More Between Us, Chapter 25/? "Couch Surfing"
Chapter 25/? "Couch Surfing"
Day 10
After mutual glares had been exchanged and Sylar had adjusted the pillows on the couch to his liking, he’d settled in and dozed off fairly quickly. The doze turned into a much deeper sleep, even though it was anything but comfortable or restful. The nightmares were back. They had been spotty ever since Peter showed up but it was official - they were back.
At the end of whatever wacked-out sleep cycle he now kept due to the nap earlier, Sylar jerked awake and regretted leaving the nightmare for the pain his body still felt in reality. A loud groan escaped him as he partly rolled on his back before he noticed/remembered his “guest” had failed to leave. He glanced at Peter, still in his chair, and clammed up. The last thing he needed was Captain Moods on his case again. If the guy wanted it so damn bad, all he had to do was play doctor and frisk him up. Not that hard, right? (Heh). He could barely recall what had torqued the medic off the other night and he hardly cared.
Glancing at his watch for longer than he needed he saw that it was the next morning unless time now stood still (he doubted it even if it seemed to). Wonderful. Peter was only dozing so he woke up as Sylar did. Even better. I don’t want him here, especially if he’s just going to be a prick, which I know he will be. There were things that needed doing in the morning and he was anything but comfortable doing them with Peter IN his apartment. Peter: the worst fear of every doorjamb in the place.
Sylar simply rolled back to his side, facing Peter and put on as calm (and arrogant) an expression as he could with pain radiating through his form, literally head to toes, the pain centered in his braincase. “Awake, Sleeping Beauty,” Sylar groused, his voice completely graveled from waking. And don’t expect any fresh kisses. Saving damsels is your shit. Peter had offered him soup last night, which he’d refused since he wasn’t hungry, but he was sure he was rank enough not to be cuddly. He cleared his throat, making a face. He’d slept in his jeans and coat; both were rather rumpled and dirty. Ugh, on my couch…damn, Peter.
His voice a little smoother now, but still deep until he got some water in him…while he avoided all thoughts of water, Sylar flicked his eyes over his companion and purred, “Or are you the prince? I forget,” and smirked a smirk that made his face ache. “Have you always been prone to breaking and entering? There are easier ways, Peter,” he said just to annoy and insinuate. Never had a sleep over before…Wasn’t what I had in mind…
XXX
Peter had been more active than Sylar knew. Shortly after Sylar had conked out in the evening, and hoping sincerely that Sylar stayed that way, Peter had gone home, cleaned up and gotten some shut-eye of his own. Concussion victims tended to sleep a lot, so he wasn’t surprised when he returned to Sylar’s apartment in the morning to find the man still asleep, mouth hanging askew. Peter figured Sylar’s sinuses were probably giving him hell.
He stood in the middle of the room and looked around the place, letting his eyes roam over the books, the clocks, the paperweights, jars of gears, and collections of small tools. It was interesting stuff, following a theme and not nearly as haphazard as it looked at first glance. Peter wasn’t exactly burning with a desire to check everything out (since the most interesting thing in the room, from Peter’s perspective, was Sylar), but it was intriguing all the same. He took his seat, tuning out the noisy time-keepers and listened instead to Sylar’s breathing. Lulled by the regular, soothingly human sound, Peter’s lids drooped. Sylar groaned, twitched and made a few small, distressed sounds in his slumber. Peter cracked open his best eye to observe for a moment. Bad dreams. With his life? No doubt. Poor guy, he thought muzzily. He let his eye fall shut again. There wasn’t much he could do about Sylar’s imagination and hopefully guilty conscience.
A louder, more purposeful groan caught Peter off-guard and he jumped, realizing he’d fallen asleep. He blinked rapidly and jerked his eyes to the source of the sound, who was awake and rolling over. Peter held very still, getting his bearings. Nothing to worry about. Sylar’s just waking up. Calm down. His heart was hammering a little too hard for his liking, because being asleep in Sylar’s presence was not something Peter was comfortable with. Sylar checked out his watch, then and issued a greeting. Peter made an ambivalent grumble in answer and stretched a little.
