More Between Us Chapter 29/? "Lower Body"
Chapter 29/? "Lower Body"
Day 10
Peter went very still - poised - as it felt like ice water flushed through his veins. His weight shifted back and his left hand lifted so the fingertips just barely brushed the surface. Heart rate speeding, his gaze stayed sharply on Sylar even as his mind’s eye quickly reviewed the objects on the desk in front of him. So many of them were metallic, jagged, and sized well for the human hand. Some were even tools - nearly always dangerous. Not a minute before he’d moved a screwdriver - a small one, admittedly, but the shaft was a good four inches long and exceedingly narrow, designed to probe deeply within clockwork mechanisms. It would be as lethal as an ice pick.
Very softly, Peter said slowly, “Don’t threaten me, Sylar.” He blinked a few times, took a deep breath and let it out. “Please don’t threaten me.” He glanced down, letting his eyes sweep the desk. There was the hammer Sylar had wielded before, in easy reach. Peter tilted his head and shook it very slowly, lips pursed. Maybe Sylar meant that in jest (and Peter figured he did), but coming from someone who was a multiple murderer and had said he wanted to crucify Peter in Times Square just a few weeks ago (as far as Peter was concerned with the timeline) … it was hard to see the humor, mocking tone or no. Empty handed, Peter walked deliberately from behind the desk over to the chair across from Sylar. He could feel the pins and needles of the fading shock of adrenaline prickling at his extremities.
XXX
Since his eyes were locked on Peter’s general direction, he noticed the other man freezing up. Sylar ceased all movements in response before running an instant replay of what had just transpired. He came to an obvious conclusion. Oh. Oops? That wasn’t…wasn’t the right thing to say at all. I’d be freaked out if someone said that to me. Peter had lots of advantages that Sylar noted and dismissed instantly - the guy had practically been his wet nurse the past few days and killing him now over an idly (if dangerous) threat, however jokingly intentioned it was, seemed stupid.
Sylar eyed him calmly back before shifting his weight to get comfortable again. He’d been going to get up and check on his desk to be sure it was still in one piece - deciding instead to create some break in the tension with a harmless movement - but Peter was a wily little bastard and the amount of trouble he could get himself into, very similar to a kitten getting itself stuck in a tree, was astounding. //”WhatamI- What am I gonna do when I get there? I guess I could put on a costume an’ fly around an’ pull cats out of trees?” He heard his own voice rising to the ridiculousness his brother presented, not for the first time cursing his parents for allowing the kid access to comic books.//
His expression didn’t change when Peter made his demand, but his eyebrows arched when Peter said ‘please’…then scanned for a weapon. Don’t make a joke, keep your mouth shut on that one. And really, the jokes he could make were endless. Since you beg so nicely, little man. And using my name, too. Sylar was much less tense about the whole thing, and not just because he’d been the one to issue the threat.
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Peter looked at the chair for a moment, considering how to defuse the destructive tension he, or Sylar, had just lobbed into the fragile situation like a grenade into a crowded room. I can’t let that hang in the air between us. He turned towards Sylar and extended his left hand as if to help him up. It was the one Sylar had just in such poor taste joked about breaking. In an even, sober voice, he asked, “Need help getting to the bathroom?”
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Sylar’s lips curled up towards a grin when the hand was extended towards himself. Brave man. Also a kinky one, Sylar truly debated letting that one loose. Reacting, begging then a show of strength and offer of assistance, to the bathroom no less? He had to still a certain senator’s jokes about girls flocking together to the restroom and men holding each other’s dicks to pee. Yeah, not using those. He looked up the length of the arm, considering, too, his odds of feeling up the guy’s wrist again. Slapping his palm to said wrist, he made to push himself up and take the offer. “Hmm.”
XXX
Peter loosened up as his help was accepted, as Sylar didn’t do anything to endanger his hand, and as nothing else was said of it for him to remain defensive about. Peter leaned away to pull Sylar upright and then swayed back to completely vertical once Sylar was on his feet. It put him really close to the other man, who seemed to take the proximity as something of an offer. Sylar raised his arm, eyes moving to size up what Peter meant by where he was standing: unintentional result of pulling him up, or intentional positioning to brace him? Peter answered it by sidling over to let Sylar put his arm over his shoulders, just like he had to get him to the apartment.
