More Between Us Chapter 31/? "Turnabout"
Chapter 31/? "Turnabout"
Day 10, Evening
Peter’s mind was occupied with lecturing himself for his poor judgment. If I don’t want to be in this situation again, stop doing things that create it. Next time, do not beat the crap out of him. Do not let him beat the crap out of me. Run. Away. Do not start fights against someone able-bodied while you have a broken hand and expect things to go well for you. As far as that goes, don’t start fights. Just don’t.
He sighed at how difficult all of that was, every bit of it, and looked blankly at the directions on the box of spaghetti. He looked from it to the pot of water, worrying that the pot was far too small to hold the appropriate amount of water. But he’d found from experience with boxed mac and cheese that the box lied about how much water was necessary. Peter hoped the same held true for spaghetti.
XXX
Sylar laid the ice on his leg even though he’d rather it be somewhere about his cranium as it hurt far more. He worked at sitting up, a harder task now he’d been lying on his back, feeling strange to be lazing while Peter, anyone was around. He was a bit lost under the blanket, noting the water glass had survived his snooze, setting that aside, trying not to inflict more pain through his thinner…pajamas? What? Sylar frowned down, but before he could complete his mental question of how he’d come to be in this state of (un)dress, it answered itself. His shifting to sit up caused the ice to slide off his leg and he blinked at it.
XXX
He set the table while waiting for the water to boil. He portioned out Sylar’s painkillers, along with his own, and set them by the respective plates instead of hiding them until after the meal like he’d done for lunch. He added the decongestants, popping out a high, but not dangerous dose from the packaging, because although he might trust Sylar to take his pills correctly, he didn’t trust him to gauge dosage. It was one more possible conflict averted.
“Hey, Sylar, whaddaya want to drink?” he called out, wincing at how that hurt his forehead and his jaw both. He grimaced. Don’t do that again either. This is all just a huge, self-inflicted injury. Next time, walk in the other room and ask like someone with manners, Peter. The sneaking suspicion that the world was trying to teach him a lesson drifted around in his mind. He tried to ignore it.
XXX
Sylar twitched at the sudden, somewhat loud sound over the boiling water and kitchen noises. Wincing, he then scowled at himself and at the out-of-sight Petrelli. Let the domestic games begin, he thought with some bitterness before he considered the question. I already have water…trick question? “Uh, mi-,” he had to clear his throat to get his voice to carry, “Milk’s fine.”
After that the cold from the partly-forgotten ice pack was tingling the skin of his flank and he realized that if he’d stayed seated his foot and leg weren’t elevated any more. But Peter’s making…dinner. What an out of place sentence to be thinking at all. He huffed and turned his torso to the side, facing outward to leave his left leg in position as he replaced the ice.
XXX
He poured up the drinks, milk for both of them, set out salt and pepper, cutlery and napkins. The water was finally boiling. He added the spaghetti and found another reason to regret that his watch didn’t work. Oh well, all these clocks are good for something, right? He walked out, saying, “I’m supposed to go get the noodles in like, eight minutes.” He sat down with a sigh, looking at a clock perched on one of the shelves above the couch, checking the time.
Peter reached down and picked up the previously dropped bag of water and toyed with it absently. His expression was tired and mostly neutral, maybe a little down. He didn’t have anything much to say. He just preferred to be sitting out here near someone than alone in the kitchen. Tasks done, he’d gravitated back to the only available humanity.
XXX
Peter emerged after further clattering, sitting in what was now his chair. Sylar hated the familiarity of this scene: his mother tired and frazzled, hovering and fussing about how he was so much stronger than this illness, he had such a tough immune system, he’d be up and about any minute now regardless of any facts that differed with her expert medical, maternal intuitions, blah blah blah. It left him with the acute awareness that he was slacking on the job, being weak, and that the other person (Peter this time, in place of his mother) was falling apart and required him functioning and upright. All this inspired by Peter’s subdued limp-and-pout. The world fucking falls to pieces without me. This dumbass kid can barely run his own life. He wouldn’t be taking care of you if he didn’t think he needs you so badly. He wouldn’t have stopped at ‘concussion.’
