More Between Us, Chapter 28.2/? "Lose the Shirt"
Chapter 28.2/? "Lose the Shirt"
Day 10
“As you can see, no internal bleeding,” Sylar remarked when Peter finally stopped eyeing his face on purpose, long enough to check out…Um…okay. His brain fuzzed out at that point, his former thought train something along the track of why Peter would be looking down *there* and how Sylar hadn’t anticipated that.
He mostly tried to track Peter’s face, where it went with something of an air of expectance, waiting for some form of reaction, either way.
XXX
Completely serious, feeling that tension coiling up inside again that this question might be taken the wrong way, Peter looked up at Sylar’s face and asked, “Would you let me do a physical assessment on you?”
XXX
Sylar’s head canted to the side in curiosity. “Is that what you call it?” Wait, did he say ‘let him’? Why would I let him- Because you basically invited him in for a roll in the hay, that’s why. Several times, I think. Crap, did…Yeah. I don’t like this: I can’t make him leave, he won’t behave if he stays, he won’t let me rest and he refuses to be manipulated. Of course he’d push his advantage while he has one.
XXX
“I want to check your injuries and make sure I understand what’s wrong so there aren’t any complications. It’s something we- EMTs do with any trauma victim to make sure they’re not overlooking contributing factors. Again, it’s something I should have done yesterday, but I didn’t think I’d be allowed to. Take off as much of your clothes as you’re comfortable with.” What he was allowed and giving a patient an option in disrobing weren’t normal. When EMTs thought they needed access to a patient’s body, even expensive wetsuits were sliced open and cast aside. They were just clothes, after all, material things, and a trauma victim’s self-reporting of their injuries was not to be relied upon, especially when their body was right there for examination.
XXX
Talk about being backed into a corner. One minute he’s asking, the next he’s demanding I strip ‘to my comfort level’. Yeah, right. Sylar mentally snorted at that. This is going to be one of those fun invasive tests, isn’t it? Guy’s got a grudge, he’s got the means, why not make me squirm when he has the chance? I’d do the same to him…(maybe). That’s a challenge.
“If by injuries you mean bruises, seeing them all requires taking off my pants,” Sylar ground out, and we haven’t discussed that yet… “All I’ve got are bruises,” you wanna smack ‘em again for fun? What’s there to see? I know I’ve got great legs and all, but…
Jesus, what underwear am I even wearing today? They must be filthy…I see what he’s doing here, starting with the shirt and moving on down the line. How humiliating. I get it now, Petrelli.
XXX
“Only bruises?” Can I believe him? Is he a reliable reporter of his own condition? Sylar seemed to be - sometimes. Other times he wasn’t. His tone of voice was a warning, though, and Peter knew he wasn’t even desired here in the apartment, much less doing an assessment. “I’ll take your word for it.” Which is stupid in your condition, but the one thing you’re sure to remember with perfect clarity is a feeling that I took advantage of you. Or better yet, you’ll misremember that, recall nothing but the emotion, and imagine I did something horrible to you to cause it. I am not going to live here the next however-many years with you thinking I did ‘something’ to you. Not over whether or not I get to see some bruises.
XXX
That was easy… Sylar was almost suspicious. He was also more than a little miffed - Peter hadn’t even lingered on looking him over. As far as Sylar could tell, Peter had barely looked at anything at all, let alone anything important even if he seemed to be focusing on his lower half…Odd. Something he’d have to think about when healed.
Sylar was also doing a lot of recon on Peter: what the man liked, what set him off and what the medic would take and endure while being unhappy about it. He would have to assimilate the information later when he could make a plan about it and figure out what buttons Peter needed pressed.
XXX
He gave Sylar a quick once-over, noting the smattering of other bruises, thinking he could see more swelling along the man’s left leg than the other, noting that Sylar stood favoring that leg. And he didn’t stand quite straight. It worried Peter, but he’d already concluded that Sylar had no bleeding and probably no suppuration, and if he didn’t have abdominal swelling or distension then the other damage would probably heal on its own with bed rest, which Sylar was getting.
