More Between Us, Chapter 35/? "Black, White and Gray"
Chapter 35/? "Black, White and Gray"
See the puzzle here.
Day 11, Morning
You’re such a liar. And a suck-up. And you seem almost immune to sarcasm sometimes. Vader’s fine, I’m sure, but he wasn’t ever what I wanted to idolize growing up. Not that you’d get that. “Whatever, Peter.” Sylar settled with gritting his jaw not to explode until his headache spiked from the pressure, then he unclenched. Badly he wanted a chance to explain, take back or deny the Vader cop-out. I was a person, too; I was a kid once. It made him incredibly angry that Peter, generally an all-around nice guy and comic book nerd, wouldn’t be accepting of anything less than pure villainy. It wasn’t just a reputation thing either - Sylar had tried several times to discredit it himself to no avail. People would believe what they would believe and he didn’t come from high standing for his words to have effect. The people who arbitrated had been judge, jury and executioner; that much was consistent.
Sylar knew with a fair amount of accuracy how Peter felt about the Vader choice, hence the lying and sucking-up parts. Or maybe Peter wasn’t sucking up, maybe he was…just…being polite? Really, how else do you handle a concussed killer? Sharing was something he’d learned early on was dangerous because people were judged on their preferences and judgment led to the jury which led to execution. Besides, no one cared and no one listened. People didn’t listen to each other and sharing was a pointless exercise that wasn’t therapeutic, but painful.
XXX
Peter looked at the boxes of pills again, but could see that as the beginning of a fight, should he demand Sylar take them. Sylar was acting like he wanted to pick a fight. He wanted to win one (or, rather, another, given that Peter felt Sylar had already won more than his share of fights here). Peter wasn’t above taking a fall as necessary, but what could he give Sylar that would calm the guy down? What does he want? Well, he wants me to move in and give him sponge baths, for one thing. Peter thought through the consequences of taking a firm stand - trying to force Sylar to take his pills, coming and going without asking his permission, being authoritarian and acting like he knew better. It would be how Nathan would handle the situation, as Peter well knew. And it would only make things worse.
It’s nice to have someone to eat breakfast with. Ah! That’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s not upset that I wouldn’t move in with him, he’s upset that … he’d be alone again. He said that over and over when I first got here - how much time we were going to spend together. He thinks this is a real world - that I really could just move away and live somewhere else and leave him all alone for another what-seems-like-years to him. That … yeah, that would freak me out, too. And Peter had something to offer and try to stem Sylar’s rising anger.
“I’m not going anywhere, once you get to feeling better.” He reached out and took up the nearer box of loose painkillers, shaking out four pills. “I live right across the street. There’s nowhere else I’m going to be. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t hack three months alone, much less three years. You’re going to see me all the time.” He set the pills down and reached over for the box of decongestants, glancing over the back of it to remind himself of the dosage, before setting about peeling two pills out of the foil.
XXX
Peter began talking nonsense; it had nothing to do with the subject, but that was fine because it took the wind from his otherwise angry sails. Sylar exhaled roughly, the sound nearing an accepting, agreeable tone about Peter’s lone survival skills. Breathing out again released the majority of the tension he held in his body as Peter went about a normal, helpful task, not making any eye contact or demands. No judgment. That was…awfully kind of the nurse. It worked its magic, though; calming him and shaking loose the real answer. As Peter worked with the pills, Sylar spoke quietly, mostly to himself, but loud enough to be heard over the rattling of the foil, “I never really thought about it, but…Batman.” No powers, just brains. Money, too, I suppose. That oath never to kill anyone, how ironic. Parents were killed. Maybe Spock, total weirdo brainiac. I always thought Luke was kind of a dummy. Does Princess Leia count? Maybe Rocky; not a lot of brains, no money and a lot of drive, odd-ball southpaw, one-trick pony, did one thing, did it well.