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Sylar’s hint at a grin bloomed into a smirk at Peter’s display of muscle. As if I need to be reminded? He smothered his amusement and delight at the proximity Peter offered, at least on his face, all the while enjoying a good chuckle about the empath. He was in a good mood, as much as he could be in his state.
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The contact had the side effect of calming Peter the rest of the way down. Touching usually did that for him. He breathed deeper and relaxed under what little of Sylar’s weight he carried, mostly just providing balance. He shuffled them both the few steps to the bathroom, pausing for Sylar to transition from using Peter for support to the bathroom doorframe. Peter wasn’t volunteering to go in with him. He’d changed his share of bedpans for sure, but Sylar seemed able to manage.
XXX
Maybe I’d stop coming onto you, Petrelli…if you’d stop touching me and being so obvious. Really, that he needed that much support for those five or six steps was ridiculous, but he was far from complaining this time around. Sylar was pleased with how smoothly that had went - he hadn’t had to telegraph or admit to weakness or need, Peter had offered (how nice of him), assuming what he would, which would probably only aid Sylar in future, and Peter felt very relaxed under Sylar’s arm. Don’t get too comfortable, he told himself, switching his grasp to the door, not that he’d been grasping at Peter on the way there. Wonder what he would do if I did grab him?
Sylar turned as a precaution that Peter wasn’t…inviting himself in for whatever devious or perverted purpose - he wasn’t. In fact, he’d turned away after checking that Sylar was stable and in control of himself. Interesting…Sylar shut the door, debated locking it before doing so, regardless of Peter being able to hear the sound. He knew I didn’t need him that much and he did it anyway? Or…maybe he just knows more about my condition than I do…totally possible, probable, actually.
A mental shrug and he bypassed the mirror for now in favor of the toilet. The world still tilted for him, the headache still raged, the rest of him still ached, so he sat this time. Sylar waited before starting any of his business there on the toilet out of habit, what kind of anxiety was that again? Peter had walked away, surely he had no reason to eavesdrop at the door and that set his mind at ease enough that he could go. There was part of temptation to stay in the bathroom, but that was girly and immature. He rebuttoned his jeans delicately around a set of matched bruises, washed his hands and considered his appearance. Again, he decided to forego it in favor of having Peter continue helping, or to see if he would. Usually his look was of the utmost importance but here he was, passing it up twice in a row, but he did rake a hand through his couch-head of hair. Besides, if the guy made him take a shower, he could always wig Peter out again if he didn’t feel like it.
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Peter went back to the desk and looked over the things on it. After a moment of hesitation, he continued where he’d left off before. He preferred to move the stuff without Sylar watching him, perhaps passing judgment on something as trivial as moving things from point A to point B. He was mostly finished by the time Sylar exited the bathroom, with most everything crowded together on the far right side. With Sylar’s return, though, Peter called it done and left off to step over and offer himself as a crutch again.
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Sylar unlocked and opened the door, seeing Peter was beside the desk again, nothing in hand of course. Almost to his surprise, Peter hurried back over to assist him, so Sylar assumed, back to the couch. He wanted to check on his desk first, so he offered up his left arm to put him on the outside of Peter, the better to see the desk as he passed.
Neither tools nor watches nor the desk itself looked damaged or scratched in any way, so he passed by and didn’t comment on it. Peter had done alright with his things and had a nice one-thousand piece puzzle to work on, like he’d said. Sylar would be concerned about his things falling over as they were stacked and fairly near an edge, but he’d harp when he needed to, not before. When he was close enough to the couch and had some kind of support from it, Peter disengaged. He worked his way to sit, only getting comfortable but making no unnecessary movements.
XXX
Peter wondered if Sylar had taken the opportunity in the bathroom to give himself a look-over, but he doubted it. He wondered if the guy even recalled the part about the physical assessment. Peter decided to ask more generally. “Do you remember what we had for lunch - what was it? Do you remember what we talked about after lunch?”
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Sylar looked up to Peter. It was… “Soup. And crackers.” I can remember that much. I’m so accomplished, next we’ll work up to two-digit numbers, geez. “I know we talked about something important,” I was trying to remember, too. Quickly his gaze dropped his thighs and knees, what he could see of his legs before he kicked his feet out to see his shins and shoes. “Something about my legs, wasn’t it? They were…you said they were swollen,” because I hadn’t noticed. How weird is that? His eyes went back to Peter expectantly, answer or rebuke or what.