Sylar was still wearing his shoes - he’d been sleeping in them - which could have been forgetfulness from the concussion, but it could also be being so uncomfortable to have Peter there that he wouldn’t take off anything as important as shoes. He had, after all, chosen the couch over the bed and only this morning he’d been huddled in the corner of said couch, looking supremely defensive about having Peter there. Peter took the t-shirt and shook it out, flipping it to get the bottom end in his left hand. He offered it to Sylar with an expression that he hoped was kind and otherwise neutral.
I wonder if I misread that earlier. Was that really a pass at me, or was that him making a come-on because he knew it would freak me out? Did Nathan know about that? I seem to remember Nathan making a ‘sexy nurse’ joke and me jumping on him. Or was Sylar just guessing? Is he up to guessing and that sort of mind-game right now?
XXX
Sylar barely held back a smirk, mostly just because. Gonna stand there and watch me, Petrelli? As close as you are…Alright. He took his shirt from Peter as seriously as he could, opening up the bottom hems and sliding his arms into the armholes. He’d better not grab anything while I’m stuck in here, he thought, but I guess I’d better not fall, too. Sylar took his time, raising his arms up so the shirt would fall until the neck hole reached his head; whereupon his arms dropped and he tugged the bottom down to pop his head through. Adjusting his shirt so it covered his stomach and lay about his shoulders correctly, he admitted to himself that this was more comfortable…to be wearing pajamas with Peter Petrelli. I think that’s a contra…contra-…oh, whatever. At least I didn’t accidently hit him.
That was, for once, a very painless exam. “That’s it?” he asked, curiously. He wasn’t sure if he was playing Peter or Peter playing him, but he had yet to be hit or put upon painfully, so whatever it was, it was working. Unless, of course, Peter was working up to some kind of brain inspection because, well…there was a line for that particular honor and Peter would have to take a number.
XXX
“That’s it. It’s your body, Sylar.” Peter backed off a step. Sylar had made it this far without tottering and he was simply standing there. Peter didn’t feel the need to crowd him so much for Sylar’s own safety, to be there in case he fell. But Peter did feel the need to use his hands to emphasize the conversation and that wasn’t easy to do while right next to someone. “And I’m not a paramedic, right now, here. I’m just a guy with paramedic training who is running a gamble. On one side, I’ve got you obviously unhappy that I’m here and wishing I’d take off.” Peter felt let down inside just to say that, but that was how it was and not admitting to it did neither of them any favors. He frowned sourly before going on.
XXX
Sylar gave him a guarded look of ‘duh?’ Course it’s my body, where the hell are you going with that? Okay, maybe Peter was more aware than Sylar thought.
“I was as-“ he attempted to interject, apparently having angered his companion and spoken too quietly. Peter was busy talking and he was using that ‘laying out the issues’ tone so Sylar shut up and tried to follow along.
XXX
“You’re banged up, but you don’t want me helping you and maybe there’s not much for me to help with. I don’t know about that, because I’ve already seen and figured stuff out from what you have let me do. On the other side, you might be hurt in some way I could help with and you’re hiding it. Or unaware. You tell me they’re just bruises, but you don’t know. You haven’t even looked at yourself, so how would you know?” He sighed. His gestures conveyed his frustration with the impasse. “So on one hand, I’m guaranteed to piss you off if I push it, but I might be able to help you more, and on the other maybe it’s just bruises, you’re right, and the best that I could do for you is to let you rest.”
Peter wasn’t getting his way and he was feeling cranky about it. He wanted to change the subject instead of stewing further over this one. It occurred to him to pull Sylar’s tactic from earlier right back on him. “I’m tired. I want to sit down and rest and let my brain … I don’t know, go on autopilot or something. I’ll get an ice pack for your leg there - I hadn’t noticed the swelling there before and that’s the sort of thing I’m talking about that …” that an exam would let me know but you’re getting grouchy and so am I and I don’t have a right to examine you … so. Just drop it. He huffed. “And I’ll get one for my eye. Okay?”