“Okay,” was all he said, turning over his intended goal to design proper phrasing for it. Peter was quiet and Sylar had nothing to say, so they sat in silence for an awkward (to Sylar) eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds. When Peter rose, Sylar pushed off the blanket and swung his feet to the floor, taking a moment to orient before he stood, groaning quietly at his splitting headache. It didn’t matter if Peter was bringing the food to the living room or not; Sylar was going to make himself useful in the kitchen beforehand. So not long after Peter made it into the kitchen, Sylar was there, removing his hand from his prop, the wall, to appear more stable even as it compromised his balance. Once in position, he couldn’t parcel his desire in a way that didn’t make it sound like Peter was in charge of everything, so he stood and waited for directions. Surely Peter would give him something to do?
XXX
Peter looked back at a small sound - a combination of the huff of Sylar’s breathing and the faint scuff of the man’s hand leaving the wall. Uh … he should be sitting down. But Sylar looked steady enough and he wasn’t headed for the table. He wasn’t headed anywhere, and instead he met Peter’s eyes like he was expecting to be addressed. Peter looked away and down at the pot he’d moved next to the sink, holding it by the towel-wrapped handle. He had something more pressing to do than try to herd Sylar to a chair. “Do you have a colander? Or a pasta strainer?” He hadn’t thought forward enough to realize he would need one. He didn’t even have a lid handy. He was just standing there holding a pan of boiling water and trying to work out what to do with it.
XXX
Sylar nodded and went over beside the stove where he kept the colander, stacked atop various small pots. The noodles smelled normal enough as they boiled, so Peter was handling that much right. He braced a hand on the counter to lean and bend down far enough to get at the tool, exhaling as he straightened up again. Sylar brought it over, figuring that two full grown men crowded into a small kitchen near a still smaller sink with a pot of boiling water and noodles held by a guy with only one good hand was overkill - he set the colander in the sink and moved aside to let Peter pour. He also didn’t want to be splashed by any of the hot water, but the idea of steam in his face was kind of appealing. He was glad Peter had given him something to do at all, so quickly and without having Sylar verbalize.
XXX
Pasta draining, Peter looked around blankly. So what now? “Um … Sauce. I left it out earlier.” He looked past Sylar, spotting it sitting on the counter. “There it is.” He gestured with his right hand at the unopened jar. I probably should have heated that up already. I had eight whole minutes when I could have done that. “I guess we microwave it.” I definitely should have done that already. Now the noodles will be cold by the time the sauce is hot. He felt suddenly inadequate now that Sylar was in here watching him screw things up.
XXX
Sylar looked to the jar. Ragu. His gaze turned dubious, but he said nothing. An Italian using a jarred sauce? That’s kinda funny. Not that he expected Peter to whip up his own family recipe or something. His stomach was perking up despite itself at the idea of spaghetti. Taking the jar in hand, he moved to get a microwave-proof bowl, moving with ease about his own kitchen. Only then did it hit him that Peter was out of his element in someone else’s kitchen on top of everything else. So maybe Peter was in need of additional mercy.
Peter couldn’t open the jar by himself anyway, what with his hand so Sylar took it in hand, twisting and popping the lid off. He got as far as to pour a healthy amount of tomato-and-spice goodness into the bowl.
XXX
“Hey, I’ve got this. Just … go sit down.” That … was not going to go over well, but he’d already said it. Trying to salvage things, Peter said, “Just sit, and you can tell me what to do.” You’d like that, right? he thought hopefully and without any mental sarcasm. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, anyway.” That last slipped out embarrassingly easy. Peter grimaced and ducked his head, but it was true and he’d already said it. He put left his hand lightly on Sylar’s elbow, trying to steer him towards a chair. “Come on. Sit down and gimme directions. Tell me how to operate the microwave.” He didn’t need more than a passing glance to see that the controls on this one weren’t the same as the one he had in his own apartment. He’d rarely used his for anything more than making popcorn.
XXX
Sylar paused, hand still on the bowl. Seriously? He sighed, giving Peter a ‘nice try’ look of only partially appeased annoyance. It was a wonder he’d learned to cook at all, what with Virginia ushering him from the kitchen and detouring his curiosity; it took him years, in his darker moments when he actually acknowledged it, to figure out that she was actually trying to keep him dependent on her…through cooking. Too many cooks in the kitchen. Sylar still hated the implication that he was a good-for-nothing waste of space in the kitchen, especially when he’d just done things Peter physically couldn’t do.