XXX
Peter exhaled, watching Sylar remember lunch accurately enough, but then stumble through the next answer. He sat down in the chair, noticing for the umpteenth time that he was stiff and thinking that he really ought to have stopped by his apartment for some ben-gay. He settled in for a potentially lengthy Q&A about the exam he’d wanted to do earlier. Sylar seemed to be in a good mood and was being cooperative. It seemed like taking a break and restarting later had been a good idea.
“I wanted to do a physical assessment on you to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. Your left thigh is swollen where I kicked you. I cleated you pretty hard. It’s possible it’s just a bruise, but I want one or both of us to be sure of that.” Worst case scenario, the skin got compromised and didn’t bleed or suppurate enough for me to notice through your jeans; it’s infecting; there’s no way I or you will tell early onset fever from the concussion; and … Wait. Am I creating these possibilities just by thinking about them? His brow furrowed and he gave a small frown. The opposite - simply hoping for the best - had never worked in the past. Peter was more about doing and making sure. “If I do the assessment, I’ll know, and I can stop worrying about worst case scenarios and give you the care you need rather than guessing.”
XXX
Sylar glanced again to his left leg, wondering how Peter knew that beyond the fact that he’d done the kicking. Because Sylar couldn’t discern any swelling. But my eyes are fine aside from this headache. What else would it be if not a bruise? A…sprain? A break? Hyper- hyper…Oh, wow. Sylar had to stop and process that, turning it over in his mind as his eyes took their time returning to Peter’s face. He really is worried about this - ‘worried about worst case scenarios.’
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“The assessment isn’t painful. It’s not dangerous. It’s a standard head-to-toe emergency examination. I’d need as much of your clothes off as you’ll take. I’d need you to let me touch you and I’ll need you to answer questions about what hurts and how much.” He wondered about what Sylar had gone through at the hands of the Company, or anyone else, and what that might have to do with the sometimes odd ‘reads’ he was getting off the man. He tried to remember what Sylar had said of his medical history - Peter knew they’d talked about it briefly, but he couldn’t remember any details. He had the impression that was because Sylar didn’t have much of a medical history, not simply because Peter’s memory was screwed up. So … he may have never had one. Or seen one. Possible he’s never been to a doctor for anything other than mandatory pediatric visits.
He considered trying to reassure Sylar there were no drugs, syringes or other implements involved, but decided he might be better off not reminding him of that. “We talked about it a little earlier, but you didn’t seem to be understanding what I wanted to do.” He considered his wording of other things he could say, like ‘I put it off until you’d rested’, but that sounded patronizing. Likewise, saying ‘it’s your decision’ didn’t sound right - that was obvious. ‘Do you have any questions’ made it sound like Peter was going to do the exam no matter what, which wasn’t the case. He left his statement as it was and fell silent, sitting at a relaxed, upright posture in the chair, waiting for Sylar’s questions or comments.
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Sylar ducked his head to chuckle humorlessly, inaudibly to himself. That we have to phrase it as ‘its not dangerous’…you’re officially damaged goods. I suppose it wouldn’t be painful…for him, easy for him to say, he thought calmly. You’re going to agree, you know you are. It’s either agree or chance some sudden death he’s suspecting and not informing us about. It could mean a deteriorating condition that’ll leave you weak and at his mercy even more, so you’re going to bite the bullet. I think it’s just a matter of how much information I can get about this process beforehand. Can I even be honest about where it hurts, though?
He nodded, slowly, once, eyes not focused on Peter for the moment while he tried to corral his questions into ‘need-to-know’. “Just your hands, Petrelli. And I’m going to need at least one of them with the clothes.” An admission of need of something from Peter - it was truthful one, surprising even to himself. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been stripped a dozen times before, but he’d been unconscious, drugged, dead or regenerating and it had never been (that he knew of) in front a of hero. And never, ever in front of one he’d propositioned a few times.
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Just my hands? What? Does he mean, ‘don’t touch him with anything but my hands?’ What else would I be using? I might brush against him with my leg or my elbow. Oh … wait. Peter’s thoughts just barely contemplated that perhaps Sylar was implying that Peter might do something sexual to him before firmly walling that off. He took a deep breath and focused very much on the now, and quit thinking about what Sylar might or might not have meant by that. “Yeah, I can help.” He leaned forward in his seat, not sure if Sylar was going to ask questions or was going to go straight to undressing. Peter waited for more of an indication.