He smiled at Sylar’s comment on B&E. I like the sound of his voice. It sounded especially deep to Peter’s ear. Not so sold on the arrogance. “Well, you know, we paramedics have the authority to break and enter if we think someone’s life depends on it.” He had a lot of guidelines for what constituted an emergency befitting such a response. Cranky concussion victims didn’t (quite) qualify. Though theoretically, if he thought Sylar had actually fallen and hurt himself, then kicking the door down to check was within bounds. “Don’t worry too much though. If I get the urge to redecorate my apartment with clocks and books, I’ll go find my own. What do you feel like having for breakfast a little later?” Peter had found some crackers to take with his morning dose of painkillers, but other than that he hadn’t eaten.
XXX
The smile was cheering, genuine (from what he could tell - Peter’s ‘I’m fine’ smile sucked). “I take it my life depended on it. You probably just wanted to snoop out my awesome apartment while I was out,” Sylar gestured around the room. He could have done a lot of things while I was out. A host of evil and perverted things flashed through is head. Sylar ran an exploratory hand gently over his face and then through his hair to be sure nothing was there. Feels normal. Need a shower, though. Great company I make. Like I care, I want him to clear out.
“You’re such a charmer,” he stated drily. A glare was thrown Peter’s way at the mention of doing things with his clocks and books; Peter was poking fun at the objects’ existence, naturally. That wasn’t an amusing joke or even an anecdote to someone dealing with the man who’d broken-and-entered his house twice now. It was a threat - ‘I might come in the night and steal from you’. He was about to snark what he owed Peter for playing hero when the man continued to surprise him.
“Breakfast…” he said slowly, feeling out the word. /”You gonna make me some more eggs?”/ What? But now how does this work? Offering to make me breakfast? “Um…” Sylar went on to stall, trying to feel out angles from inside a sphere - an apt description when it came to all things Peter. Breakfast…a good question. “I don’t keep any arsenic in the apartment,” another partial stall, “I’ll figure it out when I get there,” he waved it off vaguely. By that he meant ‘I’ll get something much later’ and also to imply that he didn’t want Peter fixing him food and not just for poison control. That would be awkward as hell, what was he supposed to do, lie there and wait? Peter was overkill on the whole hospice nurse kick, what’s worse, where it came from, he didn’t know.
XXX
A lot of quick quips in return about doing drugs and picking your poison came to Peter’s mind, but it seemed wiser to keep his mouth shut. Sylar moved the conversation on anyway, saving him from temptation.
XXX
To distract…one or both of them, Sylar reached across his body to push against the couch enough until his trapped arm’s elbow could brace him. The world twisted and the aching everywhere took on a new note of intensity. Sylar inhaled, closed his eyes against the dizziness. Shit. Bad idea…what else am I gonna do? I have to go… He stayed still for a moment, letting it pass before he pushed off the armrest and sat upright. With his heart beating faster now, his body heat rose even though the room’s temperature was less than toasty and Sylar suddenly felt dirty and uncomfortable in his over-night coat. Grunting to himself, he tilted his chin down, too fast, and raised his fingers to begin unbuttoning it. That done, he began the task of sliding out of the coat whereupon he discovered his balance would suffer or he would get stuck.
XXX
Peter watched quietly as Sylar sat upright. For the first few seconds he didn’t think much of anything, then noticed Sylar taking too much time to be attributed purely to stiffness. His balance is off. Peter shifted forward, coming alert, watching in case Sylar tried something dumb like standing. This was mainly just training - Peter wasn’t thinking of Sylar so much as ‘Sylar’, but as his patient, whom it was his job to keep whole and unharmed as much as possible. He’d only been a hospice nurse for five or six months, but that was plenty to be aware that his patient’s biggest danger was falls. He’d been called on over and over as an EMT and paramedic to take care of those whose guardians had not been quite vigilant enough.
