn't think there was a broken rib and it was just a little too high to have hurt the kidney. He was pretty sure it was just a bad bruise. "I'm going to feel along your ribs, here." He traced the ones well above the injury, applying enough pressure to get a feel for how undamaged tissue responded - how much flex there was in the cartilage and how giving the muscle was. Sylar had excellent muscle tone. He dropped down to the next rib and repeated, skirting the edge of the blue-black skin and paying careful attention to Sylar's breathing as an indicator of pain. There was no change.
The next one down caused a more rapid intake of air than before. "Does that hurt sharply," Peter asked, "or is it just sore?"
Sylar hesitated, not sure what answer 'Dr. Petrelli' wanted. Peter repeated the touch, probing at him again as if he might need a repeat of the pain to better judge it, or maybe just motivation to answer. "It's mostly just sore," he said quietly, straining to tell if that was the answer Peter wanted.
Peter moved down without comment to the next one, which was also sore as hell, and used a similar pressure as before. "Is this the same, worse or better?"
Sylar considered Peter's voice - it was just the same, no more brusque or demanding, just asking. His touch was no rougher or harder, so Sylar guessed he was giving the right answer, or at least an acceptable one. "It's the same."
"Okay. I don't think there's anything broken, but it's something to think about for how you lie."
You mean what position you put me in to service you? Sylar didn't say that though. He knew his back hurt when he laid on it, but like hell was he going to lie on his stomach with Peter around. It would take that second or two extra to get up, or to even see the guy coming. Though now that he thought about it, maybe lying on his side would be okay.
"Go ahead and turn around so I can see your front." Peter pulled the shirt out of the way and tossed it on the chair.
Sylar's eyes looked after it. That was unsurprising, that Peter was putting his clothes where he couldn't get to them. He straightened so Peter could see what he was getting.
"Yeah, that's what I wanted to see," Peter murmured, which snapped Sylar's eyes rather painfully back to him. Peter was staring at the bruise and rash on his lower abdomen. About half of it was under his pants. And his underwear.
An excellent pretext to have me undress - this 'examination' thing. I'll have to remember it for the next time you're hurt worse than I am, Petrelli.
"Lie down, please," Peter said and Sylar complied, making himself as comfortable as he could. He felt very exposed - not as much as he expected to be later, though, so for now he just swallowed it down and put on a show of being unbothered. "How are your hands?" Peter asked.
"I thought what you wanted to see was a bit lower," Sylar purred. Peter glanced up at him, expression flat. Sylar quietly and lightly bit his tongue. Wrong thing to say. He doesn't like that. I'm not doing right. If I don't want to be hurt, I have to do right. What does he want? For me to be totally passive? He tried to think of the times when he'd gotten to Peter, when Peter had looked interested or aroused, and correlate them with how active or passive Sylar had been at the time. His brain hurt too much for it. And Peter was talking to him anyway, which was distracting.
"I'm concerned about your stomach, yeah, but I don't want to get tunnel vision or I'll miss things like that bruise on your back. Your gut's not going anywhere. I want to check everything. How are your hands?"
Oh, everything. Sure, Dr. Petrelli. Prostate exam included in that full check-up? I promise you that I am 'fully functional'. He didn't answer Peter's question, letting Peter pick up his hand and examine it, beginning to peel off the bandaging.
Peter spoke instead, saying, "From what I've seen you have full mobility. I'm going to take off the tape and stuff. If it's all scabbed up and sealed, then I'm going to leave them off. You're not doing anything to get your hands dirty, and they'll heal faster in the open air anyway."
Is that code for 'don't touch me, let me do all the touching'? I wish he'd just come out and say what he wants! Why does he do this and then get mad when I don't respond like he wants? It's … Peter didn't seem mad. Maybe I am doing what he wants? "Okay," he said, since it seemed like he should contribute something to the conversation. Peter had moved on to his other hand and was repeating the process of whatever it was he was doing. Sylar's back felt warm on the couch. It was nice just lying there, having someone play with his hands, touching them, tugging at them, turning them this way and that, doing whatever. He zoned out.
If Peter had stuck to fondling his hands, Sylar might have truly slipped off to sleep. But that wasn't Peter's script. Next thing Sylar knew, Peter was slipping his hand up Sylar's forearm and cupping his elbow, which startled him to more wakefulness than he wanted. He jumped and took a moment to orient himself, reviewing recent events and figuring out why he was lying on a couch shirtless with Peter Petrelli feeling up his arms.
Speaking of which, Peter rotated his forearm up and down, testing range of motion, Sylar assumed. He tried to relax again and get back into the compliant frame of mind that he suspected he needed to get through this. Peter probed at the back of his elbow. "Does this hurt?"
Peter moved his arm again and it did hurt where he was pressing, but once more Sylar was faced with the dilemma of what to say. This would be a lot easier if he knew what answer Peter wanted. "Uh … yes?"
Peter nodded and moved to the other arm, repeating the process and the question. "How about this?" But this time, even though his fingers were in the same place, he wasn't putting any pressure on it. It didn't hurt.