Sylar shook Peter’s hand from his elbow, half insulted, half pleased about it overall. He sat where directed, grumpy about it. “It’s just spaghetti,” he stated the obvious. The microwave he’d found (because he hated the fake, loud, off-time new ones with the glaring green lights to keep half the city lit) was probably from the 1950’s, complete with a dial instead of buttons and few settings. Lots of experimentation went into how to cook, heat or defrost whatever the food or object of the moment was while keeping the dial on high for optimum results. Why cook it for longer with less power when you could get it done faster?
“Take a paper towel or two,” Sylar instructed, pointing beside the fridge where the roll stood, “probably two, put that over the bowl when you put it in. Otherwise the sauce will ‘pop’ and splash all over inside the microwave and I’ll make you clean that up.” It was true. “Shut the door and…” he tried to lean around to see what Peter was doing and it offered him a chance to think out the rest of the steps, “Turn the dial for about a minute, minute and a half on high.”
XXX
Yeah, you’d try to make me clean it up, Peter thought with fleeting belligerence as he followed Sylar’s instructions, unaware of the contradiction between his knee-jerk defiance and current obedience. He glanced over at where he’d stacked the dishes from lunch next to the sink. Going to have to clean those, too. But not right now. Maybe tomorrow.
He transferred the pasta back into the pan while the microwave made a mechanical whirring noise, then brought the pan to the table. He hadn’t been able to find a pronged serving spoon specifically for spaghetti, but it seemed likely Sylar didn’t have one. They both had forks, though, and Peter wasn’t all that picky about setting a proper table. He’d roll with whatever others wanted; Peter’s own idea of ‘acceptable’ was pretty broad, especially when the topic was table setting for two guys isolated from all of reality.
He fished out a big spoon from one of the drawers and stood prepared as the microwave dinged brightly. In a weird sort of way, the sound reminded him of Sylar’s clocks. There was a similarity here between the busy countdown of the cooking device and the regular ticking of the many timepieces scattered around the apartment. A more modern, electrical model wouldn’t have had that parallel. Huh. He removed the bowl, making a grunt and a chuff at how hot the edges were and he retrieved the towel he’d used on the pan. Sauce was transferred to table and he hesitated for a moment, stirring absently as he looked to Sylar. “Is there anything else I need to do?” Peter glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of the small kitchen. He was pretty sure he was done.
XXX
“Careful,” he said when Peter picked up the sauce bowl with his bare hands. He knew that bowl always got hot due to the ceramic and glazing on it, but Peter’s noises might have also been from his right hand being pressured. Well, then, the idiot should have let me help. Sylar turned in his seat to face the table now, noting Peter’s thoroughness in table setting - pills, plates, forks, milk, etc. The pair of pills, obviously different in size if not in color didn’t escape him. “No, don’t think so.” Just your ass in the chair.
When Peter didn’t move to serve himself first, Sylar eyed the pasta pan for a moment, the lack of proper utensil throwing him for a moment. His fork came to hand and he managed to slide the wet, steaming noodles onto his plate with a little bit of lifting, sliding and twisting. Sauce went into the noodles and he began to mix them, not paying a whole lot of attention to his plate, though it smelled delicious.
XXX
Peter sat, waiting for Sylar to serve himself first. He took a drink of his milk and fiddled with his fork until that was done. He portioned out most of the rest of the pasta to himself. It seemed done fine. After quietly demolishing the first third of his food (having turned out to be hungrier than he’d realized), Peter said, “I got some ice cream, too, while I was out earlier.” After a brief pause, he went on, “So after dinner … do you think you’d be up for one of those games, or do you want to rest? I could start that puzzle and stay out of your hair.” Or I could wash the dishes … Playing a board game with Sylar never sounded so good, he thought wryly.
XXX
He watched Peter while stirring his own plate to see if the nurse could manage serving himself with the brace, but his concern was for naught as Peter managed just fine and tucked in. Sylar went about spiraling his fork to wind up his bites, mostly avoiding slurping messes all over his face. Just adding to the dirt if I do. Silence, chewing, and clinking cutlery were the only sounds for a while and it wasn’t awkward. The sauce wasn’t bad, the noodles were great and he was able to eat more and faster than he had his last meal.
He got me ice cream, too? Or maybe he got it for himself, that’s more likely. “Oh,” he said, surprised, “Cool.” Thank you? He was still eating, slowing down not from fullness necessarily or the prospect of ice cream, because he could eat more, but his appetite seemed to fade. Masticating, he thought about the question with a slight frown. Any of those things sounded appealing at the moment, but Peter was still untended, literally limping around the place.
