More Between Us, Chapter 33/? "Just Desserts"
Chapter 33/? "Just Desserts"
Day 10, Evening
“Hmm.” Sylar frowned at Peter’s pause, tilting his head to eye the man’s face better to see what the hold-up was. It wasn’t anything he could discern. The nurse got his pants down sufficiently low and Sylar leaned in to begin looking at the knee when Peter did the same thing and he had to pull back to avoid cracking heads. Um…or you can look first. All the same, when Peter leaned back, Sylar went for another band-aid, taking a moment to find a larger, more square one to cover. This is getting awkward, all this leaning over him. But it couldn’t really be helped. Gently he smeared the ointment on evenly, adding to the scattered mess of litter from band-aids to cover the scrape-bruise injury. Where’d he even get this one from? He wasn’t really on his knees, was he?
XXX
“It’s fine. Compared to everything else …” Peter grimaced as he gestured to himself with his right hand, “it’s fine.” He sagged a little, reaching up with his right thumb to touch across his swollen lid. “My first night here, I slept out in the street, up against a brick wall. It’s not getting much better.” He frowned at his moment of … weakness? vulnerability? whatever, and straightened in his seat.
“So, you want some of that ice cream now? I’m kind of in the mood for it.” He tried to figure out how to get his pants back up without leaning over to get them. How the hell did I get these things on this morning? He seemed to recall doing it while lying on the bed, putting his legs up and letting the jeans fall enough so he could snag them with his left. Making a frustrated noise, Peter gestured at his pants. “Can you help me? Just raise it enough so I can get a hold of it.”
He could lean over and get them by himself if he had to, but that would hurt his hip enormously and then his balance would go wacko. Sylar was sitting right next to him.
XXX
“It’ll be fine now,” Sylar clarified. For a nurse this guy was kinda stupid. “That’s really dumb, Peter. Why would you sleep on the street?” Sylar’s voice was oozing condescension because, really? Now a roof, I can see you sleeping on because you really are that stupid, but the street? He doesn’t get it. In the middle of grabbing up and fisting the bandage wrappers, Peter asked about the ice cream and squirmed around for his pants before asking for them, too. He got the feeling he should see a connection between the two, but he just couldn’t rub the right wires together to get a thought going so he abandoned it.
“I can, yeah,” he smirked, “What if I don’t want to?”
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a look of pure disapproval with a hint of disgust on top. ‘What if I don’t want to?’ Then I’ll do it myself, you unhelpful jackass! He exhaled heavily and looked away. Why did I expect anything more? What was that he pulled during the fight - ask me nicely, or beg or something? Peter put his right hand on the edge of the couch for balance and reached down with his left for his jeans. He hooked his right foot up and sideways, which was a direction of flex the injured sartorius muscle in his right thigh didn’t like to do. He grimaced and made a small lunge downward, having to do it three times before he finally snagged the waistband of his pants. Three times that it hurt in his pelvis like a muscle cramp combined with an intestinal spasm; three times that Sylar sat by and was probably smirking at his difficulty.
XXX
“Spoilsport.” Sylar watched his companion struggle up and grab at the garment, completing his own request. He sat, waiting for any form of reaction from Peter about the whole event. I’d have done it, you know; silly man. He got a reaction, alright. Peter’s look turned him sour. After a moment, he said, “Ice cream sounds good.”
XXX
Peter pulled up his pants to his thighs and then struggled up off the couch before finishing. He kept his eyes fixed on what he was doing. Once clothed, he went to the kitchen with a gait that was both bedraggled and angry, turning his face a little so he didn’t even look at Sylar.
He reached for the bowls where they were stored in the cabinet and looked at the back of his left hand where it was raised before him, mid-reach. The bandage was still wet from washing dishes earlier. He didn’t want to touch dishes they were going to eat out of with it, much less serve food. I need to wash my hands. He turned on the hot water in the sink and leaned his left hip on the counter as he picked at the tape with his right thumb and forefinger. It was surgical tape, designed to hold even under exposure to bodily fluids, so even though the gauze was peeling up in spots, it was still difficult to unravel, especially one handed.