He watched as Sylar tipped too far for Peter’s liking while trying clumsily to free himself from the jacket. With a grunt at the soreness of his own frame, Peter got himself out of the chair. He had a second, no more, to figure out how to handle this. There was a host of complicating factors here. Sylar didn’t like him and didn’t want his help. He was prone to violence and Peter didn’t have the option of calling in someone Sylar might be more cooperative with. It was very likely Sylar was not competent to protect and advocate for himself. Peter was afraid of him and didn’t like him, yet he still felt obligated to help.
“Hey,” Peter said gently as way of announcement as he stepped closer. Sylar didn’t seem to have noticed him rising, Sylar having his head down and struggling with the outfit and all. Peter put a no-nonsense left hand on Sylar’s right shoulder to help with balance while he bent to reach with his right for Sylar’s cuff. “I'll hold you. You get it off.” He didn't bother to ask permission because he didn't think it would be granted. The time before when Peter had gone directly and (somewhat) fearlessly to help Sylar stay upright, then walked him home, Sylar had surprisingly cooperated. Same with helping him back from the bathroom after Sylar retrieved the Tylenol. Asking seemed like an invitation to fight over it. Peter hoped that a matter-of-fact approach would work.
XXX
Eh? Sylar looked up, a little dazed, at the firm touch on his shoulder. He felt he could hardly breathe through his nose, as such his mouth hung open to catch the occasional breath he couldn’t get through his nostrils as he paused in his squirming out of the hot coat. Blinking up at Peter, he swallowed just for some moisture in his mouth. No, not from Peter (Ha, Peter wished!) but from the mouth-breathing.
Fleshy fingers brushed his wrist to hold his coat’s cuff. Well…this is…not what I pictured. He chuckled and that hurt, shook his head, leaning forward, and admittedly, it was awkward. He was putting his face nearer to Peter’s abdomen in their positions, angles and heights. The tilt allowed his shoulders room to swivel and roll until the shoulder and left arm of the coat inched down his limb over his shirt. Sylar shook that half off, breathing harder than he should for such a simple task and that was embarrassing, but what was there to do about it?
He took a breather, disguised as pain - God, and he was sore, the motions triggering his bruised hip and gut. “I think I get why you do this,” Sylar hinted, softly, conspiratorially. He gets off on this, doesn’t he? Literally. All this touching, gratitude? The guy even said, he’s got legal rights to break into my apartment. He’d got access to medical equipment, drugs…Peter has a medical kink. So this is…flirting? What does he, well, want? Or expect?
XXX
Oh? Well … you do? That’s cool. He was wondering if Sylar was saying he understood helping people out. But his tone was weird, though. The probability of real understanding faded as Peter thought, He probably thinks it’s a control issue. When Peter had reached out to steady Sylar, the man had been essentially straight-jacketed by his own coat. It was part of why Peter had expected resistance. He’d gotten none, which surprised him. If it happened to Peter, a little panic wouldn’t have been out of the question. Peter shifted a half step to the right, which placed him so he wasn’t directly in front of Sylar anymore, and made it easier to reach around him for the other cuff.
XXX
Peter’s hand was still in place, the other shifting across his body to grab the remaining cuff and assist that off. Again, more contact when his neck met the man’s hand on his shoulder or his wrist and hand met the guy’s fingers. It still felt nice. I mean, helping me out of my clothes is a pretty clear sign. “You want the shirt off, too, while we’re at it?” he inquired, half-seriously, staring up at his ‘hero’, keeping his expression wide and somewhat innocent and it wasn’t a total act. It wasn’t like any- Peter would ever know. I think I’d asphyxiate if I tried to blow you right now, though, man. This breathing thing is overrated.