“After dinner I was thinking you need to get your hip and eye looked at.” Peter had replaced the too-large band-aid Sylar had placed on his eyebrow and cheek, but how much else had the guy done for himself? Sylar had no way of knowing. If he phrased it as merely a few key points he wanted to inspect and address rather than a whole physical (which he was pretty sure would get shot down in light of the shirt and come-on fiasco that was currently ongoing) Peter was more likely to acquiesce.
XXX
Peter looked up at Sylar blankly, face devoid of expression as though Sylar had said nothing at all. Peter’s body language had something else to say about it though. He looked back down, licked his lips, shifted the set of his shoulders to be slightly hunched and then leaned back a little - all small indicators of discomfort and worry. He took another bite, trying to think of how he should or would react to the prospect of Sylar looking him over. Well … what he’s saying is probably accurate. I should have them looked at. But you’re the only one here ... He found himself running through the exact same paltry excuses that Sylar had used on him earlier: ‘They’re just bruises!’ ‘There’s nothing you can do anyway!’ He frowned at the next bite as though it were the cause of his disturbance.
XXX
Sylar met his gaze for a moment, just as blank and uninterested. He assumed Peter’s imagination would be cooking up all the horrors of all the wrong things Sylar could do in an exam. Sylar didn’t know much about medicine but he knew a substantial bit about anatomy. Just as casually, he munched on the rest of his plate, sipping his milk along the way.
XXX
Very grudgingly, with far too defensive a tone, Peter got out, “Okay,” because he felt like he should say something and he had no legitimate objection, try as he might to find one. Yes, this was Sylar. Yes, he didn’t like Sylar. Yes, Sylar was known to hurt people, badly, and he might even take a lot of joy in hurting Peter (more). Yes, Sylar did not have much in the way of medical training. However - Sylar was the only one here; Sylar had already helped him with band-aids and his brace; Sylar had already passed over several opportunities to hurt him; Sylar seemed perfectly competent in matters of first aid, a fact testified to by the very presence of a well-stocked tote of supplies.
XXX
Sylar didn’t react other than to show he’d heard Peter in some non-verbal way and go about cleaning his teeth with his tongue even if it hurt a bit.
XXX
Peter sighed and reached up to touch gently at the right corner of his jaw. The strands of spaghetti were very soft, but the constant motion that eating put on his jaw left it a bit sore. He leaned forward and relaxed, unconsciously reversing the withdrawal he’d made earlier. Carefully, like he half thought Sylar might jump on him for admitting a weakness or just for discussing this, Peter said, “I’m not sure what’s wrong with my hip, exactly. It hurts in the pelvic girdle, towards the front, left side. It feels like a muscle sprain.” He took another bite, chasing the last few noodles to the side of his plate. Then he turned over his fork, done. “It doesn’t help that my right thigh still hurts.” The collection of aches and pains (as well as staying busy with Sylar’s issues) had kept Peter from checking even basic range of motion limitations. This was why he was inadvertently stumbling (sometimes literally) into positions where his body couldn’t support him the same as it had before.
XXX
Poking around in his noodles, Sylar was surprised Peter was being so forthcoming. He listened anyway, though, because Peter was the one with the degree and the experience, so it was in both their interests that he absorb it. How much of it he actually understood was up for debate. He gave Peter a glance and nodded.
XXX
Peter sniffed, changing the subject. “You should take your pills. The new ones are decongestants. Maybe it will help with your sinuses.” Peter took up his own allotment, slipped them in his mouth and finished his milk. “Wait, do you have any allergies I need to know about?” It seemed like a safe assumption that the food in Sylar’s apartment was acceptable, as was anything he’d said was a favorite food. But the decongestants were something new. Before he started dispensing medications, there were some basics he needed to cover.
XXX
Ah, Peter. He went from grumping and giving permission to sharing then back to I’m-in-charge nurse. Sylar had reached for the pills and was about to throw them back when Peter stopped him. “Uh…” he tried to think, frowning. Nothing popped into his head that was life-threatening or would turn him into Violet Beauregard and that was good enough for now. He knew decongestants and OTC painkillers were fine. Curare and…gly-something. “Just curare,” he informed with a slight smile. With that, he swallowed the pills down.
XXX
Peter gave him an odd look (‘curare’?), but merely nodded and rose. It wasn’t in the decongestant, so he was safe. “You want ice cream now or later?” He put out his hand for Sylar’s plate, since the other man was finished, and took it, along with his own, to the sink for rinsing.
