More Between Us, Chapter 27/? "Mental Exam"
Chapter 27/? "Mental Exam"
Day 10
“How’s the hand?” Sylar asked to distract them both. An idea occurred to him, belatedly, “On second thought I will take some crackers.” I’ll eat them dry.
XXX
“The hand hurts. Even when I’m only moving my thumb and index finger, but it’s worst when I bump something accidentally.” Peter fiddled with the box of crackers, pulling out an unopened sleeve. He looked at it briefly, considering the various ways to attempt to open it one handed, or without having to put much pressure on his right hand. Nothing came to mind that wouldn’t hurt more than the attempt was worth, or was unacceptably rude like using his teeth. He handed over the sleeve to Sylar, hoping he’d understand. It was an obvious problem.
XXX
Sylar nodded, unsure of what to say to Peter’s response about the hand. The other man brought around the box of crackers, although Sylar was barely paying attention, more focused on getting the soup into him. While Peter fiddled with the box, not opening it, Sylar quietly swallowed down a few more spoonfuls, cluing in moments later when the sound and motion of ‘opening the bag’ didn’t occur. Oh, yeah. He can’t open it with the hand we just talked about. He thought on the dilemma for five seconds than decided he’d see what Peter would do.
The empath answered the question not long after, pushing the bag towards Sylar, who merely blinked at him. He had no idea how to take that, said nothing. Peter Petrelli seriously just handed me a bag of crackers so I could open it for him. Because he couldn’t. What’s that joke about tall men and pickle jars on high shelves? Something about useful husbands. So that makes him…? Sylar’s lips fought a grin at the presumptuousness, taking the bag and digging his fingers in for a grip. Wait…or is this like the “I’m the handy can-opener” thing? I’m sooo useful that Peter Petrelli is here to beg of my help? I’m not a fucking swiss army knife anymore! The grinning smirk he’d had on faded into a darker look as he took a handful of crackers, handing the bag back, considering his thoughts. Or does he mistake me for Nathan?
XXX
Peter ate quietly for a while, retrieving the sleeve of crackers after Sylar was done with them and taking a few for himself. The closed box and unopened sleeve had kept Peter from getting any earlier, not that he’d really thought about it. Huh. I just used Sylar to open the crackers for me and didn’t even notice it. Peter’s brows and the side of his mouth quirked briefly at the small, internal joke.
When his mind started to go back to the motorcycle victim, he reined it in and instead focused on something more immediate, reviewing what he needed to do for Sylar. He looks like a mess. I’ll bet he could sit for a bath, but I don’t think a shower would work. He pondered for a moment. I can’t think of how to do that without playing into that same thing that happened earlier with taking his coat off. Getting him undressed for a bath … no. There’s no way to do that without giving him ideas. He’ll be fine for another day, then he should be able to manage undressing on his own maybe.
What’s more worrying is that from the way he’s breathing, he’s got some obstruction going on and swelling in the sinuses. He sounds alright otherwise. Maybe I could get him to go along with a cycle of cold and hot compresses. That would help him. Yesterday I was too fucked up to be competent. Speaking of which … Peter eyed Sylar’s hands. I need to check those out. If they’ve clotted up and sealed, then I need to get the bandages off him if all he’s going to do is rest. They’ll heal faster that way.
I need to check him out, and not just his knuckles. Peter’s contemplation held nothing of lewd intentions, not even considering the optional meaning of his thought. His mind played back through the events of their fight. I hit him in the face, then pulled … kicked him in the leg, he fell on me, then got on top of me, I head-butted him and … yeah, I think that was it. He can walk - leg seems okay. Where did my knee hit him when he fell? I was kind of out of it, but my knee hit something hard. I must have hit his hip because my knee’s bruised up too much for just a gut shot. Could it have been his ribs? Peter’s legs shifted a little as he tried to recall their exact positions. I might have ruptured something in him, though obviously he’s not dead. Jeez, what if he can’t breathe well because he’s got diaphragm problems from taking my knee too high? No, I think I was trying to rack him. He must have been lower, but there’s still a lot of stuff in that region that doesn’t take well to being landed on. I really need to make sure.
Hm. How do I manage that without setting him off? Peter’s spoon came to the bottom of his bowl as he finished his soup and then set the implement aside, regarding his companion with an analytical eye for a moment. There was something else he needed to do before any examination, though. He rose and walked over to the counter, reaching behind a canister to fish out the Tylenol. He counted out a dose for Sylar and set it wordlessly beside him, then Peter counted out his own pills, put them in his mouth, set down the box, and washed the pills down with his water.
