More Between Us, Chapter 16/? "Braced For It"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 16/?
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 9,400
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
Day 8
“Thanks,” Peter said to Sylar for getting the door for him. He headed inside the music store. Peter walked further in, looking around for … something he wasn’t seeing. It struck him as odd for a moment, until he realized that he normally looked for people when he went in a store. Not seeing anyone, the only thing left to see was the wares. He turned to look back. Sylar was out of sight. He blinked at that and walked back until he saw where Sylar had elected to sit on the ground. Huh. O-kay. He was a little surprised the man hadn’t come along with him. Guess I pissed him off a lot.
Oh well. It was Sylar. Peter turned and ambled to the guitar section, mulling that over: ‘It was Sylar.’ Does that mean its okay to piss him off? To be rude to him? (To use a nail gun on him and try to obliterate him?) He let out a deep breath and shot another look back at the entrance. He was still alone. He shook his head in negation, even if he couldn’t yet bring himself to think it.
Instead, he moved on to looking at the guitars. There were a number of them - different styles, designs and sizes. He ran his fingers over a few of them, but none appealed to him much. He really liked the one they’d found, even though it was very basic - maybe because it was basic. He didn’t need anything fancy.
XXX
Doing a great job of telegraphing your soft spots, aren’t we? Sylar thought while he struggled with his anger; rage, actually, and grief as he thought of the woman he’d called ‘Mom’. He sat inside the door, with legs crossed under him and his hands clasped loosely in his lap, staring down at them, trying to think straight. He did so hate being made to feel worthless even if Peter wasn’t aware he’d done it. Why would Peter ask that? At all or…in that way? Was Peter trying to ask something of him or just be polite or…genuinely trying to rib and dig into the topic with that tone?
XXX
Peter looked at the picks next. They came in different colors, styles and materials; with skulls, Hello Kitty and flowers on them, or plain, or tortoise shell stone. He rifled through them casually, seeing nothing that grabbed his interest until he moved some aluminum picks aside and saw a set of five striated zebra wood. Cool. He snagged them without wondering why they, of all he had to choose from, practically screamed ‘Pick me!’ to him. He picked up some extra strings, too. On the way out, he pondered over sheet music. I suppose if I can practice and get better at something, then I should be able to learn something new, eventually, if I work at it. He picked some out, bagged his finds and turned to his companion.
XXX
Soon enough Peter returned with his finds-a wooden pick, strings and music from what he could tell. Sylar kept his face turned away, not glancing at Peter any more than the initial perfunctory evaluation. Son of a bitch. How dare he ask about my mother? And like such a dick, too. Yeah, HIS mom is off limits. That didn’t hide the fact that Sylar was glad his mother wasn’t…around, not only not to see what he’d become, but so Peter and his kind couldn’t use her.
Sylar stood and opened the door again.
XXX
Sylar had remained quiet. Peter considered what they might talk about on the walk to wherever - he supposed the hospital was next. Talking. We’re going to be doing a lot of that. Restless and uncomfortable with the quiet, he asked, "Do you mind me asking about you - what you like, what you don't like, favorite color, whatever?” He glanced away, then back.
XXX
The pair began walking as the Peter blabbed on about something or other along Sylar’s lines of thought. He kept his hands in his pockets and guided them towards the hospital. He exhaled a breath, nearly a snort of amusement to show the request was hardly a no-fly zone to him. “No, I don’t mind that.” In fact it was encouraged.
When he was sure Peter wasn’t looking he rolled his eyes. “When you’ve been here for a year, I think you’ll see that things like that won’t matter, but in the interest of the here and now, that’s fine by me.”
XXX
“Okay. Are there certain questions I shouldn't be asking you? I know there’s things if you asked me, I wouldn’t answer - like I'm not going to tell you anything about other people with abilities.” Peter chewed his lip a little. I hope you understand that? “And I don't want to hear about ... what you've done with your ability. So are there areas for you I need to stay away from, in the interests of, uh,” he laughed a little nervously, trying to inject some levity into an otherwise very serious request, “not punching each other in the face?"
XXX
Doesn’t want to hear what you’ve done with your abilities? That was…a little offensive. Surely Peter wants to know if I ate the goddamn brains? What is his problem? He’s a medic but he can’t handle one little special lobotomy or twenty? He is no fun at all.
Sylar’s desired reply was an extremely juvenile ‘oooh, whatcha gonna do if I don’t, Petey?’ and his jaw ticked at the urge. No duh, Peter. Like, how about every subject on the planet is off fucking limits? His fingers itched to find the soft flesh of Peter’s throat in frustration yet again-What the hell does he want from me? There’s a reason I don’t or can’t make friends; why can’t he just see-?
“I can just let you ask all the questions then. I’m sure the Geneva Convention won’t arrest you.” In typical Sylar fashion he was being (mostly) humorous-another thing Peter would have to learn. It also signaled that he would probably cough up whatever answer to whatever question Peter decided to ask. Somewhere someone is laughing at me over this. Stunned he thinks I have or need verbal boundaries. No, I take that back…you did hit him for giving you…funny looks.
XXX
Passive aggressive much? Peter thought. “There’s no one around here to arrest either of us, man.” We can beat each other until we’re broken and bloody. No one’s going to punish us for it except each other - and ourselves.
XXX
Sylar muttered, “I hadn’t noticed. You know, I’ve really turned into a crazed klepto these last few years and I was wondering when they’d catch on,” unable to resist rolling his eyes at Peter’s need to point out the obvious. If Peter kept putting himself out there like that, Sylar had no choice (no real desire to censor himself) but to inject his humor into it. Snark the dumb out of that boy a bit. Expose the Boy Scout to some new cultu-no, you promised to see him as a fully consenting adult. Meaning he’s getting what’s coming.
XXX
Peter gave a brief half-smile in recognition of Sylar’s humor, then went on, “It’s a lot easier to be civil if we just don’t discuss certain things. I don’t want to talk about my family either - any of them. That includes Claire and Meredith.” Don’t care so much about Tim and Cheryl and the rest.
XXX
“Really? Meredith?” His voice was a mix of things as was his face, screwing up in humor and disbelief, “She’s not really related to you in any way.” And she’s…dead, too; yeah, ‘dead’. “How the hell do you even know her? I was looking forward to giving you dirt on-“ your brother, he caught himself as the words were on their way out of his mouth, “something you didn’t know.” Like, was she a moaner or a screamer, I’m sure he’s asked himself this many times. A mental growl of displeasure went up in his head.
Barely, just barely Sylar managed to stave off that little…interlude because gold diggers just weren’t his thing. Next you’ll be speaking Nathan’s filthy memories, popping boners in front of his baby brother from lack of stimulation; no thank you. And there were way too many people with a Texan accent around for it ever to be vaguely appealing to his libido…such as it was now. Then again…if Peter did it…
XXX
He glanced over, noting there was no mention of a similar list of topics from Sylar. Fine. Probably afraid I’d use it against him. He declined to answer about Meredith for the moment, not wanting to get derailed from setting boundaries in the conversation. “If you want to think of it that way, I’m giving you a list of how to push my buttons. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t.” These weren’t great secrets, from Peter’s point of view. Anyone with a shred of empathy and Nathan’s memories would know exactly how to torque Peter off - the stunt with the teddy bear proved Sylar was not without that shred. Such an emotion worked both ways - it gave Sylar insight, but it also gave Peter a lever.
XXX
Sylar sniggered lightly, quietly, “I don’t need a list, man. You telegraph yourself just fine.” And Peter did. The looks he would get were priceless and half the reason for Sylar’s button-pushing. Messing with people was always fun and Peter made it oh-so easy and even more tempting. He didn’t need lists, Nathan’s files, or Peter’s face to tell him what would have Peter looking like a Universal Pantone book.
He felt the other man’s gaze on him and turned to meet it, quirking an eyebrow in classic ‘duh’.
XXX
Peter studied Sylar yet again, trying to figure out what he was dealing with here, attempting to figure out how best to use that lever, because life here was going to be pretty awful if he didn’t. This was his worst enemy he was hanging out with, struggling to make nice with and set up some rules that didn’t include Sylar getting pissy about Peter blundering into a personal trigger for him and taking that hammer in his apartment to Peter’s head. No lying, no manipulating. Peter was making an effort, but he had no idea where he was supposed to draw the line between ‘no manipulating’ and trying to get Sylar to act right towards him.
“So, okay. Enough of that.” He grinned easily, changing the subject to something less emotionally charged. “What is your favorite color? Inquiring minds want to know.”
XXX
Peter’s seamless switch had him chuckling, mildly at first, but as the man continued, he was left laughing as the chuckle reached a crescendo. As if it wasn’t obvious? Sylar eyed Peter on the sly, enjoying the view a little as it were. “Black. Contains all the colors and covers-“ well, blood, “all the colors.” It’s really all I wear. Black is conservative, serious, conventional, mysterious, sexy, sophisticated, rebellious. Black is for bad guys.
//He recalled Peter replying when asked what his favorite color was, after some additional thought, “Wainbow. It has all the colors.” Nathan had laughed and ruffled his hair at the silliness his brother presented, “Rainbow, eh? Not just one color in the rainbow for ya?” Pete had shaken his head, first to right his hair and as an answer, “Nope!”//
Yikes…that’s…not intentional, I liked black long before I knew…any of that, in my defense. “I’m here to satisfy your curiosity,” Sylar smirked to himself before inquiring, “And yours?”
XXX
“Hm.” Peter nodded at Sylar’s response and looked ahead, seeing the hospital in the distance. The structures had a characteristic look no matter where they were, but he recognized this one specifically. He’d been to it before, in New York. It wasn’t Mercy Heights, but EMTs defaulted to delivering patients to the closest facility. His mind pulled up the faces of those who had worked there - but it would be empty today. Oh, the question. Yeah. Color.
He gave it more thought than such a query probably deserved. Kids asked each other favorite colors all the time, considering the virtues of different crayons or markers. Adults only really brought such a consideration up when discussing clothes or cars. Or wall color, or house paint. But in those cases it was the purpose of the coloring that mattered. An eye-catching green was good as a shirt, but gauche for your house. So without going back to ask what application Sylar meant, and taking the question like he would if he were a kid considering Crayolas, what would he pick?
“Red, I think,” Peter said. “It’s had a lot of significance for me … lately.”
XXX
Red? Sylar made a face at first, automatically assuming blood. He hadn’t been expecting baby blue or dinosaur purple or anything, but still. He would pick…one of those middle colors, between warm and cool for Peter. A ‘just right’ color that went with everything and blended in but stood out uniquely. Enough about that…he’d managed to embarrass himself to himself.
Red; it made sense as he thought on it; Peter was a medic and he dealt with blood, maybe to his mind it was a heroic color for courage or something. He failed to see how that would make a hero’s favorites list since blood was universally ‘bad’, this he knew well. Sylar tilted his head in question at ‘lately’, but it went unanswered, sort of. Nathan bled out…
XXX
Peter looked Sylar over briefly, then himself, inspecting for the color. Neither of them were wearing it. His mind flashed next to blood - as a paramedic, and the amount of it he’d come across in recent years, his own and that of others. “It’s not the blood. It’s more like paint, or a kind of weird highlighter. Ever since I had Isa-“ He hesitated and his eyes darted uneasily to Sylar. Did he have Isaac’s power back then? Yes, he did. He killed him. So he had it. “Isaac Mendez’s power, I started noticing … I don’t know. The color just stood out to me more. It’s vivid, like its emphasizing things for me. Even after I lost the ability, I still look for the color.”