XXX
Peter looked up at Sylar blankly for a moment as his mind worked at that one: Batman. Suddenly he grinned, which hurt his face a bit but he did it anyway. “Your favorite color is black, is that it? Batman, Darth Vader? Ha.” He chuckled, amused by Sylar’s choices falling into a neat category of ‘dark, harsh, prone to snap judgments, emotionally repressed, dresses in black’. “But yeah, man, Batman’s got it all. Superman always struck me as being a little … inhuman. Which makes sense given that he’s an alien, but I never got the impression that’s …” Um, comic book talk. Rambling. Not good. The expectation that his enthusiasm was unreturned dampened it immediately. Effusing about the backgrounds of comic book characters was generally socially inappropriate. Peter caught himself, scaled back, self-censored, and finished the about-to-be-a-monologue as briefly as he could. “That’s, uh, I didn’t think that was what the writers intended. It was just a feeling I had about it.” He shrugged, his smile fading fast as he pushed Sylar’s pills over towards him and set down the box of decongestants.
XXX
Sylar muttered, “Darth Vader was sarcasm.” Obviously. Vader was opposite Luke, enough said. This is not the time to tell him I know a kid named Luke. He looked up at Peter from under his brows, only partly hiding his smirk about the switch to Superman. He had kind of offered superheroes as the topic so it wasn’t that far off, but this was Peter…and comic books. And the guy was really into it, too. “I think he’s supposed to be,” he murmured, then louder, ignoring the pills for the conversation, “I mean, he doesn’t really socialize and isn’t that kind of the whole point of the Justice League? Intergalactic crime fighting. The only humans there are Bruce, Diana, Wally and John. He is an alien and he’s got the morals of an alien, he just looks human.”
He shrugged. “I thought Nathan was everyone’s Superman, but I don’t know what that makes you.” Nathan - poster boy, looks, job, ladies, power, flight, also dead by Sylar’s hand and he was now mentioning this to the guy’s baby brother who’d beat his face in a few days ago. “Robin maybe? Same morals and ability of getting into unsolicited trouble.” Also, Batman’s sidekick, but that wasn’t how he meant it. Snapping himself away from what was probably his own awkward-if-honest monologue, he returned to mumbling as he picked up the pills, rinsing them down, “Always thought he was annoying as hell.” It’s perfect for you, Pete! Never mind that I think comics are immature - its harmless and he’s funny when he’s so into it. Dorky, even. Besides, it was something in need of correction.
XXX
Peter had a jolt and gave a grimace at the mention of his brother. His head pulled back and his back hurt as the muscles tensed, especially the small of it. He pulled in a deep breath and fingered the edge of his plate uneasily as he gave Sylar a narrow-eyed look of simmering anger. Let’s not talk about Nathan. I’ve told you that before - don’t talk to me about my family. Wait, is he saying Nathan had the morals of an alien? Lips tight and jaw giving him small, shooting pains, he couldn’t decide whether to say any of that or leave it alone, as Sylar didn’t seem to have spoken with the intent to insult Nathan’s memory. It was someone they both knew; Nathan could fly; the analogy was obvious. But most of the time, Peter still didn’t think Sylar had a right to so much as speak Nathan’s name. Peter winced and pushed himself up, picking up his plate and carrying it to the sink, still without speaking. It created an odd silence in the conversation.
“Not Robin,” he said a bit sharply as he finished rinsing his plate. Not fair to judge him. Always living in Batman’s shadow. Me in Nathan’s? The idea that Sylar was trying to pigeon-hole Peter annoyed him. Is he saying I should be his sidekick? Or just that I'm annoying as hell? He turned around, leaning against the counter and trying to discreetly stretch the lumbar region of his back. “We’re not comic book heroes or villains. None of us are. It’s not that simple.” His voice retained the sharp tone and Peter was irritated to hear that he’d become irritated again. Sylar was concussed; Peter was beat to hell; and they were in Sylar's apartment where Peter had taken on the role of nurse. All of that conspired to discourage Peter from even contemplating violence, which was what all the tensing up was about. “Listen, I need to get out of here; go take a walk; get some air. I’ll come back in an hour or so. You have any idea what you want to eat for lunch?”