XXX
Sylar gestured for Peter to stand beside his right knee, close to the couch while he lifted the neck of his tee over his head. He then gestured with his hand for Peter to pull it off while he squirmed back, curling his spine to slide free of the garment, causing a light shiver from the sensation and temperature difference sans the shirt. It made him dizzy, too, losing orientation amongst the moving tunnel of static-y fabric so it was a good decision he’d made to stay seated.
However, the next big challenge was the dreaded, awkward pants. He held out his left hand, thumb up, and waited for Peter to take it, assuming the guy wouldn’t hand the shirt back or give him a high-five.
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Peter tossed the t-shirt onto his chair and extended his hand to take Sylar’s offered left hand. “This would probably be safer if you were sitting down,” he murmured, but helped Sylar up anyway. Earlier, Sylar had wanted to stand to change his shirt, too. Maybe it was just a habit, or a quirk. It seemed harmless, so Peter went along with it.
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When he felt Peter’s good hand, he gripped and pushed off once again to stand, inhaling in reflex before staring over Peter’s shoulder while he unfastened his jeans. That done, he gingerly peeled them over his hips, shoving them as far down his thighs as possible before sitting on his own on the couch. “Might have to take off my shoes…” he muttered so Peter could hear, clearly irked that he hadn’t thought of it before he’d trapped himself with his trousers.
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“Hold on,” Peter said, moving to get Sylar’s shoes. He started with bending more-or-less at the waist, reaching down with his left hand, but quickly discovered that was a bad idea. To combat the wave of unsteadiness, he grabbed at the chair next to him with his right hand. Pushing off the chair caused a painful jarring of his brace. Peter grunted and then sucked in breath between clenched teeth as he righted himself. After a single breath to get his bearings, he went to his knees somewhat carefully, recalling the problems he’d had in squatting too fast to get into Sylar’s dresser.
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Sylar blinked in surprise, moving forward too quickly himself to try to grab Peter, failing to make contact. “You okay?” he asked when the guy caught himself. I didn’t know he was having…problems? He saw after that that it was the braced hand that was causing problems, but it didn’t explain the lack of balance. Look, I know you’re eager to get me in my skivvies and all…but there’s no need to rush, I promise it’ll all still be there.
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Peter grimaced at his right hand, which was still silently complaining about the minor bump. Shaking his head a little, he reached down to Sylar’s right heel to slip the nearer shoe off. He eyed the laces, but the shoes weren’t on so tight as to need loosening of the laces. He worked it off and dropped it to the side, reaching for Sylar’s left foot to repeat.
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The right shoe went without complaint. The left, when Peter bent the sole in order to slide it off without loosening the laces, crunched his toes and Sylar was swiftly reminded that they were bruised, too. “Ah!” he hissed and grimaced, restraining himself from jerking in his seat. Great. This is gonna be fun to explain. It felt weird to have someone on their knees, an awkward position if danger wasn’t involved, helping him of all things. He kept having to crush the budding urge to kick the guy away or play with that tempting hair. That’s right, focus on something pleasant.
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“Your foot hurts? How did that happen?” Maybe when he kicked me in the leg? It seemed sort of unlikely, but definitely possible. He glanced up Sylar’s body, eyes lingering at the bunched jeans, then on the bruised thigh and stomach. His gaze skipped up to Sylar’s face, meeting his eyes briefly to be polite, but mostly looking at the patches of discoloration, mentally cataloguing injuries. A head to toe exam usually started at the head - that being the most important - and went down the body steadily for reasons of simplicity and thoroughness. It was harder to miss things when your search went in a single direction rather than when jumping around from one body part to another.
To the limited extent that Peter had imagined doing the assessment, he’d expected to do it in the usual way, starting with Sylar’s head. That seemed awfully intimate for someone he didn’t think trusted him or wanted him doing it at all. Which brought to mind a degree of confusion and suspicion about why Sylar was suddenly being so cooperative. Huh. Peter didn’t feel he had time to think about it at the moment. Sylar’s feet, smelling somewhat, presented themselves as a more pressing matter. “Can I take off your socks?” I could just do toe-to-head and it would work just as well. I’m already here, after all. Peter tugged at Sylar’s jeans, pulling them further down his legs, gathering them up, and slipping them off his feet one at a time. The removed garment went on the chair, draped over the shirt.
