More Between Us, Chapter 32.2/? "Complete Physical"
Chapter 32.2/? "Complete Physical"
Day 10, Evening
The back of Peter’s mind pointed out traitorously, He really is good-looking. Even all bruised up and with his hair sticking out like that. He felt like his face was heating again.
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Looking back to Peter, he noted the man’s discomfort. Don’t know why I’m bothering to check his face beyond that it’s a nice one and it’s clearly unbroken. Sylar raised his hands again, mimicking Peter’s finger position, pressing and shifting slightly. Of course, everything was fine, hmm hmm. Cheekbones check…He moved on as Peter suggested and from the guy who’d been inside a telepath’s body to the guy who supposedly had telepathy, the whole Star Trek/Carnival angle was tickling his funny bone awfully again. This is where I push the thought of stripping and making-out into your head, Peter Petrelli. Do not attempt resistance. Fingers walking up the temple, which he’d already checked, they went up over Peter’s eyebrows to palpate the forehead. Yup, just as thick as we all remember it to be. Sylar mimed knocking on Peter’s skull, “If you hear hollow echoes that means something’s wrong,” he delivered straight-faced.
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Peter smiled and pulled back from the playful gesture, not sure how he wanted to take that under the circumstances. Okay. He’s, uh … might not be making a pass at me right this second … or maybe he is … but yeah. Definitely interested. Friendly. Or brotherly. Nathan’s memories? Oh, yes - that. Peter stiffened a little, the remembrance that ‘oh, yeah, this is your brother’s killer you’re dealing with here,’ doing wonders to clear up any confusion he’d been starting to feel.
Dull ache and simmering anger - for now well buried - impinged on his awareness. Leave it alone. Don’t think about it. It’s not his fault. Obviously, Peter meant it wasn’t Sylar’s fault for bringing that particular angle up at the moment. Nathan’s death was his fault, but Peter was capable of putting that aside. If he weren’t, he’d have never ended up inside Sylar’s peculiar head-space.
Distract. Move on. “Okay,” Peter said, leaning back some and hoping Sylar copied his body language. He gestured to his throat, trying not to think of the slit in Nathan’s or who had stitched it shut (that part almost certainly wasn’t Sylar’s doing - Peter suspected an agent of his mother’s, but that was an entirely different can of worms he didn’t want to open). “Next is the throat. You don’t press on it, or prod. Examine visually, clear off clothing if there is any. It’s important to see the entire throat. Look for respiration motions. Then reach behind, both hands, and briefly palpate the back of the neck, checking for vertebral alignment and integrity. Again - don’t use much pressure here. Things are too delicate to risk it.” He swayed back and gestured an invitation at his throat, averting his eyes and expecting Sylar to at least go through the motions.
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Something in him declared ‘Jackpot!’ when Peter stated that the throat was next. Peter’s throat, no less. It was a truly fine specimen - unshaven, lithe in appearance and soft from what he remembered. Of course he also remembered wrapping unseen hands around it and watching Peter choke and gasp for oxygen. Good times. These just might be better. Sylar licked his lips and smirked lightly, bringing his hands to the proffered throat. Delicate, yes. You nearly have a woman’s throat except for your voice box. It secretly amused him to know that puberty hadn’t spared Peter a few horrors either. “Hmmm,” was his hum of approval, one he tried to change into a sound of agreement or thinking aloud. His thumbs came to rest on Peter’s windpipe, amazed he was being allowed this and with so much knowledge to go along with it. The fingers ran over that section of neck because Peter was right. Sylar murmured from his crouched, seated position to be able to see, “Did you know that pushing hard when you shave and dropping your head back suddenly can damage your trachea and your voice?”
He went on to barely pressing over the neck itself, running a pair of knuckles over both sides of Peter’s jaw to be sure that was intact (he was pretty sure it was), encountering stubble, and last was feeling the jugular which, almost surprisingly, given the situation, was beating normally near as he could tell. Around the back he went, this time going right to the spine, some of it buried under Peter’s hair - nothing was out of place after a brief probing.