Sylar could have done it easily, but Peter would be damned if he’d ask him for help again given the mood he had at the moment. That mood was angry, sullen and resentful. He wanted to smack Sylar; he wanted to smack himself for being so stupid as to think the guy would pass up an opportunity, however small, to make sure Peter knew he was the lesser. A small part of Peter suspected Sylar might think they’d moved into being teasing and friendly with each other, but the larger part of Peter’s consciousness would reiterate how they were not ‘teasing and friendly’, they were merely at the stage of ‘refraining from killing each other’!
What I’m doing here for him is basic, mandatory, required medical care. It does not mean I like the guy, or that we’re friends. Sylar and his fucked up whatever … attraction to me? Does that have something to do with it? Damnit. I don’t want that! I should have just stayed in my apartment and left him alone. Should have stayed in New York. Should have found another way to save Emma. Damnit!
XXX
Left alone, Sylar grumped. Why couldn’t Peter just play along? People said Sylar was too tense, wound up too tight? They clearly hadn’t met Peter. Sighing and rubbing his forehead in solitude, he and the man’s brother agreed that in some things, a piece of coal up Peter’s ass would make for a fine, quick diamond. I’m not thinking about his ass right now. I’m not thinking of his pubic hair right now, Sylar thought tiredly, honestly, almost admitting it to himself. I’m…out of it, I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking about, what I should be doing…
After a long time, several times dozing and waking up because his chin kept dropping to his chest and the steady sound of water in his ears, Sylar sent a few glances towards the kitchen, spotting Peter a few times, still moving about. He’s a big boy; he wants to be a big boy, let him do it then. I don’t care.
XXX
The water ran steadily and unheeded, steaming finally, as Peter eventually managed to pick off the tape and expose his middle finger - the one where the skin wasn’t just scuffed and torn, but actually split through the entire dermis. Bandages off, he opened the freezer, then realized he still hadn’t washed. He shut the freezer, feeling confused. The sequence of necessary actions was jumbled in his head, thrown off by the prolonged mental effort of the exam and now the excitement of the emotional rush he’d just had. He couldn’t think straight. Shouldn’t I get bowls out? Wait … wash first, then bowls. He sighed and went to the sink, distracted by the bits of tape and gauze. Unsanitary. I left these here? He gathered them up and threw them in the trash, returning to the sink. The water’s too hot. He moderated the temperature and tried to work out how he was going to wash up without getting his brace wet, or getting stinging soap into the open wound on the back of his finger.
He put soap on the washcloth (that’s probably unsanitary, too, even for eating, probably worse to expose my finger to that than to leave it unwashed) and hesitated. He couldn’t think of how to clean himself otherwise, so he continued. He held the cloth gingerly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, and swabbed at the palm and fingerpads of his left. He rinsed, patted his hand dry, and shook his head at the difficulty of such a mundane task.
XXX
Sylar struggled for wakefulness because wasn’t he waiting for something? He frowned on principal of being put out from…whatever it was he was supposed to be doing because it was doubtlessly screwball Peter’s fault. Dumb kid’s probably still hunting around for the ice cream scoop or something like that. Grumbling to himself as he adjusted position, he called out, “Peter!” in a bitchy-to-hide-my-concern way, even if it probably didn’t translate, “What’s with the water?” Not that I don’t like to hear it running…not that it’s necessarily wasteful…To be honest, it’s just that it’s Peter in MY kitchen. And I have no idea what’s going on in there and little way to find out.
XXX
Now Sylar was yelling at him. Great. Raising his own voice in return hurt. “I couldn’t get the tape off!” And yep, that hurt. It had, by this point, been long minutes in the kitchen for a task that should have been simple and straightforward. Peter got out bowls, spoons and a serving spoon, then the ice cream. Only now liberated from the freezer, it was frozen all the way through.
XXX
Sylar frowned some more. Now he was getting torqued. That little fuck comes in here, claiming to help me and here I am picking up this loser’s marbles. First Luke, now you. Thank God Nathan was around because I think you needed a fucking babysitter. “What?” He called back, louder, as if that would get him a sensible answer (not likely), his tone more authoritative. Come to think of it, he couldn’t think why Peter was in the kitchen at all.
