More Between Us, Chapter 28/? "Lose the Shirt"
Chapter 28/? "Lose the Shirt"
See the puzzle here.
Day 10
“Okay, last question on the test. At the beginning, I gave you three words to remember and I told you this was a memory test. Tell me what those words were, if you remember them.” They were pretty cemented into Peter’s head because he used the same three words every time. They were the ones the original test suggested, which meant everyone taught them, which meant when paramedics, nurses or doctors asked their patients they were always asking for the exact same three words. Even so, he had to think about it.
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Really? Last one? That was surprisingly…un-informative for him. Oh, its this one, right, um…Crap, and I knew this, too! It was three simple, rather everyday objects, standard to the test now if he could only remember which objects… Sylar sat still and quiet for a few moments while he thought. I told him I could do this, so I’m going to. It’s really simple.
“Apple…table…something,” he shook his head, irked at his own failure. Ugh, what was it?
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“That’s good. That’s good. I’d put you in the bottom half of moderately concussed and me somewhere in the middle of the range for minor. Which I honestly wasn’t convinced of for myself until I tried to do this.” Peter gestured at his left eye. “You got me really good, there. That was like, lights out for a half second or so.” He smiled dryly, less amused by it than he had been of his injuries after their first fight, but still shaking off any bad blood from it. They’d fought; it was over; move on … hopefully.
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He has a concussion, too? Oh, yeah…something about landing on him. Sylar chuckled, pleased about that. He didn’t remember decking Peter that hard or aiming for his eye, but whatever worked. Sylar was also partly surprised he’d managed to hit Peter, a pretty tough SOB under the circumstances, hard enough to make him black out or see stars. Now he just hoped Peter’s eye still worked…
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He looked pointedly at Sylar’s right hand, nodding his head at it. “If you can roll up your sleeve there, I’ll clean up your wrist. I’m pretty sure that’s my blood anyway, not yours. We really made a mess of each other.” He wrung out the cloth a few times.
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Sylar glanced at his wrist, recalling seeing the blood and just now seeing it at the same time. He wasn’t worried about it so it probably wasn’t his blood. It looked really superficial anyway. He hummed in reply, amused some more about making a mess of each other. So playground of us.
Hmm. Wait…didn’t I touch on his wrist earlier? Is that what this is? I mean a wrist…maybe on a woman, but why would he want to touch my wrist? Sylar thought on it, but didn’t protest or fret.
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Peter reached over with his right to take Sylar’s hand very gently between thumb and index finger, pulling (or rather, encouraging Sylar to bring his hand closer, because Peter wasn’t using enough force to really constitute ‘pulling’) Sylar’s hand over so he could better reach it with the cloth in his left. Peter rubbed at the smeared, bloody handprints he’d left on the man. Still looking down at what he was doing, Peter said quietly, “You know, if you’d take your shirt off, I’d get you a fresh one to put on instead.”
Peter worried about how that was going to be taken, what with Sylar having used the offer of shedding the shirt just that morning, as part of … Peter didn’t know what. A pass, messing with him, lowered inhibitions, bad judgment, or simply unexplained, bizarre behavior resulting from traumatic brain injury. He didn’t know and wasn’t sure. But he knew that he wanted to see Sylar’s abdomen if he could. He was worried about where and how Sylar had landed on Peter’s knee. If he got to keep only one element of a physical exam, that was the one he most wanted to know.
For several seconds after speaking, he remained studiously engrossed in his work. Finally, he glanced up to see Sylar’s expression, finishing with and releasing the man’s hand as he did so.
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Sylar looked quickly from where he’d been watching Peter clean off his hairy, blood smeared wrist, to pin them on Peter. Peter who kept working on the wrist as if that was important. Taking off his shirt wasn’t his favorite activity; he didn’t even want to do it now like he (sort of) had earlier. So all that equated to was that he’d probably do it anyway. Because he’d offered and backing out now would look bad.
Does he honestly expect me to believe he just wants to get me “clean”? Get me a new shirt? Oh, right, Peter, of course. You’re the paragon of clean thoughts here. He waited until Peter looked up to double-check the man’s sincerity and seriousness - Peter hadn’t been thrilled at being hit on any of the times before.
