More Between Us, Chapter 34/? "Breakfast at Sylar's"
Chapter 34/? "Breakfast at Sylar's"
Day 11, Morning
Peter woke to a pounding headache. His hand hurt. His hip and butt hurt. Most of the rest of him was passable, though, despite being a collection of minor injuries. They seemed inconsequential compared to the major ones. He groaned and dragged himself out of bed. Painkillers. First thing. It was over an hour before he felt presentable to the world, such as it was. He was dressed, reasonably clean and all the parts that needed new bandages (which were just the cut on his eyebrow and cheek) had received them. He also finally had the presence of mind to slather himself with ben-gay. He smelled, but he felt better.
He brought the electric razor with him in case Sylar wanted to use it for himself. Peter wasn’t thrilled about the idea of sharing hygiene products, but he was even less inclined to search apartments for a second one, or find a store around here that carried one. In any event, maybe Sylar would have managed with whatever it was he normally used. Peter smirked to himself at how much he was getting to know about the guy. Next thing you know, I’m going to find out whether he folds or wads, he thought to himself as he walked between their respective apartment buildings. Hm, I think I’d definitely peg him as a folder, not a wadder. He’s too precise.
Peter managed to distract himself with trivial speculation until he arrived outside Sylar’s door. Here he had a mild dilemma. A nurse caring for a patient in a hospital setting would knock gently (to alert a wakeful patient and not wake a sleeping one) and open the door a second or two later, without waiting for any acknowledgement. But in that case, the nurse was going to care for you anyway; your presence in the hospital established your consent to care and monitoring. He had no such indication from Sylar. This wasn’t a hospital setting; it was the guy’s apartment. For that, one knocked and did not enter unless invited. Twice now, Peter had ignored that.
He raised his left hand and rapped solidly, expecting that Sylar would be asleep. Four times, and silence. He listened, head tilted slightly.
XXX
Sylar started out of his nightmarish sleep to the sounds of loud thudding from the direction of…Opening his aching eyes, he discerned it was coming from his door. Who…? He jerked up and felt himself tense all over from a host of injuries and the memories returned with them. Ooh…He mentally groaned, Peter. “Y-yeah!?” Sylar called out to allow Peter in; that was after, of course, he cleared his throat to even be able to yell. Oh, god, I feel rough…Propping himself on an elbow, he rubbed briefly at his eyes, feeling the surrounding sinuses were a little swollen.
XXX
“Yeah, Sylar. It’s me, Peter.” That much was obvious, given where they were, but Peter had yet to get into the habit of understanding they were the only two people in existence as far as this place was concerned. His jaw twinged a bit with the volume he was using to be sure his voice carried through the door. He didn’t want to require Sylar to come let him in, so he tried the knob, hoping the other man would excuse the breach of etiquette for what it was - concern about his safety. When the knob turned and the door opened, Peter called out in what was more like a loud conversational tone, “I’m coming in.”
XXX
With the door opening it occurred to Sylar only then that he might not be decent - a swift checking glance confirmed that he was in his pajamas (weird), otherwise decent, and his clothes were on the chair, pulled before the couch. Sniffing, he worked to sit up. “Peter?” He hedged, groggily, feeling like a sand trap all over what with his beard, unwashed skin and hair and creaking injuries. He sniffed again, trying to clear his nose to no avail while he ruffled his hair back.
Sylar took a look at his watch; it was 9:23. He said something about breakfast…Shower; that’s what I was thinking. Or a bath…a bath sounds so good right now. “I didn’t know you did room service,” he croaked to distract the man from pointing out anything about his less-than-seemly appearance.
XXX
Peter looked Sylar over, pleased to see that he’d moved back to his bed. It had to be more comfortable than the couch. The guy still looked like something of a wreck: pale, bruises even more evident than before, hair sticking out irregularly and facial hair growing in thickly enough to put a cave man to shame. But he’d sat up with more speed and less unsteadiness than he’d shown the day before. He was looking around more alertly, directing his eyes to his watch and to Peter more quickly.
Peter read all of that in a few glances, made sense of Sylar’s words and decided to test the water on joking back - all in a few seconds, because he was more mentally coherent today as well. “Hey, yeah. I didn’t want to dirty up my own kitchen, so I decided to make the mess over here in yours.” He smiled in a friendly way and shut the door behind himself. “How are you feeling? You look better.” That last might not be true for a snapshot of Sylar’s physical appearance, but it was for overall behavior.