He tried to interject some humor as he walked to the refrigerator. “Maybe some other time we can rig up an ice-pack eye patch and work on my secret pirate identity.”
XXX
I think I’m …confused? Good God, Peter, what do you want? Talk sense, please. I can’t ask questions now, what? “I…um…” But Peter was buzzing away before Sylar could wade through that amount of emotionally charged dialogue aimed at himself. He didn’t even give me a chance to process all that, let alone think and respond.
Sylar exhaled an amused breath that Peter couldn’t possibly hear from the kitchen. He has lacks the guile. Wait…my leg? He looked down at himself now, trying to see what Peter had seen. …Which one? Sylar sat again. He’s frustrated. Why? I’m not doing what he wants. What is that? He’s mentioned my leg a lot, bruises.
The medic returned and handed him the ice, which he put on his forehead for a moment, allowing the man time to sit and settle in, take a breath. Swallowing and clearing his throat, he said, “I was asking about this exam? I’m…I’m just confused.” You didn’t explain, you looked finished with it and now you’re upset. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth, I guess. “You can have the pants if it’s that big a deal…. it's just bruises. But…resting….” Shut up already. I just dunno what I did wrong! Sylar made an effort to physically, visibly relax into the couch.
XXX
You’re confused? Peter wasn’t sure how to take that, so he took his seat without comment. He’d already explained what the exam entailed. It was pretty straightforward. He’d done hundreds of them. They were standard - to Peter. I should go over it again. Let him ask questions. Let him understand it.
Peter glanced across from under his own ice pack at Sylar’s verbal offer of his pants. I don’t want your pants, weirdo, he thought without any heat. Or your t-shirt. Why does he offer that? Does he really think I want his clothes here, rather than checking to see if he’s hurt bad? Well … people don’t use his name to refer to him, seems to think the Company did a number on him way worse than it did on me … it’s not like being a serial killer isn’t a glaring indicator that he’s a little off-base on what people want in interactions. The towel wrapped around his ice pack had been with it in the freezer, so it, too, was cool against his skin. It felt nice. He moved it around slowly as he thought, careful of the sensitive skin.
He watched as Sylar relaxed, keeping a polite degree of eye contact as he spoke. “Let’s rest for a little while. I need it. The ABCs of medical assessment stand for Airway, Breathing and Circulation. Your airway’s protected. You can breathe. You’re not bleeding. We have time to rest and make sure we both understand what’s going on and what … what the other party wants to have happen.” He spoke calmly, his tone a little low as he leaned back in the chair, feet coming up off the floor as he shifted his center of gravity back. A tiny nagging voice in the back of his head worried over the poor reaction time he’d have if Sylar did anything, but Peter ignored it. Hours - days even - of interaction were dulling his paranoia.
He noted the man was holding the ice pack on his head instead of his leg. Does his head hurt worse, or did he just miss that I got the pack for his thigh? That’s the really frustrating thing here - I can’t tell if I can trust his judgment on any of this. And even if I could, can I trust him to relay it to me truthfully? He doesn’t trust me. I don’t trust him. He really clued in a couple days ago about making a deal. He got real focused on that. Is there some deal I can make here that would help? Would he believe me if I promised him something? My good intentions?
“Let’s just sit here for a little bit. Maybe you could lie down if you wanted. You did when we talked earlier.” You- “We seemed to retain things better with fewer distractions. Lower stress. Just … talking.” And listening. To each other. Ha. He was amused by the idea of him and Sylar having a nice, productive, meaningful conversation. It was laughable, but Peter had to admit they were getting to that point - past the hyper-defensive, past the hyper-vigilant, trying to be something else. “Rest a little, first,” Peter mumbled, shifting the ice pack again.