XXX
Peter’s mouth opened as he started to answer that with an indifferent negative, but his voice failed him when he glanced down to Sylar’s face. ‘Oblivious’ was not one of Peter’s core traits. Even though he was pretty average in perception, Sylar’s face was unmistakable in what Peter was taking as an invitation or a come-on. It was either that or actual gratitude, which would have hit Peter even harder. Sylar’s expression made Peter’s chest tingle and surge as whatever words he had been intending to say got jumbled. “Wr, nn-“
This wasn’t helped at all by Sylar’s scent wafting out as Peter helped pull away the man’s jacket. The wash of warm, humid air was redolent of that unique odor of sleep. It read as: comfort. It reminded Peter of waking up next to someone, a more-intimate-than-expected association. More than that connection was that he hadn’t had that particular pleasure in years, not since his memories had been blotted out. He’d ended up in Caitlin’s bed out of lust and ignorance, his empathy dragging him into a relationship without consulting him - not that he would have been much help, to be honest.
XXX
That does not get old, Sylar thought of Peter’s reaction. It gave him a rush to be cause of it. It meant he was on top, in the driver’s seat, in control, running the show, calling the shots, however one chose to put it. And for a moment… the poor sucker had no idea what hit him. That was the best part. Peter was smarter, though, than the majority of Sylar’s…past experiences. An empath, too, and that part was going to be tricky to get around. Does Peter’s ability even work now?
His expression didn’t change until Peter replied, or started to. Then he tried for a slight, brief grin. Peter was definitely caught off guard by it, given his stuttering. He was left staring up at Peter intently, keeping vast amounts of his own personal reactions caged behind his eyes. The rest of his jacket slipped off and he felt cooler air assault his shirt. Sylar was not in, what any average, rational person would call the sexiest state - unwashed, dirty and injured with a healthy side of ‘psycho’ and homicidal history. If anything, he seemed to detect Peter’s body heating up, at least his hands did where they touched Sylar. Or maybe that was Sylar’s reaction or the contact itself. Interesting…Sylar crushed memories of Mama Petrelli helping him out of his Company jacket years ago in Level Five. Just no thanks.
XXX
Peter’s head buzzed. He was very aware suddenly of his hand on Sylar’s shoulder. It tingled, too. He was never so glad he had on a long-sleeved shirt, because he was pretty sure he had goose bumps. Jesus, Peter! Get a grip. “No, no, that’s fine,” he said, his voice tightly controlled as he attempted to discourage whatever it was Sylar was getting at. He cleared his throat slightly, aware of how obvious it was that he was flustered. He was embarrassed about how Sylar would take that, but there was nothing to be done about it now, so he soldiered on under the aegis of professionalism. “How about I help you to the bathroom and you can take care of things while I make breakfast, okay?”
He’s just fucking with you. That’s all he’s doing. It’s a joke. It’s a ploy. We beat each other up yesterday. He accused me of trying to kill him. Just a few minutes ago he was talking about me putting arsenic in his food. He is not offering … whatever it is he’s pretending to offer. It was at least the second time Sylar had thrown something out there Peter interpreted as a pass. It’s just innuendo. It’s meaningless. And even if it isn’t … it’s Sylar. He eyed Sylar and swallowed, his face becoming more distant and wooden as he said, “I’ll make some toast.”
XXX
Huh. The man declined, but his tone wasn’t something Sylar could place. Disgust, discomfort, hidden interest, insult, it could be any of those things. All that might tell him was that Peter just refused to get into things with him specifically. Sylar couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved. It just meant more frustration because the majority of his go-to options had been exhausted. Peter had reacted and that boded well. For later, of course.
More frustration layered on him. He was again told No, but also suggested that he clean up. Breakfast afterwards made no sense unless Peter was…somehow into sex-then-breakfast. The apartment was not the Ritz. Many replies filtered through him: How about you just take my shirt off? Screw breakfast. You aren’t my breakfast? What, you don’t play with your food? Sex in the bathroom? Isn’t that unsanitary for an EMT? Can’t say I’ve ever done it in a bathroom. Peter was pretty stupid if he thought Sylar was just going to “clean up” and let Peter…do whatever - breakfast or breaking in.
Sylar’s grin just widened until it neared smirk territory at the definite withdrawal and he reached out to brush his fingertips against Peter’s wrist now in guise of taking his coat back. All’s fair… “Are you sure that’s what you want? Toast?” He purred lightly, taking a brief second to eye Peter’s mouth. He was fairly certain this was a fifty-fifty shot, but what the hell? He hadn’t even turned the heat up on Peter yet and the poor guy was squirming. He couldn’t wait to tease him with it.