XXX
Great. Wonderful, Peter thought. Of all the times for Sylar to go deaf. I was loud. He had to have heard me. “I said I can’t … Just go fuck yourself. There was blood on it.” It rattled around in Peter’s laboring brain that what he was saying might not make a lot of sense from Sylar’s point of view, but figuring out how he needed to phrase his situation to give Sylar the information the man was actually requesting … well, it was beyond Peter’s capacity at the moment.
Getting the lid off hurt his right hand as he tried to hold the carton still while peeling at it with his left. Trying to dig out ice cream, left-handed, was difficult. His hand slipped and after all his attempts to be hygienic, it planted directly, frustratingly, in the ice cream.
He didn’t even curse. He just made a small noise, like a tiny whine, and retreated to the kitchen table. He sat down and stared at his hand. His instinct was to suck and lick the ice cream off of his knuckles. But that was gross. He wasn’t going to act like an animal, or a primitive, or a kid. It began to drip, so he put his hand down on the table. He sighed, shut his eyes, and sat there silently.
XXX
Growling under his breath, Sylar stood, too quickly, and made to start walking to the kitchen before he had his balance or his vision set properly. Somewhere along the line, he either tripped or became unstable. Luckily for him, the distance between him and the wall wasn’t far so he partially slid and braced himself on it with an embarrassing thud in his haste. Sylar worked on calming himself because he shouldn’t be allowing the little shit under his skin like that anyway, certainly not in his condition. Taking a nosedive into the guy because he couldn’t corner or stand upright was going to have the opposite effect he intended. For some reason, the odd tone in Peter’s voice made him worried. That, as much as his temper, was the reason for his speeding. He could conjure up plenty of images of all-thumbs-in-the-kitchen Petrelli bashed, burned, and bleeding out from some accident. Sylar eased around the corner, using both hands on either side of the entranceway, to see Peter sitting at the table, apparently, physically fine.
“What is your problem?” he demanded, a little high-strung because he’d gotten all the way up (nearly falling) and Peter was fine. And sassy. He’d better not be pouting. I didn’t touch him, I didn’t hurt him….I did okay, he thought of the exam.
XXX
Peter hunkered a little at Sylar’s tone. I should leave. I should just leave. Go home. But I can’t go home. Just an empty apartment. Nothing there. Might as well stay here. But with him? Fuck that. Just go. He looked up at Sylar blocking the entrance. No going. Not yet. What was I doing? Ice cream. Shit. I don’t wanna. He raised his left hand with the intention of rubbing his forehead. There was melted ice cream on a couple fingertips, making them sticky. He grimaced and put it down, lifting his right hand. He stared at the brace on it blankly, then put it down as well and lifted his left again, studying it. Some internal decision was made. He turned it and rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. It at least looked clean.
“The ice cream’s frozen,” he said thickly. “Just go lay down. I’ve got this.” Scene control. Never let the patient know you’re panicking. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he muttered. Not that I am panicking. What am I doing? I think I’m spacing out. What is it I’m supposed to be doing? A routine. I need a routine. A schedule. Yeah … don’t have one. Watch isn’t working. Ice cream. I was getting ice cream. I’d like some ice cream. I’d better go get the ice cream before he does.
XXX
Failing completely to pick up on the problem, Sylar stood there, gaining a quizzical look. Peter’s hands were all over the place; he looked nervous and twitchy. Not with you running the show, Petrelli.
XXX
Peter blinked several times and straightened in his chair, trying to pull himself together. I don’t know why I’m so out of it. Did I hit my head (again)? Did he do something to me? Was dinner bad? No, wait, I got mad. What the hell was I mad about? I think I hurt myself. Bobbing up and down grabbing at my pants? Guess that was it. Whatever. He stood up and went over to the ice cream, intent on serving up two bowls of it no matter what.