XXX
Sylar wrapped up the last of his juice in the face of Peter’s baleful glare. You’ve got to be kidding me, was all he could think about that. Laughter burst from him unexpected, sliding quickly into an unamused, hollow sound because it wasn’t funny, just…startling. “That’s rich, coming from Mr. Black and White,” Sylar stated simply. The only color Peter saw was the rosy hue of his glasses. Peter’s response was insulting, or it should have been. Peter stretched the truth just like any other Petrelli, like any other hero, so why should Sylar be surprised? Since when am I not simply a villain in anyone’s book? When did that change? Sylar gave him a dubious look, asking ‘are you serious?’ even though Peter was visibly torqued. Pity, too, that he wanted to leave because Sylar had almost been looking forward to keeping him around for…whatever came after breakfast. A whisp of unwashed hair sliding onto his bearded cheek had him pushing it back and remembering what that was - bath time.
Another downside of Peter’s absence was that Peter, when bothered, was quite fun to play with when he wasn’t using his fists (or maybe when he used them, too; the adrenaline rush was quite something now a days). He sighed at Peter’s immaturity. Give him a conversation he wants, I say my piece and he wigs out. A moment of actual thought to the question, he threw out something basic, “Sandwiches? Whatever you’re fixing,” the tone was grumpy, but the answer seemed obvious to Sylar.
XXX
Peter scowled and then snorted at Sylar’s dubious look, but honestly the man laughing had defused him a little, even if Peter was the target of it. Message of the day: don’t take yourself too seriously. Plus, Sylar’s failure to keep hitting Peter’s buttons helped: not mentioning Nathan again right away, letting the Robin thing drop, not directly disagreeing, arguing or telling him he was wrong … Fine. Let it go. He seems okay about doing that himself, really. Not what I expected. I wish he’d remember to quit bringing up certain subjects. He still wanted to get in Sylar’s face and tell him not to mention Nathan. Ever again. Peter wasn’t quite angry enough to do that, though. Instead, he looked away, signaling that he, too, wanted to drop it.
Peter sighed, blowing out some tension as he listened to Sylar’s surprising answer on lunch. Surprising because it was an answer - straightforward and easy even if Peter didn’t know if he could chew a sandwich. I suppose I’ll find out. Maybe I can get some of that really soft, fakey white bread. In a neutral tone, maybe a little guarded, Peter offered, “I can make a good PB&J.” He watched as Sylar straightened from the table, picking up his plate. Peter moved away from the sink to be out of the way. “Or grilled cheese. I like grilled cheese.” He paused to open the fridge and poke around inside, mentally adding cheese to the grocery list.
XXX
Sylar felt his lips trying for a smirk or a grin at Peter’s need to specify sandwich-type and talk up his sandwich-making skills. It was completely unnecessary from his standpoint, but not to Peter, apparently. He chuckled to himself as he threw away the eggs, “Sure,” he announced about either option. (He did think Peter would make grilled cheese regardless). The plate was harder to manage; he just rinsed it and didn’t bother trying to scrub it with his balance.
XXX
He shut the fridge door and looked at Sylar at the sink. “You know, if I thought everything was black and white, I would have never bothered coming here for you.” He frowned, not sure what he thought about what he’d just blurted out without thinking. There seemed to be a lot of implications of that statement that he wasn’t sure he understood. Peter gave a short shake of his head and left the kitchen, intending to leave the apartment altogether in a few more moments, but not rushing out quite yet.
XXX
Absorbing the empath’s words, Sylar frowned. That…made sense in a totally nonsensical way; in a Peter way. Is that what makes him different? That he can see mainly in black and white, but he can see and accept….deal with the…gray? He can see me? An unauthorized, unplanned surge of hope tried to warm him but he reminded himself he was fucked up at the moment and took the time to remember why Peter was actually here. He wasn’t here for Sylar. That brought the hope crashing down. Sylar turned to see Peter walking out so his companion missed the utterly mournful, plaintive expression on his face. That was for the best.
He followed Peter to the entryway, leaning against the wall there, probably trying to somewhat block Peter from getting to the door now he was here. Arms crossed, his expression was still dismal. “You’re right,” he said softly into the quiet of life, loud of mechanics room, “Congratulations, you can see a little of the shades of gray. Must be what makes you special.” And he meant it - special. It was possible to live in gray and not see it, or rather, chose to ignore it like Angela and Bennet. Or was that…trying to alter the gray and make it fit the black and white?