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“Apparently,” was Sylar’s wry answer, “Disagreement with a filing cabinet. I’m lucky to be alive,” he downplayed the injury. Sure, toes hurt like a bitch, but he didn’t think they were broken…he hadn’t checked, though. Everything hurt and he already limped from a million different quarters; he didn’t know what should take priority.
He’d been watching Peter just to watch him. So he saw the man eyeing his midriff (or so he partly hoped). He met Peter’s gaze when it rose, cluing in that the guy was mainly checking the bruises when those hazel eyes shifted away. What’s he- oh, yeah.
Sylar flushed slightly when Peter swiped his jeans off. I’m not paying any attention to how good he was at that, none at all. That’s his fucking job. No matter what he said, this is going to be painful - this isn’t fun time. So don’t fuck with the guy. He suffered another shiver from being clothed in only his underwear and socks (soon to be just underwear). Mostly playing dead, sprawled on the couch, recovering his confidence, he said, “Yeah,” cutting himself off from any smart-assed reply. Those are gonna smell, Petrelli. That’s…really kinda gross, you being down there, man, I haven’t showered in…Aren’t I supposed to lay back or something here?
Peter peeled down his socks, setting them aside and taking up his left foot after glancing over the right briefly. This is just so weird. If he was being a jerk about it, it wouldn’t be so weird. He’s not a doctor, he’s not my doctor, he’s….he’s… As much as he could, Sylar kept this game face on, confidant and in control, but he was horribly curious as to each movement Peter made, wondering what was coming.
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“Well,” Peter said as he lifted Sylar’s left foot by the heel and inspected it, “if the disagreement went like any of your other fights, I suspect that file cabinet is struggling to find a new life in the recycle bin.” Peter initially said that as a ‘I’ve lost to you twice and I’m beat all to hell’ commentary, but once the words were out, he reflected that quite a few people who had tangled with Sylar, or been targeted by him, were in the metaphorical recycle bin now. This was almost certainly one of the more dangerous people in the world he was tending. He’s still just a guy. He looked at the relatively delicate, though pedestrian, extremity he held in his left hand, his face attentive and engaged in the task at hand. A guy with a messed up foot.
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Sylar allowed himself a moment of pride from Peter’s assessment. I won and now he’s tending my feet, ha! That relaxed him and completely stroked his ego - something about the conquered having the decent sense to stay down for once, and that, for Peter Petrelli, was no small feat.
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Visually, the only issues Peter saw were the toes themselves, but he didn’t focus on those immediately. Instead he gave it a general examination. The foot was long, narrow, well-arched, reasonably clean, free of bunions, corns, scarring or other maladies, normal in temperature, moisture and texture, and free of edema. There was no trembling or other fasciculation; that implied that Sylar’s motor control was good, which meshed with what Peter had seen. It smelled healthy enough, as feet went. Particularly, he didn’t smell infection, although he could feel heat as he passed his right hand over the toes without touching them. They had a mild inflammation, not-so-mild swelling and the toes were a little discolored. This must suck to walk on. It needs to be elevated.
He looked up at Sylar. “I’m going to touch your toes. If it hurts, say so. If it hurts bad, let me know that, too.” With his right index finger, he touched the knuckle of each toe, starting with the first, pressing slightly and watching the change in pattern of coloration (which told him of circulation) and the flexion, looking for angularity thereby any signs of fracture. He was also listening to Sylar’s breathing as much as he could, for less consciously monitored signs of discomfort.
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“Yeah,” Sylar acknowledged the instructions. The first two toes, the large and index, went without a hitch as he expected. Peter touched, didn’t even really squeeze or twist, but the middle and ring toes felt jammed and bruised. Sylar inhaled swiftly and let it out in a purposeful grunt after a beat (what the hell, it was just a pair of toes) after the four joints had been felt, but he didn’t twitch away from the contact. “Those two hurt, the pinky toe is fine. Feels like…they’ve been stubbed.” Stubbed? Is that even a word? “Stubbed toes”? Ah, he knows what I mean.
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“Okay. That’s what it looks like to me, too.”
Peter set down the foot gently and took up the right, which he’d given only a cursory look earlier. He picked it up and gave it the same careful, primarily visual examination. He didn’t see any faults. He set the right foot down and looked back and forth between it and the left, judging the toes, estimating how the toes on his left foot were supposed to look based on the way the ones on the right were. Sylar was a pretty symmetrical guy.