XXX
His attention shifted when Peter seemed to pull together. Task accomplished, he thought on why his brain felt like it was becoming more detached by the minute. Am I that tired? No, Peter must’ve done something….those pills. Decon-…pills. There had been quite a few, more than the other previous doses. Namely, he wondered if they were warping his current view of things. Generally, his pain tolerance was high enough that the user friendly serving suggestions didn’t have much, if any, effect, but Peter had mixed pain killers with sinus pills; maybe that had something to do with it. It’s not like I know how all that is gonna play together with my headache. “You should probably eat it here at the table then find a bed to sleep in, Peter,” Sylar said, sounding muzzy even to his own ears. I guess that implies that he needs to go down the hall? It’ll give me a chance to shower, if he’s gone. Will he come back, though?
XXX
Peter reined himself in from scowling at Sylar. “Yeah. ‘Kay,” he said instead, as it wasn’t like Sylar was saying anything disagreeable. He rinsed the ice cream from his hand, unwilling to use the washcloth due to a disoriented paranoia of it and the germs he imagined it might harbor. He patted his hand dry and picked up the serving spoon. As good news, the ice cream had softened around the edges, making it easier to dish out. He filled the first bowl quickly, but the second took longer and more struggling, as he was now left with the hard-frozen portion. He kept at it determinedly. Frozen desserts would not defeat Peter Petrelli.
XXX
Peter mangled through the ice cream serving; Sylar probably should’ve been helping with that, being the one with two good hands. The nurse got it done to his credit and Sylar sat at the table when the bowls were presented. I’m officially babysitting my babysitter. Why can’t things ever be simple? “Spoons,” Sylar reminded when Peter forgot; honestly, it took him a minute, too, longer than he would have liked, but he was the one left staring at a bowl of ice cream wondering how to eat it while Peter was looking to sit down. He waited until Peter sat, after retrieving the utensils, to begin in on his own dessert - vanilla. Yum.
XXX
Spoons? Yeah, spoons. Peter had gotten them out, but they were still over on the counter, next to the ice cream carton, which was also still out. He put the carton up and returned with the flatware, settling in to his first taste moments later. The ice cream was cold, sweet and creamy. Peter hadn’t paid any attention to the brand (not that he was much of a shopper), but he’d grabbed one that looked expensive. Might as well, when living in a world where money didn’t matter. The flavor lingered on the tongue real nicely. Immediately, he could feel the sugar raising his energy and his spirits. A small smile even made an appearance after his third spoonful.
Somewhat restored, Peter prodded the chunks in his bowl. He could get picky now. Vanilla ice cream - uniform throughout. That characteristic was somewhat disappointing to him. There were no nuts or chocolate chips to dig out, no ripples or caramel swirls to play with. It was boring. He flipped the lumps of ice cream in his bowl and decided that the different stages of meltedness would be a sufficient difference to engage him. He began clumsily scraping off the melted skein, one section at a time, then sucking it off the spoon and letting his mouth warm the metal before dipping for another bite.
XXX
Sylar was thinking about vanilla, something he couldn’t prevent when faced with it which was generally in the form of ice cream. His curiosity had been woken as a child wondering when he’d come across all the dark flecks in his vanilla (white) ice cream - turned out that was the vanilla. A spoonful melting in his mouth, Sylar watched the rest of it slowly, slowly melt while he ate. “Did you know the dark little chips in there is the vanilla? It’s the second most expensive natural flavoring in the world. And its not actually a bean - it’s a seedpod - that part has flavor, too, not just the seeds,” Sylar spoke softly, absently, much more about imparting said flavorings onto his tongue than delivering wisdom.
XXX
“Yeah, I tried to eat one once. Didn’t go over any better than the cinnamon stick I tried chewing.” Peter smiled a little again at the memory. “Ma was not happy.” She wasn’t enraged, though. More exasperated that her young son had taken it upon himself to explore the spice cabinet, having come to the conclusion that it was the source of all things tasty and sweet. “The cocoa powder was a complete bust, too. Actually, everything I got into was pretty bad. Except the nonpareils. Those were good. I think I ate half a bottle of them.” He chuckled a little. Oh yeah, the ice cream was really loosening him up. “I think I was seven, maybe eight. I remember I could read the labels.”