XXX
Peter looked over his shoulder at Sylar, eyeing him and trying to judge his intent. Sylar’s voice was soft and perhaps melancholy, but his individual words seemed like sarcasm even if his tone sounded sincere. It was confusing and so Peter decided that perhaps Sylar felt confused - all of those things at once were quite possible. Far be it from Peter to insist that a person had to feel only a single way at a time. People were messy, as Peter well knew.
XXX
After a moment, Sylar inhaled and went on, almost hesitant in delivery; “It’s going to be a tough adjustment for you, huh? I mean…this whole world is gray now. Or, at least, I am.”
XXX
Sylar as … gray. Sylar … Gray. Sylar Gray. Or Grey. Why do I think it’s gray? Why does that seem like a name? He turned to face Sylar, but looked down as if lost in thought, feeling that nagging ‘I can almost remember this’ sensation that had preceded straying into Sylar’s memories the day before. He didn’t want to open that door again, but the small curiosity remained: Is that his name? Sylar Grey? I thought it was Gabriel? No. No, he said his name was Sylar, period. So that’s his name. No matter what. And that was all Peter needed to keep that memory door shut.
He looked up and considered another angle to it: You don’t know whether you’re on the side of black or white anymore? Villain or hero? ‘Not the savior kind’. “People are complicated. I get that,” he added the last sentence more softly than the first one. He opened his mouth to speak of his family, then became unsure if he should, as it might encourage Sylar to talk about the Petrellis as well. Peter reached up and scratched at his nose, wrinkling it a little as he looked down, then back and forth uneasily. He exhaled a huff of air and let his face feature half a smile as he lifted his right hand. “If my face and your head are any indication, this is going to be a tough adjustment for both of us.” Again he closed more quietly by adding, “We’ll get through it, though. I’m … trying.”
XXX
‘People are complicated’. An interesting statement. One that might even be mistaken for understanding. Forever digging, Sylar thought he smelled….a distinction, maybe something along the lines of ‘people are complicated…but you…’ More complicated than most, I’m afraid. The line of reasoning was otherwise lost in his fogged brain however. Sylar had been sweeping his eyes intently yet without any real effort beyond, well, understanding over the man’s face, but Peter finished and his gaze dropped to the empath’s knees or thereabouts while he contemplated. Get through…what, Peter? You make it sound like there’s an afterlife after-party I’m missing out on and there just…isn’t. What you see, for once, is what you get. Me. I can understand you being…unhappy with that reality. All that was words he wanted to say, nearly did, too. Peter addressed something even more mysterious. Oh, yes, undoubtedly Peter was trying, but what was the brat trying to accomplish? Anyone else would rest on the laurel of being the most important thing to another human being - they might even be flattered. Not Peter. Even without a crowd, the guy was still looking to blaze his own trail. Sylar could understand that even if he didn’t like it so well.
Sylar nodded slowly after a long moment of thought, a flick of eye contact to tell Peter that he knew the man was trying, yes. The use of the word ‘we’ was foreign to Sylar, who heard plenty of ‘you’, but Nathan was more used to hearing a ‘we’. Sylar didn’t know what to say to any of it, so he said nothing about it aside from his earlier nod. “You don’t have to leave, you know,” he said of Peter ‘getting some air.’
He was exhausted and filthy - the idea of a bath, while something he reserved for special occasions like injuries and severe stress relief, was kind of girly. Mainly he hoped he didn’t fall asleep and drown during said bath. Peter said not to shower, though, he prompted himself when he thought of showers. I know that. His thoughts came singularly, like a spinning lighthouse shining out in a storm. Maybe I should invite him in?
XXX
Peter tilted his head slightly, accompanied by a small rise of his left brow. “Yeah?” Trying to work out Sylar's motives, he mentally reviewed, as best he could, the short exchange preceding breakfast. Sylar had asked for space, but he’d just woken up. Maybe it made a difference that they’d gotten through a meal on civil terms? Though they almost hadn’t … yet that, too, might be a help. Peter had gotten angry and it hadn’t resulted in Sylar getting punched in his overly large schnoz. It was a small proof Peter was getting better. His frustration at being stuck here, at his mission being derailed due to his own stupidity, had combined badly with his already not-very-latent hostility towards Sylar.