XXX
Peter’s eye looked a little better, less puffy and red. Sylar was still worrying quietly that he’d permanently damaged one of the guy’s eyes. That was a big deal - to both of them, Peter’s eye useful and pleasant for him to have functioning, pleasurable for Sylar to look upon. Sylar snorted, twisting a bit to look out the window at Peter’s retort. “You’re a loser,” he parried back about Peter’s kitchen catastrophe status. He’d seen the smile, though. I look better? Saying I look like crap when I’m normal? Or I looked bad before and this is good to know now? For all that his brain sputtered out when it came to self-diagnosis. How do I feel?
Licking his lips, Sylar looked back to Peter, his expression falteringly neutral as he admitted, “I don’t know. I just woke up.” Things get worse with time before they get better…if they get better. Already his skull set up its war drum tempo to match the increase in pressure everywhere in his head and the rest of his body had steady, pulling hurts.
XXX
Peter had woke Sylar, which made sense. Concussion victims slept a lot, a pattern that would stay for several days. Peter assumed Sylar would need to use the facilities and clean up, perhaps even change clothes depending on how well he felt and how scrupulous he was about such things. “I was going to make eggs, maybe an omelet. If you want, you know, I can walk down to the grocery store and come back with a few things. I think you’re almost out of milk. I’d be out of your way while you get your morning taken care of. Or if you think we have everything here, I could just get started cooking.”
Peter was trying to offer Sylar the choice of having him around or having him get lost for a bit. Peter’s main goals for patient care were frequent check-ins and prompting Sylar to eat and take care of himself. If Sylar could navigate from couch to kitchen and back again as he had the night before, then he could probably handle basic bathroom needs without help. Peter pulled the electric razor out of his left jean pocket, unfurling the cord behind it. He walked over and set it on the corner of the worktable. “The other times I’ve ever seen you, you’ve always been clean shaven. I thought you might want to use this. Might be easier than what you’ve got.” He backed off a step. “So do you want me to go get some milk and stuff, or get started cooking?”
XXX
Sylar just blinked. He didn’t know what to say to any of those offers. It was very overwhelming, more so because of his foggy brain. The only excuse he could reasonably come up with was: But what if you’re just waiting outside the door for me to…I dunno…be vulnerable? Be distracted? Then he thought that maybe this was a trick question. Peter even set out the electric razor they’d- he’d found, the one that was doubtlessly…Peter’s. It belonged to Peter. So how am I supposed to use it? Sylar wound up just staring at Peter, his brows drawn together in confusion, lips parted while he tried to work them to say something.
After what felt like an age, Peter didn’t swoop in to explain or anything and no thoughts popped in to save the say, Sylar finally started, his delivery stream of consciousness, “Why are you treating me like this?” His gaze dropped lower and away from Peter as he slowly pivoted to lay his feet on the floor, facing the problem. “I want…I want space now, but…I don’t think I have time to shower and shave and…stuff while you’re out getting milk.” He was hardly aware he’d spoken, let alone aloud; he’d have been embarrassed if he’d known he’d slipped up that information. But breakfast sounds good, too. This was probably an either/or choice; an answer that he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge for fear of complicating his mind further appeared.
XXX
No one even calls him by his name. Peter didn’t know why, but that stuck in his mind and Sylar’s tone brought it to the forefront. “Sylar,” he said gently. He took a step or two back to bring him back to the corner of the worktable. “I’m going to ask a favor of you, something I don’t have any right to, but I’m going to ask anyway: trust me. Just a little. Not a lot.” He extended his left hand towards Sylar without moving closer. It was a gesture of offering, like he was offering to help Sylar up. “Let me help you to the bathroom, just like I did yesterday. I’ll go in the kitchen and see I what you have for breakfast. You do your thing. You’ll be fine. If you fall or something, I’ll be right here. Don’t shower. I don’t think you’re steady enough for it. Just use the toilet, brush your teeth, use the razor if you want to.” He smiled a little, looking at Sylar’s hair. “Comb your hair maybe.”