XXX
Sylar’s fingers stroked across Peter’s wrist. Oh wow, that feels good. It didn’t matter, though, and if anything, Sylar had moved into even such a slight intimacy it too fast, given all the other complications. Peter’s expression passed on from ‘wooden’ and headed over towards ‘hostile’ as his lips tightened and his eyes (eye, really, since the other remained swelled shut) narrowed. He pulled in air at Sylar’s touch in a quick but steady draw. Peter gave a quick glance down as Sylar took the coat, and then looked up at his face. “Yeah,” he said, his tone clipped and unwavering. “I’m sure that’s what I want.” He took one measured step back, removing his hand from Sylar’s shoulder and putting himself mostly out of reach. It was a firm shut-down.
XXX
Sylar knew that answer was coming so it was of no surprise. It secretly stung the same as always but this time was a little worse. It got worse every time. This was someone whose regard he wanted. As if he could do anything appealing in the eyes of Petrelli’s kind. Whatever libido he’d been attempting to wrangle was crushed and that was probably for the best.
“If you say so,” was his reply in spite of those thoughts, tacking on a heartless smirk, aiming to insinuate that they both knew better. He had not missed the change in expression. It was a more expected one anyway.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a wary once-over before turning and heading into the kitchen with strides that were stiff due to his hip, not his mood. He would have rather sauntered to show that he was unbothered and that Sylar hadn’t gotten to him, but his body wasn’t up to it. Over his shoulder he called casually, “But if you want something else, I’ll see what you have in the kitchen. What did you have in mind - cereal maybe? I have a history of burning oatmeal, and you should probably stay away from anything greasy or heavy like sausage or eggs.” Peter’s performance was pretty inconsistent with pancakes and waffles - besides, he wanted to avoid from anything that would take two hands to prepare well and the mixing of batter was probably beyond him.
XXX
While he was prepared to let Peter walk away from that without much anger, because he did understand, the dismissive glance Peter flicked over him had his blood boiling. And on top of that, the man walked away. What’s worse, if Sylar got up to go after him he’d not only get punched, probably someplace unsavory, but he’d be nagged for getting up. Peter wanted him clean, had passed him up like a mangy mutt; and was now leaving him to his own devices, go ahead and fall for all the medic cared, so long as Peter was there to pick up the pieces.
Sylar got the feeling the rug had purposefully been yanked from under his shoes as he stood and he was literally left staring, now glaring, after the man. “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” apparently, Sylar grated out loudly between his teeth. Son of a bitch. I had him. As soon as I can find something in here that I don’t care to lose, I’m going to chuck it at your head, he thought vehemently.
XXX
Not that Peter’s thoughts were lingering on batter. He’s messing with me. Definitely. Peter opened up the refrigerator and checked out the contents. Helping Sylar to the bathroom had mysteriously fallen off the menu, skipped over as an option as Peter had moved on to something that put him in the kitchen and not where he was available for Sylar’s cheap amusement. He knew concussion symptoms could include lowered inhibitions and impaired judgment, to go along with mood swings, so anything was possible here. He tried not to let it interfere too much with treating Sylar as a patient, rather than an asshole, but that didn’t mean he was going to let himself be toyed with. That, ultimately, would be far more dangerous to Sylar than any normal fall and Peter knew it.
XXX
If Peter desired so badly to play nursemaid, Sylar could more than play the needy patient. Besides, anger appeared to make his head hurt worse anyway. Staggering up, he ignored the waves of nauseating dizziness and made a few assisted quick-steps to the bathroom where he shut and locked himself in. Suddenly clumsy fingers struggled with his zipper as he hurriedly tried to take a leak, and stay standing while swaying, as fast as he could before Peter came looking and broke down his other door. Doors. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, getting his underwear to obey finally. Geez, it hurt to look down with his headache; he was probably making a mess of the bathroom. All the reflective light and mostly-whiteness of the bathroom hurt his eyes and smarted badly.