Sylar kept his face the same, realizing Peter was tricking him, or testing him. "No, that doesn't hurt at all," he said, letting his voice show an element of wonder. Peter nodded and Sylar could see he'd passed the test. It put him on guard. So he doesn't want a yes or no, but the truth? That's … strange. Why doesn't he already know what answer he wants?
Peter said, "That's just normal hyperextension of the joint after a fist fight. I've got it, too. It's not a big deal." He moved his hands to the center of Sylar's chest, feeling down the sternum, noting Sylar's intake of breath and then holding it tensely as Peter checked. "Everything seems firmly attached," he murmured, turning his head now to look at Sylar's face. Sylar started breathing again. Peter put his hands over the upper left quadrant of Sylar's abdomen, palpating carefully. He took his eyes away just long enough to shift down to lower left quadrant, then looked back to Sylar's face as he repeated.
Sylar wasn't sure what Peter was doing looking at him so much all of a sudden. He was squishing around on his gut - which was pretty rude, but Peter hadn't asked and probably didn't care. Sylar hoped his internals were up to par. A prostate exam looked a lot more likely, even if it was stupid given his lack of injury to said area. But then, it's not about that, is it?
Peter shifted to the upper right of his stomach, feeling around thoroughly while watching Sylar's face like a hawk. Sylar frowned at the scrutiny. Peter's hands went to lower right, over the deep bruising and Sylar's eyes twitched and face stiffened. He saw in an instant how Peter's eyes darted around his features and Peter's touch lightened. That was Sylar's answer for what Peter had been looking for - any indication of pain or discomfort and he'd gotten it where he expected, but he'd also gotten a confirmation that there was none anywhere else. Clever boy, Sylar thought.
"Tell me," Peter asked, "is this sharp pain or dull pain?"
"Dull," Sylar answered honestly. It felt like Peter was poking him with a single finger. He looked down to see it was actually three held close together. I wonder if that's how he puts his hand when he puts it into someone else's … Sylar jerked his thoughts away from that. Besides, Peter was repeating his question and moving his hand around, apparently feeling his way through all the organs that might lie under the area of bruising. Sylar reported to him a string of "dull"s until Peter seemed satisfied.
"All done?" Sylar asked as Peter straightened from where he'd been half-squatting next to the couch. That has to be a really uncomfortable way to sit. He watched as Peter grimaced, stood and stretched, confirming it. Why would he do that? Why not just make me be the one in the uncomfortable position?
"No. I need your pants off. I want to check the stability of your hips, look at your leg, and make sure I'm not missing anything."
Er … Sylar's mind locked up at the plethora of possible innuendo in that so-innocently-delivered sentence. "'Kay," Sylar said eventually, unzipping his pants, reminding himself that he was in no position to fight and Peter had proven that he was very determined about this, even if Sylar still hadn't worked out why. He pushed down his jeans a little, looking up at Peter with an open, guileless expression. "My underwear, too?"
Peter was looking at Sylar's feet and said distractedly, "No. I can just pull them aside a little for the hip. Do you have any other injuries there?"
Sylar wondered what he was supposed to answer to that. Is that an invitation? Is he feeling out how cooperative I am? I'm being real cooperative. That's me - cooperative, passive patient; good patient; doing whatever Dr. Petrelli wants. Wouldn't want to make him hurt me. I might have to slap him with a malpractice suit and no one wants that. "Um … you might need to check?" He pushed his pants down, leaving his underwear up.
Peter glanced back at him, wearing not the happiest of expressions.
He doesn't want to see me, Sylar thought. Maybe he thinks I'm dirty or malformed? His head hurt. No … I just don't know what he thinks. Fine. I give up. Do what you want to me, Peter, because you're going to anyway. Peter had taken a seat at the other end of the couch, derailing his thoughts. Peter was messing with his feet, taking off his shoes. Belatedly, Sylar realized he'd been in the process of repeating the same screw-up as with the shirt, pushing his pants down without taking his shoes off first would only result in said pants getting tangled around his ankles. Not as big a deal lying down as standing up, but apparently Peter wanted them all the way off.
Peter unlaced his shoes and slipped them off, then looked back and forth between his feet. They were big feet. Sylar felt self-conscious about them. Peter hovered his hand over one and then the other, over the toes. He had sensed something, with whatever weird paramedic-sense he possessed. Brows pulled together, Peter began to feel of his toes.
Sylar twitched his foot out of Peter's grip. He'd forgotten about his stubbed toes. Peter reached slowly for the foot and pulled it back. Sylar shut his eyes and submitted, teeth locked as tightly as he could manage without making his head ache.
"What happened to your foot?" Peter asked, carefully rolling the sock off.
"I kicked a file cabinet." He couldn't remember why, exactly. It had something to do with Peter being an insufferable prick, he was sure, but the specifics eluded him. Luckily, Peter didn't ask any more about that.
Instead, Peter asked, "Do you think anything's broken here? Looks painful."