Do you want me here? Do I want to be here? Do I want to be helping you in the bathroom if you’ve been trying to make moves on me? Do I want to risk you having an accident in there because I’m too squeamish and uneasy about you making moves on me? It was a conundrum Peter wasn’t up to working out at the moment, not least of which because he didn’t know what was likely to happen should he volunteer to help. Despite his usual lack of curiosity about powers and the world at large, he had quite a lot about people. What, exactly, was Sylar implying with ‘You don’t have to leave’? Sylar covered his ass exceedingly well, saying things that were open to a lot of interpretation and then waiting to see how it was taken.
“You need some help getting to the bathroom?” Peter offered, stepped forward and extending his right arm off to the side, pantomiming the motion he’d use to put the arm around Sylar’s waist while Sylar’s left arm would go over Peter’s shoulder. It ran through Peter’s head that he’d washed people’s hair in basins many times as a hospice aide. It wasn’t that hard and it was much safer than risking a fall in a shower. And then there was the possibility of a sponge bath - a real one, not just cleaning the hands. Or not cleaning at all - routine cleaning of the skin was overrated. Aside from cleaning soiled areas, it was largely unnecessary, carried out as a soothing routine rather than something people needed for the maintenance of life. But, then again, soothing routines were pretty important. On the other hand, Peter had not offered any of these other solutions to Sylar and Sylar hadn’t said what he was going to do except for his previous expression of intent to shower and shave.
He supposed he could always ask. “What are you going to do, so I know what I can help with?” Or if I should just stay out of your way.
XXX
“Hmm,” Sylar answered at first. Peter went on about…helping. Who said anything about help? Is that what you think I’m asking for or what I want or…is that just what you wanna do? Why do you need to know what I’m gonna do? Worried I’ll have a fun time without you, just me and my hand? Sylar was forced to reconsider the cons of having Peter in the bathroom. Is this one of those ‘help me by putting me out of my misery’ things? He didn’t think so, but it was still very much on the table whether Peter acted the part or not.
Sylar longed to snap back ‘I’m concussed, not a fucking invalid!’ or something along those lines. The actual thoughts were fuzzy, the words not taking shape in his head, but his feelings were a bit clearer.
In the meantime, Sylar just blinked, processing the actual question after his stupidly (somewhat necessary) emotional tangents. “I- um…” Why do you have to be so fucking helpful?! And….specific? Just play your part! He hadn’t prepared for a Q-and-A session as usual. More importantly, he was trying to think why or what he could use Peter for in this instance. The list was short. All he was going to do was shave and bathe; sure Peter could be useful in a one-handed sort of way in removing clothes and avoiding slippage, but unless Peter was going to play barber, he would be useless. Then he contemplated the whole issue of nudity and his odds of success if he proposed it - was it likely to get him nothing or everything? Knowing him? Nothing.
Of course, none of this told him Peter’s limits and surely the guy had some. Lots, probably. Maybe this was a test. “Just…shower and shave.” Clean my hair because that will bug me if you’re sticking around. The beard was merely impolite if a bit bothersome. Quid pro quo, “What did you want to help me with?” Sylar’s hands dropped away from resting against his biceps, arms at his sides now, opening his body and straightening while he leaned on the wall still.
XXX
Peter hesitated, sizing up Sylar’s body language. He stopped his approach altogether, not sure what he was getting from Sylar, which was true on more levels than Peter was aware of. His arm, the one that had been extended, returned to his side. “I was going to help you get to the bathroom. As far as maneuvering around in there - it’s kind of cramped. I would suggest you put the toilet seat down, put a towel across your lap, and I’ll get you the razor. As far as showering …” Peter shrugged and shook his head. “If you’re having trouble making it across the room,” and I’ve noticed you’re still leaning against the wall right now, even though you’re trying to act like you aren’t, “then I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to try to take a shower.”