XXX
Sylar looked up on hearing his name, his face a perplexed pout. He listened in contemplating silence. A favor. That was…new. Is the trust just for today or just while I’m sick or…forever? I’ll be fine? I’ll really be fine? I haven’t been fine in so long…was I ever fine? IF I fall? Is he demanding I don’t shower or suggesting? Sylar’s brows twitched towards a frown, but the rest of the information outweighed any upset he may have had about a potential crack aimed at his hair. At least I have an adult hairstyle, Peter, more than I can say for you.
XXX
“Then we’ll talk about whether you want me to take off so you can take a bath, or just change clothes, and how long you want me to be gone.” He wants to keep his eyes on me all the time, is that it? Doesn’t want to be distracted by brushing his teeth. And no one wants to be caught on the toilet unaware. I knocked this time though - didn’t bust the front door down. Can he trust me just a little? It’s not like I’m asking him to turn his back on me. Just … turn to the side a little and look the other way. I’m not a monster. I won’t jump on him just because he’s not looking right at me.
That was a disturbing thought to Peter - that he was Sylar’s monster, come to torment him. It made Peter feel small, miserable and uneasy, along with the wish that Sylar’s impression of him was unjust. But he couldn’t look at Sylar’s bruised, confused face and claim that Sylar didn’t have damn good reason to be wary of him, and that was without all the baggage of the past weighing him down.
XXX
Thinking on it for longer than he would have liked, looking at the hand Peter presented, Sylar made a decision. Anything he’s going to do he’s going to do eventually, whether I’m incap-… injured or not makes no difference. If he does something, take it like a man. He’s been fine so far - he didn’t even peak at your junk and he could have. Maybe that’s what was bothering him. A single nod, Sylar reached out for the proffered assistance in the form of a hand. But I’m wearing my pajamas! His mind suddenly hissed at him; the idea of Peter’s hands and body being on him or that close in that frame of “undress” was…His arm was slung over Peter’s shoulder once again, overkill for the distance, but he was not about to be led like a granny to the fucking bathroom, no sir. The man was warm and he smelled a bit stronger than he had last time, like strong chemicals, not unpleasant if a bit manly. It helped wake him up. Sylar turned once he was in the bathroom, Peter moving away, towards the kitchen like he said, so he used the surfaces of the bathroom to move inside better, shutting and, yes, locking the door. That was about as much as he could allow right now. He tried to continue in calming down - his heart racing for several reasons (fear of interruption for something bad, having just touched and smelled Peter and getting up in general).
The toilet accomplished, he washed his hands and got out his comb, honestly debating whether he wanted to fix his rather dashing bed-head (so he thought) after Peter’s comment. Does anyone besides your mother ever tell you to fix your hair, Pete? With an abbreviated sigh, he ran it through his unwashed, completely unappetizing hair a few times to get it out of his face at least. Happy now? Was the accompanying sarcastic thought. Gathering his toothbrush and paste, he carefully smeared the goo. Brushing his teeth went okay, two minutes on the dot like you were supposed to and he knew because he checked his watch. Spitting, rinsing, it occurred to him this was before breakfast, but that happened sometimes. Hmm…shit. Beard. That monster has a life of its own. Sylar tilted his head to eye his beard from another angle, considering what to do for it. Do it later, yeah. He said I might get a bath. Geez, that’s pathetic of you. He can’t attack me with an electric razor. Wait…why the hell did you tell him about the bath idea? Or did he say that? He did. Does that me- fuck it! I want a bath so I will take a bath, whether he’s here or not. That decided, Sylar wandered back to sit on the couch, awaiting Peter’s appearance, if there was to be any, from the kitchen.
XXX
Peter took inventory inside the kitchen, part of his attention still back on Sylar, listening to the flush of the toilet and running of water. The shower or tub didn’t get turned on and neither was there any call for help or sound of disaster, so Peter figured things were going well. In the meantime, he counted eggs (six), examined cheese (cheddar - good), and explored the vegetable crisper drawer (nothing there he wanted to use). He checked the pantry and nosed around at Sylar’s pans, finding a good non-stick skillet like he wanted. He held it in his left hand, hefting it slowly as he frowned and tried to think about how he was going to manage to cook an omelet - which required some degree of dexterity - using only his left hand. Scrambled it is, then. Which was too bad. He’d wanted to show off. He could do breakfast foods well enough. It was just everything else that he had trouble with.