XXX
Sylar was now mostly disregarding the soup, instead munching on the crackers, slowly to suit his face. He took gulps of it via the spoon when the crackers made his tongue too dry, switching between water and soup for nutritional versus fluid intake. Peter was quiet, also hard at work masticating. Sylar’s thoughts wandered to his next move - ideally getting clean. His companion had given him the impression that he would be leaving as soon as he thought Sylar was fit enough and now, to complicate things, Sylar was bothered by the prospect of the man’s departure.
To some degree he enjoyed being fussed over. It had been a long time since he’d had some of that, but he was aware that it was temporary, probably a one-time occurrence, so he enjoyed it and didn’t linger or pine for it’s loss. It made him feel funny, though. Sylar didn’t look forward to chasing after Peter, hounding him down for attention and conversation, companionship.
Peter got out the Tylenol after he finished his meal and set a dose before Sylar. Moments after that, Sylar had filled up as much as he was going to on soup and took the pills. Placing his hands on the back of the chair and the table, Sylar levered himself up, waiting for his body to adjust to standing before he again assisted himself back out to the couch using a bit of wall. He bit back his grunts at the walking part, his limp more pronounced as he ran out of wall to support himself with, but he made it to the couch and sat down with a sigh. At least his stomach felt better.
XXX
Peter watched as Sylar navigated his way back to the couch, of two minds as to whether he should stay in the kitchen and let Sylar have autonomy (and also where Peter had a better view of his mobility) or whether he should stay a pace removed in case he needed to grab or brace Sylar if he had a balance problem. Ultimately, Peter moved to the door of the kitchen and otherwise stayed back. Sylar seemed to accept his help grudgingly at best and had made it very clear he wanted Peter gone. It was a common problem with patients - displacing their upset about their condition onto their providers. At least, that’s what Peter hoped was going on, although he had to admit there weren’t many reasons why Sylar would want him around anyway, except as a distraction or source of entertainment. Sylar made it to the couch without issue, so there was that, at least.
Seeing Sylar had sat, Peter turned and rummaged around in the kitchen for a bowl, finding a plastic one - Tubberware or something like it - and then a washcloth. He looked the cloth over and wet it, thinking about germs. This place … I guess it’s sterile. Or … maybe it’s sterile because we think it’s sterile. It’s his mind after all. If trash isn’t a big deal, I can’t see how routine infectious agents would exist.
He washed his hands anyway out of habit, but it kept him from obsessing about hygiene as much as he would have in the real world. Certainly he wasn’t going to go through the normal protocol with gloves and protective barriers. He carried the bowl, with the wet cloth in it, out to the couch with the intention of catching Sylar before he got all settled in. His patient had eaten and taken his medications without complaint. Peter would see if he could help him with self-care and try to segue that into a better patient assessment than he’d done the day before.
In a matter-of-fact tone, Peter said, “Sylar, scoot over. Let’s get your face cleaned off.” Peter gave him a once over, noticing the bloodstains on Sylar’s right cuff. He recalled Sylar holding Peter’s neck with his right, prompting Peter to grab Sylar’s wrist with his bloody left hand. It’s not even his blood on his wrist. But that’s his on his face, under his chin there and on his jaw. I’ll have to have him take his shirt off after all. Peter wasn’t sure what to think about that, what with Sylar’s come-on that morning about it. Maybe he’s forgotten about that? Amnesia was never so convenient, though.
“If you will let me, I’d like to do an examination on you, so I’m sure I understand what’s wrong. I didn’t check yesterday.” I should have. I was too messed up. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m concussed, too. Or was. Whatever. Just not nearly as badly.
XXX
Sylar reacted to his name before the man’s presence became known, turning with a somewhat expectant look on his face. It dissolved when Peter continued, telling him to move, allow him room and get his…face cleaned off? Again he was reminded that he wasn’t exactly squeaky clean and that he looked like he’d had his face kicked in. And I smell, let’s not forget that one. C’mon, Pete, sidle on up. It did nothing for his confidence. His expression took on a much more neutralized, arrogant expression as he eyed Peter right back.
Sylar didn’t move immediately, either, instead taking stock of the objects Peter had brought: a bowl filled with water he presumed and a washcloth hanging a bit over the side. The implication was unmistakable - Sylar was filthy enough to need a bowl, water and a cloth and Peter had noticed. Once more he felt like a child whose fingers weren’t coordinated enough or a child who was too unruly to be trusted. He felt like throwing a tantrum or whining, too, which didn’t help his assessment.
First my hands, now my face. This was (or would be) a level of just plain weird. Suddenly grimy, bloody, sweaty and smelly were preferable, safer. But Peter wasn’t stopping at a facial. Sylar’s face shifted to try to allow his eyebrows to raise slightly, but it hurt and he wound up grimacing. “A what?” He almost choked. He didn’t check? He didn’t check what? Sylar tried to quickly review what could possibly need to be checked without an MRI. What’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong….