\‘What do you think?’ Nathan asked him. ‘Red or blue?’ Peter glanced between the two ties, put off to be asked such a trivial thing when he was bursting with the need to talk about what was happening to them. Peter knew he’d changed inside. He was elated. He had to tell someone about it. Nathan understood - he could tell he did. But he kept denying. What did Nathan want him to pick? ‘I don’t know, blue?’ Nathan looked at them soberly, as if this was the most serious question of the day, far more critical of it than if he or Peter could defy gravity and fly. ‘I’m gonna go red. The president wears red.’\ The color had meant something even then, Peter suspected, but he hadn’t been able to see it at the time. He hadn’t met Isaac yet. He wondered if he would have picked differently if he had?
XXX
Red is Cupid and the Devil. Red is Power. Red is anger and eroticism and war.
Isaac Mendez…that horrible ability. He’d painted himself in the White House; Peter Petrelli; then the two of them at Kirby. Red. The color of Mom’s blood. Why hadn’t he painted that?! The color of Mom’s blood as he’d painted out what he now saw was the final masterpiece of their-
Oh god… Sylar swallowed and paled; images of red scrubbed hands, raw and chafed from hot water and soap and a furiously dirtied hand towel in the bathroom…Forget about that, there’s….nothing you can do about it now. He doesn’t know and didn’t mean anything by it. In a strained voice he replied, honestly “I…know the feeling,” Oh, that gut-turning, empty feeling. He didn’t realize he’d probably broken the rule Peter had just laid down: No ability talk.
“Huh,” he grunted with muted interest in the back of his throat. Have to think on that later and maybe ask- no, can’t ask him about it. He said not to. Urgh. “That’s interesting,” and his tone conveyed his intrigue, but the lust and power-hungry sound was no longer present in his voice. Sylar had already replayed all Nathan’s memories, feelings and recollections on the color; cars, advertisements, photos, lipstick, dresses, lingerie, shoes, ties most importantly for him, or rather to him. Nathan himself preferred blues, always had.
XXX
Peter circled back to Sylar’s earlier question. “I never met Meredith. But …” He chewed his lip and looked away. “She was important to … my brother.” Of course, he never mentioned her, in all those years. Or actually, there were times when he did but I didn’t know enough to understand that’s what he was saying. How important was she to him? Sylar would know. He’d know, the bastard, and I won’t. I should have talked to Nathan about it when I had the chance. He swallowed. “At least for a little while.” She should have been. I hope she was. “I don’t want to hear you talking about her. Or any of my family. I’m … getting wound up right now just thinking about it.” And it’s not actually your fault. Peter put on a gentle, if forced smile. I don’t want to fight with you. That’s the point.
XXX
Sylar glanced away as Peter mentioned some words that were painful to both of them, more so to Peter, ‘my brother’. No, he wasn’t pained because of guilt or because Nathan left everything but his body and his will in Sylar’s head. He was pained with jealousy. He instantly wished to have what Nathan did with Meredith, whatever that was, whatever was behind it because whatever it was…it had been real enough for the couple.
Only distantly was he aware of what it was like to become a father, to have a baby, to be married. Nathan was never really into that, not until it was too late. He didn’t own the feelings, the memories. Guess that means we’ll both die childless and happy. Peter would say ‘good riddance and serves you right, that’s what you get’, but he was sure Peter would make a good father (if only he could restrain his hero-wanderings).
XXX
“So let’s change the subject, okay?” Peter said.
XXX
“Okay,” was Sylar’s bare hint of a whisper, for once wholly in agreement because his own emotions were strung up in the conversation for the same or similar reasons. Goddamn empathy, jealousy, whatever the fuck. He was still frowning as Peter miraculously dragged a smile from somewhere and somehow he felt relieved, almost a little forgiven. “Yeah,” Sylar cleared his tight throat, straightening his shoulders as they approached the building.
XXX
Peter offered something else to discuss. “What’s your favorite food and what do you like about it?” And please, please, please do not say ‘brains’.
XXX
“Food…” Sylar exhaled. “I wasn’t raised to be…big on food,” that was putting a few things mildly; being force-fed as a freaking adult and made to clean his plate as a child amongst a…strict diet. “But, um…spaghetti,” he finally decided, “Fun to eat and gross to watch.” He shrugged, cheered up once again, “Its pasta!”
XXX
Sylar’s exuberant delivery for the phrase made Peter laugh a little - a much desired bit of levity. “Pasta, huh? My favorite, too, but I prefer linguini or angel hair.” He glanced over at Sylar and added, “Spaghettini or capellini.” He was looking for recognition of the words. They weren’t mainstream unless someone was Italian or a determined pasta aficionado. “And I like white sauce more than red, even though it’s a heart attack on a plate. I don’t eat it very often, which is probably why I like it so much. Just about everything I really like to eat isn’t good for me.”
XXX
He chuckled. He’d made Peter laugh, just a bit and he didn’t know how he’d done it. “Capellini d’angelo, il mio veru del uno amore,” he replied seriously. Sylar laughed himself about the health factor, nodding, “’Don’t dig your grave with your knife and fork’….and that coming from an Englishman.” He smiled, “That’s why we eat it-because it’s bad for us. If it wasn’t we wouldn’t get nearly so much, if any, pleasure from the act.”
XXX
Peter pondered for a moment. “No, I take that back, there’s a vegetable stir fry I get … used to get down on Larson Street that uses really fresh vegetables and has this incredible peanut sauce.” Peter waved his arms a little in emphasis, relaxing a bit in the pleasant memory. “It is out of this world fantastic. You-“ ought to try it sometime. He caught himself on the verge of pseudo-inviting Sylar to go … out. Somewhere. With him. Weird.
He dispelled the momentary letting down of defenses and managed to salvage it with, “-wouldn’t believe how good it is.” He puzzled over his lapse. It’s really good food, he rationalized. Even a serial killer has to eat. Maybe if he had more good experiences in his life he wouldn’t be out there causing such misery. Peter pushed out a larger breath and gave his head a little shake. Yeah, that’s gotta be it.
\‘What’s for dinner? I’m starved.’ ‘I remember … wanting my life to change.’\
Peter huffed. He wanted to believe. He didn’t, but he wanted to. Actually, no - he believed that Sylar wanted his life to change. Peter just didn’t believe it had. He’d seen little in the way of proof (not that it was all that easy to prove you weren’t a serial killer in a world with only one other person in it and no abilities - but hey, he hadn’t killed Peter yet; that was saying something, wasn’t it?)
XXX
“Hmm,” was all Sylar had to say to that. He was connecting dots with (some assistance from Nathan) regards to Peter’s preferences. Nuts seemed prevalent, almonds and peanuts. He stored that away for future use and possible research.
XXX
Peter went back to learning more about his companion and making conversation. “You said you read a lot. I used to read for fun when I was a kid. I liked adventure stories, a lot of action, heroes-saving-the-day sort of stuff.” He chuckled a little at how stupid that sounded. He remembered blathering on to Nathan so earnestly about how he thought he’d been charged with saving the world. He wondered if he had. He sure hoped so, but really … he had no idea. A cheerleader was dead and Claire wouldn’t have died anyway, so how was he to tell? And it wasn’t exactly a divine prophecy either - it was just what a future version of Hiro said and Hiro was good-hearted, but no wiser than anyone else. The whole time travel paradox thing hurt Peter’s head.
‘All we can do is take what we have been given and do the best we can with it.’ He took comfort in the quote and looked ahead. They were nearly to the hospital. “The stories were always kind of black and white. Life isn’t really that way.” Even if I keep wanting it to be. He looked over at Sylar for a long moment, then shifted his shoulders uneasily.
XXX
Sylar thought, Black and white…ironic my last name is Gray? Is that saying I don’t fit in his world? Rather that he doesn’t want me to. Am….am I always in the wrong by nature then? Or does he somehow….have to learn to see the gray? Understand and accep- Oh, please.
His lip quirked into a nano-second acknowledgement; otherwise busy in his own thoughts. “Be great if life was that way.” I could fit into your world then and all this world would just be…some kind of hero test. Or villain’s graveyard.
XXX
Peter reached up with his left hand and rubbed his neck, ducking his head a little. In a slightly softer voice, he offered up something more personal. “I went into nursing partly because I was trying to find a place in life where things were black and white - where people needed help, and I could help them. It was simple. I felt like I was making a difference and doing right. Seeing a patient … get better … it made me feel good about myself.”
He stopped and looked up at the empty hospital. No patients here to help. He supposed that was good in a way - no suffering for him to avert, but it left him feeling a little purposeless. Peter turned to Sylar and resumed his strides. “What kind of books do you like to read?”
XXX
When Peter paused, Sylar stopped after a step further, staring at Peter, probably looking like he was seeing the medic for the first time. The insight was wonderful and haunting at the same time.
Sylar tilted his head as he watched the man, a small grin on his face even as his thoughts were elsewhere-And I’m the exact opposite. I feel good by killing, at least…something to that effect. I’m driven, I’m not happy; yeah, a little at first, but…
Sylar realized he’d been caught staring (it was a nice day and Peter looking happy in sunshine was…c’mon) so he smiled and walked again, “I draw the line at Stephanie Meyer and Stephen King. If I had to choose topics…astronomy, science, history, literature, biology, but that gets boring. Some medicine, anatomy, cause/effect and cure that kind of thing.”
“Horology, but that’s pretty limited, um…Art to a degree. I’m kind of in a Stephen Hawking phase-he’s the guy who said basically that black holes have temperature and they can emit radiation, which is Hawking Radiation now. His stuff wasn’t new, but I’m getting into detail on it. I might get into some stuff on string theory because it’s not like I don’t have time on my hands. I’ve always been curious on quantum-Higg’s Boson? I’ve been studying that.”
He nodded and concluded that he needed to shut up. He amused himself with looking around the hospital a little, asking “What catches your eye in the library?”
XXX
“You do realize you lost me in there, right?” Peter said with something of a smile. He took his eyes from Sylar to glance at the signs giving directions to the various parts of the hospital. He wasn’t familiar with the main entrance of this place, but the layout was standard enough. “That way,” he said, gesturing to his left and heading off that direction.
“I’m not sure if it was the Italian earlier- you really speak that?”
XXX
“Sorry,” Sylar muttered and considered adding, ‘Only happens all the damn time. Not just about what I like either, but about what I want and what I nee-’ “Hmm. No, not really. Always wanted to learn but never got around to it. I should do that now, I guess.”
XXX
“Or maybe if it was the whore-ology - you really study that?” Peter grinned a little wider now, because he knew perfectly well what horology meant, just as Peter himself spoke Italian, albeit brokenly. Sylar was being such an insufferable know-it-all show-off though with Hawking-this and Higg’s-that that Peter couldn’t help but go to the opposite extreme and pretend to be ignorant. “I didn’t know they had a whole field of science on how to make time.” He tried to keep a straight face, but failed.