I want to show off … to Sylar? Peter smiled at his foolishness and put the skillet on the stovetop. It’s not like there’s anyone else to show off to, but somehow I don’t think he’d be impressed even if I’d saved the world three times over. In fact, I sort of think he’d resent me for that. He sighed and wondered idly, I wonder what would impress him? The catchy tune to a song from years ago drifted through his mind, but all he recalled of the lyrics was that it was a list of very impressive things that the singer didn’t care about. I think what impressed her was something about romance and empathy. Right? Wasn’t that it? Something about the touch, if someone had the right touch, keeping her warm at night … wait, what the fuck am I thinking? That’s the most useless option out there! Or … maybe not useless (as Peter was sure Sylar would sit up and take note), but it’s not an option.
He shook his head to clear it, hearing Sylar exit the bathroom. I don’t think there’s any point to trying to impress anybody here, so let’s just settle for not inciting violence and hatred. Peter walked out to see Sylar look up at him from where he was sitting on the couch. Peter reached up to scratch at his left brow, unthinking about why it might itch. His fingertips fumbled against the tape and he pulled them away, unsatisfied. It still itched. He tried to ignore it as he considered the simplest way to ask Sylar what he wanted, without relying on the man having remembered anything of the conversation from before he went in the bathroom. Peter settled on asking, “Do you want to have breakfast now, or take a bath now?”
XXX
Sylar was secretly amused in watching Peter’s itch-n-twitch routine, but it didn’t hold his interest. “Breakfast,” he said more decisively than he felt. If he wanted control, he had to act like he was already there. Asking questions made him the one taking orders. For some reason he needed to be reminded of all this - it was like his brain was on vacation to the past or something. Peter buzzed back to the kitchen and Sylar took that as either invitation or some other cue that he was supposed to follow; so he rose and walked in, once again waiting for Peter to address him. That, he told himself, was just proper manners - it’s what he’d always had to do to get away with anything with his mother way back when, waiting and ‘asking’ for permission of sorts - Peter was the first one there; this was (kind of), in essence, his kitchen even though it belonged to Sylar. Sylar wasn’t up for making himself anything more than cereal so by default, Peter had chosen to assume the role of chef.
XXX
Peter nodded firmly and returned to the kitchen, getting out eggs, cheese and milk. Shit, how am I going to dice the cheese? I think I can manage that left-handed. He felt reluctant to have Sylar do everything for him, even though he saw the man had followed him into the kitchen and looked like he intended to help. There wasn’t a shortage of things to be done, though. “Can you set the table?” Peter asked, internally debating whether to add ‘please’ to be polite, and stroke Sylar’s ego, or leave it off to be casual and thus indicate a little more normality between them, and that Peter wasn’t quite so cautious with Sylar as he had been. He thought about that long enough that the pause created made it awkward to say it, so he ended up leaving it off. Sylar went about helping without the ‘please’, which was good enough. Peter unwrapped the cheese, got out a knife, and concentrated on not cutting his fingers off while he sectioned the stuff.
XXX
Getting out the plates was probably more than Peter wanted to handle with his hand and all, so while the task was menial, it was helpful he knew and that made it very acceptable to him. He’d noticed Peter steering him away from the food two consecutive times, but maybe it was just coincidence. Placing them on the table, he went back for silverware, glancing over at Peter’s dealings with the food to try to anticipate what utensils they’d need. Interrupting his own thoughts, it occurred to him that maybe Peter wanted some sort of breakfast sausage with the eggs or maybe bacon. “Did you want some ham to put in there or…?” he couldn’t think of what other kind of meat would go in scrambled eggs.
XXX
Peter glanced over, finishing up with the cheese without incident (thankfully) and moving on to getting out a bowl to crack the eggs into. “No. Maybe some other time. I try to avoid eating meat.” He ended by muttering partly to himself, but loud enough Sylar could probably hear it, “Most meat, anyway.” He put the bowl on the counter and picked up an egg, suddenly way too aware of how dirtily that could be read. So he elaborated at a normal tone, “I mean, like, shellfish and stuff is okay, but anything with a spinal cord isn’t. I’m not a very strict vegetarian.”