Peter was pulling a card that made Sylar uncomfortable - a “good guy” medical man all but demanding to examine him, his head, his brain most likely. It wasn’t going to be “stick out your tongue and let me whack your knee”. Sure Peter had handled the previous concussion “examination” alright, but this was a more serious injury and some of the damaged areas were beneath his clothes. Does he have abilities? Was his immediate, paranoid fear, clearly remembering Mercy Hospital and before that Stanton. He stayed still, not moving over as directed, unsure that if he let Peter sit if Sylar would remain some control over the situation.
XXX
Peter ignored Sylar’s lack of movement and crowded onto the couch anyway. Pushing Sylar around was getting him what he wanted and so he kept doing it. He sat down on the end nearer the kitchen. With Sylar still in the middle, this meant Peter was in easy reach of him and in fact, Peter was kind of crammed into the corner of the couch. He was turned to face Sylar directly and sat to the man’s left. Peter set the bowl down between them where it touched both of their legs. He hung onto it for a second to establish possession before releasing it. He used his left hand to pick up the washcloth (the bowl was a quarter full of water) and wrung it out clumsily and one-handedly.
Peter looked directly at Sylar, leaning forward a little and speaking in a calm, low voice. It was a little more companionable than his usual paramedic voice. “I want to give you a patient assessment to be sure I understand why you’re limping, why your balance is bad and why you’re nauseous. I need to work out how bad your concussion is. Sometimes you’re uncooperative and I can’t tell if that’s because of the concussion or,” Peter smiled a little painfully, “or because of … everything else.” Because you’re an uncooperative asshole, traumatized history, serial killer, all that. But right now you’re my patient, combative or not, and that’s what matters. The smile faded as he glanced down and wrung out a little more water from the cloth. Peter’s voice dropped a little to be quieter and deeper as he looked back up. “I’m trying to be your nurse here. I’m trying to help you. I hope that if our positions were reversed, that you’d help me. And at this rate, one of these days they might be.” And what will happen then?
XXX
Sylar’s eyes widened as Peter had the audacity to sit when it had been pretty clear Sylar didn’t want him there. Damn Petrellis, you think you own everything. He glared, putting plenty of heat into his gaze, hoping to sear and scare off this annoying pest. While being pressed up against another human body was nice, it wasn’t under acceptable circumstances. He gave a loud grunt to signal his displeasure, obstinately not moving from *his* seat.
Peter went about setting up camp, cool and as welcome as you please while Sylar was seriously considering striking him, his fists going so far as to ball up. He had no idea what he was going to do when Peter reached for his face, but he didn’t think it would be pretty. All he felt was confusion - he would like to be touched, but not like this. Peter’s reasons, each and every one, were bogus and vague and now the medic was getting pushy like Sylar knew he would. There was no truce; he was defenseless and useless. To top it off, he’d tried to proposition Peter earlier, so where did that leave them now?
XXX
Peter was silent for a moment as he thought about that question. Despite his expectation that he’d be an even worse patient than Sylar had been, there were a lot of little signs that his fears of further mistreatment at Sylar’s hands might be overblown. He hoped they were, but that was the thing about doubt and uncertainty - he wouldn’t know for sure until the time came. Peter leaned in further, looking up at Sylar. “When I first came here you told me I ought to pick out an apartment. You invited me to lunch with you. You tried to give me some pointers about the place.” He held up his right hand. “Later you offered to tape my hand up. You showed me where I could find a good brace. You even held it and helped me put it on. Yesterday you bandaged my face.” He paused before continuing very genuinely, “I’ve noticed. I’m trying to help you right now. It’s the same thing.”
Peter was trying to set up an equivalency, a tit-for-tat, and make it seem like Sylar had been the first to start this process of give and take. He extended the cloth towards Sylar. “If you want to wash your face off, I’ll do touch up on any spots you miss.” ‘You do this, I’ll do that’ - it was a method that worked with a lot of patients who were particularly touchy about being helpless.
XXX
Peter leaned in and Sylar’s head went up, defensive and alpha, staring Peter down. In doing that, he hoped the smaller man would take the hint and back off as Sylar’s undivided attention usually had that effect. Why the hell would you extol my virtues now? Obvious much, Petrelli? He sneered in his head. His reward for said kind acts had not gone unnoticed. Concussions were subtle that way. Frowning slightly, but even that hurt, he still watched Peter as he proffered the washcloth.