XXX
Peter’s next words had him gaping. And blushing. Sylar had no idea how to take that or handle it. He just called me a whore? Somehow that was slightly flattering to the social outcast that he was, perhaps surprisingly to people like Peter, he wasn’t actually the most sexual man on the planet. He still had urges, plenty of those, but… The ego boost (that he could purposefully go out and bag someone, although not for pay) was unexpected and nice.
Sylar ducked his head and tried to walk in a straight line and reduce the color in his cheeks. Sputtering quietly for a moment, he ended up barking with laughter at Peter’s pun. “No, that’s just the IA,” joking back as well as he could manage at the moment around his humor and embarrassment. Implying he knew all there was to know about sex because of his ability? Yup, and quite shameless about it. To be fair his experience, such as it was, and his knowledge was limited to one sex.
XXX
As for Sylar’s question, Peter snorted a little and said, “I already said what caught my eye in the library, in case you didn’t notice.” You’re so smart, you figure that one out. He did spare an eye for Sylar’s reaction. It wouldn’t do to find out the man reacted violently to being the object of fun. He did note the emphasis on medical training and filed that away for future reference. Is there anything this guy doesn’t know how to do? Tie knots. I’ll bet I can tie better knots than he can. Yeah, way to go there, Peter. That’ll be useful if I ever need to tie him up. His mind tried to offer up a few suggestions. He tried to ignore it.
It wasn’t hard to ignore as they had arrived at the emergency area.
XXX
They walked around in the hospital and he looked around briefly, cataloguing in case he (or more likely Peter) ever had an ‘accident’ or had an emergency. Sylar knew Peter had some of those ‘what haven’t you stuck up your ass’ patient stories logged away somewhere and he was not asking about them.
“I have a lot of time on my hands-” he broke himself off as it occurred to him that the words were suggestive in light of Peter’s jibes. He tried again, trying to ‘clear his name’ even though he knew Peter wasn’t serious. (If he was, the medic would have swabbed and prodded him to make sure he was ‘clean’ to inhabit the same space as Peter). “Three years is long time, it’s natural to try to fill it up with- Oh my god…” he trailed off in light exasperation. Sylar then pursed his lips. You only read black and white fiction? Comic books? Alright. That’s your lack of options not mine.
XXX
Peter looked over at Sylar and arched a brow. It was not as prodigious or expressive a gesture as when Sylar did it, but it conveyed his ‘oh really?’ thoughts nonetheless. So Sylar was intimating he’d spent some time here jerking it. Hardly surprising, or shameful. Man’s gotta do something to pass the time. Not that Peter didn’t feel a twist of uncertainty about whether it was alright for himself to do that here, in Sylar’s head, but that was an issue for another time. He appreciated looking at Sylar’s form, but that was as far as it went (aside from having explicit memories and sensations inflicted on him, entirely unasked for). What else was that he said? IA? IA … I-A … what the hell is that? Damn, that’s familiar. It tickled at the back of his mind, then finally clicked. Wait … that’s his ability! Intuitive Aptitude. Yeah. But … what does that have to do with it? His ability, studying time … nothing to be embarrassed about … I don’t get it.
Peter completely missed the reason for Sylar’s shame-faced, exasperated reaction and so he filed it away as another mystery about his companion to be revealed or puzzled out or simply forgotten. More immediate was his goal where they were, at the hospital. Here Peter was on more familiar ground, passing immediately back into the treatment area, ignoring the ‘authorized personnel only’ and ‘no unescorted patients’ sign. He opened a few cabinets at random, then shut them again. Everything seemed to be where it belonged.
Much more serious now, Peter said, “The storeroom should be back here off a side corridor. What I’m looking for is …” He pointed at a room that clearly said X-Ray on the door and finished, “that right there. I want to be sure of what’s broken. And then they’ll have a better splint here than this ergonomic, orthopedic thing.” He raised his right hand demonstratively and then paused, looking at it. He looked past it at Sylar, his face even more serious for a moment, penetrating eyes trying to read the other man’s character, because what he was about to propose might affect his mobility with his right hand for what would seem like years, even if it was only imaginary. “You offered to help me the other day, with this.” He sighed a little. “I’ll need help putting a proper splint on and getting it right.” He opened his mouth to ask, then shut it. He couldn’t quite do it. His meaning was clear anyway. Sylar would figure it out. Suddenly Peter regretted making fun of him a handful of minutes before.
If he says no, that’s fine. It will probably heal okay with whatever I can rig myself.
XXX
Peter’s attention was back on task and Sylar focused in as well. “That’s an X-Ray machine, Peter. It uses radiation to look at bones,” he teased right back. If Peter was going to open himself to pretending to be ‘stupid’ he’d happily oblige. “Where would those be do you think?” he asked, trying to be (seriously) helpful. It eased the blush. Peter gave him some directions and he was about to move when he caught Peter’s intent eyes on his face.
That made him stop in his tracks and look back. Oh, that’s what you’re ‘asking’. He stood still to accept the look and hope Peter saw what he wanted on his face because there was nothing else he could do about it. “Okay,” he said simply after debating whether or not to force Peter to say his request aloud using his own silence. In the end, he saved them the trouble. Peter still needed the good faith and a boatload more of trust.
XXX
‘Okay’? He said okay. Peter felt oddly grateful. He nodded and turned back to the x-ray machine. There hadn’t even been a sneer or an uppity look. Sylar was being … well, nice. For the most part, Peter reflected, other than moments of anger, Sylar had been pretty okay since the fight. Neither one of them were trying to kill the other and that seemed to be something that was sinking in. I said that when I showed up - that I needed his help - but I can’t blame him for not trusting me. Not after … everything that’s happened between us. His mind skipped quickly over some of the more bloody incidents between Sylar and himself. Trust would be hard-won, he knew.
XXX
Peter got that glazed look and Sylar rolled his eyes, allowing whatever moment to pass (whatever thought to be processed into Peter’s brain) by going off in search of the storeroom. He found it where Peter said and went inside, almost expecting to be avalanched with equipment (and possibly a bowling ball if Peter worked here). He remained safe and whole as he passed through.
XXX
Peter looked up from his momentary reverie to see Sylar leaving without explanation after agreeing to help. He poked his head out of the x-ray room to see Sylar heading further in, towards the back of the emergency ward. For a moment Peter was perplexed, then remembered mentioning the storeroom was back that way. Maybe he’s getting me a splint? Or maybe he’s just exploring. The splint seems more likely. He doesn’t seem all that interested in exploring, really. It’s all in his head anyway, so there’s not much point for him, I suppose.
Peter stared until the other man was out of sight, which didn’t take long. Serial killers have no right to look that fine. He gave himself a shake. And I have no business looking at him like that either. He rubbed his face vigorously with his left hand. Focus.
XXX
Sylar began narrowing the medical stuffs down by category, which was easy enough.
Passing over cardio, allergy/poison, diabetic care, first aid, a few things for maternity, ER and OR supplies, the usual needles and heart pressure pump, blankets, pillows, bed pans, all sorts of monitors…He finally came to the ‘bone’ section. There were plenty of braces, tapes, gauze, bandages, cements, splints and the like. There had to be a billion different kinds for every bone and joint that was possible to break and be held in place.
It didn’t take him long to locate the ‘hand’ division. His right hand. Got to get one for mobility or…easy access or…easy adjustability. Most of the equipment was in plastic bags, individually wrapped in little plastic tubs with a label and some medical jargon or other, some of which he understood. He understood enough, clearly. Really, what’s not to miss about ‘phalanges- finger stabilizer’ And...bingo.
Drawing one out, he looked around for a secondary piece for compressing and protecting the hand and wrist itself.
XXX
Peter moved over to the machine, trying to recall how to use this thing from the times they’d used a similar model during his medical training. It had an adjustable bed with a telescoping arm holding the projector above it, so it could be moved to whatever portion of the body they needed a picture of. Peter took off his messenger bag and put it on the bed for the moment.
He made sure the machine was on. It hummed slightly, but the touch screen stayed blank. That was his first sign something was wrong. “Crap.” He toggled the power switch again, but other than seeing the green light of the ‘on’ setting light up and go out, there was no response. He sighed in exasperation, already knowing how this was going to turn out. Regardless, he went through the standard checklist of unplugging and replugging everything. This is just like the freaking stereo, and televisions, and radios, and whatever the hell else doesn’t work around here. Dammit!
No cars, no way out, nowhere to go, no one here …! He straightened from attempting the last bit of wiring-fu he knew. The screen was still blank. He kicked the machine angrily, which, of course, did no good at all. Made his foot hurt a little.
XXX
There were several types of braces with various straps, openings, padding and support so he grabbed three of the most obvious choices and meandered back to the X-ray room in time to see a dazzling display Cro-Magnon man. He sighed at Peter, making his presence known as he entered, “To think that geneticists would call you evolved,” and shook his head at him good-naturedly, half tossing, half setting the medical paraphernalia on the bed. He then stepped back so he could view the selection. So powerful, yet he breaks his own hand using my skull.
“Though, I think that’s even funnier given that the Petrelli clan is upper crust,” he chuckled, leaning against the wall. Never mind his own displays of testosterone-frustration filled violence because he’d never thrown a crow bar, bashed a map, smacked a table or even thrown a chair, no sir. Maybe he just made it look better. And I’m more evolved anyway.
The lack of function in the X-ray machine, or so he assumed given Peter’s reaction, didn’t bother him. He was going to go the arrogant route and say that he didn’t need an X-ray machine, even if the other man (thought he) did; therefore it was useless and attempts to fix or use it were a waste of time. It was really just that simple.
“Didn’t know which finger/fingers are busted, but I know it’s in the metacarpals,” he waved a hand generally over the bed and the braces and splints, “judging by the swelling and continued use of the fingers themselves. I figured a hand/wrist brace is better long term,” Sylar stated simply about the options, watching Peter’s pent-up face quietly after that.
XXX
Peter sighed, looking at the pieces Sylar had brought. He reached up and rubbed at his face with his left hand, gripping his chin with it. “Yeah. Yeah,” he said a little vacantly. Nothing at all was running through his head at the moment - at least not in any sense he could express. He shook his head sharply to get back on track and reached out to pick them up, one after another, and to examine his options. “Thank you,” he said quietly, not vacant this time. He settled on two designs right away and glanced up at the ceiling. He scooped those two up and said, “I’m going to go find a light. I haven’t really taken a good look,” he sighed a little. This was going to hurt. “And I need to.” He walked out into the main emergency area.
XXX
This whole thing managed to be exciting for Sylar and he knew that was incredibly pathetic, but it was a fact nonetheless. “Yeah,” he replied to the thanks, taking it in stride. He actually…feared when the time would come when Peter wouldn’t have anything to be grateful for. The medical man didn’t understand that soon even the exchange of words would become unnecessary in its own way. Of course, that would be around the year 5224…
“M’kay,” Sylar tagged along behind him at an acceptable distance.