XXX
“Oh, right. I…knew that,” Sylar said lamely, conscious now that spinal cords and food weren’t appetizing. “M’kay,” was his senseless acknowledgement, staring at the utensil drawer in an attempt to remember what he’d been doing before he opened his mouth. Setting the table? He dug out a pair of forks, plucked some disposable napkins and laid them down. Another moment to tell him what else was missing before he asked, “Drinks? You like milk, right?” already on route to the fridge. Nathan never really paid attention to how adult-Peter liked his eggs - they were so different in age, Nathan hadn’t been around for it in actuality. He would therefore assume if Peter wanted anything in his eggs, he would get it himself. He’s a big boy, don’t baby him.
XXX
“Milk’s good, yeah, but get me juice. Here’s the milk. I’m done with it,” he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the mostly-empty carton next to him on the counter. There was enough there for Sylar’s drink, if he wanted it. He whisked the eggs a bit before realizing he needed to turn the stove on. The forgetfulness was a concussion symptom he’d readily leave behind. At least he was a lot more together than the day before, though it wasn’t like the dull throb of the headache and continuous pull of sore muscles was going anywhere.
XXX
There was about four sections, if he counted, of different direction and meaning in Peter’s sentences: An opinion, stated desire, a helpful hint or was it an order that he needed to replace the milk in the fridge? After a pause, Sylar moved closer to take up the carton, shaking it to gauge it, another pause before he placed it in the fridge. He used milk? A lot of it, too. How odd. Sylar remembered after the fact how the Petrellis made their eggs, sure; different from how Sylar himself did. There was nothing wrong with that; he was actually intrigued to try eggs another way. Sylar certainly didn’t want to ingest that much dairy so early so juice was his option also. Peter will deal with it if he thinks I’m copying him. The fridge door still open, he used that as support while he leaned in for the apple juice; He’ll drink apple, right? He glanced over almost in question, but Peter was occupied, so he went with it anyway, getting out glasses and pouring and placing.
XXX
Peter finished whisking while the nonstick skillet heated, then put a little butter in it because that was the way he’d been shown to do it years ago, using a cast iron skillet at Pinehearst. Or, at least, the place Peter had first associated with the name - the hunting lodge his father had taken him and Nathan to a precious few times. Like so many memories of his father, this one was mixed. That was usually as good as they got. Peter had been taken hunting as part of some sort of male bonding that he’d screwed up by not shooting the harmless deer. Nathan had killed it instead. In the absence of servants, his father had shown Peter how to cook eggs, a lesson that had stuck with him. He’d been assigned a lot of scut work on that trip. It wasn’t that he minded the jobs if they needed doing, but he had the feeling that if he’d killed the deer, the work would have been divided evenly. Since he hadn’t, he’d been treated as a second-class citizen - that was what grated.
He glanced back at Sylar, saying, “You should get your pills set out. They’re over there on the counter. Painkillers and some decongestants. Double the dosage for the painkillers, normal for the decongestants.” He wondered if he needed to explain why - body mass, metabolism, the way the drugs functioned and the effects of exceeding the recommended dosage for each all factored into it - and decided to skip it. He had his reasons and they were more complicated than he wanted to explain, which meant they were almost certainly beyond what he expected Sylar to retain. Hopefully the ‘trust’ would extend that far.
XXX
He’d been watching carefully, if somewhat uselessly, to make sure Peter didn’t hurt himself because not only was the empath less-than-handy in the kitchen, he was short a hand. Then he’s kind of short on top of everything. Cute and petite, fiery, a nurse, he’s special and he can cook…sorta. He will cook, anyway. Be still my heart. Don’t worry, we’ll fit together in bed; that’s the important part. Peter turned and Sylar adjusted his expression to accommodate direction. Pills. He’d really let me handle the pills? (He didn’t know if they were their pills or not). While Peter actively cooked now, Sylar went over to the microwave to check out the doses on the back of the boxes, one in each hand. Yes, I can see what they are, Peter, I don’t need you to tell me, he thought in unvoiced response. He was busy frowning at the directions. The Tylenol said two pills was the serving suggestion. Serving suggestion? Why do they call it that? It’s drugs, not cookies. Is there a calorie limit, too? I mean seriously…Like I’m gonna get fat on painkillers. My liver will go before that. A look at the decongestants; two pills, Isn’t that a lot? A nagging thought about how Peter was much more cognizant and able to drug him, should he so chose, circled back around. They do help, though…he thought in the medic’s defense, Why are you defending him? Does he need it? No, not from me. Then let him deal with it.