Sylar almost expected him to pull it back as he reached for it: Ha ha! Just kidding! But it didn’t happen, so he took it and made to scrub his cheek with the cloth, wincing and hissing as he hit bruises, ceasing his motions instantly. Shit! And why can’t I use a mirror again, Petrelli? You wanna be in charge. He gave Peter another glare and went back to attempting to clean his face, this time with a more gentle touch. In trying to avoid the spot he’d just hit, Sylar adjusted his touch by about an inch which helped only minimally as the entire area was sore. Wonderful. And he’s going to sit there and watch the whole time.
XXX
Peter ducked his eyes away from the latest glare to be polite, but otherwise he didn’t give an inch. He was beginning to get quite a bit less afraid of Sylar’s looks, since he’d had the opportunity to weather so many of them without being killed. As Sylar cleaned, Peter shifted position, adjusting himself with his back against the arm of the couch. He and Sylar remained crammed too close together. One of Peter’s many bruises along his spine wasn’t happy about how he was settled so he found a better position to be in, grimacing a little as he did so. He bumped Sylar’s leg with his knee, wishing the guy would move over but not asking for it again.
Sylar seemed to be doing a pretty lousy job of washing his face, which was about what Peter had expected. Peter reached up and touched at the very sore muscles of his own neck, feeling along them, knotted and tense, while he eyed the matching part of Sylar’s anatomy. I should put some of that Tiger Balm on him. Well, on both of us. Might as well get started on the test.
“Sylar, I’m going to give you three words that I want you to remember and repeat to me later. It’s a memory test. You’re probably pretty good at that stuff, right? The words are apple, penny and table. Just normal words, but in a half hour or so I’m going to ask you to tell me what the words were.”
XXX
Sylar huffed, having heard the memory test before, “Yeah, sure.” Don’t butter me up with what I’m good at. I’m so nice, I’m so talented all of a sudden, I’m not being that difficult, am I? That he would need to flatter me…I don’t care either way.
He found his breath coming a little faster and not because of the pain of dodging bruises and lacerations as he cleaned his face. His mind was triggering his body to reaction, but he couldn’t discern the result - be it anticipation and anxiety or delight and desire at Peter’s proximity. He ignored Peter’s hint for more room, ignored it just barely. Digging up the will, he stared back at Peter while he dabbed and rubbed lightly at the filth on his face. In all honesty, his concentration was not on the task at hand. The longer Peter sat there, behaving himself, keeping his hands to himself moreover, the more Sylar saw this as an opportunity…to do what, he hadn’t planned for yet. Stupid brain, keep up!
XXX
Peter watched for a moment as the clean-up proceeded. Part of what he was doing here was checking Sylar’s ability to perform a simple two-step task: take this cloth, clean your face. Was Sylar mentally there enough to automatically add other steps, like rinsing the cloth and doing a good job? Theoretically, Peter should be giving him a single prompt for other steps, but it wasn’t like he wouldn’t have other chances to test him on that front. Part of why concussion victims liked to sleep so much was that they couldn’t think more than a step or two into the future. It was exhausting, given their limited capabilities.
“Can you tell me what year it is, here?” He waited for an answer, honestly curious about that, too. Peter didn’t actually know the date, but right or wrong answers weren’t as important as whether or not the subject could give an answer that was reasonable-sounding.
XXX
After some silence, filled with only the sounds of their breathing, moving clothing and Sylar’s face been cleaned, Peter spoke again. Hygiene paused, Sylar’s face grew massively confused, and inside he was suddenly frightened but he hoped that part didn’t show. What….year? Doesn’t he know? Wait…wait…. “Uh…” he replied. Sylar couldn’t remember back that far. Peter was recent…being alone was…Was that new? Peter was the only one here, too, that wasn’t new. Sylar couldn’t recall how much time he’d lost as Nathan or with Parkman or God only knew when else he’d lost time. The Carnival maybe?
Oh my god…I’m losing it. I can’t remember! Is it happening again? What if I can’t ever remember? What does that mean? Why can’t I remember? I tell time, I should know this! I knew it before…Was it something Peter did? What happened to me? What’s he going to do if I don’t answer this right? Or answer at all? His eyes flicked to Peter’s face then away multiple times, his face fluctuating between a frown and confused worry, the washcloth held loosely in his left hand.
XXX
“How about the season?” Peter waited again. “What month is it, Sylar?” Another pause, and a check for whether the season matched up with the month.
XXX
Peter continued so whatever he’d said had been…somehow acceptable. Sylar swallowed and tried to think again. “Its cold…Winter?” he hedged, eyes locked to Peter’s for any sign that he might be right. “I remember thinking something about your birthday…so…December.” This time the answer was more sure, more firm; yes, it was December. He didn’t know how that had come to him, but it did. Hopefully Peter wouldn’t press for details on that.
XXX
Continued...