XXX
“I haven’t been all that impressed by the one geneticist I’ve met.” Peter grinned suddenly and glanced back at Sylar. “And I am too evolved! I was kicking an x-ray machine. Human beings have made some pretty cool stuff, even if it doesn’t work all the time.” Or here. He considered responding to the dig at his family, but decided to leave it alone. He’d said he didn’t want to talk about them, which meant not to talk about them, although Sylar’s comment was impersonal enough that it, by itself, didn’t bother Peter. It didn’t mean he wanted to invite more discussion that way though, so he’d changed the subject.
He went to an infant examination area and drew up a stool. It was a narrow, waist-high table with rails, in the middle of its own space. He’d picked it because of the lights over it. He flicked those on and sat down. At least the lights work.
XXX
A bark of laughter was his response about Mohinder; it had to be about Mohinder. Peter had no idea. Road trips with the Indian were…really something and it was NOT on his do-to or wish lists. Peter had been decent enough to stick to fists (granted he’d landed a few nastier hits) instead of resorting to foot long needles. The more he thought on it, the less he knew which he preferred of the two; weapons, not men. He knew which of the latter he would choose again if he had a choice.
“I would argue that with the invention of the internet, while people,” he didn’t say ‘we’, “have progressed technologically, they are devolving socially and biologically.” It was one of his prized pet theories, more of a fact, actually, one he would get to bore Peter with soon. “Whatever makes you feel special, Peter,” he chuckled lightly, trying to keep levity and help Peter along-he seemed to be having brain-mouth, brain-hand coordination communication issues. It’s this world we live in now, Peter. It will sap almost everything in time, I think. Fear that day. He felt a little uncomfortable to be in the infant station, old habits making him uneasy and out of place in such an environment, no matter how dead.
XXX
Peter grunted and frowned in response to Sylar’s theory. He disagreed with it pretty strongly, but this wasn’t the time to discuss it. Instead, he put his right forearm on the table and stared at it a moment, focusing his attention on what he needed to do. Yeah, this is going to hurt. There are painkillers here. … No. Or rather, he wasn’t going to take anything stronger than the ibuprofen he was on already. At least, not yet, and mostly that was because of Sylar and Peter’s lack of desire to be impaired worse than he was. Besides, he needed to actually feel what he was doing here.
He unstrapped the brace he was wearing and set it off to the side, looking up to see what Sylar was up to. “I don’t know what’s broken either. That’s why I wanted an x-ray. Since I can’t do that, it’s back to a manual examination.” He started unwrapping the compression bandage, grimacing a little as each unwinding jogged his hand. He stopped. “Could you find me some trauma shears?” He waved in a general way towards the front bank of the nurse’s station. “Just check the drawers. If you can’t find any, I’ve got those little scissors on my pocketknife.” He dug out his knife anyway, in case there was nothing better.
XXX
Sylar lingered in the door, considering asking Peter if he needed something to bite on for the pain that was coming, but decided against it. He didn’t want to imply that Peter was weak or required an aid somehow. Then again, he does scream like a girl… The memory of cutting open the man’s head in Mohinder’s apartment flashing past him quickly and he didn’t stop it for closer examination. He was interrupted by the man’s request, nodding, “Yeah. Ooh, they even get their own name…special shears,” he chuckled to himself as he ambled back out, aware that his own watch repair kit had instruments with their own specialized names. ‘Trauma’ and ‘shears’ in the same sentence brought up bad memories and he focused behind the counter, opening drawers rather carelessly until a pair slid towards him.
Returning with it, he held the blades in his hand so it wasn’t a weapon other than blunt ‘trauma’ shears, waiting for directions. Peter was going to need help cutting the bandage as painlessly as possible which meant minimal contact with the hand and wrist itself. Slowly stepping into the man’s bubble, he kept enough inches between them for the other man’s comfort, but not his own, particularly. Sylar placed the protected tip at the beginning of the bandage at the forearm. “I regret your arm hair loss in advance,” he murmured and snipped in long, upward strokes. He maneuvered the scissors over towards the thumb to avoid putting pressure directly on the top of Peter’s hand where the fingers were damaged. In minutes the bandage fell away and he set the scissors aside.
XXX
My arm hair? Ha. Peter appreciated the distraction of humor and watched Sylar work without comment. There was nothing to say - Sylar did a good job and Peter didn’t mind the proximity, given the context. His brain coded it as necessary and normal for medical care, without considering that Sylar might not be similarly inured to it. With the last of the wrapping set aside, he stretched his hand slightly, eyes narrowing and lips thinning. With his left, he felt up his right forefinger, testing each section for tenderness or misshapenness, skipping over the still-bandaged knuckles. He moved on to the index finger, then finally … the ring finger. He tensed, drew his knees up and made a slight sound even as he felt each section. He stopped to breathe, shut his eyes briefly, and then stare blankly at his hand. Oh yeah, that hurt like a bitch. He swallowed and repeated, very gingerly, on his little finger. Voice tight and a little forced, he said, “Fingers are fine. Not broken.”
He rested his left elbow on the table and put his forehead on his hand. He looked at his right. “I don’t see any angulation. It’s probably just the one that’s broken. Or I can do a manual examination of the metacarpals and be sure, but that doesn’t change that I need that splint there,” he pointed to the one that didn’t immobilize the fingers as firmly as the other. That had really hurt and he hadn’t even been directly touching the bone that was broken. “I … this is where I need your help. I need this on and I need it wrapped and fastened securely. I can’t do that very well with one hand.”
XXX
Sylar winced a little in sympathetic reaction as the medic’s body tensed all over in very obvious pain. “That’s good news. I think.” Maybe it was his turn to allow Peter his ego-stroking points. Something Sylar didn’t know would surely be of use or of interest to Peter. “Hmm, sure.” Taking up the package, puncturing and tearing off the plastic to be tossed away, he drew out the brace itself, eyeing it for all of two seconds before opening the straps and laying it flat for the arm in question. “Not sure if you know how to work one of these; it’s pretty simple,” was his (he thought) unneeded intro, but it was to ensure that Peter didn’t get a Nathan vibe from Sylar and assume he was just trying to kid/son/baby/brother him.
I don’t think I am, but…who knows how he feels. Better to be safe than sorry in this case. “Fingers go in there,” he pointed, allowing the man to place the indicated fingers into the strap, pushing down the bottom tab for Peter to tighten as needed. When that was accomplished, he did the same for the middle palm strap; letting Peter fasten it himself after they’d lifted the brace and hand to allow the fastening strap to pass underneath. Last was the largest wrist strap that also had to be lifted.
He didn’t step away, mostly to see if Peter would notice or do or say anything about it. The entire exchange was kept light and professional, but he had brushed Peter’s hands a few times and the contact was wonderful. You should provoke him to hit you more often so you can take ca- fix him and have an excuse to touch him up. He’s only making me wonder how soft his skin is everywhere with this…
XXX
When Sylar said, ‘fingers go in there’, Peter snorted and just barely caught himself from replying with Zorro’s corny line about ‘the pointy end goes in the other man.’ While it made sense in context - in both cases someone giving tutelage to one who didn’t need it - it was far, far too easily misconstrued as something else entirely. He kept his mouth shut and put his hand where it needed to go. Getting the shorter strap between his ring and index finger hurt like hell, again. He shifted uneasily and breathed a little harder, ducking his head. Done, done, that part’s done, he told himself. That’s the worst. Don’t know why I have him over here really except for moral support.
His hand was throbbing and a slight chill went over him. For a very long moment, he sat and did nothing but stare at his hand, his brain dulled by pain. But he knew that if he didn’t do something pretty soon, Sylar would, so Peter pulled in a deep breath and started adjusting the straps to fit. Moral support’s nice. Sylar: moral support. Very strange to have those in the same sentence. He let out his breath and blinked. It was done.
He lifted his hand. The splint stopped immediately below his wrist, rather than going halfway down his forearm. It also left his thumb, forefinger and index finger free. Experimentally he made a pincher motion. “Ow,” he said blandly. Now that it didn’t hurt as bad, he didn’t feel like such a sissy for saying anything. Also, he thought he needed to say something to communicate, ‘yeah, that still hurts.’ It wasn’t terrible though. “This needs to be a little tighter though. Here, along the bottom.” Peter held the upper part of the brace to keep it immobile and let Sylar change the fit where he’d pointed it out.
Sylar’s adjustment of the wrist strap involved a little more touching than was strictly necessary. Peter didn’t mind. “Okay,” he said a little louder after that was done, with a tone of finality. He glanced up at the man who was still right there next to him. “I was thinking of putting together a first aid kit while I’m here, maybe a trauma bag.” He stood up, thinking about Sylar’s response at Mercy Heights to the drugs Peter had taken with the intent of sedating him. (\“Is this all for me? You shouldn’t have. No, seriously. You really, really shouldn’t have”\ ).Well, a trauma kit included nothing injective - no needles at all - even though there were some Peter would like to add to such a kit if he were assembling it.
XXX
When he finished, Peter’s voice said ‘you’re done’ and he took the hint. No more touching despite the legitimate excuse. Or is that because I have a legitimate excuse? Sylar tilted his head just slightly at the thought of a first aid kit. While he knew it wasn’t a threat of any kind, and he knew that this was the man’s calling in life, it still struck him slightly odd.
The question sat on the edge of his tongue, ‘Why do you think you’re doing to need one?’ He won’t renege on the deal, but what could he possibly be expecting here? Rabid rats? Just…accidents, right? Sylar almost let out a sigh at that. Every time I think I make progress it’s…always reinforced in the opposite direction.
XXX
Peter started around the table, talking as he went. “I ought to be able to lift one already assembled from one of the ambu- oh. No cars; no ambulances. Huh. Well, maybe they have one already together in the supply room?” He glanced at Sylar, trying to read if Peter’s intended acquisition was setting off alarm bells for the man or making him wary. It wouldn’t really change what Peter was going to do, but he would make more of a point of what exactly was in such a kit if it was. He glanced down at the shears, electing to put the most weapon-like thing in it in Sylar’s hands. “Bring the shears, would you? An extra pair of those is always useful.”
XXX
Sylar blinked once, “No…no cars. I would imagine the supply room, yeah.” His face was pensive and mostly introverted at the moment, thinking. Sylar was snapped out of it by the mention of the scissors again and he snatched them up by the handles first before cluing in that he shouldn’t hold them that way. He stared at the instrument again, turning absentmindedly to track Peter’s movements. I hate these things. The one goddamn murder weapon that was an accident and not my fault had to be a normal household item. Not trauma shears, of course, but scissors.
“I suppose that’s fine, sure,” he said as if giving permission to the search and rescue of the first aid kit. At the same time he was positive that Peter didn’t need or want it, yet he’d given it anyway. They began walking in the direction of the supply room and he’d broken his staring match with the scissors as he thought, finally switching his grip to ‘blunt’ instead of ‘sharp’ just in case. Don’t run with scissors…and all that bullshit.
Clearing his throat, Sylar asked of the other man, “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?” While it wasn’t on a common ‘get to know ya’ questionnaire, and it wasn’t relevant and he didn’t want to seem too random in the inquiry department (which he had a tendency to do; randomly speaking his mind), he knew it was a kind of ice breaker. But he was also assuming that it wasn’t too personal or dangerous territory. Sylar supposed he’d be finding out either way.