XXX
The eggs cooked fast, which was fine. Peter looked back again, announcing, “Almost done. Want to have a seat?” A moment or two later, he was bringing the meal over and dishing it up while still sizzling faintly in the pan - scrambled eggs with cheese, milk, salt and pepper. Simple and good. Peter scraped out the last half into his plate before returning the pan and turning off the stove. He took his seat, quietly appreciating that the table had been set for him. It was nice having someone help.
XXX
Sylar snapped his glazed eyes from the boxes. He’d been staring and indulging mental tangents too long and Peter was finished. Impressive. For him, that is. He saw the eggs as Peter brought them over and they looked normal, smelled normal; having breakfast made for him was fantastic. “Yeah, I was…yeah,” he nearly addressed his zone out and brought the boxes to the table. In case Peter wants some, he told himself, slowly seating himself. The next challenge was his appetite because it wasn’t as strong as it should be, normally was, and would otherwise be at having someone else cook for him. He sat eyeing the food, idly taking up his fork while he tried to address his stomach. His right arm once again placed on the table, he knew it would be incredibly rude if he didn’t eat now. Peter wouldn’t believe he simply lacked appetite all of a sudden. Then again, Peter had done weird things with the pills that seemed to be connected to if Sylar ate at all or how much he ate; so it was clearly a performance thing Peter was trying to force. Or maybe enforce, but it hardly mattered because Sylar got the feeling not eating would have more consequences than being bad mannered. That decided, Sylar took up an eggy clump and laid it on his tongue before chewing it without haste. “Hmm,” he said in appreciation, his eyebrows going up a little. These were much creamier and had less pure egg taste than the ones he made himself. His taste buds woke his stomach and it rumbled embarrassingly. Sylar locked his eyes on his plate to avoid any looks sent his way about that, picking up another, bigger bite.
XXX
Peter heard that noise - both the ‘hmm’ and the stomach sound. Both of them made him want to preen idiotically. He smiled some, then more when Sylar dipped his head and kept his eyes down. Peter was amused at himself for being so … well. It was stupid and silly to be that easily moved by such small praise, but he was what he was and he wasn’t going to apologize for it. Not like he got much of a choice on the matter anyway - he felt how he felt and that was that. He savored the nice feeling while he had it and moved on to savoring the eggs as well.
They were good, very filling and didn’t require much chewing, which Peter found to be a strong advantage. There were a lot of things Peter liked to put in eggs and he spent the next few minutes contemplating that - bell peppers, sweet peppers, hot peppers even, mushrooms, broccoli, onions of course, bamboo sprouts, tomatoes, all kinds of things. He ate quietly, comfortable in the silence. Sylar’s head was still down, discouraging conversation even if Peter had wanted it. He looked across the table at Sylar’s hair, which had seen better days. Peter smiled again to himself. I’ve defeated Sylar’s hair, if not Sylar himself. I’ll bet that makes me a hero to hair everywhere. Hm, what would my super-hero name be? Captain Hair? Super-Bangs? Hey, that’s not bad. Then I could have a big ‘bang’ sound effect whenever I smacked the villain. That would be cool. I could have a neat catch-phrase about ‘permanent’ damage … My nemesis would be bald, like Lex Luthor …
He wiped the semi-vacant, daydreaming smile off his face when Sylar looked up at him. Peter was sure he was too late to keep that expression from being seen, so he cleared his throat and set to his food a little more aggressively than necessary. Sylar was eating pretty slowly, so even though Peter readily speared a forkful, he pushed it around the plate fussily until he had less. He tried to pace himself, which was leaving him with more time to think than he wanted. He eyed Sylar as if he was about to speak, then changed his mind. ‘What are you planning on doing today?’ was a stupid question. Sylar probably had no plans at all, and even if he did, he shouldn’t. He’d be best served by bed rest with minimal activity, and maybe another round of ice packs.
Telling him he needs to stay in bed won’t go over well. And maybe that’s what he plans to do anyway. I can think of other ways to phrase it, I’m sure. I’m kind of looking forward to working that puzzle. Should I say that? Without actually thinking out what he wanted to say, he opened his mouth and began. “I was going to go to the grocery store after we finish eating. Is there anything in particular you think I should get? I was thinking milk and another dozen eggs.”