He just wants a preview. He’ll get one - he’ll enjoy mocking the hell out of your scrawny, hairy chest I bet. ‘Missed out on puberty, I see. Still looking for that last growth spurt?’ ‘This is the loser that beat me twice? In what alternate universe could that happen?’ Alright, alright, he just wants a look at the goods before he turns you down again.
That decided, Sylar said, “Do they make band-aids big enough for your wounded ego? Because this has to sting like a bitch.”
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Peter blinked at Sylar’s comment, glancing between the man’s face and wrist in defensive confusion. It was an insult - he got that, yeah - but at first he didn’t get why. My ego? He’s going to take his shirt off and he’s so amazing-looking underneath that my ego will suffer? A second later he processed Sylar’s use of present tense, not future, and worked out that he might mean what Peter was doing right that moment. He thinks that taking care of someone is … bad? Peter’s face hardened. Asshole. Of course he would, he fumed inside.
A wealth of things ran through Peter’s mind all at once, a mixture of impressions and concepts: If I ever get hurt, he’s not going to reciprocate; not the savior kind; serial killer; murderer; smug asshole; he needs me right now; I’ve had patients say … well, no, can’t think of any that was ever that ungrateful - indifferent, yes, but not this superior about it; and why would he insult me now of all times? Peter’s eye narrowed as he tried to figure it out through the building anger within him. It has to be the shirt.
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Snorting, Sylar waved his nurse away for the shirt, “We can play the ‘new shirt’ game, but I’d rather have yours.” Ha! Nurse, stripping, no shirts, get it?
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Peter looked down and made a slow nod. He was mad, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from what he was doing. In fact, he proceeded slowly and carefully, stiffly even. He turned the cloth over and made a last wipe to be sure he’d gotten everything. Then he dropped it into the bowl where the old blood would darken the water.
He glanced up at Sylar again, his back clearly somewhat up from the man’s comments. It wasn’t really safe to be looking at someone with that much hostility when so close, but at the moment Peter was too pissed to care. If Sylar had been well, Peter might have gotten in his face and threatened him, because Sylar had punched one of his buttons with the apparent complete lack of appreciation. Peter scooted sideways of necessity, getting away from Sylar and glad of it. He didn’t deign to respond to Sylar’s preference to have Peter’s shirt, disgusted with Sylar for the moment.
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As he was watching Peter closely he noticed the anger right away. Its official. That really pisses him off. Wow, he thought when his fairly unflappable nurse gave him a look of death at close range. Sylar met it with blank eyes. If he could ‘get away with’ that, then the only thing he need avoid (to prevent being re-injured) was family. Isn’t that a little backwards?
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You think it’s a game, huh? You’re right, Sylar, it is a fucking game! Why have I been reduced to playing games with you to see how badly hurt you are? He stalked over in the direction of Sylar’s dismissive wave, looking around for clothing. Buried under one of the omnipresent piles of books, topped with yet another clock, was a small wooden dresser near the head of Sylar’s bed. He really ought to be in that bed, not over there on the couch. Asshole.
Peter huffed irritably and squatted too fast. His hip complained mightily and he grunted at the sudden weakness in his leg and sharp pain in the joint, hanging onto the front of the dresser until he got his balance back. I need to calm down. Just … calm down. You’re going to hurt yourself, or worse yet, him. He exhaled heavily and pulled open a drawer, finding shirts on the first try. He took the one on top and stood up much more slowly than he’d gone down.
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“Easy, butterfingers,” Sylar said of his possessions when Peter dropped out of view and nearly tacked on ‘You know the rule!’ That rule being the one Sylar had…attempted to enact about Peter going around touching everything. It seemed a moot point now.
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He brought the article back over to Sylar, noticing the man had done nothing as of yet to disrobe. Traumatic brain injury. Inability to follow multi-step commands. I just had a pretty thorough illustration of that, Peter, with the MMSE. Trying to be patient, Peter said, “Come on, Sylar. Take your shirt off. Here’s a new one for you.”