XXX
Continued...
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 9,400
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
Day 8
“Thanks,” Peter said to Sylar for getting the door for him. He headed inside the music store. Peter walked further in, looking around for … something he wasn’t seeing. It struck him as odd for a moment, until he realized that he normally looked for people when he went in a store. Not seeing anyone, the only thing left to see was the wares. He turned to look back. Sylar was out of sight. He blinked at that and walked back until he saw where Sylar had elected to sit on the ground. Huh. O-kay. He was a little surprised the man hadn’t come along with him. Guess I pissed him off a lot.
Oh well. It was Sylar. Peter turned and ambled to the guitar section, mulling that over: ‘It was Sylar.’ Does that mean its okay to piss him off? To be rude to him? (To use a nail gun on him and try to obliterate him?) He let out a deep breath and shot another look back at the entrance. He was still alone. He shook his head in negation, even if he couldn’t yet bring himself to think it.
Instead, he moved on to looking at the guitars. There were a number of them - different styles, designs and sizes. He ran his fingers over a few of them, but none appealed to him much. He really liked the one they’d found, even though it was very basic - maybe because it was basic. He didn’t need anything fancy.
XXX
Doing a great job of telegraphing your soft spots, aren’t we? Sylar thought while he struggled with his anger; rage, actually, and grief as he thought of the woman he’d called ‘Mom’. He sat inside the door, with legs crossed under him and his hands clasped loosely in his lap, staring down at them, trying to think straight. He did so hate being made to feel worthless even if Peter wasn’t aware he’d done it. Why would Peter ask that? At all or…in that way? Was Peter trying to ask something of him or just be polite or…genuinely trying to rib and dig into the topic with that tone?
XXX
Peter looked at the picks next. They came in different colors, styles and materials; with skulls, Hello Kitty and flowers on them, or plain, or tortoise shell stone. He rifled through them casually, seeing nothing that grabbed his interest until he moved some aluminum picks aside and saw a set of five striated zebra wood. Cool. He snagged them without wondering why they, of all he had to choose from, practically screamed ‘Pick me!’ to him. He picked up some extra strings, too. On the way out, he pondered over sheet music. I suppose if I can practice and get better at something, then I should be able to learn something new, eventually, if I work at it. He picked some out, bagged his finds and turned to his companion.
XXX
Soon enough Peter returned with his finds-a wooden pick, strings and music from what he could tell. Sylar kept his face turned away, not glancing at Peter any more than the initial perfunctory evaluation. Son of a bitch. How dare he ask about my mother? And like such a dick, too. Yeah, HIS mom is off limits. That didn’t hide the fact that Sylar was glad his mother wasn’t…around, not only not to see what he’d become, but so Peter and his kind couldn’t use her.
Sylar stood and opened the door again.
XXX
Sylar had remained quiet. Peter considered what they might talk about on the walk to wherever - he supposed the hospital was next. Talking. We’re going to be doing a lot of that. Restless and uncomfortable with the quiet, he asked, "Do you mind me asking about you - what you like, what you don't like, favorite color, whatever?” He glanced away, then back.
XXX
The pair began walking as the Peter blabbed on about something or other along Sylar’s lines of thought. He kept his hands in his pockets and guided them towards the hospital. He exhaled a breath, nearly a snort of amusement to show the request was hardly a no-fly zone to him. “No, I don’t mind that.” In fact it was encouraged.
When he was sure Peter wasn’t looking he rolled his eyes. “When you’ve been here for a year, I think you’ll see that things like that won’t matter, but in the interest of the here and now, that’s fine by me.”
XXX
“Okay. Are there certain questions I shouldn't be asking you? I know there’s things if you asked me, I wouldn’t answer - like I'm not going to tell you anything about other people with abilities.” Peter chewed his lip a little. I hope you understand that? “And I don't want to hear about ... what you've done with your ability. So are there areas for you I need to stay away from, in the interests of, uh,” he laughed a little nervously, trying to inject some levity into an otherwise very serious request, “not punching each other in the face?"
XXX
Doesn’t want to hear what you’ve done with your abilities? That was…a little offensive. Surely Peter wants to know if I ate the goddamn brains? What is his problem? He’s a medic but he can’t handle one little special lobotomy or twenty? He is no fun at all.
Sylar’s desired reply was an extremely juvenile ‘oooh, whatcha gonna do if I don’t, Petey?’ and his jaw ticked at the urge. No duh, Peter. Like, how about every subject on the planet is off fucking limits? His fingers itched to find the soft flesh of Peter’s throat in frustration yet again-What the hell does he want from me? There’s a reason I don’t or can’t make friends; why can’t he just see-?
“I can just let you ask all the questions then. I’m sure the Geneva Convention won’t arrest you.” In typical Sylar fashion he was being (mostly) humorous-another thing Peter would have to learn. It also signaled that he would probably cough up whatever answer to whatever question Peter decided to ask. Somewhere someone is laughing at me over this. Stunned he thinks I have or need verbal boundaries. No, I take that back…you did hit him for giving you…funny looks.
XXX
Passive aggressive much? Peter thought. “There’s no one around here to arrest either of us, man.” We can beat each other until we’re broken and bloody. No one’s going to punish us for it except each other - and ourselves.
XXX
Sylar muttered, “I hadn’t noticed. You know, I’ve really turned into a crazed klepto these last few years and I was wondering when they’d catch on,” unable to resist rolling his eyes at Peter’s need to point out the obvious. If Peter kept putting himself out there like that, Sylar had no choice (no real desire to censor himself) but to inject his humor into it. Snark the dumb out of that boy a bit. Expose the Boy Scout to some new cultu-no, you promised to see him as a fully consenting adult. Meaning he’s getting what’s coming.
XXX
Peter gave a brief half-smile in recognition of Sylar’s humor, then went on, “It’s a lot easier to be civil if we just don’t discuss certain things. I don’t want to talk about my family either - any of them. That includes Claire and Meredith.” Don’t care so much about Tim and Cheryl and the rest.
XXX
“Really? Meredith?” His voice was a mix of things as was his face, screwing up in humor and disbelief, “She’s not really related to you in any way.” And she’s…dead, too; yeah, ‘dead’. “How the hell do you even know her? I was looking forward to giving you dirt on-“ your brother, he caught himself as the words were on their way out of his mouth, “something you didn’t know.” Like, was she a moaner or a screamer, I’m sure he’s asked himself this many times. A mental growl of displeasure went up in his head.
Barely, just barely Sylar managed to stave off that little…interlude because gold diggers just weren’t his thing. Next you’ll be speaking Nathan’s filthy memories, popping boners in front of his baby brother from lack of stimulation; no thank you. And there were way too many people with a Texan accent around for it ever to be vaguely appealing to his libido…such as it was now. Then again…if Peter did it…
XXX
He glanced over, noting there was no mention of a similar list of topics from Sylar. Fine. Probably afraid I’d use it against him. He declined to answer about Meredith for the moment, not wanting to get derailed from setting boundaries in the conversation. “If you want to think of it that way, I’m giving you a list of how to push my buttons. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t.” These weren’t great secrets, from Peter’s point of view. Anyone with a shred of empathy and Nathan’s memories would know exactly how to torque Peter off - the stunt with the teddy bear proved Sylar was not without that shred. Such an emotion worked both ways - it gave Sylar insight, but it also gave Peter a lever.
XXX
Sylar sniggered lightly, quietly, “I don’t need a list, man. You telegraph yourself just fine.” And Peter did. The looks he would get were priceless and half the reason for Sylar’s button-pushing. Messing with people was always fun and Peter made it oh-so easy and even more tempting. He didn’t need lists, Nathan’s files, or Peter’s face to tell him what would have Peter looking like a Universal Pantone book.
He felt the other man’s gaze on him and turned to meet it, quirking an eyebrow in classic ‘duh’.
XXX
Peter studied Sylar yet again, trying to figure out what he was dealing with here, attempting to figure out how best to use that lever, because life here was going to be pretty awful if he didn’t. This was his worst enemy he was hanging out with, struggling to make nice with and set up some rules that didn’t include Sylar getting pissy about Peter blundering into a personal trigger for him and taking that hammer in his apartment to Peter’s head. No lying, no manipulating. Peter was making an effort, but he had no idea where he was supposed to draw the line between ‘no manipulating’ and trying to get Sylar to act right towards him.
“So, okay. Enough of that.” He grinned easily, changing the subject to something less emotionally charged. “What is your favorite color? Inquiring minds want to know.”
XXX
Peter’s seamless switch had him chuckling, mildly at first, but as the man continued, he was left laughing as the chuckle reached a crescendo. As if it wasn’t obvious? Sylar eyed Peter on the sly, enjoying the view a little as it were. “Black. Contains all the colors and covers-“ well, blood, “all the colors.” It’s really all I wear. Black is conservative, serious, conventional, mysterious, sexy, sophisticated, rebellious. Black is for bad guys.
//He recalled Peter replying when asked what his favorite color was, after some additional thought, “Wainbow. It has all the colors.” Nathan had laughed and ruffled his hair at the silliness his brother presented, “Rainbow, eh? Not just one color in the rainbow for ya?” Pete had shaken his head, first to right his hair and as an answer, “Nope!”//
Yikes…that’s…not intentional, I liked black long before I knew…any of that, in my defense. “I’m here to satisfy your curiosity,” Sylar smirked to himself before inquiring, “And yours?”
XXX
“Hm.” Peter nodded at Sylar’s response and looked ahead, seeing the hospital in the distance. The structures had a characteristic look no matter where they were, but he recognized this one specifically. He’d been to it before, in New York. It wasn’t Mercy Heights, but EMTs defaulted to delivering patients to the closest facility. His mind pulled up the faces of those who had worked there - but it would be empty today. Oh, the question. Yeah. Color.
He gave it more thought than such a query probably deserved. Kids asked each other favorite colors all the time, considering the virtues of different crayons or markers. Adults only really brought such a consideration up when discussing clothes or cars. Or wall color, or house paint. But in those cases it was the purpose of the coloring that mattered. An eye-catching green was good as a shirt, but gauche for your house. So without going back to ask what application Sylar meant, and taking the question like he would if he were a kid considering Crayolas, what would he pick?
“Red, I think,” Peter said. “It’s had a lot of significance for me … lately.”
XXX
Red? Sylar made a face at first, automatically assuming blood. He hadn’t been expecting baby blue or dinosaur purple or anything, but still. He would pick…one of those middle colors, between warm and cool for Peter. A ‘just right’ color that went with everything and blended in but stood out uniquely. Enough about that…he’d managed to embarrass himself to himself.
Red; it made sense as he thought on it; Peter was a medic and he dealt with blood, maybe to his mind it was a heroic color for courage or something. He failed to see how that would make a hero’s favorites list since blood was universally ‘bad’, this he knew well. Sylar tilted his head in question at ‘lately’, but it went unanswered, sort of. Nathan bled out…
XXX
Peter looked Sylar over briefly, then himself, inspecting for the color. Neither of them were wearing it. His mind flashed next to blood - as a paramedic, and the amount of it he’d come across in recent years, his own and that of others. “It’s not the blood. It’s more like paint, or a kind of weird highlighter. Ever since I had Isa-“ He hesitated and his eyes darted uneasily to Sylar. Did he have Isaac’s power back then? Yes, he did. He killed him. So he had it. “Isaac Mendez’s power, I started noticing … I don’t know. The color just stood out to me more. It’s vivid, like its emphasizing things for me. Even after I lost the ability, I still look for the color.”