Nathan had been off at the military academy at the time, so it was one of the many very minor adventures of Peter’s youth that he’d missed. Peter had avoided anything that he didn’t think went into cookies, cakes, pies and sweet treats, along with anything that said ‘pepper’ on the label. Plain sugar was kept in a different cabinet, but it had never held his interest anyway. He flipped his remaining globs of ice cream to repeat his skimming process on the now-exposed, newly melted underside.
XXX
Blinking, Sylar looked up slightly from his ice cream, facing straight, while he parsed through that odd response. Oh, Peter knew all about spices, did he? Couldn’t cook, but the family had money - so much so that when their youngest son got into the spice cabinet and chowed down on a doubtlessly expensive product Mommy Dearest didn’t throw a fit. Rub it in. Yes, so he’d been thinking Peter wouldn’t know about vanilla. It amused him, though, and touched him a bit that grown-up Peter still referred to her as “Ma.” It was part of the strange enunciation the men in the Petrelli family shared - he’d noticed it immediately. Peter’s was a bit subtler; Nathan’s horribly obvious as was Arthur’s. He still couldn’t place where it came from, although Nathan’s dalliances in Texas may have been partly to blame. “Ma” still imparted some sense of warmth; it always had, even when Sylar was on the outside looking in before Nathan’s memories. The affection was strong and genuine to have lasted that long, the bonds very close.
Ignoring all that, including the assertion of wealth that a person who didn’t come from it would pick up on, Sylar chuckled, dragging his thoughts back to task. “Cocoa is insane for caffeine. And dry as hell.” And Peter could read? The goof.
XXX
The fog had largely cleared from his mind - anger had dissipated, he’d rested and cooled off. His thoughts were making more sense now. “After this is done, I’d like you to help me with … uh, this.” He gestured with his left hand, all fingers lifted even though only the middle one was badly damaged. “I don’t just need a bandage on it. I need it have to taped right.” He ducked his head, realizing he was repeating the same thing as earlier - asking for help, probably not going to get it. His lips thinned. His hand mattered a lot to him. He wants me to beg. Peter wasn’t going to.
Peter tried to think of how he could do this by himself and get it taped right. It was a simple matter with two hands - pinch the skin together, tape it shut. If it wasn’t even, remove tape and repeat until it was. What Peter had done for himself earlier was a simple bandage taped down, which was fine for initial clotting and protection from bumps. But the skin was torn badly enough that the edges needed to be pulled together. It could stand to have stitches, but tape sutures would do as well and there was no way Peter was going to let Sylar use a needle on him. Even assuming the man was willing.
Peter finished his ice cream and looked up steadily at Sylar. This was as much ‘begging’ as Sylar was going to get on this subject - a statement of need, an indirect request for aid … and that was it.
XXX
Sylar had gone back to savoring his treat, slowly taking the full spoon into his mouth and allowing his lips to scrape some onto his tongue - a deliberate process. Gobbling it down would feel like soup or maybe induce the need to chew, not to mention give him what would probably be a nice brain freeze…Oh, he was so trying it. Maybe that’ll help flush out this goddamn headache. It’s killing my neck already. Peter’s voice took on that tone of ‘I’m planning, we’re doing’. God, he’s so assertive. He really thinks I’m just gonna do whatever he says. (Did it for Nathan, too). Pursing his lips briefly, he glanced up when the request was made. Inwardly he chuckled. That’s right. You need my help. You just come crawling to me when you screw up and need me to fix it. Or kiss it and make it better. Damnit! I knew I was doing something wrong. Half his mouth inched at a smirk. “Alright,” he intoned and glanced at the hand, frowning at it. “Wait…Tape’s not gonna do the trick. Especially if you’re going to keep getting it wet and hitting people. A wrap over it would help.” That’s what I’d do. Keep the tape down and…sticking to you.
XXX
Peter waited a few beats until Sylar went back to his bowl for another spoonful. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for - perhaps the cost or the trick that came with the agreement to help. “Huh,” he said quietly, moving his spoon around in his empty bowl as he considered (and got just that little tiny bit that was left in the bowl on his spoon, which he then licked off). “I really can’t help getting it wet. That’s just going to be how it is. If we tape it up tight, get it right and leave it that way - no gauze, no bandage - it should be okay.”