He wasn’t physically tired. He was just tired of dealing with Sylar. Or rather, tired of the constant uncertainty: what’s he going to do next?, did he understand me?, what’s that mean?, is he going to fight with me about taking his pills?, can I get him to eat?, is he going to make a pass at me?, does he still think I’m trying to kill him? … and not a question at all, but important nonetheless: he doesn’t want me here. They drained Peter’s energy. He shut his eyes and tried to recharge.
XXX
Sylar nodded, following the delivery and intent much easier now it was slower and stripped of emotion. Ha, I tired him out? Rest but lie down….okay. He grunted in acknowledgement and agreement. That’s so…sweet, being concerned about my stress. He watched the nurse get comfortable and just watching that made him want to do the same for himself, made his eyelids droop or something. Okay, maybe there’s something to that no-stress or less-stress idea. And that whole talking-therapy idea.
Sylar scooted down and around, working what was becoming a routine to lying down, cuddling up with his own ice pack. He would have liked to stay awake and think over anything he and Peter had said, but the more he tried to pin down a topic or a sentence, the foggier it grew and he knew there were things he needed to think over. He lasted a handful of minutes (or so he thought), before the magics of pain meds and ice packs; the lack of general tension did its job. “Rest” turned into sleep the almost the instant his head hit the pillow - mouth open in a snore and he was out.
XXX
A few minutes later, Peter shifted the ice pack from his face, where it had become uncomfortably chill. He moved it to his right wrist and eyed Sylar. Predictably, the man was out. Maybe he’ll be in a better humor when he wakes up. Peter looked at the ice pack on Sylar’s head and frowned, wishing he could move it to the man’s thigh without risking waking him. He couldn’t think of how to do it and it wasn’t a big enough ice pack to be a problem where it was - the scalp had great circulation, after all, the brain being the body’s highest priority for oxygenation.
Peter sighed and settled back again, letting himself doze, letting his thoughts drift, greatly soothed by the sound of Sylar snoring. As long as Sylar was snoring, Peter didn’t need to worry about where Sylar was, what he was doing, or what he was planning. He let himself relax fully. Time passed, with Peter spending it either sleeping or just zoned out. Later, a mix of strange noises and tones jerked him into full wakefulness. The rhythm of Sylar’s noisy breathing cut through it and Peter’s brain snagged on that sound as proof that things were okay. A second later he made sense of the tolling of the hour coming from a dozen or more sources scattered through the apartment. He exhaled and shifted, moving the almost-entirely-melted ice pack from his wrist to his eye again. He glanced over to see that Sylar’s had been dislodged at some point and now lay on the couch next to him.
Peter grunted unhappily at being disturbed, but the short rest had done the trick. He felt better and he could tell he wasn’t going to go back to sleep any time soon. He tilted back upright, feet on the floor again. He cleared his throat slightly and watched Sylar’s face, smooth and carefree in repose, slack and undefended. The corner of Peter’s mouth quirked up. Someone needs to make a coffee-table book of pictures of people sleeping. That’s part of what’s so beautiful in those Anne Geddes baby pictures - they’re so … open. He watched for a little longer until it occurred to him that might seem a bit creepy should Sylar know he was doing it. There were other things he could do with his time.
Peter rose quietly and carefully tugged Sylar’s ice pack from where it lay beside him. Peter left the towel that had been wrapped around it - it was still on and now also partly behind Sylar’s head. He took the ice pack, along with his own and the bowl of water with the washcloth from earlier, into the kitchen.
He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, thinking about what he wanted to do next. He’d already wandered the apartment as much as he wanted looking at book titles and odds and ends. He expected Sylar would be asleep for at least a couple hours more. I suppose I could go get some food for dinner. Mac and cheese, maybe? Or just scrambled eggs? I’m good at eggs. Spaghetti and some kind of jarred sauce? Didn’t he say he liked pasta? Yeah, I think he said that was his favorite. And vanilla ice cream. That should be easy to make.