\‘What do you think?’ Nathan asked him. ‘Red or blue?’ Peter glanced between the two ties, put off to be asked such a trivial thing when he was bursting with the need to talk about what was happening to them. Peter knew he’d changed inside. He was elated. He had to tell someone about it. Nathan understood - he could tell he did. But he kept denying. What did Nathan want him to pick? ‘I don’t know, blue?’ Nathan looked at them soberly, as if this was the most serious question of the day, far more critical of it than if he or Peter could defy gravity and fly. ‘I’m gonna go red. The president wears red.’\ The color had meant something even then, Peter suspected, but he hadn’t been able to see it at the time. He hadn’t met Isaac yet. He wondered if he would have picked differently if he had?
XXX
Red is Cupid and the Devil. Red is Power. Red is anger and eroticism and war.
Isaac Mendez…that horrible ability. He’d painted himself in the White House; Peter Petrelli; then the two of them at Kirby. Red. The color of Mom’s blood. Why hadn’t he painted that?! The color of Mom’s blood as he’d painted out what he now saw was the final masterpiece of their-
Oh god… Sylar swallowed and paled; images of red scrubbed hands, raw and chafed from hot water and soap and a furiously dirtied hand towel in the bathroom…Forget about that, there’s….nothing you can do about it now. He doesn’t know and didn’t mean anything by it. In a strained voice he replied, honestly “I…know the feeling,” Oh, that gut-turning, empty feeling. He didn’t realize he’d probably broken the rule Peter had just laid down: No ability talk.
“Huh,” he grunted with muted interest in the back of his throat. Have to think on that later and maybe ask- no, can’t ask him about it. He said not to. Urgh. “That’s interesting,” and his tone conveyed his intrigue, but the lust and power-hungry sound was no longer present in his voice. Sylar had already replayed all Nathan’s memories, feelings and recollections on the color; cars, advertisements, photos, lipstick, dresses, lingerie, shoes, ties most importantly for him, or rather to him. Nathan himself preferred blues, always had.
XXX
Peter circled back to Sylar’s earlier question. “I never met Meredith. But …” He chewed his lip and looked away. “She was important to … my brother.” Of course, he never mentioned her, in all those years. Or actually, there were times when he did but I didn’t know enough to understand that’s what he was saying. How important was she to him? Sylar would know. He’d know, the bastard, and I won’t. I should have talked to Nathan about it when I had the chance. He swallowed. “At least for a little while.” She should have been. I hope she was. “I don’t want to hear you talking about her. Or any of my family. I’m … getting wound up right now just thinking about it.” And it’s not actually your fault. Peter put on a gentle, if forced smile. I don’t want to fight with you. That’s the point.
XXX
Sylar glanced away as Peter mentioned some words that were painful to both of them, more so to Peter, ‘my brother’. No, he wasn’t pained because of guilt or because Nathan left everything but his body and his will in Sylar’s head. He was pained with jealousy. He instantly wished to have what Nathan did with Meredith, whatever that was, whatever was behind it because whatever it was…it had been real enough for the couple.
Only distantly was he aware of what it was like to become a father, to have a baby, to be married. Nathan was never really into that, not until it was too late. He didn’t own the feelings, the memories. Guess that means we’ll both die childless and happy. Peter would say ‘good riddance and serves you right, that’s what you get’, but he was sure Peter would make a good father (if only he could restrain his hero-wanderings).
XXX
“So let’s change the subject, okay?” Peter said.
XXX
“Okay,” was Sylar’s bare hint of a whisper, for once wholly in agreement because his own emotions were strung up in the conversation for the same or similar reasons. Goddamn empathy, jealousy, whatever the fuck. He was still frowning as Peter miraculously dragged a smile from somewhere and somehow he felt relieved, almost a little forgiven. “Yeah,” Sylar cleared his tight throat, straightening his shoulders as they approached the building.
XXX
Peter offered something else to discuss. “What’s your favorite food and what do you like about it?” And please, please, please do not say ‘brains’.
XXX
“Food…” Sylar exhaled. “I wasn’t raised to be…big on food,” that was putting a few things mildly; being force-fed as a freaking adult and made to clean his plate as a child amongst a…strict diet. “But, um…spaghetti,” he finally decided, “Fun to eat and gross to watch.” He shrugged, cheered up once again, “Its pasta!”
XXX
Sylar’s exuberant delivery for the phrase made Peter laugh a little - a much desired bit of levity. “Pasta, huh? My favorite, too, but I prefer linguini or angel hair.” He glanced over at Sylar and added, “Spaghettini or capellini.” He was looking for recognition of the words. They weren’t mainstream unless someone was Italian or a determined pasta aficionado. “And I like white sauce more than red, even though it’s a heart attack on a plate. I don’t eat it very often, which is probably why I like it so much. Just about everything I really like to eat isn’t good for me.”
XXX
He chuckled. He’d made Peter laugh, just a bit and he didn’t know how he’d done it. “Capellini d’angelo, il mio veru del uno amore,” he replied seriously. Sylar laughed himself about the health factor, nodding, “’Don’t dig your grave with your knife and fork’….and that coming from an Englishman.” He smiled, “That’s why we eat it-because it’s bad for us. If it wasn’t we wouldn’t get nearly so much, if any, pleasure from the act.”
XXX
Peter pondered for a moment. “No, I take that back, there’s a vegetable stir fry I get … used to get down on Larson Street that uses really fresh vegetables and has this incredible peanut sauce.” Peter waved his arms a little in emphasis, relaxing a bit in the pleasant memory. “It is out of this world fantastic. You-“ ought to try it sometime. He caught himself on the verge of pseudo-inviting Sylar to go … out. Somewhere. With him. Weird.
He dispelled the momentary letting down of defenses and managed to salvage it with, “-wouldn’t believe how good it is.” He puzzled over his lapse. It’s really good food, he rationalized. Even a serial killer has to eat. Maybe if he had more good experiences in his life he wouldn’t be out there causing such misery. Peter pushed out a larger breath and gave his head a little shake. Yeah, that’s gotta be it.
\‘What’s for dinner? I’m starved.’ ‘I remember … wanting my life to change.’\
Peter huffed. He wanted to believe. He didn’t, but he wanted to. Actually, no - he believed that Sylar wanted his life to change. Peter just didn’t believe it had. He’d seen little in the way of proof (not that it was all that easy to prove you weren’t a serial killer in a world with only one other person in it and no abilities - but hey, he hadn’t killed Peter yet; that was saying something, wasn’t it?)
XXX
“Hmm,” was all Sylar had to say to that. He was connecting dots with (some assistance from Nathan) regards to Peter’s preferences. Nuts seemed prevalent, almonds and peanuts. He stored that away for future use and possible research.
XXX
Peter went back to learning more about his companion and making conversation. “You said you read a lot. I used to read for fun when I was a kid. I liked adventure stories, a lot of action, heroes-saving-the-day sort of stuff.” He chuckled a little at how stupid that sounded. He remembered blathering on to Nathan so earnestly about how he thought he’d been charged with saving the world. He wondered if he had. He sure hoped so, but really … he had no idea. A cheerleader was dead and Claire wouldn’t have died anyway, so how was he to tell? And it wasn’t exactly a divine prophecy either - it was just what a future version of Hiro said and Hiro was good-hearted, but no wiser than anyone else. The whole time travel paradox thing hurt Peter’s head.
‘All we can do is take what we have been given and do the best we can with it.’ He took comfort in the quote and looked ahead. They were nearly to the hospital. “The stories were always kind of black and white. Life isn’t really that way.” Even if I keep wanting it to be. He looked over at Sylar for a long moment, then shifted his shoulders uneasily.
XXX
Sylar thought, Black and white…ironic my last name is Gray? Is that saying I don’t fit in his world? Rather that he doesn’t want me to. Am….am I always in the wrong by nature then? Or does he somehow….have to learn to see the gray? Understand and accep- Oh, please.
His lip quirked into a nano-second acknowledgement; otherwise busy in his own thoughts. “Be great if life was that way.” I could fit into your world then and all this world would just be…some kind of hero test. Or villain’s graveyard.
XXX
Peter reached up with his left hand and rubbed his neck, ducking his head a little. In a slightly softer voice, he offered up something more personal. “I went into nursing partly because I was trying to find a place in life where things were black and white - where people needed help, and I could help them. It was simple. I felt like I was making a difference and doing right. Seeing a patient … get better … it made me feel good about myself.”
He stopped and looked up at the empty hospital. No patients here to help. He supposed that was good in a way - no suffering for him to avert, but it left him feeling a little purposeless. Peter turned to Sylar and resumed his strides. “What kind of books do you like to read?”
XXX
When Peter paused, Sylar stopped after a step further, staring at Peter, probably looking like he was seeing the medic for the first time. The insight was wonderful and haunting at the same time.
Sylar tilted his head as he watched the man, a small grin on his face even as his thoughts were elsewhere-And I’m the exact opposite. I feel good by killing, at least…something to that effect. I’m driven, I’m not happy; yeah, a little at first, but…
Sylar realized he’d been caught staring (it was a nice day and Peter looking happy in sunshine was…c’mon) so he smiled and walked again, “I draw the line at Stephanie Meyer and Stephen King. If I had to choose topics…astronomy, science, history, literature, biology, but that gets boring. Some medicine, anatomy, cause/effect and cure that kind of thing.”
“Horology, but that’s pretty limited, um…Art to a degree. I’m kind of in a Stephen Hawking phase-he’s the guy who said basically that black holes have temperature and they can emit radiation, which is Hawking Radiation now. His stuff wasn’t new, but I’m getting into detail on it. I might get into some stuff on string theory because it’s not like I don’t have time on my hands. I’ve always been curious on quantum-Higg’s Boson? I’ve been studying that.”
He nodded and concluded that he needed to shut up. He amused himself with looking around the hospital a little, asking “What catches your eye in the library?”
XXX
“You do realize you lost me in there, right?” Peter said with something of a smile. He took his eyes from Sylar to glance at the signs giving directions to the various parts of the hospital. He wasn’t familiar with the main entrance of this place, but the layout was standard enough. “That way,” he said, gesturing to his left and heading off that direction.
“I’m not sure if it was the Italian earlier- you really speak that?”
XXX
“Sorry,” Sylar muttered and considered adding, ‘Only happens all the damn time. Not just about what I like either, but about what I want and what I nee-’ “Hmm. No, not really. Always wanted to learn but never got around to it. I should do that now, I guess.”
XXX
“Or maybe if it was the whore-ology - you really study that?” Peter grinned a little wider now, because he knew perfectly well what horology meant, just as Peter himself spoke Italian, albeit brokenly. Sylar was being such an insufferable know-it-all show-off though with Hawking-this and Higg’s-that that Peter couldn’t help but go to the opposite extreme and pretend to be ignorant. “I didn’t know they had a whole field of science on how to make time.” He tried to keep a straight face, but failed.