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The nurse reached for his right foot and Sylar couldn’t, didn’t stop himself from forewarning Peter about it, “That one’s fine,” but that didn’t prevent Peter from similarly checking the right foot, too. That actually feels kinda good, not that he didn’t know that already.
Peter continued to surprise him in that he positioned his feet and looked between them. Sylar couldn’t think what Peter would be looking for or at. Oh, maybe more swelling? It wasn’t important enough to ask about, but he was interested and curious.
XXX
“We can take a couple of these couch pillows when you lie back down and elevate this foot some.” His voice was low and sober. He looked up at Sylar’s face again, checking in, telling him, “I’m going to check your calves now,” then proceeding to do just that, which was a simple matter of looking at Sylar’s shins, then running his hands from ankle to back of knee. On Sylar’s left leg, the one on the opposite side of where Peter was sitting, he ran only the index finger of his right hand.
All he was feeling for was blood, seepage or irregularities. He didn’t expect any, but he hadn’t expected the problem with the toes, either. That done, he shuffled sideways closer to the couch, moving on to the thighs.
XXX
Really? It’s that bad? Or is that just basic stuff? After brief additional consideration, Sylar deduced that it was merely basic procedure. Sylar gave a nod when Peter looked his way. He understood now why women, and, he supposed, the braver men enjoyed pedicures (although Sylar thought it would be wasted on men) even if the exam he’d just had was of a more serious nature. I so need to get concussed more often, but I could do without the headache.
So lost in his own thoughts, he came back to reality a little too late to answer, “O-“ My what? “-kay,” he finished, again a little surprised, but pleasantly so. Sylar swallowed, kept himself still and started praying against evil bodily reactions. Did Peter not get it or what? Is he repaying me for earlier? Now that he could see his thigh, he agreed it was swollen and mottled with a neat bruise. But that’s all it is, right? The skin even down around his knee felt tight and strained, almost like the bruise was pulling the muscles - it had felt that way since he’d got the bruise and it made walking painful, but not impossible.
“What, um…what’s the worst that could happen from a bruise? Maybe like a…clot or something? Like…what are you looking for?” Sylar subtly prepared a hand in case he needed to push Peter’s probing fingers away from the pain site because as a heroic man of the medical field, Peter would have that insatiable need to touch right where it fucking hurt.
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What’s the worst that can happen? Should I even really discuss that given that this is all in our heads? I suppose I should. It’s his body, fake or not. “Uh … given that the skin is intact, the worst that could happen now is probably compartment syndrome.” For which the primary thing I should check is that he has good circulation. “Let me take your pulse.” Damnit. Missed that. He reached down for Sylar’s right ankle, reaching behind it with his right hand and feeling along for a few seconds. He wasn’t as practiced at taking a posterior tibial pulse, but he found it. Peter raised his left hand, looking blankly at his non-functioning watch. “Eh … hm. Okay.” Wait, there’s actually a disadvantage to that thing not working? He shook his head slightly in exasperation and looked around for the nearest clock with a visible second hand. This being Sylar’s apartment, he didn’t have to look far.
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Having been a little startled with Peter’s rather assuming touches, Sylar was pleased at being unintentionally amused when Peter had to look for another clock with his watch not working. He stifled a chuckle; Peter’s reaction to it was pretty priceless. I need to fix that for him, still driving me crazy. Getting his pulse checked seemed so…ordinary. Again, Peter phrased it as a sort of question, but he didn’t wait for an answer, not that Sylar would have given one, really, perhaps he just wanted to be asked. He wondered what his pulse had to do with a bruise beyond how fast blood was pumping through it.
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A minute of silence passed before Peter said, “Your circulation is fine. So’s your pulse.” In a general sense, at least. Now let’s look at specifics. He reached behind Sylar’s left knee, pulling up his lower leg a little for the right angle, then found the popliteal artery. He didn’t bother measuring out the pulse, but was just double-checking it was strong. “I’ve never had to treat compartment syndrome, because it’s not diagnosed until a while after the cause. Essentially the tissue somewhere gets compressed enough that it cuts off blood flow, then it … well, it doesn’t heal. You’ll have tissue death, necrosis, and generally your kidneys fail a little while after that.” Then you die, because a part of you rotted from the inside out.