XXX
Sylar gave the inquiry a few seconds before allowing any reaction, just in case it was a trick question. It didn’t appear to be. “Um…I guess whatever you eat for snacks…” Because that way I’d know what you like to eat. Assuming you’re staying around, that is… “If there wasn’t any of…what you eat here. No cinnamon raison bread, sorry,” he gave Peter an amused, jesting smirk. Time out. Did he say another dozen eggs? Is he re-stocking my kitchen or does that mean he’ll be sticking around to make more eggs, say, every morning? His expression faded to contemplating for a bit, but he was still focused on Peter. “Milk and eggs sound fine to me,” he conceded eventually, neutrally, his thoughts still processing the egg conundrum.
“Are you looking to move in or something?” Which is fine…more than fine, actually. It would be great, fun maybe, when they weren’t busy decking each other into unconsciousness. Or maybe that’s what make-up sex was for because it wasn’t like he knew anything about it. Sylar asked as he poked with purpose amidst his eggs, chewing to keep his face busy and to hide his delight at the idea. He practically lives here anyway. He busted my door down twice, making me breakfast and getting groceries?
XXX
Peter half choked at Sylar’s question, then laughed - tense at first, then relaxing. “No,” he said bluntly, unconcerned about the potential rejection he might cause. He eyed Sylar, a smile hurting his face as he tried to corral the swarm of thoughts and feelings that very casual, open question had provoked. “I guess it kind of seems like that, huh? But no, I’ll leave you to yourself once I think that’s safe.” Right now you can’t get from bed to bathroom without help. Or rather, I figure you could, just like you got yourself to the kitchen and helped out, but expecting you to take care of yourself unassisted right now is like expecting me to play the guitar with one hand broken. It’s not gonna work.
XXX
Sylar stabbed the eggs, staring Peter down with a lot of heat. Moving in with me is laughable. Not that we didn’t know that already. The anger of being mocked filled him up because it had nowhere to go. You laughed at me. Why was babysitting and making sure Sylar stayed healthy suddenly a matter of national security? It had never been before (until they’d needed him alive to test his brain, of course, for those few weeks, but after that…) But I’m a damsel in distress. I refuse to be cast as Claire in this. I don’t need fucking protection! That continued to simmer in his chest because his hands were tied; he wasn’t healthy or capable of throwing down with Peter because Peter would probably manage to “accidentally” kill him in retaliating. I don’t think you get it, Peter! Don’t laugh at the killer with a goddamn fork in his hand! Sylar fiddled with it, partly, seriously considering using it - It won’t kill him…
XXX
He shook his head to further deny Sylar’s implication. “My apartment’s just fine for me. I spent a lot of time the other day getting it set up how I wanted.” Meaning mostly empty. It occurred to Peter that Sylar probably wouldn’t understand what Peter was trying to do there, with shoving most of the furniture and stuff into a different apartment. Peter wasn’t even sure what he was trying to do. But it felt important, like if he could just get rid of enough stuff, things would be simpler … understandable … unentangling. All of his ties had been cut, he’d lost his people, so why not throw everything else out of his life, too?
XXX
What the fuck does that mean? Strangely, the implication that a nice apartment building needed “setting up” (what a mobster term) before it was acceptable to Prince Petrelli really got under his skin. Another factor of not wanting to move in with a psycho pack-rat. Your apartment’s a mess.
XXX
Peter shrugged, trying to pull himself back to the now and out of contemplation, however indirect, of what was really wrong with him. Besides, you don’t want me here. … Do you? He didn’t ask that though. Either answer would spell trouble. “I figure we’ll see a lot of each other, though.” Circling back to the food issue, he went on, “I was just asking about groceries because I don’t think you should be walking around for a while. Give it a few days. And a trip to the store gets me out of here in case you want to take a bath or change clothes.” Or lock me out. Which is kind of amazing you didn’t do that last night, but maybe you forgot.
XXX
Is that like saying you broke my legs so I shouldn’t be walking type thing? Wait. Sylar flashed a humorless, dark smirk. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other. This wasn’t what I had in mind for ‘seeing each other’ but whatever gets you off, Petrelli. Right, sure. Because you’re just a good citizen who wants me clean….in a lot of ways, I’m sure. Days? Did he say days? Sylar was still watching his companion, but the glare had faded. In some ways, it was helpful and reassuring that Peter was aware of Sylar’s need to have him gone to be able to bathe and change clothes. In others, it just presented more questions and confusion. C’est la vie, Pierre. Of course, part of him wanted to do it around Peter as a test, for amusement, to see what the man would do.