XXX
Peter’s next words had him gaping. And blushing. Sylar had no idea how to take that or handle it. He just called me a whore? Somehow that was slightly flattering to the social outcast that he was, perhaps surprisingly to people like Peter, he wasn’t actually the most sexual man on the planet. He still had urges, plenty of those, but… The ego boost (that he could purposefully go out and bag someone, although not for pay) was unexpected and nice.
Sylar ducked his head and tried to walk in a straight line and reduce the color in his cheeks. Sputtering quietly for a moment, he ended up barking with laughter at Peter’s pun. “No, that’s just the IA,” joking back as well as he could manage at the moment around his humor and embarrassment. Implying he knew all there was to know about sex because of his ability? Yup, and quite shameless about it. To be fair his experience, such as it was, and his knowledge was limited to one sex.
XXX
As for Sylar’s question, Peter snorted a little and said, “I already said what caught my eye in the library, in case you didn’t notice.” You’re so smart, you figure that one out. He did spare an eye for Sylar’s reaction. It wouldn’t do to find out the man reacted violently to being the object of fun. He did note the emphasis on medical training and filed that away for future reference. Is there anything this guy doesn’t know how to do? Tie knots. I’ll bet I can tie better knots than he can. Yeah, way to go there, Peter. That’ll be useful if I ever need to tie him up. His mind tried to offer up a few suggestions. He tried to ignore it.
It wasn’t hard to ignore as they had arrived at the emergency area.
XXX
They walked around in the hospital and he looked around briefly, cataloguing in case he (or more likely Peter) ever had an ‘accident’ or had an emergency. Sylar knew Peter had some of those ‘what haven’t you stuck up your ass’ patient stories logged away somewhere and he was not asking about them.
“I have a lot of time on my hands-” he broke himself off as it occurred to him that the words were suggestive in light of Peter’s jibes. He tried again, trying to ‘clear his name’ even though he knew Peter wasn’t serious. (If he was, the medic would have swabbed and prodded him to make sure he was ‘clean’ to inhabit the same space as Peter). “Three years is long time, it’s natural to try to fill it up with- Oh my god…” he trailed off in light exasperation. Sylar then pursed his lips. You only read black and white fiction? Comic books? Alright. That’s your lack of options not mine.
XXX
Peter looked over at Sylar and arched a brow. It was not as prodigious or expressive a gesture as when Sylar did it, but it conveyed his ‘oh really?’ thoughts nonetheless. So Sylar was intimating he’d spent some time here jerking it. Hardly surprising, or shameful. Man’s gotta do something to pass the time. Not that Peter didn’t feel a twist of uncertainty about whether it was alright for himself to do that here, in Sylar’s head, but that was an issue for another time. He appreciated looking at Sylar’s form, but that was as far as it went (aside from having explicit memories and sensations inflicted on him, entirely unasked for). What else was that he said? IA? IA … I-A … what the hell is that? Damn, that’s familiar. It tickled at the back of his mind, then finally clicked. Wait … that’s his ability! Intuitive Aptitude. Yeah. But … what does that have to do with it? His ability, studying time … nothing to be embarrassed about … I don’t get it.
Peter completely missed the reason for Sylar’s shame-faced, exasperated reaction and so he filed it away as another mystery about his companion to be revealed or puzzled out or simply forgotten. More immediate was his goal where they were, at the hospital. Here Peter was on more familiar ground, passing immediately back into the treatment area, ignoring the ‘authorized personnel only’ and ‘no unescorted patients’ sign. He opened a few cabinets at random, then shut them again. Everything seemed to be where it belonged.
Much more serious now, Peter said, “The storeroom should be back here off a side corridor. What I’m looking for is …” He pointed at a room that clearly said X-Ray on the door and finished, “that right there. I want to be sure of what’s broken. And then they’ll have a better splint here than this ergonomic, orthopedic thing.” He raised his right hand demonstratively and then paused, looking at it. He looked past it at Sylar, his face even more serious for a moment, penetrating eyes trying to read the other man’s character, because what he was about to propose might affect his mobility with his right hand for what would seem like years, even if it was only imaginary. “You offered to help me the other day, with this.” He sighed a little. “I’ll need help putting a proper splint on and getting it right.” He opened his mouth to ask, then shut it. He couldn’t quite do it. His meaning was clear anyway. Sylar would figure it out. Suddenly Peter regretted making fun of him a handful of minutes before.
If he says no, that’s fine. It will probably heal okay with whatever I can rig myself.
XXX
Peter’s attention was back on task and Sylar focused in as well. “That’s an X-Ray machine, Peter. It uses radiation to look at bones,” he teased right back. If Peter was going to open himself to pretending to be ‘stupid’ he’d happily oblige. “Where would those be do you think?” he asked, trying to be (seriously) helpful. It eased the blush. Peter gave him some directions and he was about to move when he caught Peter’s intent eyes on his face.
That made him stop in his tracks and look back. Oh, that’s what you’re ‘asking’. He stood still to accept the look and hope Peter saw what he wanted on his face because there was nothing else he could do about it. “Okay,” he said simply after debating whether or not to force Peter to say his request aloud using his own silence. In the end, he saved them the trouble. Peter still needed the good faith and a boatload more of trust.
XXX
‘Okay’? He said okay. Peter felt oddly grateful. He nodded and turned back to the x-ray machine. There hadn’t even been a sneer or an uppity look. Sylar was being … well, nice. For the most part, Peter reflected, other than moments of anger, Sylar had been pretty okay since the fight. Neither one of them were trying to kill the other and that seemed to be something that was sinking in. I said that when I showed up - that I needed his help - but I can’t blame him for not trusting me. Not after … everything that’s happened between us. His mind skipped quickly over some of the more bloody incidents between Sylar and himself. Trust would be hard-won, he knew.
XXX
Peter got that glazed look and Sylar rolled his eyes, allowing whatever moment to pass (whatever thought to be processed into Peter’s brain) by going off in search of the storeroom. He found it where Peter said and went inside, almost expecting to be avalanched with equipment (and possibly a bowling ball if Peter worked here). He remained safe and whole as he passed through.
XXX
Peter looked up from his momentary reverie to see Sylar leaving without explanation after agreeing to help. He poked his head out of the x-ray room to see Sylar heading further in, towards the back of the emergency ward. For a moment Peter was perplexed, then remembered mentioning the storeroom was back that way. Maybe he’s getting me a splint? Or maybe he’s just exploring. The splint seems more likely. He doesn’t seem all that interested in exploring, really. It’s all in his head anyway, so there’s not much point for him, I suppose.
Peter stared until the other man was out of sight, which didn’t take long. Serial killers have no right to look that fine. He gave himself a shake. And I have no business looking at him like that either. He rubbed his face vigorously with his left hand. Focus.
XXX
Sylar began narrowing the medical stuffs down by category, which was easy enough.
Passing over cardio, allergy/poison, diabetic care, first aid, a few things for maternity, ER and OR supplies, the usual needles and heart pressure pump, blankets, pillows, bed pans, all sorts of monitors…He finally came to the ‘bone’ section. There were plenty of braces, tapes, gauze, bandages, cements, splints and the like. There had to be a billion different kinds for every bone and joint that was possible to break and be held in place.
It didn’t take him long to locate the ‘hand’ division. His right hand. Got to get one for mobility or…easy access or…easy adjustability. Most of the equipment was in plastic bags, individually wrapped in little plastic tubs with a label and some medical jargon or other, some of which he understood. He understood enough, clearly. Really, what’s not to miss about ‘phalanges- finger stabilizer’ And...bingo.
Drawing one out, he looked around for a secondary piece for compressing and protecting the hand and wrist itself.
XXX
Peter moved over to the machine, trying to recall how to use this thing from the times they’d used a similar model during his medical training. It had an adjustable bed with a telescoping arm holding the projector above it, so it could be moved to whatever portion of the body they needed a picture of. Peter took off his messenger bag and put it on the bed for the moment.
He made sure the machine was on. It hummed slightly, but the touch screen stayed blank. That was his first sign something was wrong. “Crap.” He toggled the power switch again, but other than seeing the green light of the ‘on’ setting light up and go out, there was no response. He sighed in exasperation, already knowing how this was going to turn out. Regardless, he went through the standard checklist of unplugging and replugging everything. This is just like the freaking stereo, and televisions, and radios, and whatever the hell else doesn’t work around here. Dammit!
No cars, no way out, nowhere to go, no one here …! He straightened from attempting the last bit of wiring-fu he knew. The screen was still blank. He kicked the machine angrily, which, of course, did no good at all. Made his foot hurt a little.
XXX
There were several types of braces with various straps, openings, padding and support so he grabbed three of the most obvious choices and meandered back to the X-ray room in time to see a dazzling display Cro-Magnon man. He sighed at Peter, making his presence known as he entered, “To think that geneticists would call you evolved,” and shook his head at him good-naturedly, half tossing, half setting the medical paraphernalia on the bed. He then stepped back so he could view the selection. So powerful, yet he breaks his own hand using my skull.
“Though, I think that’s even funnier given that the Petrelli clan is upper crust,” he chuckled, leaning against the wall. Never mind his own displays of testosterone-frustration filled violence because he’d never thrown a crow bar, bashed a map, smacked a table or even thrown a chair, no sir. Maybe he just made it look better. And I’m more evolved anyway.
The lack of function in the X-ray machine, or so he assumed given Peter’s reaction, didn’t bother him. He was going to go the arrogant route and say that he didn’t need an X-ray machine, even if the other man (thought he) did; therefore it was useless and attempts to fix or use it were a waste of time. It was really just that simple.
“Didn’t know which finger/fingers are busted, but I know it’s in the metacarpals,” he waved a hand generally over the bed and the braces and splints, “judging by the swelling and continued use of the fingers themselves. I figured a hand/wrist brace is better long term,” Sylar stated simply about the options, watching Peter’s pent-up face quietly after that.
XXX
Peter sighed, looking at the pieces Sylar had brought. He reached up and rubbed at his face with his left hand, gripping his chin with it. “Yeah. Yeah,” he said a little vacantly. Nothing at all was running through his head at the moment - at least not in any sense he could express. He shook his head sharply to get back on track and reached out to pick them up, one after another, and to examine his options. “Thank you,” he said quietly, not vacant this time. He settled on two designs right away and glanced up at the ceiling. He scooped those two up and said, “I’m going to go find a light. I haven’t really taken a good look,” he sighed a little. This was going to hurt. “And I need to.” He walked out into the main emergency area.
XXX
This whole thing managed to be exciting for Sylar and he knew that was incredibly pathetic, but it was a fact nonetheless. “Yeah,” he replied to the thanks, taking it in stride. He actually…feared when the time would come when Peter wouldn’t have anything to be grateful for. The medical man didn’t understand that soon even the exchange of words would become unnecessary in its own way. Of course, that would be around the year 5224…
“M’kay,” Sylar tagged along behind him at an acceptable distance.