"I don't think anything is broken." Yes, of course it hurts, you dumbass! I kicked a fucking file cabinet! He scowled down the length of his body at Peter, who looked up at him a few times, but mostly examined his foot. It had to stink, but Peter didn't seem to care. It wasn't like the rest of Sylar probably smelled all that rosy. Peter moved one toe, then the next, feeling along them for angularity or deformation. Sylar sighed. Other than the occasional discomfort, the touching was nice and Peter was clearly being very careful. Just as clearly, he was going to do it whether Sylar wanted him to or not. This has got to be the weirdest foreplay on the planet.
Investigation done, Peter turned to the other foot. "How's the other foot?"
"Fine," Sylar said in a bored tone.
Peter checked it anyway, then pulled off Sylar's pants. Sylar suppressed an urge to cover himself or make more of an issue of his near-nakedness than he did. He watched Peter apprehensively, waiting for it (whatever it was) to happen. Surely it would be soon, right?
Peter went over his calves with a quick sweep, felt up his knees and looked at his good thigh. Then he looked at the one where Peter had tried to kneecap him, and had instead ended up kicking him really solidly in the muscle of his upper leg. Peter sighed and silently probed around at the swollen, discolored flesh, trying to discern exactly which muscles were affected. That would tell him how much of Sylar's limping was due to balance issues (though he now also had the toes to factor in) and how much due to concussion. When he was done, Peter tugged out the blanket Sylar had used earlier and covered his legs with it.
Considerate of him, Sylar thought, watching as Peter moved his area of interest to Sylar's groin. Whoa. Sylar's breathing sped up. Remarkably, he'd actually calmed down a lot while Peter was focused on his feet and legs. It was almost like this was a true and real physical exam, without any undertones or subtext.
Peter looked up at his face and said, "I'm going to put my hands on either of your hips and push a little. You might feel a little pressure. Let me know immediately if it hurts."
Sylar's lips were sealed, having no idea what to expect. 'Hip stability', he said. Like whether or not I'm safe to fuck? Then wouldn't he want my underwear off?
Peter did exactly what he'd said he'd do, his hands fitting around Sylar's hips and gripping him firmly in a way that made it impossible for Sylar to avoid thinking of Peter doing that while engaged in more … penetrative … activities. Then Peter looked up at him intently just like he had when feeling about on his stomach. Sylar decided to let his feelings show - maybe that would help - vulnerable, uncertain, scared, and kind of turned on because hey, he'd never had anyone grab him there … like that. Peter squeezed and pressed, then rocked his hips to one side, then the other, all while looking at Sylar's face, right into his eyes.
Jesus, Peter. How am I not supposed to think of sex at a time like this?
Peter, though, let go. "That didn't hurt?" he asked, all-business.
"No," Sylar answered, his voice small.
Peter nodded and slipped a finger under Sylar's waistband, making him jump. "I'm going to pull this aside and look at your hip. There's an abrasion that goes under your underwear. I need to make sure it didn't break the skin."
Now! Now it's going to happen! Sylar nodded too fast and held perfectly still as another man pulled his underwear down and to the side. He swallowed and his hands made fists on the couch cushions as he felt Peter's finger, hooked under the fabric, dig into his pubic hair. Oh my God, he's touching me! Not his penis itself, but … it was definitely in that area. Peter's hand was in that area. Sylar felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin, breathing hard and fast while Peter just … looked at his hip. Like it was no big deal. Sylar noted that Peter gave one deviation to that as his eyes glanced up to take in Sylar's white-knuckled grip on the cushion, but that was it.
Peter moved Sylar's clothes, such as they were, back to rights and pulled the blanket the rest of the way over him. He said, "Tell me where you keep your clean clothes and I'll get you a new set."
"That's … all?"
Peter looked down at Sylar with an expression of warmth and sympathy that Sylar didn't like. "Yeah, pretty much." Peter's expression went back to normal for him and he repeated, "Tell me where your other clothes are," as he moved off towards the obvious areas to look near Sylar's bed. "We'll get some Tiger Balm on you before you get dressed, but I don't see any problems you have that I can do much about directly. You need bed rest; you're getting it. You need constant supervision; you're getting it."
Peter found Sylar's boxes of extra clothes without assistance, picking out what he needed. He brought them over and set them on the chair, dragging over the first aid tote next. He produced the mentioned warming product for strains and sprains. Sylar took it from him, regretting it a moment later because that left it to him to smear it across his skin. I probably could have gotten him to do it. Seriously, though, that's everything? Not even going to feel me up and … whatever else, while he has the chance? He felt let down.
Peter remained at his side to make sure Sylar stayed on task enough to get the Tiger Balm on the affected parts. Then he wandered off to the kitchen so Sylar could dress in 'privacy'. Sylar almost didn't want to bother. He was tired. All the stress and excitement had worn him out. He was confused. After all that build-up, nothing had happened. Despite being a Petrelli, Peter didn't seem inclined to go through all that just for a mind-fuck. All Sylar was sure of was that Peter still didn't make a lick of sense.