Wall Verse Chapter 2, Vicious Cycle
A/N: First part is Peter's point of view; second part is Sylar's. Inspired by More Between Us Than A Wall, but not canon for that work.
Peter looked over at Sylar grimacing and fiddling with the cap to the ointment. He felt guilty and he wanted to make himself useful. "Hey, let me help you."
Sylar gave him a disgruntled look and opened his mouth.
Peter interrupted before Sylar could say something snarky and kill Peter's desire to help, "It's the least I can do." The fight had been a bit unwarranted, really. Peter knew he'd overreacted. He should have had a better grip on his temper, even if it seemed like Sylar intentionally tried to piss him off sometimes.
Sylar shut his mouth, exhaled sharply and nodded. Peter went to one knee in front of him, opening an alcohol wipe that he'd been intending to use on his own bruised and lacerated knuckles. Once open, he dropped the wrapper and put his left hand on Sylar's knee to steady himself, noting the man's glance down at that. It was no different than how Peter would treat any of his patients: being kind, comfortable and familiar with them. Sylar's glance reminded him instantly of how that wasn't how it usually was between them.
The man's eyes rose to Peter's in unvoiced question. Peter tried very hard to ignore that query, instead focusing on the feel of Sylar's knee beneath his hand: warm and firm; reassuringly human. "This is going to sting," he said, reaching up to the cut over Sylar's brow. He wiped and cleaned carefully, taking pleasure in touching and helping someone else, even if it was Sylar. The other man set his hand on his right thigh, the very tip of one finger touching Peter's. It was an odd touch, but Sylar seemed to look for excuses to touch him. Peter had noticed. He was ambivalent about whether he minded. He glanced down, lifting his left hand away slowly enough to be casual and saying, "Ointment?"
Sylar gave a slightly disappointed sniff and handed it to him. Peter took it in his left, unscrewed the cap with his right, smeared it on some gauze and set his left hand back down on Sylar's knee - not quite touching his hand. With his right he applied the cream to the cut. He let his eyes drop from the injury to Sylar's eyes, holding that gaze for a long moment. He had beautiful eyes. They were alert, intelligent and incredibly observant. At the moment, the full smoldering intensity of them was burning into Peter's, with a latent desire not nearly so well hidden as it usually was. Peter's right hand dropped slowly, his fingertips grazing Sylar's cheek in what might be characterized as a caress. Sylar inhaled and tensed, eyes widening.
That … was completely inappropriate of me. Peter gave a brief, nervous smile before he pulled his hands away and leaned back. "Sorry," he mumbled, looking down to watch himself cap the tube of ointment. He was embarrassed and even more because he was thrilling to the touch and the reaction. Inappropriate - yes, but certainly welcome.
"Nothing to be sorry for," Sylar said, his voice deeper than usual, almost a purr. God, the things Sylar could do with his voice … and the things it did to Peter. The empath could feel the man's eyes boring into him. It felt great, like he was in a spotlight. He felt warmth suffusing every part of himself.
I can't do this. It's wrong. He's not a patient, or even just some guy. He's Sylar. "I shouldn't have hit you," Peter said quietly, redirecting what they were talking about.
"Right. That," Sylar said, leaning back in his seat with a huff. Peter winced both at how let down the man was and how let down Peter himself was.
Peter glanced up to see that Sylar was studying a corner of the ceiling, looking as dissatisfied as Peter had expected. It left him feeling even more guilty than he'd started. The medic collected up the discarded wrapper and went to get another alcohol wipe for his knuckles. The whole thing was his fault. If he just refused to let Sylar get to him, then none of this would happen. He just needed better control.
Sylar was still pissed about the fight. It had been completely uncalled for. He'd been teasing, for God's sake! Peter was so overly sensitive about certain subjects. Sylar resented having to keep a mental list of what he wasn't allowed to speak of. Of course, he'd known that particular subject was on the list when he'd made fun of it and Peter's reaction to it was hardly a surprise. He fidgeted roughly with the cap of the ointment, wishing there was a way for him to vent his frustrations on it without making a ridiculous mess.
"Hey, let me help you," Peter said.
Sylar's head jerked up and he opened his mouth to say something biting about Peter's 'help' but … His mind jumped to the last time they'd hurt each other and Peter running his fingers through Sylar's hair to feel the knot on his head, leaning close to him and checking his hurts. And then to Peter letting him touch him up later when Sylar helped apply the brace to his hand. The care was an excuse to touch in some way that didn't hurt automatically.
"It's the least I can do," Peter added, looking apologetic.
Does he get off on this? Sylar's mouth shut with a snap. Even if Peter didn't … well, Sylar sure wasn't going to pass up the opportunity. He nodded.
Peter knelt in front of him and immediately put a hand unnecessarily on Sylar's knee, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Sylar gave him a questioning look, but Peter ignored it, instead telling him, "This is going to sting," equally unnecessarily as he raised an alcohol wipe to the cut over Sylar's eye. Peter was avoiding eye contact, so Sylar glanced down surreptitiously at the hand on his leg and put his own next to it, touching slightly, testing the waters while preserving plausible deniability for both of them. Is this how you want to play this, Pete? he wondered.
Peter did not pull away instantly. He looked down and lifted his hand away deliberately, asking for the ointment.
Oh yeah, Sylar thought, with everything he'd suspected confirmed by Peter's false casualness. We're playing. This is a game. Oh my. You do get off on this. Or at least you're not above using it to flirt. And that's what you're doing - you're flirting, but you won't admit it. You are weird, Petrelli.
Peter finished applying ointment and finally made eye contact. He held it for a moment and this close, Sylar could see the empath's pupils dilate. Bingo, Sylar thought, staring into Peter's eyes like he was going to fall into them. Peter's hand dropped, his fingertips skimming across Sylar's cheek. It was so definitive, so clearly not part of medical duties, that Sylar stiffened and sucked in air, his own eyes widening. Oh, yeah, that's it! Sylar leaned forward slightly, lips parting just a tiny bit.
But then Peter remembered himself. He pulled back abruptly, tilted his head down and withdrew his touch and his attention completely. "Sorry," he muttered, drawing in on himself guiltily.
Oh my God, no, NO! Come back here, dammit! "Nothing to be sorry for," Sylar breathed, staring at Peter and trying with sheer force of will to make the man continue what he'd started. Peter blushed, so he obviously knew what was going on here.
"I shouldn't have hit you," Peter said, trying to pretend he was apologizing for hitting him, which Sylar could suddenly not care less about. He'd let Peter hit him all the time if it meant he got something like this out of it.
Shit! I almost had him. That almost went somewhere! "Right. That," he said with a profound sense of disappointment. Sylar felt like railing at the heavens at the injustice of it all, of being trapped here with someone who was too stuck on his morals to act even though he was clearly attracted. He slumped back in his seat and stared at the ceiling, caught between being angry and depressed. Peter went off to see to his knuckles. Sylar glared balefully after him, thinking. Peter's reaction to Sylar's teasing had been predictable. So too, perhaps, was the reaction to tending to him. Sylar could use that. The next provocation would be intentional.