Calmly, and more smoothly than he felt with his headache, he said, “That we will,” and, taking a risk, Sylar asserted, “I’m going to clean up, yeah.” Peter would then stay or go as he saw fit and Sylar would defend himself or harass Peter as needed. Peter now obviously knew he’d been getting the evil eye for some time (and ignoring it admirably) as Sylar’s gaze shifted back to the eggs. “What did you do to your apartment that was so important? Install a waterbed? Trampoline and slide combination? A nightlight?” No, no, I bet it was “Chuck Norris or Luke Skywalker poster on the ceiling?” Which was useless now as faces were extinct. “A super-size bottle of hand lotion and a Playboy?”
XXX
Wow, angry asshole. He glanced down at the boxes of pills on the table, trying to remember if Sylar had taken them. Possible. Not likely. ‘Have you taken your pills lately?’ was plenty rude, but being in pain made a person cranky and irritable. And sometimes unreasonable. Even knowing that, Peter couldn’t help but smile at Sylar’s ever-more-ridiculous guesses. Playing along, Peter quipped, “Chuck Norris or Luke Skywalker? I’d take Luke any day. Chuck Norris is just a brute. If you’re going to kick people’s asses, you need to have a good reason for it. Whose poster would you want up on your wall - you know, popular media heroes and all that?”
He completely ignored the thrust of Sylar’s verbal attack as well as the intent of his questions. But he didn’t ignore that there was something under those questions fueling the emotion. Something had happened … something Peter had said. Laughing maybe? Yeah, that was when his mood changed. He wants me to move in with him. ‘No more sponge bath’ … ‘I’m going to clean up, yeah’. Does he seriously think I’m going to take care of him to that level? He doesn’t need it! What did he say the other day about me cleaning up that glass and stuff? And the reaction about dirty hands. And the glare when I asked him to go wash up. Hm. Means something. But … he doesn’t want to kick me out? He wants me to move in, instead? Boundaries. Already covered he seems to have a loose grip on those. I guess a comfortable balance is a little hard for a watchmaker-turned-serial killer to manage. I think that’s it.
XXX
And we’re all thrilled you didn’t take the Chuck Norris option because that would make too much sense. You want to see yourself as the fate’s-ordained hero with a complex. I should have seen that one coming. Brat, Sylar thought of Peter’s dodge. Mentally, he mimicked Peter’s voice with a good deal of feminine tone to the mockery: ‘Chuck Norris is a brute. If you’re going to kick people’s asses, you need to have a good reason for it.’ I take it you had good reason, hero-breath? Sylar snorted as loudly and contemptuously as possible, otherwise focused on getting the eggs down but his interest in them was waning quickly.
“I’ll bet.” It struck him that Peter had thrown his own question back. That had him blinking a few times. Uh…What’s the context? he nearly thought to ask, a dodge of his own. “Darth Vader, Peter, obviously,” was sneered out, glaring daggers at the innocent breakfast growing cold as he stabbed and shifted it around. He was not happy with the turn of the conversation or his answer. Foolish young Gabriel had had a host of heroes and superheroes he’d enjoyed when he could. He didn’t believe in that now, having witnessed a lot of things firsthand. Sylar shifted in his seat, body tense now, uncomfortable.
XXX
“Darth Vader’s cool,” Peter said neutrally, finishing his eggs. “He was powerful.” While it lasted. He had a lot going on emotionally. He was kind of a scumbag, actually. Peter’s lips pressed together in a frown only momentarily broken by taking a drink of juice. There were a lot of disapproving things he could say about Darth Vader, but Sylar seemed to be (mostly?) joking and the joke was at Sylar’s own expense. Peter could see the subtext - Luke tried to win Darth Vader over to the side of good, which was momentarily successful, but Vader had died immediately thereafter. He gained so little out of that moment of virtue; it was easy to see how he’d feel used … as well as how that applied to Sylar’s current situation. Save Emma, die in the process - it’s a price too high. Sylar’s growing anger made Peter feel like he should apologize, or failing that, touch the guy and reassure that ‘hey, I’m not against you,’ but that simply wasn’t true, was it?
XXX
Continued...