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Sylar waited, remembering just as he’d been about to open his mouth that this procedure was required silence from the patient. Ha, I’m the patient now. Strange I have no patience. Mentally, he snorted. And neither does he. He just said he took my pulse so why’s he…? He allowed his leg to be maneuvered, wincing as it shifted the muscles under his bruised skin, watching in confusion that was not explained, but Peter did explain compartment syndrome.
It only sounded bad and he remembered hearing something about that. Luckily, even with all the injuries he’d sustained before taking Claire’s power, he’d never had that issue. Oddly, it brought to mind something he’d heard about having to remove a tourniquet after four hours or risk losing the limb or life. He doubted it was the compartment syndrome, but it wouldn’t surprise him if it were similar. “Oh. I see,” Sylar said to state his continued interest and show he was listening.
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“You’ll see those problems with the sort of severe bruising that comes from auto accidents, but mostly it’s in the lower leg and forearm.” He touched around the edges of the bruise on Sylar’s thigh, seeing faintly the tread pattern of his shoe. That made him a bit ill to think he put that there, but he put his feelings aside for the moment. “Can you feel me touching here? Does that feel normal, or do you have pins-and-needles, or is it numb?” He put slight pressure of two fingertips above, below, to the right and left of the injury. He was also looking at color change and level of edema.
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“Oh!” was his muffled inhale of pain when Peter groped- no, he was just touching the outside of the bruise! Holy fuck, um…hello? His body stiffened in sudden anger, that desire to strike again for Peter’s stupidity. Of course he fucking felt that! How could he not? Hadn’t Peter ever had a bad bruise before? Having this kind of attention made him feel like a drama queen for any reactions he had. Sylar forced himself to remember that this was for his own good and, as far as he knew, Peter wasn’t causing pain on purpose - the guy was strangely invested in the exam.
“Yes,” he grunted sharply. “About as normal as it should, I imagine,” he couldn’t stop the slight sarcasm slipping in. Sylar was watching him intently now, no more relaxing.
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“What we need to do is get this swelling down so you can get proper circulation throughout. That’s the best thing we can do to avoid complications. Or the worst that can happen.” Peter rocked back on his heels, taking some of the weight off his knees and let his hands fall to his thighs. “What I’m looking for first and foremost are breaks or tears to the skin - any evidence of bleeding. There was glass all over the ground and you fell on it … at least once.” Peter looked off to the side, finding it hard to remember exactly what happened in the fight. Well, that’s why I’m checking him. “I swept up all the big pieces before we got into it, but that doesn’t mean I got them all. If you’re concussed and messed up, and have a piece of glass stuck in you, you might not even realize it. Maybe it’s just an annoying pain that won’t go away.”
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Sylar blinked. A piece of glass? I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? How fitting, really. An annoying piece of invisible glass, stuck in your head. An annoying pain that won’t go away - is that a metaphor for me now?
XXX
“Next thing I’m looking for after that is to see where all your injuries are and to make sure I know what’s happening with them.” He gestured at Sylar’s foot. “That needs to be elevated. I didn’t know it was even there. Your leg definitely needs to be iced to get the swelling down.” He nodded his head towards Sylar’s abdomen. “I’d thought, before, that the serious part was your gut, but it looks fine. I’ll check it here in a little bit and what I’ll be looking for there is any evidence of ruptured internal organs. If there were, there’d probably be some distension and I don’t see any.” Besides the fact that you’d probably be dead already. “But I’m going to palpate to be sure.” If you’ll let me. “And I’ll see what else you’ve got going on. I want to feel your skull and make sure there aren’t any soft spots. It might sound weird, but it’s basic. I need to know basic. Most of this is just looking and feeling.”
XXX
Sylar held back something of an evil expression. Of course you wouldn’t know it was there. I took out the cabinet instead of your ass, so be grateful. Geez, Peter, would you stop saying ‘swelling’ already? He followed Peter’s nod towards his stomach, glancing at it and seeing nothing out of the ordinary. If he’s making a fat joke, I swear to God…Wait. Palpate? Palpate…doesn’t that mean…poke and prod?