At that point, Peter had to think about things. All of his hospice patients - not that there had been that many of them during his six or so months of holding down the job - had been aged. Those who weren’t bed-bound were strongly encouraged to manage their own hygiene. It kept them mobile and independent, as well as letting him focus on the things they needed help with rather than the ones they didn’t. But Sylar’s main problem seemed to be balance; secondary was memory and focus. Peter didn’t worry too much that Sylar would zone out while showering, but a fall? Yeah, that worried him.
His hang-up though was in what to offer instead, or at least what to suggest, because he wasn’t going to stop Sylar from attempting a shower if the man was determined that was what he wanted. Peter … just flat didn’t want to wash Sylar’s hair for him, so he wasn’t going to offer that. He’d gotten a moment’s odd thrill out of Sylar’s appreciation for having his hands cleaned, but Peter couldn’t imagine that a more intimate body service like hair-washing wouldn’t come with baggage that he didn’t want - precisely because other than balance and memory, Sylar was basically competent. Or at least he seemed that way most of the time. Sylar would have comments; he’d probably take the whole thing wrong; it was way more friendly than Peter wanted to get with the only inhabitant of Planet Sylar.
Peter made a ‘what can you do’ gesture with his hands, turning them palm up and shrugging them out to his sides. “But if you want to try it, or a bath, I can either take off or stay and work the puzzle until you’re back out and settled. You tell me what you’re going to do.”
XXX
Sylar felt frustration; the head rush of being flattered; the interest of a challenge; the stunned pang of being insulted and the sheer annoyance of someone who just…wouldn’t. play. along. Peter was placing decisions and preferences, hell, wants on Sylar’s plate, shoving them directly in his lap. Sylar was struggling with finally getting something that he wanted; as usual, it came with the fine print of what was appropriate and acceptable in the eyes of others (in this case, Peter). He didn’t know what to do with the choice. Again, he had to consciously take the braver step after thinking it over. Around a closing throat, he said, “You can stay.” It would show trust…or a complete disregard for Peter’s potential for being dangerous.
That said, he didn’t know what to do next. Peter kept bringing up the shower option and Sylar was glad he was too mentally blown to process that accurately, otherwise he’d take it as a challenge, a dare, or maybe even a threat. So he stood there, body posture shifting again as he tried to gather his thoughts.
XXX
Peter got another dose of weird body language from Sylar, which Peter decided meant exactly what it looked like - a mixed bag of reactions. It seemed a little high energy for someone with as bad a concussion as Sylar had, which meant something Peter was doing was setting the man off. Peter tilted his head to the side slightly, feeling out in his mind if he should back out, back away, and let Sylar take care of himself.
Peter imagined what it would be like: You’re uncertain, not able to think three steps ahead, trapped here with the guy who beat the crap out of you and you killed his brother. He said, ‘You can stay’. Odd tone of voice. Mixed body language. Something nonverbal in Peter’s head clicked to ‘take charge’, his own demeanor kicking over entirely to the new role. “Okay,” Peter said briskly with an easy calm. “Come on. Let’s get you to the bathroom and I’ll hand you the razor. While you’re working on that, I’ll get the bath going and you can handle the rest yourself.” He gestured at the work table where the puzzle was. “I’ll be out here.”
With that said, he stepped forward into Sylar’s bubble and started the process of getting the guy where he wanted him. He was aware that what he was doing reeked of a sort of threat, but Peter wasn’t thinking about that, or second-guessing his instincts. He was, in his own way, mirroring Sylar in that he was taking the plunge, unexamined and unsure, but unlike Sylar, Peter wasn’t entertaining his doubts. He didn’t even have them to ignore.
XXX
Peter drew closer, his hands and arms not in positions for attack or even grabbing, so Sylar didn’t react much to it beyond standing a bit taller. The medic took charge of his body, situating himself to assist Sylar around, nothing more. Despite the innocent intentions of the touching, even through clothes as it was, it had Sylar’s brain hot and buzzing with little explanation. It was about then he processed the words. Peter’s coming in with me? To the bathroom? Uh-oh…. Then he felt like a lamb being led to slaughter and his breathing picked up. He did not want to be trapped in a tiny space like this with how many sharp, hard objects to bounce off with Peter Petrelli.