Peter turned to the door and opened it slowly. Then … hm, what to do then? Can’t work out. Can’t play music. Can’t draw. Don’t want to read. I guess I could pick up a puzzle somewhere. I always used to work those when I was home alone. I liked them. They let me think. Kind of like working out - let my mind go free. That sounds good. I could clear off part of Sylar’s work table maybe … hope he doesn’t mind.
Lost in thought, Peter slipped out of the apartment, closing the door softly behind him.
XXX
It was a little chilly in his t-shirt as he slept, not that it bothered Sylar enough to wake up or maybe grab for the blanket or his jacket. The sleep wasn’t pleasant; that was normal.
Any noise out of the ordinary had spelled bad news for years, not just the most recent ones, either. So when Sylar heard shifting motions, only half silenced, he was snapped awake although his lids were sluggish to respond. His hands jerked up towards his face and he narrowly avoided thrashing the rest of his body as he turned towards the sounds coming from behind him and to his right. He saw a man, standing with his back mostly to Sylar, moving things around on his watch station. He found himself staring, blinking a few times, groaning quietly in confusion. Um…ow, what the hell?
Slowly things came back to him, namely the jacket the other man was wearing as gazing blankly at the guy’s ass while he rearranged Sylar’s desk wasn’t helping identify him. Peter. “What the hell are you doing?” he graveled out, his voice stuck between sleep, anger and curiosity. So this is what he does when I sleep? What’s he looking for?
XXX
Peter glanced back at the voice; sorry he'd woke Sylar. He moved around to the opposite side of the desk - partly so Sylar could see what he was doing and partly so Peter could see what Sylar was doing. His motivation was about half and half. For the moment, he quit touching things and just rested the fingertips of his left hand on the desk. In a low, quiet voice, he said, "I was clearing off a spot. I picked up a jigsaw puzzle while I was out. It's quiet; something I could do while you slept. I didn't feel much like reading." His own cotton-headed feeling discouraged something as involved as reading.
He lifted his right hand and indicated it. "My options seemed kind of limited. I'm trying to be careful with your stuff." He would have liked Sylar to just relax and lie back down, maybe conk out for a while longer, which was why he was giving the man the 'everything's okay, go back to sleep' voice, but he could see Sylar wasn't buying it. Note to self: Sylar is cranky when he wakes up. But if I had a moderate concussion, I'd probably wake up cranky, too.
XXX
He has to baby-sit me out here? What’s wrong with my kitchen table? Sylar supposed he should give Peter a pat on the head for behaving and getting something harmless as a hobby, i.e. the puzzle.
But all he could remember was Virginia taking away the parts of whatever he was taking apart at the time and hiding them, not as a joke, but as a corrective discipline. Never mind if the TV remote was absent when Dad came home to watch - Gabriel was going to break his “destructive” habits and find something constructive to play with. It didn’t matter that things worked better after he’d taken them apart and fixed them and he’d never broken anything. /”Leave the handy-man business to your father. Toys are an earned privilege. Besides, those aren’t toys.”/
“Oh, your options are gonna be limited alright, when I break your other hand,” Sylar grumbled menacingly, but mockingly. “The use of the word…’trying’, is supposed to fill me with confidence,” he barely left off ‘Wonder Breath’ at the end, eyes narrowing at his companion. Peter Petrelli, a man known for his fine-tuned control…no, wait, ‘control’s not even in his vocabulary. I just woke up; this is too early for this. He didn’t even know how to address this new breach in privacy. Peter got cranky right back whenever Sylar got protective so maybe the guy really did think he owned the world as Sylar wasn’t supposed to have privacy. Perhaps the trick was being blasé.
Sylar sat up, staying turned towards Peter, making to rub at the bruises on his face. Was there something I was supposed to do here, today?
XXX
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 idle (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.
XXX
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?”
XXX
Continued...