XXX
“…Later.” I want to get you figured out first. The limping look isn’t so cute on you. Sylar cut himself off before his mind could swim in the gutter and handed off his plate. “Thanks. It wasn’t half-bad, the spaghetti, even if you used the wrong sauce,” Sylar chuckled a little. Then I’d love to take a shower. He was pretty sure Peter wouldn’t do anything, given that he’d had Sylar next to naked while incapacitated earlier, but still. He would be naked in the shower with a guy who broke down doors and enjoyed beating him up. Dishes didn’t occur to him, thusly, in his mind, they didn’t occur to Peter so he finished his milk and made to stand.
Peter was clearing the table so the excess food was brought to his attention, namely the jar of sauce and the rest of it in the bowl. Sylar took it and the spoon and fed it back into the jar, capping it and throwing it in the fridge. From the pan, he slid the remaining spaghetti into the sauce bowl and looked around. “Saran-wrap?” he asked of Peter, pointing to the correct drawer, “Hmm,” when it was handed to him although it quickly devolved into a mess when he tried to take it out and use it.
XXX
Since Sylar was puttering around being useful, Peter took the opportunity to rinse the dishes, including those from lunch. At some point he knew he was going to have to wash them. If that was longer rather than sooner, this would keep them from smelling. It would make them easier to wash, too. He glanced over at the problem Sylar was having, but really didn’t think he (Peter) would be much help with that. He had no secrets to making plastic wrap act right, so he just turned away to hide the small smile on his face.
XXX
It stuck to itself, getting tangled about four ways and Sylar remembered that he’d always hated this stuff. Peter wasn’t helping so he struggled through it and got the bowl decently (if wrinkled) covered. Sighing, he snapped his fingers once to get Peter’s attention before walking slowly back to the living room.
XXX
Peter was dabbing his left hand with the towel to dry it (since he’d kept his right out of the water) when he heard the snapping. He looked over, startled at the sound for two reasons. First, it was unexpected and second, if it was what it sounded like - Sylar snapping his fingers to get Peter’s attention - then that was so insulting it was laughable. That was exactly what it was, too. He stared at Sylar, taking a half-second to decide how to react to that. Attention gained, purpose fulfilled, Sylar had already dismissed him as unworthy of looking at and was tottering off towards the living room. He probably missed Peter’s expression of ‘are you insane?’ and ‘what the hell was that about?’
Oh, I ought to take that seriously and be offended all to hell, but that’s just so over-the-top … that takes the cake, man! Peter felt his stomach clench a few times with laughter that he otherwise tried to suppress. It came out anyway in a sort of partly-stifled chuckle. With an amused exhale, Peter went to the table and pushed in the chairs, then followed Sylar out with a slow shake of his head at Sylar’s cheek. The guy had balls, he’d grant him that. ‘Lefty, c’mere’, Sylar grabbing his jaw so cavalierly at the tail end of their fight the day before, and a handful of other small things ran through Peter’s mind.
Is he joking, or is he serious? Is he joking and serious, and just seeing how far he can push before I tell him to cut it out? Peter had been razzed by plenty of patients, but that was so much less personal than this. Plus it didn’t have the potential to affect his existence, such as it was here, for what might seem like years. But mainly, the finger-snapping had been so casually disrespectful that he simply couldn’t pretend that Sylar actually meant it. Even though he’d seen more than one house-servant summoned in that exact manner.
Sylar has not mistaken me for his servant. I don’t buy that. Not for a second. But it was an amusing way to lighten things up.
XXX
Lo and behold, Peter was obeying. Now that he was, Sylar had to think what to do with him: put him in the chair or on the couch. He sat at the couch and patted it until Peter sat, too, facing mostly forward, both feet on the floor. Sylar looked directly at him, “Get your hip over with then do your eye, yeah? You took a lot of hits,” If I do say so myself, “we should be doing a head to toe.” But I don’t think you’ll take your pants off for me, even though that’s not my goal. Typical boy who cried wolf, same as always, he thought ruefully. Sylar wanted to see if Peter would cooperate for a similar exam without being prompted or cajoled or having the obvious trust issue set to rest. His lips pursed as he tried to think how best to go about asking Peter that he needed to see the man’s hip. He saw one potential problem in that Peter might not be totally honest with him about the nature of his injuries. If he had to, he would and he probably would, defer to Peter’s professional, experienced, certified judgment.