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Given that Peter was surely still angry (the magnitude of which was, Sylar felt, uncalled for, but that was Peter for you) Sylar kicked his brain into overdrive and came up with a devilish plan. He couldn’t have this lingering on Peter’s mind when one day, God forbid it ever happen, Peter wanted or needed to assist in additional removal of clothing. Compliance was key here. Compliance was also not one-size-fits-all or a one-trick pony.
“Lefty, c’mere,” Sylar motioned a hand to bring Peter in closer, his demeanor in charge and normal, not exuding threat or plot. That done, he held out his own hand, thumb pointed up in the typical male gesture of ‘take my hand, don’t shake or hold it’.
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Peter considered trying to give Sylar the shirt, but clearly that wasn’t what was on Sylar’s mind, nor quite what the man’s gesture implied. Suspicion fired to life in Peter’s head. “What are you doing?”
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“This’ll be easier if I stand.” And it was true, to a point. The couch would interfere, as would the sitting position.
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Sylar did not need to stand to take his shirt off. Nor to put a new one on. He’d stood up twice on his own - once to go to the bathroom and the other time to join Peter for lunch. But maybe that’s hard to do. Or maybe it’s painful. I’m supposed to be here to help. Maybe he just prefers to get dressed standing up? It’s harmless, right? Not really. Sylar might take a header; he’d been very wobbly and used the walls for support on his previous jaunts vertical. Despite misgivings, Peter draped the shirt over his right forearm like a high-class waiter with a towel and extended his now-empty left to help Sylar with whatever it is he felt he needed to do before taking his shirt off.
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Peter helped lever him upright and his swaying was only partly-legitimate. It wasn’t hard to fake when he made a slow, predictable grab for his shirt, also predictably failing to snatch it, the slight bend involved screwing with him once again. “Uuh…Uh, you…hold onto that, I think,” Sylar said of the fresh shirt, a T-shirt, he noted.
Honestly his brain was behind in preparing logistics for him - he wasn’t sure if he should maneuver Peter into unbuttoning his current shirt or let the man play shirt-sitter. Shirt-sitter it is. Besides, Peter clearly couldn’t hold him up and be useful at the same time, not with one bum hand.
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“Are you sure this is easier?” Peter asked, still holding onto Sylar to balance him. He saw Sylar’s grab for the new shirt but didn’t make any effort to assist with that. “You don’t need the new shirt until you get the old one off.” And you’re going to need both hands for that. Crap.
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Sylar chuckled, not completely amused, “Yeah.”
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Peter looked from his hand holding Sylar’s left forearm to the buttons of the man’s shirt. There seemed to be only two options: let go and stand ready to catch Sylar if he lost his bearings and fell, or try to persuade him to sit back down. He tried for both, saying, “You need to hurry up and do what you need to do and then sit back down, Sylar.” Don’t fall. You’re big and I can’t guarantee I’ll do a good job of catching you. Peter would certainly try, though, and so he stayed close even after letting go of Sylar’s arm.
The activity, mild danger and his confusion about why Sylar thought this was a good idea had largely distracted Peter from his burst of anger. He was still feeling frustrated and irritable - symptoms of prolonged mental effort paired with a mild concussion. His thinking didn’t feel so much as foggy as it made him grumpy when he tried to do it too much and failed.
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“Bossy,” Sylar said of the repeated use of the word ‘need’ coming from his somewhat cranky nurse. He didn’t intend to fall, but if he did…hey, it could have its upsides, he supposed. His fingers went to task on his shirt front’s buttons, six in all (with the top button undone). Really these shirts should come with seven, he thought, but that was just the curse of dressing tall and lanky. ‘Large’ did not always mean wide, as Peter was about to find out, Sylar was something of a string bean, and that made shopping a challenge sometimes.
Sylar didn’t malinger over the buttons, tease, or make any overt sensual gestures, allowing the fabric to fold open how it would, reveal what it would for now. Mostly Sylar acted as if Peter were not in the room and he was undressing alone. Not a big deal. Even though his jaw clenched and loosened as he tried not to incite his nurse, as that would be too obvious.