Sylar’s eyebrows went up and his eyes widened on the heels of those thoughts about touching his stomach. And see what else I’ve got going on? Peter had checked his thigh and desired to check his stomach now and what else lay between those two areas? He grasped at remembering Peter saying ‘only as much as you can handle’ about taking clothes off and he was already sprawled there in nothing but his underwear, not even socks to claim.
Sure, he would allow Peter to haul down the waistband of his drawers to view his hip’s bruise, but his cheeks would burst into blushing flames - especially given Sylar’s rather hairy situation down below which he couldn’t imagine Peter appreciating. What if that made an unwanted appearance? Surely Peter wouldn’t check *there*…The nurse had been nothing but overly thorough to this point, but how thorough was thorough? It would be only too easy to get a preview of Sylar’s business with flimsy underwear and four hands in the mix. What would Peter want with what lay under there anyway? The guy had no interest; he hadn’t even glanced!
Stunned into mental immobility, another bit of should-have-anticipated surprise hit him. You wanna feel my skull? I bet you do! Soft spots my ass. If its soft, its because you made if that way. Sylar growled, passing it off as discomfort and repositioning as he shoved himself up the couch a bit, lounging up straighter. ‘Most of this is just looking and feeling’. I bet it is; I bet it is.
Sylar placed his right hand on his thigh, very prepared to defend himself or cover his groin if need be. To act prematurely and cover himself would be a sign of weakness and loss of control. This would be one hell of a way to find out he was ticklish. He was nearly covering up for other reasons. Sylar had literally avoided thinking about popping a boner on Peter during his exam for a reason - he was fucked up enough in the head (never mind concussions) that something like this, a foreign, forgotten, caring, intimate touch even a medical one from an enemy would arouse him. Oh, god…what if that happens? What would he do? Sylar so wanted to whine ‘Do you have to?’ about the stomach prodding, paranoid now about an erection, but knowing it was for his own health, long term. Make him hurry up? Don’t know if I want him to…Ask for my pants back?
XXX
Sylar struck Peter as being uncomfortable - maybe more mentally than physically, he couldn’t tell. The man had straightened, cleared his throat or growled, and was putting his hands in the way or preparing to. Peter was still sitting, rocked back, hands to himself. He thought about what he’d said. Well, you wanted to know what I was doing and why … but still, there was probably something in what I said that set him off. He would have expected the ‘worst case scenario’ to have gotten Sylar on board with the exam rather than mobilizing defenses.
Peter considered and decided to back off for a few minutes. Maybe Sylar would calm. Peter shifted further, changing to attempt to sit cross-legged, but that wouldn’t work well with his hip. He grimaced at that discovery and ended up putting his butt to the floor and propping himself up some with his left hand, tucking his legs in on his right side. It was an unprofessional and unmasculine way to sit, but his other choices hurt, or required getting up and sitting in the chair, which would look like a withdrawal from the process.
He looked at Sylar a couple times as he spoke, looking like he was in no hurry to do anything. “I’m going to need you to lie down for the next part.” He waited a long beat, then glanced back again. “I also need you to let me know if you don’t understand what I’m doing. Are there questions you want to ask?”
Maybe he doesn’t believe me? Maybe he thinks I’m going to …. what? Hurt him? He considered the Company. If that was Sylar’s baseline for medical care, which Peter didn’t know if it was, or how Nathan’s memories factored into things, then he could understand a lot of disbelief. He didn’t need belief, necessarily, but he needed cooperation and he wasn’t likely to get the one without the other. There was a ritual and a routine to emergency care that got tossed out the window when a person wasn't in uniform, not in a truck, didn't have a partner and were dealing with a patient who wasn't following their script for the process. Peter was left trying to feel along what Sylar would and wouldn't allow.
XXX
Sylar exhaled as Peter sat back, appearing to take a break. If he stopped and thought about it, that showed that Peter still viewed him as a threat, something so dangerous that he required constant watch. Crap. Of course he would notice - he’s a fucking empath! That always annoyed the hell out of Nathan. The average person, even the average victim didn’t notice the things Peter did and if they did they would only react from fear and self-preservation. Damn, he thought, impressed despite himself. He’s…good.
Peter sat funny and one side of Sylar’s lips twitched. Yeah, I figured, he thought of lying down. Relax. He’d have done something by now while you were standing if he wanted to. Sylar huffed out a sigh, rolling his eyes as best he could, releasing his tension. “Fine, I want to know what you’re going to do about my hip. And my stomach.”
XXX
Continued...