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Peter stiffened, trying to settle between glowering, looking away, and acting unaffected. His face twitched, but no clearly recognizable emotion came of it. He’d expected to have the back of his neck touched and maybe the sides by necessity. Thumbs on his trachea were right out, unless Sylar was trying to classify that as ‘looking for respiration motions’. And to what would the guy attribute stroking his jaw and everything else? He wanted to push Sylar away, but he suppressed it. The only reason he was finding this so irritating was because it was Sylar. Had he been walking anyone else through the process and they got too touchy, even if he thought they were putting moves on him, he wouldn’t have minded. But it was just … Peter didn’t know what to do with Sylar sometimes. Or a lot of the time. He was grateful for Sylar’s comment as a distraction, if nothing else.
He cleared his throat and went on, “Usually this is when EMTs give a person a c-spine collar no matter what, just in case, and then we let the hospital decide if your neck and spine are stable enough to do without it. If it ever comes up that you think I have a neck or spinal injury, leave me laying there. Go get blankets or whatever else to make me comfortable where I’m at. If you absolutely have to move me, try to support my neck, like with a rolled up towel.”
He glanced down. Next was torso, obviously. “I’m going to skip over a little of the exam part here because it’s irrelevant, but I’ll describe it. On the torso the main thing you look for, other than surface abnormalities, is lung and heart sounds. Generally that’s with a stethoscope. There’s a bunch of specific points to listen at and what’s being listened for, but …” Well, maybe we should just avoid body blows when beating each other up? And no more head shots. Or hands. And feet are important, too. And joints are tricky. So what’s that leave? Thighs, biceps and butts. Well, nice to know that kicking his ass isn’t out of the picture.
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Sylar nodded, for once believing Peter and not assuming that he was being slighted because he couldn’t manage or reason out a thorax exam properly. Besides, Peter was nothing if not known for his heart, surely it beat as hard as it always did.
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Peter shrugged. “I showed you abdominal palpation earlier. I’m going to skip that, too, because there’s a lot of things you’re feeling for there that I don’t want to get into right now.” Too detailed. You won’t remember. And I think I’d come unglued if you caressed my stomach again like you did earlier. “So for now, look for surface abnormalities, distension, cuts or punctures, and leave off with the probing until you know what you’re feeling for.”
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Sylar frowned when Peter said to skip even letting him so much as glance at the chest and abdomen. Off the top of his head, he couldn’t recall landing any body hits, but that was irrelevant. Huffing, he reached for the hem of Peter’s shirt, lifting it to send a cursory scan from sternum to waistband. All he saw of note was a few faded bruises on a pectoral, other than that the skin was pristine. Peter’s probably right to hide this body - look at it, Sylar thought sourly, dropping the shirt just as casually as he’d raised it. Luckily, feeling scrawny next to the hulk of muscle on his couch served to kill any interest he would have had at the sight.
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Peter jerked and stiffened again at his shirt being pulled aside, chest raising somewhat as he sucked in air preparatory to doing … something. His left hand stirred, not sure what he was going to do though because Sylar’s expression was nothing that reinforced the hostile reaction the assumptive grab had set off. Unfueled, said reaction died a natural death a few seconds later as Sylar let go of the shirt. Belatedly, Peter made a motion as if to bat the garment out of the man’s hand, taking his shirt and tugging it back down while he gave Sylar a ‘do you mind?’ look.
Swinging on Sylar, here in the middle of trying to show him how to do an exam, is really stupid. Chill. Chill, Pete. He chewed his upper lip briefly and admitted, “Yeah, you’re right to look anyway. One of my teachers used to say, ‘Your patient should always be able to trust you, but you should never trust your patient.’ Same reason why I wanted to see your hip.” He huffed, trying to ignore all the qualifiers his mind wanted to put on the situation, like how he was an EMT and Sylar was concussed. Plus, you know, Sylar. None of that was helpful so he moved on.