XXX
“Hrm.” A head-to-toe? Peter eyed Sylar, who wasn’t setting off any alarm bells at the moment. That by itself engendered its own brand of suspicion, but Peter’s thoughts moved on. It was a decent question, or proposal, he supposed. “I have a mild concussion. I got hit in the eye, but its fine.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Peter snorted at his own ridiculousness and looked to Sylar. Did he agree that was ‘fine’? It was swelled shut and purpled - fine! Ha.
XXX
Sylar’s brows lowered at that. Even if Peter’s eye wasn’t damaged, it needed attention now. “If I forget, we’re coming back to the concussion part later.” Because I might not remember.
XXX
“Well, it will be fine, eventually. That’d be a little faster if I’d … rest and ice it more.” He reached up with his left hand and felt around it gently, his gaze otherwise getting a little far away as he focused on the sense of touch. Getting the grip right, he peeled up his puffy, distorted upper lid, fighting the impulse to blink. It hurt some, less than one might think given that he could feel what he was doing and choose what hurt least - unlike if he let Sylar do this.
XXX
Snorting, Sylar made an attempt to roll his eyes at the obviousness of that. Peter went about touching at his eye, trying to force it open and that just didn’t look like a good idea to Sylar. He winced, but allowed it - it was Peter’s face and he was the one who had to deal with it; he was the one with the degree, et cetera. “Incoming,” he murmured, bringing his right hand up to touch around Peter’s eye socket for now, the contact minimal and gentle. The skin felt hot and angry, swollen, much as it looked and he didn’t know what he would be looking for, but nothing felt overly weird. He brushed his thumb over the lid to be sure nothing was wrong with it, then fingered around the bridge of the nose and the lower rim of the socket.
XXX
Peter stopped when he had managed to confirm vision still functioned in it. “I can see. I think the only problem is the swelling.” Honestly, before now he hadn’t been sure he could even see with it, but he’d assumed he could. He could remember being able to intermittently during the fight. “My jaw …” He touched it, working it slightly and then stopping because that did hurt and there was no way to do it that didn’t. “It’s in and out of joint. Anti-inflammatories are useful. Ice and moist heat would be, too.” He went on, thinking through the parts of his body he’d be checking if he was doing an exam. “My mouth’s cut on the inside.” He thought about his neck as his mind’s eye went down his body. “I could use some ben-gay.”
XXX
The nurse had moved back by now; Sylar was done with feeling the eye anyway. He said of the eye being able to see, “Good,” recalling that it had been on his worry-list that he’d decked the guy too hard - a first. Peter didn’t seem inclined to let him examine the jaw again, so he let it pass as the owner gave what sounded like good treatments.
XXX
“A bunch of stuff is sore and hyperextended. A few days of rest followed by gradual stretching is what I need.” He was pretty sure there was nothing wrong with his upper back other than bruises. He assumed that had anything been lodged in his skin, that he was sensate and aware enough to have noticed when leaning back in the chair, or taking his shirt off. His lower back hurt on the left side, but he was pretty sure that was connected to the hip issue.
Peter looked down at himself. “My hip hurts, like I described.” He reached down to touch, feeling along the outside of his hip bone, then the top of his thigh as he put a little more pressure in it. He grunted and stood up, repeating his examination, this time feeling into his groin through his jeans. He supposed he should take them off so he could get a more accurate feel. He looked at Sylar, trying to judge his reaction as Peter’s hand went to his button. Peter couldn’t foresee any particular problem with being seen naked by Sylar, except the possibility of juvenile teasing later (or now). Even if Sylar was that immature, Peter couldn’t imagine it lasting very long without an audience.
XXX
Watching as Peter stood and probed at (what Sylar assumed was) the injury sight, he only glanced to be sure of the guy’s hand placement before he lost interest in the other (im)possibility. Their eyes locked for a moment, Sylar’s cognition kicking in a bit late to figure out why, but his face made no changes - why should it? His focus did drop once to see what Peter’s hand was doing on his button, obviously unfastening it, but that wasn’t important. Strangely, neither was seeing Peter’s lower half clad only in drawers. Sure it’d be a nice reference for later, sure it probably looked great aside from the injuries, but he was maybe starting to see why Peter hadn’t been all over him during his own exam. They were both tired, banged up and untrusting, none of those things to inspire an intimate mood even for Sylar. (It didn’t even occur to him that having Peter in only his underwear might pose additional worries about being sexually used as there was more than one way to go about it).