He considered trying to suck up to Sylar until he had his help, maybe choosing his words and actions more carefully so as to get what he wanted out of the man. Begging. It was just words. Words that meant things. Words that meant things he didn’t mean. He discarded it. If his life was in danger, then he’d consider making a special effort. In the meantime, he didn’t like the air of superiority he got off of Sylar from time to time. He wasn’t interested in playing into it.
XXX
Sylar shot Peter a look at that annoying sound, ‘huh’. It meant nothing other than what was going on in Peter’s head, he knew, but still...It was probably that Sylar didn’t know what was going on in that head that was the issue. All he knew was that wounds healed better in open air, half the problem because of infection, blah blah blah. He also knew there were other options to seal up split skin, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of any and it bothered him. “Whatever,” he muttered, dismissing it and going back to something more pleasant. Ice cream.
XXX
Peter got up from the chair and carried his bowl over to the sink to rinse it. He briefly eyed the stack of unwashed dishes. Maybe I should go get some paper plates or something tomorrow? Am I even coming back tomorrow? He seems sort of okay. Funny - I don’t want to be locked out, but I don’t want to be in here, either. He sighed. Might as well get to it. He washed his left hand and right fingertips as well as he could, then turned his back on the sink and headed off into the living room, rummaging through Sylar’s tote. His hand fell on the ben-gay. Really need to put some of this on … like, all over. Peter dropped it for now though and gathered up some antiseptic wipes, surgical tape, alcohol and gauze. Gonna need to debride this first. Do it here, or in there? He might not be done eating. Peter snorted. Of all the people to get squeamish on me, Sylar isn’t on the list.
XXX
Peter was finished; he got up, then he left. That wasn’t a good sign - it meant Sylar was taking too long. Who knew what Peter was up to in the other room? He couldn’t anticipate much beyond Peter’s boredom with him now, impatience and haste and a desire to leave. So he sped up his time table, eating faster which, for vanilla ice cream, was really a crime. He was disappointed, too; he thought things were going fairly well. He didn’t think his slip-ups had been all that bad, considering. Taking larger bites and actively going about consuming got him frozen teeth, an over-stimulated tongue and eventually…”Mmm.” His headache spiked badly and he gasped as if opening his mouth would help the invasion of cold-feels-hot burning pressure of a brain freeze. Okay, I get it. Bad idea. That was dumb. Thank God Peter didn’t see that happen. Massaging his forehead proved futile as it was bruised, but the ’freeze went away in time.
XXX
He carried the stuff in to the kitchen table, arranging things where he wanted them. Peter put alcohol on the gauze and then put his left hand on his knee, under the table and out of Sylar’s line of sight. He scrubbed at it lightly but steadily, wincing occasionally. It hurt like hell - alcohol, open wound, scraping - but it was the best way to get it to heal shut. There was also no way in hell he was letting Sylar do this part - he'd resent the man for the pain, and there would be nothing Sylar could do about it.
XXX
The nurse returned and Sylar still had a few bites left. They were gone a minute later, but Peter set out gauze, alcohol, tapes and wipes. Sylar feared they were for him in some way and leaned back. The objects had been set on the table with clear intent to use, why had Peter brought them in here? When the wetted gauze pad disappeared under the table, Sylar breathed again, releasing his tension. He leaned out to try to see what Peter was doing under there. Ah, the hand. Right, what we were just, you know, talking about. Clanking his spoon to show he was done, pushing the bowl away, Sylar reached out and took up the tape. Gosh, its been…how long since I put this in here? I forgot I had it.
XXX
Peter paused in the exceedingly painful process of removing live tissue from an injury using an alcohol-soaked abrasive. He was breathing a little harder than he would have been under normal circumstances, and was a little pale. “You need to go wash your hands.” Not sure that it matters, given where we are. I suppose it matters because I think it matters. It’s an easy, harmless precaution anyway.