Why do I suddenly feel like the gay freak who has to watch his back for this crap? Yes, he was paranoid of getting his head bashed in before breakfast in his own fucking bathroom! Once relieved, he washed his hands, quietly turning on the sink and fairly collapsed back into the couch. After another rest break, he rolled up his jacket, puffing it under his head he eased to lay back down.
Just for that, I’m not cleaning up. He had plans for making Peter’s life hell. Although he should go take a shower to be rebellious, maybe moan Peter’s name loudly enough while he did it just to be crude and see if Peter cared as much as he claimed about threats of falling. Bastard wants me to fall…down the fucking stairwell. The worst part is not being able to hit him. Sylar lay quietly, fuming in his own thoughts while Peter screwed around in the kitchen. Won’t need any goddamn poison if he’s that bad a cook.
XXX
He’ll have whatever I’m having, huh? I guess I’m having toast, then, because that’s what he needs to be eating. Peter puttered around, slowly calming down as he got out bread. Oh! He has bagels. I love bagels. Peter worked his jaw slightly. Chewing toast was going to be difficult enough and he suspected it would be more along the lines of ‘gumming toast’. Bagels were just out of the question, no matter how much he liked them. He stuck two slices of bread into the toaster and fiddled with the butter, preslicing it. The toaster was still toasting. Only then did it occur to him to check the settings. He looked at the knob. Huh. Should I change that to something else? No, wait, that’s dumb. He probably already has it set at whatever he likes. Yeah … leave it.
He got out glasses and plates, wishing there were paper plates or plastic. He had a concern that Sylar might fling his dishes, but that, too, seemed dumb. If Sylar wanted to throw things, his apartment was not short on objects. Besides, they were his objects. He probably wasn’t too keen on breaking his own stuff. He heard Sylar exit the bathroom and Peter leaned out slowly to see Sylar sinking down on the couch. Peter went back to his preparations.
By then the toast had finished and he popped in two new slices after removing the two he intended for Sylar. Peter applied butter and a very little bit of the strawberry jam he’d found. He didn’t mean to be stinting, but continuing nausea was a normal problem. He poured up a glass of water and put the box of Tylenol to the side of the plate, where it sat in a V formed by the two pieces of toast. Peter glanced out to see where Sylar was, then tried to work out how he was going to get the plate and the glass at the same time. He swapped the glass with the box of pills. He could manage the pill box in his right hand - it was light enough for it. Hopefully he could keep balance with the glass on the plate. He carried them out and it seemed to go okay as far as logistics went.
He had no idea what he was going to get - angry-and-possibly-violent-Sylar, sulking-and-annoying-Sylar, Sylar-of-the-sexual-innuendo-and-weird-come-ons, or perhaps Sylar-who-has-completely-forgotten-what-just-happened. This really is a fucking nightmare. Stuck somewhere having to nurse Sylar back to health. He pasted on an unconvincingly polite face (he didn’t care if it was convincing or not). Sylar had laid down. He was going to have to sit up to eat. Peter paused, couch-side, looking at him and trying to think of a better solution than just putting Sylar’s bread and water on the floor for Sylar to get whenever he got done with whatever act he was pulling. Doing that, for Peter, would be petty; it would be wrong. He wanted to be better than that. So what can I do that respects his dignity as a human being while letting me weather him being a jerk? You know, Peter, he might stop acting like a jerk if you respect his dignity as a human being. He sighed because, yes, that was the solution. He knew it. He just didn’t like it. Hate was easier.
The face of false politeness fell as Peter regarded Sylar steadily, shallow furrows forming in his forehead and around his eyes as his expression took on an aspect of, if not interest, then at least concern. It was a lot more empathetic than he’d been a few seconds before. It was more of an effort than Peter thought it should have been. In a dry, tired voice, Peter said, “Breakfast is served, Sylar. If you’ll sit up, I’ll hand it to you.”
XXX
Continued...