XXX
Sylar’s expression wasn’t anything that warned Peter off, so he took a half step back so he was next to the arm of the couch for balance (and politeness, or even more likely, a semi-instinctive, unacknowledged desire to protect himself - he was out of arm’s reach now unless Sylar lunged). He unfastened and pushed down, bunching his jeans around his knees and leaving his underwear on. They were white boxer briefs, clean as of this morning. Peter smoothed his hand over the left side of his groin, face intent. There was swelling along a semi-vertical band - not a lot, he wasn’t sure if Sylar could see it or not, but some. “Hm.” There were a lot of internal organs blocking him from feeling out the edges of the injury, but he had a pretty good idea of which muscle it was anyway. He craned his neck forward a little and reached over to touch at his right thigh. Where he’d been kicked had turned into a dark and very tender bruise, but it otherwise looked normal.
XXX
Yes, so much for that non-sexuality clause. Sylar understood that Peter moved away, but he also felt an unfairness that the man wouldn’t submit to the same process that Sylar had had to endure. His eyes narrowed because he didn’t plan to let Peter get away with that, non-practicing medical professional notwithstanding. Down went Peter’s pants, around his knees and Sylar was meanwhile blinded by the white of the man’s undies. Huh. I almost expected whitey-tighties from him, given that whole ‘zippin’ around with my underwear outside my pants’ bit. Generally, the undies go down for that act. He had time to notice Peter’s knuckle bandage was wet and flaking away from the skin, clearly it was in need of a fresh one and some cleaning after being exposed to the dishes and cooking.
“Slow down, Peter.” I can’t…follow all this. Sylar extended his right hand, looking up at Peter to clear its proximity, then moved forward on the couch to get closer altogether, placing his hand exactly where Peter had before.
XXX
Peter looked up at Sylar’s approaching hand and frowned at it. He wasn’t keen about Sylar touching him, but it was within his limits of allowable. He straightened, bringing his left hand back to his side as he swayed an inch or two to the right, his right hip and buttock contacting the arm of the couch. It gave him just a little more balance. He rested his right hand on the couch as well and otherwise stood quiet and still as Sylar touched him.
XXX
Barely applying pressure, certainly not prodding, Sylar could feel the swelling around the hip socket so Peter’s estimate seemed right. “You probably should ice that and keep off it, you know,” he said, peering back up to the medic’s face. That’s what I’d do, anyway. He paused, his hand mindlessly still on Peter’s hip while he thought. Peter grabbed pretty close to his groin at first. “This didn’t hit your pubic bone did it? I mean…my hip to your…or something?” he shook his head, frowning to say he didn’t find it likely, but wasn’t ruling it out.
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“No,” Peter answered immediately. He couldn’t imagine why Sylar would think he'd racked him or something, but it seemed likely, on reflection, that Sylar’s memory of the specifics of the fight were even fuzzier than Peter’s. “I fell on the ground. You were falling on top of me. My knee came up before you got there. I don’t remember any other of part of you hitting me.” Right then. As far as I remember. “It wrenched the socket.” He made a small gesture towards where Sylar’s hand rested.
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“I’d like to see the skin,” Sylar delivered simply, indicating the hip and thigh. That was about as much as he’d ask for permission before he went grabbing. Sylar shifted to be more comfortable on the couch, more stable. “Grab my shoulder if you need to.” He was now placed almost directly in front of Peter, sitting while the nurse stood with his hand on the hip and with that his fingers reached up for the waistband.
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Peter exhaled sharply in displeasure, lips tight. His brain locked up in what wasn’t exactly indecision even if it was a swarm of thoughts competing for front and center in his mind. Suspicion, fear, how this was going to be played later by a taunting Sylar, what Sylar might do now to hurt him, how little or how much this might help Peter’s situation, it was a harmless exam, his pants were around his knees and getting away was difficult, should he insist on a position for the exam that gave him more mobility like taking his pants off entirely?, what if Sylar just gave him a push and then laughed at him for being so trusting? Grab his shoulder. Peter put his left hand solidly on Sylar’s shoulder, fingers splayed and thumb resting directly in the indentation behind Sylar’s clavicle.
He let Sylar take some of his weight as he leaned forward to see what Sylar was looking at as the other man moved his underwear. I could take that off entirely … But he didn’t think that would help. Peter wasn’t all that body conscious, but given a choice he’d rather Sylar didn’t have the opportunity to know every possible physical attribute Peter possessed. Not that it looked like he had that choice at the moment. His grip tightened on Sylar’s shoulder.