Sylar exhaled through his nose. Something about “I’ll get the bath going and you can handle the rest yourself” was bothering him unduly and he couldn’t figure it. That was terrifying, not even knowing what was a threat and what wasn’t. He couldn’t plan anything, let alone a defense if Peter decided to blindside him.
They walked together into the bathroom and Sylar clung to the sink counter, almost refusing to budge. “I-I can…get my own bath,” was all his brain had to suggest, not thinking it through because he didn’t know if he wanted to get it himself or even if he could get it himself. Maybe that’s why Peter offered…? An inner voice whispered to him, but he ignored it. “I’m not….” Next his vocabulary failed him, the word ‘invalid’ escaping him. Mainly he just had to prove he wasn’t going to let Peter bulldoze him into who-knew-what. Bath - water - drowning - Peter (nudity). How am I gonna get naked with him…hovering?
XXX
Peter got Sylar just inside the bathroom before the man balked, disengaging abruptly to cut in front and hang onto the sink. Peter hesitated a moment, not sure if Sylar had pulled up short because he was afraid, angry, or just decided he’d rather have the sink for balance than Peter. After a second or two of no movement, Peter stepped around the man, trailing his hand over the fabric of his shirt above the lower back. “Coming around behind you now,” Peter warned, edging around Sylar. He put the toilet lid down and looked at the tub: no handicap bar, no showerhead extension. Not that he’d expected either in an apartment inhabited by a young person, but you never knew. Plus, it wasn’t like it was an ordinary apartment. Or an ordinary person.
Peter looked back, catching Sylar eyeing him from the mirror, accompanied by Sylar making a rapid shift away from eye contact. Probably not anger, definitely not just getting his balance. That leaves fear. It seemed reasonable. Peter’s job, then, was to follow his script and avoid making unexpected moves. Sylar would calm down on his own, or not (Peter knew there was a limit to how long Sylar would stay on the high alert he seemed on without lashing out). “Kay, I’m going to get the razor.” He sidestepped past Sylar once more, again signaling his course with physical contact, and then removed himself from the bathroom entirely.
XXX
Sylar couldn’t help sucking in air as Peter’s hand drifted over his lower back. The gesture was either a simple ‘here I am’ or a statement of intent, like ‘I’m going to be here soon, don’t get comfortable’. While it spiked his adrenaline, it also felt good. When Peter left, he was able to calm a bit. Slowly he moved to sit on the toilet seat, but Peter had beaten him to it and moved the seat cover down so he could sit. While it was kind, it was also annoying - independence not being easy to let go of. With a huffed breath, he sat as directed, thinking he was fairly safe and clothed once there.
The main problem, he was beginning to suspect, was in not knowing what he himself wanted from all this. He either wanted Peter a lot closer and a lot more helpful or a lot farther away, minding his own business. It was safety versus neediness. As usual.
XXX
Peter collected up the razor, all of a couple steps away, and fiddled with it for as long as conscionable. He looped up the cord and shifted the device back and forth, checking it over to make sure he’d wiped it down sufficiently to remove his own stubble leftovers from it. Certain he’d wasted as much time as he could without raising questions, and having heard Sylar maneuver to the toilet, Peter returned.
“You got a plug …” He looked around the sink and mirror, spotting the outlet he needed. Peter offered the body of the razor to Sylar and plugged it in. “There. Let me just get you a towel to put over your lap and you’ll be all set.” He fetched one, then got out of the bathroom again, going over to loiter behind the work table. The bathroom door hung open because Peter hadn’t closed it. He assumed Sylar would do that once he was done shaving. Or maybe hook it with one of his long legs and kick it shut. In the meanwhile, Peter stared blankly at the puzzle box, the whole of his attention actually devoted to careful listening.
XXX
Peter set him up as promised then vacated. Sylar stared first at the razor in his hands, then at Peter (what he could see of him). It was all rather anticlimactic. The door stood open and that more than anything confused him. Does he want to keep an eye on me? Watch me strip? Not lock the door so he can barge in once I’m naked in a full tub? After a moment, he realized he’d forgotten his first task and that he could think (try to) while he shaved. Cutting on the machine, he started on his right cheek first, using his left hand. The vibrations weren’t pleasant in his wrist, but whatever. It felt strange to be shaving without a mirror - he’d done it before while on the run - but thankfully his balance issues didn’t really extend to proverbial hand-eye coordination.