“You usually do the back last in a head-to-toe, so next are the hips. Check for stability like I did before.” Peter tensed a little. He’d managed to get past the core of his body without inviting a lot more touching, but the pelvic check was definitely hands-on, just like the face. “Put your hands here.” He reached out to guide Sylar on where exactly to grip on a sitting person. “Push, then rock laterally an inch or two. The pelvic girdle is a frame. The whole thing ought to move at once. And pay real close attention to the patient’s response. Sometimes something will hurt inside when you do this, and it will feel stable in your hands, but the patient will hurt. You’ve got to watch for that. So: hands on hips, look at the patient’s face, push, rock, and you’re done.”
And don’t feel me up.
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This time Sylar couldn’t help but send an amused look up to Peter. W-whoa…uhh…Sylar’s breathing jacked into higher gear as his hands were once again grasped and led to Peter’s hips. His face prickled with heat, too, because this just didn’t happen…well, at all. “Just rock your world, rock the boat, I got it,” he muttered to himself from interested embarrassment, his head ducked down, now having to combat worries of Peter fucking giving him an erection during Peter’s exam. He didn’t grip much, but managed to look up enough to watch Peter’s face for this part as he was supposed to, inching the hips left and right a few times after a push. His patient was awful relaxed about this whole affair. It was just making Sylar’s skull pound and ache more from all the excitement.
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Well, ideally your patient doesn’t think you’re getting off on the procedure. That’s kind of a big problem, there. But … Peter sighed a little as Sylar withdrew. I’m dealing with a serial killer who thinks he’s been trapped alone here for years. And then there’s everything else that’s happened. To him. And to me. He noticed Sylar was coloring. It made his bruises stand out more sharply. Now that he’d noticed that, he was pretty sure Sylar was breathing harder, too. Awkward and embarrassing equals potentially dangerous. “Um,” he said as he pushed himself upright with difficulty from the low couch. “I’m going to go get a drink of water. Just a short break. You want anything while I’m in there?” Peter gestured in the direction of the kitchen as he headed there.
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Glancing around to see if he had need of anything, Sylar spotted his water glass as Peter moved away, miraculously still full and standing, on the floor beside the couch. “No,” he answered and shook his head. At least, no more help than you can give someone as fucked up in the head as me. That he’d been blushing and embarrassed over touching a man’s hips, touching Peter’s hips was a new low and he knew it was only going to get worse. It was going to twist him all up and spit him out an even more deranged, disturbed person. In a backwards way, Sylar was relieved at taking a break - he had the feeling he’d do something they’d both regret, something Peter might not forgive, if it continued that minute. The rest of him was a needy, greedy, envious ball of screeching nerve endings, all blaming Peter for his teasing permissions.
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He didn’t do anything other than get the stated drink, change the scenery and settle his nerves. He came back, leaning on the frame of the kitchen entry. “You’ve already seen my hips and my thighs.” Peter hesitated, thinking over what he’d do to a patient who had his injuries. A moment later, he spoke his thoughts out loud, speaking slowly. “If I were treating someone with my injuries, and I knew I couldn’t hand them off to the emergency room staff who would reperform the test anyway … and if I didn’t see any danger signs for hip stability and I knew they’d been walking around for a day … I’d say it was just a couple muscle sprains and go on. But I’d want to look at the knee again in case it needed to be wrapped.” He frowned sourly and looked down at his pants. He really didn’t want to strip again. Not with the realization that Sylar was into him. Or whatever. But they weren’t loose enough pull up without a lot of effort. Even if Peter had both hands, the leaning over wasn’t something he seemed able to manage without a lot of vertigo.
He looked up at Sylar, wanting badly to ask him if he was going to be able to behave himself this time around. He didn’t ask, though. Instead, he waited for some affirmation, comment or direction, hoping to be told what to do and take the decision (and responsibility therefore) out of his hands.
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Given time to calm down (and he had needed to), Sylar hoped his blush had faded, but he doubted it. Peter had a funny look on his face, after that cranky frown, Sylar saw when the nurse came back (sort of). Sylar had since gotten more comfortable; thinking that maybe as he wound down, so would his headache. Tending to the knee was not a big d- Or was it a big deal? It was his turn to make a face now because this might mean he’d have to take a knee. Problematic physically as well as socially; it might give Peter ideas and Sylar didn’t necessarily want to follow through on. “You wanna do that next or after your…” Crap, what was next again? “Back?” And his hand, yeah. His face was a little dubious, questioning. The mental energy was leaving him; hell of a time to do it, too.