There were too many 'what ifs' going on with what Sylar could do next. Peter went back to what he'd started with - trying to discourage Sylar from doing anything (or as much) hands-on as he could by describing his condition. “I think it’s the muscle that connects my spine to the femur. My lower back is stiff and killing me, too. If I’m right, then it runs back behind my colon and it’s not something you’re going to be able to see or get to.” Of course, I might not be right. Which is the point of looking. “If you’ll let me, there’s some simple stretches I could do to isolate which muscle group it is.” His voice was tense. Let me go. Get away from me. Let me find out on my own. I'm starting to get upset.
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He did it. While he couldn’t speak for Peter, Sylar felt better that Peter chose to touch him and brace himself. He noticed the positioning of the man’s fingers, if he gripped, it wouldn’t fail to hurt and he wondered how intentional that was. Other than that, it felt positively brotherly, almost- Sure enough, Peter squeezed. Huh. It didn’t deter him, but it made him pause for all of a second.
Sylar thought on that, his left hand going up to Peter’s waistband under the navel, not, as Peter surely thought, to pull it down, but to hold it up. His right hand, already under the elastic a bit, pulled it away from the body and down the leg. Given Peter wore boxer briefs, he couldn’t just go up the leg or lift away the leg section of fabric to get to the hip socket - he’d have to pull it down further than Peter had had to for Sylar’s hip. He had some sympathy, hence holding up enough of the underwear to preserve Peter’s modesty even though pubic hair, trimmed, made an appearance. Interesting…That would surely be scrutinized later when he could think.
His patient was still speaking so he listened while he worked. If I’ll let you? “It won’t matter much right now,” he delegated about muscle groups. If Peter was right, then there wasn’t anything either of them could do to get to the muscle(s). The socket revealed (as near as he could tell) was neither red nor swollen, nothing was broken or bleeding. “I’m gonna touch around your side to your back to see, okay? Then we’ll see about stretching if you want.” Stretching is always good unless it’s torn, right?
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Peter tried to find a way to grind his teeth that wasn’t painful. At this he failed and so after several false starts, he stopped hurting himself. Sylar had turned down his admittedly indirect request to be allowed to handle this himself. In response, Peter’s grip on Sylar’s shoulder tightened again and Sylar deadpanned an ‘ow’. Peter didn’t say anything, but he lightened up fractionally. He was standing very stiffly, breathing harder and stressing out. His head and right hand throbbed in time with his heart. This wasn't about the groin thing. Peter couldn't think well enough at the moment to know what it was about, but he didn't want Sylar touching him - not this much and not this way, but he couldn't work out what was wrong with it.
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Sylar ran his hand slow and flat under the shirt and over the warm, soft skin of Peter’s oblique, staying close to the hip socket. “Tell me if any of this feels tight or hurts.” All he was doing was feeling the guy up, really; it wouldn’t help any, but neither of them had any way of knowing otherwise. Besides, if he found something new, it might help Peter’s semi-annoying self-diagnosis because Sylar sure as hell knew precious little of fixing the human body.
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The slide of Sylar’s hand across his skin made everything tense up. Peter’s jaw spasmed despite his attempt not to flex it. His hand and his head ached. He grunted at the pain and shifted his weight in a futile attempt to escape it. His pants took the opportunity to slide over his knees and partly down his shins before he caught them by shifting his stance to spread his legs slightly. Sylar’s touch tingled, like there was an electric charge somehow in his hand. Peter didn’t understand it, but it was hardly the first thing that had happened in his life that had no explanation. He tried to focus on what Sylar had asked, but the words were ridiculous. Everything was tight. Most of it hurt. “Nn.” He just wanted Sylar to go away and quit touching him. His brain was full of pain and static.
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When Sylar got around to the man’s back his fingers began to add pressure, his gaze sightlessly focused on Peter’s midsection while he worked. He worked towards the spine where his fingers eased up on the pressure, but it didn’t dissipate completely. His fingers then circled around Peter’s spinal ridges, when that didn’t hurt, his touch got firmer, aiming for the muscles this time. “Anything?” He stopped to ask, swallowing as he realized it put him closer to Peter, his headache was unappreciative and he was basically fondling Peter’s back…for a good cause.
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Continued...