As his cuff buttons were already undone, Sylar spread the shirt’s opening and peeled the fabric over his shoulders as far as he could without unbalancing. Next was a careful, not calculated shrug to rid him of the shirt. Oops. Where’d my shirt go? How nice of you to hold one for me, Petrelli. Congrats, phase one complete. If Peter was as professional as he claimed, this wouldn’t bother him a bit. I hope he left the syringes at his place…all the guys I get close to end up drugging me. I must scream ‘date rape me, please!’ when in close contact. I hang out in the wrong crowd; that’s it.
The instant his shirt had begun moving against his skin, he felt his body heat lessening. Once he was bare, his skin broke out into goose bumps automatically, sending a slight shiver through him.
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Peter found his eyes locked on Sylar’s face for nearly the entire process. Only for the first button did they stray anywhere else and that was mostly just due to the initial motion and a bit of lingering concern about whether Sylar would be able to manage it unassisted. When the first button parted ways, Peter’s gaze went to Sylar’s face and stayed fixed there until the shirt hit the floor, waiting tensely for an action, even the smallest twitch of a come-on. He might have told himself that he was waiting for signs of Sylar unbalancing or swaying, but that wasn’t what he was really on the lookout about. He saw the jaw muscle flex, but it wasn’t what he was looking for. By itself, not knowing Sylar’s mind, it was meaningless. Peter took it to be frustration with the situation, or perhaps a particularly stubborn button, not that Peter glanced down to check.
When the shirt fell and Sylar’s head turned slightly, tilted down, sparing a glance backwards at the dropped article and then looking over (not that he had far to look) at the one still on Peter’s arm, Peter finally relaxed with an obvious exhalation. He must have forgotten this morning. Maybe that was just him being weird. Concussions can cause mood swings and impair judgment. Maybe that’s it.
Peter had never had a sexually aggressive patient before. He’d had a woman who was drunk make a number of blatant comments about how sexy he was, how she would have fallen and hit her head sooner if she’d known they would have sent such an incredible-looking pair of young studs to help her, and tried to feel up his arms. So … well, that was sexually aggressive, he supposed. He hadn’t felt threatened, though, by her and that was what made the difference. At any point, he could have walked away, he could have called Hesam to help (who was caught between finding it amusing and being skeeved out), or he could have resorted to medical procedures and/or restraints that would have shut her up. Not that Peter would ever, ever, use an intubation or an IV punitively against a patient, but it did happen among the unscrupulous. He had to admit the cannula had put her off.
Sylar’s interest that morning was threatening. First off, it threatened Peter’s self-image. Did Sylar seriously think Peter would do anything with someone as disadvantaged as himself? The idea that Sylar saw him as that predatory disgusted Peter and agitated him. It struck at the core of Peter’s ego, that Sylar thought he was that much of a villain instead of the hero Peter wanted to be perceived as.
Secondly, there was the issue that if Sylar was trying to make passes at him, then it complicated Peter’s whole existence here. He was in this world with one other person. To have that person openly lusting after you when you had not the least interest in reciprocating (Peter recognized Sylar as attractive, but that had nothing to do with it) was several steps beyond awkward. There was no ‘walking away’ from this. There was also no summoning Hesam to intervene, which led to the third problem - Sylar might actually act on it.
Peter’s consent might not matter (Sylar’s comments about willing partners notwithstanding). Sylar’s capacity for physical violence was not in question, nor his complete willingness to disregard social mores and boundaries when it came to what he wanted. Peter was already paranoid about being killed, tortured or just toyed with by Sylar to see which way Peter jumped. Adding a sexual component to that was just icing on a particularly nasty cake.
So when Sylar was taking his shirt off, said shirt the subject of that morning’s upsetting bit of sexual innuendo, Peter was watching him like a hawk for the least sign of flirting. When it didn’t materialize, he relaxed enough to make his head buzz a little with the lessening of blood pressure. And finally his eyes dropped to the reason why he’d wanted Sylar’s shirt off in the first place, glancing quickly down the man’s chest to light on the bruise peeking out over his waistband. It looked like the worst of it was under his jeans, but at least Peter couldn’t see any distension or abnormal swelling. Peter’s left hand made a half-gesture as though he was about to touch Sylar’s left forearm as he looked. He caught the slight motion of Sylar’s as the man turned his head to pick up the gesture, but Peter didn’t quite touch.
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Continued...