XXX
Peter finished with the gauze and indicated that his hands needed washing. Again? Naturally, the assumption that Sylar’s hands were always filthy wasn’t far from any hero’s mind. Once a murderer, to their logic, he bathed regularly in blood and sacrificed virgins on Saturdays and kicked puppies on Sundays. It was insulting, and what’s more, demeaning. So he let Peter know by giving him a steady, dark look, hoping to impart that he knew Peter’s game and it would be remembered. Dropping the tape, he assisted himself to stand and weaved to the sink to clean his ‘bloody’ hands. None of them bothered to know the truth, too content in their ignorance and blame-games to think beyond their ways. Soap and warm water, drying his hands, Sylar came back and stood next to Peter, hand on the back of the chair to balance. “Why aren’t we doing this on the couch again?” he delivered sassily, staking his claim on the tape once again although the motion felt like his brain being on a boat at high tide.
XXX
Peter noted the threatening look. Hands again. Didn’t he freak out earlier when I said something about him needing to keep his hands clean? Or keep from getting them dirty? There is definitely something there about the hands. Peter filed that away next to ‘touching or reaching for Sylar’s forehead’ as probable triggers. He went back to his task, finishing to his satisfaction. Somewhat blinded by pain, he sat quietly, staring down at his hand, mind empty for the moment.
When Sylar returned and spoke, Peter jumped slightly, glancing to the side and up, then up further (Sylar was particularly tall when standing directly over him). “I, uh, what?” He blinked at the man. Peter’s expression was not afraid - he’d felt fear right at first on realizing Sylar was beside him, but it had faded the moment he’d gotten a good look at Sylar’s body language. He was just standing there. Peter looked up at him blankly through a screen of hair and pushed aside the relentless stinging of his hand to process the words. “Because I need you sitting directly across from me, and a convenient place to put stuff.” He gestured at Sylar’s chair with a general wave of his right hand.
XXX
That made sense. Or, at least, enough sense. With Peter, it did not always go hand in hand. After a brief inner-debate, Sylar decided that Peter’s dismissive wave was acceptable under the circumstances. It wasn’t aimed to control him. Sylar kept his eye on Peter, though, as he walked around to take his seat, noting slight changes in his behavior that he couldn’t place.
XXX
“Also, I have trouble getting up and down from the couch. A lot less than I do from a chair.” Peter put his left hand on the table, fingers splayed. It wasn’t a very big tear, but it was all the way through the skin. What concerned him was how much it endangered the tendons of his only remaining functional hand. “Now, I’d like you to get a four inch piece of tape off the roll. I’m going to hold the skin together with my right and I need you to wrap the tape around my finger right where a ring would go. Wrap the tape around itself. After that, I’ll turn my hand the other way, hold the skin and you can put a little strip across the back of my hand. I’m pretty sure I’ve got some surgical glue or Tegaderm in the trauma kit. I can apply that myself later, right over the knuckle itself. Okay?”
Peter used a free bit of gauze to absorb a little seepage, then pinched together the skin as he wanted it. He lifted his hand so Sylar had the access he needed to tape the finger.
XXX
Pulling out some of the tape, Sylar measured out about four inches, tearing it off. “Yeah.” He went about rolling the tape onto the finger as Peter described. It was difficult when the other fingers were in the way and the tape was enough to stick to them, but after a minute he got a pattern and finished it up. It wasn’t a difficult task, being simple in nature; the execution was a different matter, requiring smaller fingers, but ones with his degree of delicacy. That accomplished, Peter turned his hand and Sylar tugged off another strip, maybe two and a half inches, placing it just under the knuckles where it would stop any further tearing of the split. “Where’d you get this one? Seems like my head is harder than I thought, busting up all your hands,” Sylar chuckled lightly, his eyes still focused on the injury. Guess I would have thought Nathan’s head was harder than mine, but whatever.
XXX
“Ha,” Peter said, smiling warmly. “I always thought I had a hard head. Guess you’ve got me beat. Either that, or maybe I need to toughen up my hands.” He turned them, looking down at his palms. They were undamaged - at least his left was. Most of the right was covered by the brace. He touched the tips of the fingers on his left hand to his right thumb, stroking back and forth along it in a gesture that was common enough for him. It usually spelled pensive, and now was not much different. I can still touch things, feel them. I just can’t use force without hurting myself. Is that saying something about this place? He shrugged to himself and looked up as Sylar spoke again.