XXX
“I haven’t been all that impressed by the one geneticist I’ve met.” Peter grinned suddenly and glanced back at Sylar. “And I am too evolved! I was kicking an x-ray machine. Human beings have made some pretty cool stuff, even if it doesn’t work all the time.” Or here. He considered responding to the dig at his family, but decided to leave it alone. He’d said he didn’t want to talk about them, which meant not to talk about them, although Sylar’s comment was impersonal enough that it, by itself, didn’t bother Peter. It didn’t mean he wanted to invite more discussion that way though, so he’d changed the subject.
He went to an infant examination area and drew up a stool. It was a narrow, waist-high table with rails, in the middle of its own space. He’d picked it because of the lights over it. He flicked those on and sat down. At least the lights work.
XXX
A bark of laughter was his response about Mohinder; it had to be about Mohinder. Peter had no idea. Road trips with the Indian were…really something and it was NOT on his do-to or wish lists. Peter had been decent enough to stick to fists (granted he’d landed a few nastier hits) instead of resorting to foot long needles. The more he thought on it, the less he knew which he preferred of the two; weapons, not men. He knew which of the latter he would choose again if he had a choice.
“I would argue that with the invention of the internet, while people,” he didn’t say ‘we’, “have progressed technologically, they are devolving socially and biologically.” It was one of his prized pet theories, more of a fact, actually, one he would get to bore Peter with soon. “Whatever makes you feel special, Peter,” he chuckled lightly, trying to keep levity and help Peter along-he seemed to be having brain-mouth, brain-hand coordination communication issues. It’s this world we live in now, Peter. It will sap almost everything in time, I think. Fear that day. He felt a little uncomfortable to be in the infant station, old habits making him uneasy and out of place in such an environment, no matter how dead.
XXX
Peter grunted and frowned in response to Sylar’s theory. He disagreed with it pretty strongly, but this wasn’t the time to discuss it. Instead, he put his right forearm on the table and stared at it a moment, focusing his attention on what he needed to do. Yeah, this is going to hurt. There are painkillers here. … No. Or rather, he wasn’t going to take anything stronger than the ibuprofen he was on already. At least, not yet, and mostly that was because of Sylar and Peter’s lack of desire to be impaired worse than he was. Besides, he needed to actually feel what he was doing here.
He unstrapped the brace he was wearing and set it off to the side, looking up to see what Sylar was up to. “I don’t know what’s broken either. That’s why I wanted an x-ray. Since I can’t do that, it’s back to a manual examination.” He started unwrapping the compression bandage, grimacing a little as each unwinding jogged his hand. He stopped. “Could you find me some trauma shears?” He waved in a general way towards the front bank of the nurse’s station. “Just check the drawers. If you can’t find any, I’ve got those little scissors on my pocketknife.” He dug out his knife anyway, in case there was nothing better.
XXX
Sylar lingered in the door, considering asking Peter if he needed something to bite on for the pain that was coming, but decided against it. He didn’t want to imply that Peter was weak or required an aid somehow. Then again, he does scream like a girl… The memory of cutting open the man’s head in Mohinder’s apartment flashing past him quickly and he didn’t stop it for closer examination. He was interrupted by the man’s request, nodding, “Yeah. Ooh, they even get their own name…special shears,” he chuckled to himself as he ambled back out, aware that his own watch repair kit had instruments with their own specialized names. ‘Trauma’ and ‘shears’ in the same sentence brought up bad memories and he focused behind the counter, opening drawers rather carelessly until a pair slid towards him.
Returning with it, he held the blades in his hand so it wasn’t a weapon other than blunt ‘trauma’ shears, waiting for directions. Peter was going to need help cutting the bandage as painlessly as possible which meant minimal contact with the hand and wrist itself. Slowly stepping into the man’s bubble, he kept enough inches between them for the other man’s comfort, but not his own, particularly. Sylar placed the protected tip at the beginning of the bandage at the forearm. “I regret your arm hair loss in advance,” he murmured and snipped in long, upward strokes. He maneuvered the scissors over towards the thumb to avoid putting pressure directly on the top of Peter’s hand where the fingers were damaged. In minutes the bandage fell away and he set the scissors aside.
XXX
My arm hair? Ha. Peter appreciated the distraction of humor and watched Sylar work without comment. There was nothing to say - Sylar did a good job and Peter didn’t mind the proximity, given the context. His brain coded it as necessary and normal for medical care, without considering that Sylar might not be similarly inured to it. With the last of the wrapping set aside, he stretched his hand slightly, eyes narrowing and lips thinning. With his left, he felt up his right forefinger, testing each section for tenderness or misshapenness, skipping over the still-bandaged knuckles. He moved on to the index finger, then finally … the ring finger. He tensed, drew his knees up and made a slight sound even as he felt each section. He stopped to breathe, shut his eyes briefly, and then stare blankly at his hand. Oh yeah, that hurt like a bitch. He swallowed and repeated, very gingerly, on his little finger. Voice tight and a little forced, he said, “Fingers are fine. Not broken.”
He rested his left elbow on the table and put his forehead on his hand. He looked at his right. “I don’t see any angulation. It’s probably just the one that’s broken. Or I can do a manual examination of the metacarpals and be sure, but that doesn’t change that I need that splint there,” he pointed to the one that didn’t immobilize the fingers as firmly as the other. That had really hurt and he hadn’t even been directly touching the bone that was broken. “I … this is where I need your help. I need this on and I need it wrapped and fastened securely. I can’t do that very well with one hand.”
XXX
Sylar winced a little in sympathetic reaction as the medic’s body tensed all over in very obvious pain. “That’s good news. I think.” Maybe it was his turn to allow Peter his ego-stroking points. Something Sylar didn’t know would surely be of use or of interest to Peter. “Hmm, sure.” Taking up the package, puncturing and tearing off the plastic to be tossed away, he drew out the brace itself, eyeing it for all of two seconds before opening the straps and laying it flat for the arm in question. “Not sure if you know how to work one of these; it’s pretty simple,” was his (he thought) unneeded intro, but it was to ensure that Peter didn’t get a Nathan vibe from Sylar and assume he was just trying to kid/son/baby/brother him.
I don’t think I am, but…who knows how he feels. Better to be safe than sorry in this case. “Fingers go in there,” he pointed, allowing the man to place the indicated fingers into the strap, pushing down the bottom tab for Peter to tighten as needed. When that was accomplished, he did the same for the middle palm strap; letting Peter fasten it himself after they’d lifted the brace and hand to allow the fastening strap to pass underneath. Last was the largest wrist strap that also had to be lifted.
He didn’t step away, mostly to see if Peter would notice or do or say anything about it. The entire exchange was kept light and professional, but he had brushed Peter’s hands a few times and the contact was wonderful. You should provoke him to hit you more often so you can take ca- fix him and have an excuse to touch him up. He’s only making me wonder how soft his skin is everywhere with this…
XXX
When Sylar said, ‘fingers go in there’, Peter snorted and just barely caught himself from replying with Zorro’s corny line about ‘the pointy end goes in the other man.’ While it made sense in context - in both cases someone giving tutelage to one who didn’t need it - it was far, far too easily misconstrued as something else entirely. He kept his mouth shut and put his hand where it needed to go. Getting the shorter strap between his ring and index finger hurt like hell, again. He shifted uneasily and breathed a little harder, ducking his head. Done, done, that part’s done, he told himself. That’s the worst. Don’t know why I have him over here really except for moral support.
His hand was throbbing and a slight chill went over him. For a very long moment, he sat and did nothing but stare at his hand, his brain dulled by pain. But he knew that if he didn’t do something pretty soon, Sylar would, so Peter pulled in a deep breath and started adjusting the straps to fit. Moral support’s nice. Sylar: moral support. Very strange to have those in the same sentence. He let out his breath and blinked. It was done.
He lifted his hand. The splint stopped immediately below his wrist, rather than going halfway down his forearm. It also left his thumb, forefinger and index finger free. Experimentally he made a pincher motion. “Ow,” he said blandly. Now that it didn’t hurt as bad, he didn’t feel like such a sissy for saying anything. Also, he thought he needed to say something to communicate, ‘yeah, that still hurts.’ It wasn’t terrible though. “This needs to be a little tighter though. Here, along the bottom.” Peter held the upper part of the brace to keep it immobile and let Sylar change the fit where he’d pointed it out.
Sylar’s adjustment of the wrist strap involved a little more touching than was strictly necessary. Peter didn’t mind. “Okay,” he said a little louder after that was done, with a tone of finality. He glanced up at the man who was still right there next to him. “I was thinking of putting together a first aid kit while I’m here, maybe a trauma bag.” He stood up, thinking about Sylar’s response at Mercy Heights to the drugs Peter had taken with the intent of sedating him. (\“Is this all for me? You shouldn’t have. No, seriously. You really, really shouldn’t have”\ ).Well, a trauma kit included nothing injective - no needles at all - even though there were some Peter would like to add to such a kit if he were assembling it.
XXX
When he finished, Peter’s voice said ‘you’re done’ and he took the hint. No more touching despite the legitimate excuse. Or is that because I have a legitimate excuse? Sylar tilted his head just slightly at the thought of a first aid kit. While he knew it wasn’t a threat of any kind, and he knew that this was the man’s calling in life, it still struck him slightly odd.
The question sat on the edge of his tongue, ‘Why do you think you’re doing to need one?’ He won’t renege on the deal, but what could he possibly be expecting here? Rabid rats? Just…accidents, right? Sylar almost let out a sigh at that. Every time I think I make progress it’s…always reinforced in the opposite direction.
XXX
Peter started around the table, talking as he went. “I ought to be able to lift one already assembled from one of the ambu- oh. No cars; no ambulances. Huh. Well, maybe they have one already together in the supply room?” He glanced at Sylar, trying to read if Peter’s intended acquisition was setting off alarm bells for the man or making him wary. It wouldn’t really change what Peter was going to do, but he would make more of a point of what exactly was in such a kit if it was. He glanced down at the shears, electing to put the most weapon-like thing in it in Sylar’s hands. “Bring the shears, would you? An extra pair of those is always useful.”
XXX
Sylar blinked once, “No…no cars. I would imagine the supply room, yeah.” His face was pensive and mostly introverted at the moment, thinking. Sylar was snapped out of it by the mention of the scissors again and he snatched them up by the handles first before cluing in that he shouldn’t hold them that way. He stared at the instrument again, turning absentmindedly to track Peter’s movements. I hate these things. The one goddamn murder weapon that was an accident and not my fault had to be a normal household item. Not trauma shears, of course, but scissors.
“I suppose that’s fine, sure,” he said as if giving permission to the search and rescue of the first aid kit. At the same time he was positive that Peter didn’t need or want it, yet he’d given it anyway. They began walking in the direction of the supply room and he’d broken his staring match with the scissors as he thought, finally switching his grip to ‘blunt’ instead of ‘sharp’ just in case. Don’t run with scissors…and all that bullshit.
Clearing his throat, Sylar asked of the other man, “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?” While it wasn’t on a common ‘get to know ya’ questionnaire, and it wasn’t relevant and he didn’t want to seem too random in the inquiry department (which he had a tendency to do; randomly speaking his mind), he knew it was a kind of ice breaker. But he was also assuming that it wasn’t too personal or dangerous territory. Sylar supposed he’d be finding out either way.
XXX
Continued...