So he stared at the wall holding the towel racks in front of him and tried to multi-task, thinking and shaving. Am I…supposed to shut the door? Will it piss him off if I leave it open? As he manipulated the razor around and the instrument was brought closer to his facial bones, the buzzing hit his headache and he made an unhappy sound, forgetting his audience. Crap. Now my head’s really buzzing. His neck was easier and faster and the last thing to be shaved; his lap held a very hairy towel, which he folded up to deal with later. Taking his time standing, he cast a look Peter’s way. He was pretty sure the shave job was patchy and insufficient, but it would have to do.
Sylar began to peel and pull his shirt off, lost his balance and thumped his shoulder into the wall with a grunt, still tangled in the shirt. Get it together! He snapped at himself, annoyed by his own clumsiness. Growling under his breath, he managed to sit and get the shirt off. Next, he inched off the pajama pants and tossed them on the shirt, making a pile on the floor. Underwear was obviously last and the toilet seat was cold on his butt once they were off and that was right about the time he noticed the bath wasn’t going yet. Being smart really has its advantages, eh, Gabe? A swear word and some careful maneuvering involving flailing arms and legs to keep balance had the water running on warm, slowly filling the plugged tub.
XXX
When Peter heard the steady operation of the razor, he opened the box for the puzzle and sorted through the pieces without dumping them out. He looked across the desk at the chair, still sitting in front of the couch where he’d last been using it. For the moment he was content to stand, which was more about his subconscious being unwilling to calm and settle while he was still worried about Sylar.
The razor stopped and Peter went back to listening carefully. A thud and a vocalization got his attention. Peter leaned out to look in. It hadn’t been a fall and he could see Sylar struggling out of his shirt, making a variety of unhappy noises. Peter smiled and leaned back. Sylar’s grumbling was human and heart-warming, a weird way to feel about Sylar of all people. Clothes were tossed off, landing on the floor of the bathroom. Only when Sylar’s pajama pants joined them did it occur to Peter that Sylar was going for the full monty with the bathroom door wide open. He blinked in the direction of the small room, eyes a little wider than they should be, watching as Sylar’s feet kicked into and out of view, to be followed by the sound of the tub turning on.
Huh. I wonder what he looks like completely naked? He tried not to think that, but the thought had already fired through his synapses.
XXX
The door stood open. Sylar left it that way because Peter left it that way. He certainly wasn’t going to be shy about things. If Peter wanted to look, he’d look; if he wanted to come in, he’d do it. If it made things awkward for Peter, so much the better - that would just be fair play. The sound of the water was positively narcotic. Sylar sat on the toilet, not jumping in just yet because he’d hated sitting in the rising water as a child while his mother watched him like an overexcited hawk. /”I got to the bathroom just in time. She was holding you at the bottom of the tub”/ No one wants to be the monster’s mother. Can you blame them?
XXX
Regardless of the direction Peter wanted his thoughts to move, his hindbrain had him staring into the bathroom fixedly, waiting, while a more advanced portion of his brain tried to remind him that patients were patients and Sylar very much fell into that category, or else he wouldn’t be hanging out here in the guy’s apartment, fixing him meals and dispensing pills. His train of thought was finally broken by motion, and the leading edge of a tall, nude form entering his field of view. He snapped his gaze downward to the puzzle, hurriedly flipping a few straight-edged pieces into the box lid and trying to pretend he’d been sorting them all along.
Various sounds - shower curtain rings squeaking against the metal bar, water splashing - informed him that Sylar had settled, apparently without taking a nose-dive. Peter reached up and rubbed his brow with his left hand, feeling oddly stressed by the whole situation, a lot more than he thought he should be. Must be something to do with this all being Sylar’s head. Must be. He gave himself a shake and made a single, guarded glance up through his fingers towards the bathroom. Yep, Sylar was in there, with a line of sight straight at where Peter was standing now. Peter’s chest felt tight with the awkwardness of the situation. Sighing, and keeping his eyes very much to himself, he rounded the desk and went to retrieve the chair. He might as well get settled in.
XXX
Continued...