XXX
“Sure is a crappy spot to get split skin - can’t tape it up any further and have it work.” Sylar knew his tongue was starting to loosen, but he was tired and loopy from the drugs and food and it was late; time for another rest break unless he missed his guess. I was gonna…shower first, though. That thought perked him up a bit, the idea of getting cleaner, even if he felt like he might drown in any water.
“I might have superglue in the tote, you know. Do it while it’s clean.” Superglue? Will it flake off as it heals or something? Otherwise wouldn’t it get stuck inside and make a scar? He knew it was developed as an on-site battlefield suture in World War I, but that was for gaping gut wounds, not knuckles. Still, if it got the wound closed…
XXX
“Yeah, that’s a good suggestion,” Peter said agreeably, noting that his companion’s mood was shifting to something that could pass as friendly, or at least relaxed. Too bad he was tired and it was time to go home, which led to the thought that maybe this was why Sylar was lightening up - perhaps he was looking forward to Peter’s departure.
“I didn’t see any in the tote though. I’m sure I’ve got some back in the kit.” Peter got to his feet, gathering up the unused supplies for return to their proper place. Before he walked away, though, he said, “Listen, it’s getting late. I’m going to take off. Try not to get in any trouble.” He considered for a moment, then as he stepped past, he put his left hand down on Sylar’s shoulder, telegraphing the motion clearly. Given that he was holding the alcohol in that hand, it was a little awkward, but it was friendly contact nonetheless. “I’ll come back in the morning for breakfast. If you want to lock me out … I’m not going to bust down your door. I think you can take care of yourself, in broad strokes.” He patted twice (mostly just bumping his hand up and down, but it got the message across) and walked into the living room to deposit the stuff into the tote.
XXX
“Oh,” Sylar mumbled about the glue, or lack thereof. What? He wanted to ask as Peter made to pass him by, save for the hand on his shoulder. You’re leaving? Sylar turned to frown up at the man as best he could, a little worried now where he had not been before. Then Peter had to go and mention the door-breaking incident. That made him officially worried. What is there I can say? I told him to sleep in a bed. So he’s doing it. Smart thinking, real smart. Would he stay if I offered the couch? Why would he stay on your couch when he could have a bed away from you? Sylar sighed and wandered after Peter, leaning against the kitchen/entryway wall across from the door, sliding his hands into his pockets once he was stabilized. Peter was nicely replacing the alcohol and gauze before making for the door as Sylar watched him. It struck him that coming out from the kitchen made things more awkward because what was there to say? “S-see you tomorrow then?” he said quietly.
XXX
He’s acting like he wants me to stay. Or that he’s going to miss me. Huh. That’s human nature for you. When something, or someone, was available, there was no need to make an extra effort to keep them around. It was when they were gone and wouldn’t come back that you missed them the most. Peter ached for Nathan. Particularly, he hated himself for those weeks that had gone by after the pyre and before Sylar’s reawakening when Peter had actively avoided contact with him. Even though Nathan had been sort of fake then, it would have been something, and maybe …
Peter shook his head to derail that train of thought. “Yes,” he said reassuringly, seeing Sylar at that moment as a guy who had been his brother, twice over, and in a weird way represented and embodied the family Peter had lost. “I’ll be back tomorrow, in the morning. I make some pretty good eggs. I’ll see you then.” He headed out.
XXX
The door shut behind Peter and his apartment felt that much smaller and quieter even though his clocks all sounded in time still. The loneliness came rushing back, too. Sylar went to the couch, sitting there, alone now, once again, trying to muster up a thought or an action but without the stimulation and adrenaline Peter had provided he deflated like an old balloon. He noticed dimly that he’d been fairly relaxed the times he’d, you know, been relaxed with Peter around. Barefoot now, and dressed for bed, Sylar took a glance at it and moved there, getting under the covers, pulling them to his waist before realizing his pillow was on the couch. Screw it. His arm would do - folding it up he drifted off with minimal thoughts.
XXX
Continued...