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A dodge was offered; a delay in taking his pants off again. Peter seized on it. He looked down at his leg again and said, “Back, first. It’s usually last, but that’s because in general your patient is on the ground or a stretcher.” And if they weren’t, the EMTs were probably trying to get them that way for transport. He didn’t think any of that mattered to Sylar and so after another moment of hesitation, Peter walked over to where he’d sat before, on Sylar’s right.
For the moment, Peter just stood in front of the couch, tugging at his shirt and shuffling his feet in indecision. He didn’t want to take it off entirely and that had very little to do with Sylar’s touchiness. Peter’s back was stiff and sore, along with his neck. He’d landed on his back solidly once with Sylar’s weight driving him down, and none-too-gently a second time when Sylar had come up off the ground and bowled Peter over. Plus, a lot of his muscles were pulling funny in an attempt to compensate for the sprain in his hip and keep his posture reasonably correct.
He exhaled and raised the shirt up to his armpits, then turned and lowered himself to sit on the couch, back towards Sylar. He held the shirt up in front with his right hand while his left reached over his left shoulder. Peter grimaced as his fingers scrabbled to gather up the cloth and expose himself.
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Up the shirt went and it looked almost like a difficult task given how Peter was moving. Or maybe that was just due to fear. Still, something about the submissive nature of Peter doing it at all was entertaining him. All he was really doing was submitting to a half-assed medical exam because Sylar was sure he could give a better one without a concussion. Sylar helped lift the shirt when Peter reached over his shoulder to yank it up, his thumb brushing skin briefly. The back Peter displayed was muscular and almost tan, but it was littered with a variety of bruises, scrapes, and a few rather small, round punctures. The largest bruise was pretty circular, disappearing up under the shirt on Peter’s left side, near the shoulder blade, but even that wasn’t a black-n-blue. Sylar laid a few fingers beside it, “Where’d you get this?” Don’t tell me you backed into a pole or something stupid. He did land hard; that’s why you’re checking him. Maybe he landed on a rock…?
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Peter felt Sylar’s fingers brush his own as he helped push up the fabric. He pulled in his current breath a little faster than he would have normally, but had no response beyond that. He tightened his grip on the shirt and relaxed, curving his back. He was expecting one quick look and that was it, but apparently there were things for Sylar to see. He didn’t twitch or jerk when Sylar touched him, but he did tip his head to the side a little. To Sylar’s question, he asked, “Where’d I get what?” He started to turn his head, but his neck was stiff and it was a useless motion anyway so he stopped.
Sylar answered, “This bruise.”
Peter shrugged his left shoulder twice, feeling where the muscles drew and shifted, thinking about where Sylar was touching. He narrowed his eye, trying to think of when he’d taken an injury there. “Maybe I fell on the broom handle? Or during the first fight, when I was trying to get inside your reach … I knocked you over onto the bed. I think you hit me in the back a few times during that. That’s probably it.” Hurts. He shrugged his shoulder again, stretching it.
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“I need the…ah!” Sylar looked around for the tote and found that he was in luck - Peter hadn’t relocated it. Briefly, it occurred to him to ask Peter for the ointment, wipes and band-aids, but the guy only had one hand, right? Sylar leaned over very close to and past Peter to rummage around for the items, his shoulder grazing the man’s side as he moved, but it wasn’t a relevant, skin-to-skin contact so he paid it no mind. His head felt like it was ripping in two and it felt like moving his eyes was difficult; he managed the task with a few pants and grunts of effort.
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Peter shifted to the side a little, glancing down to see what Sylar was doing. What … what is he doing? I have something on my back that needs taken care of? He’s going to …? Peter blinked several times; a little surprised that he might need some care and more surprised that he was going to get it. He craned his neck as much as he could to see which supplies Sylar was getting out.
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Those retrieved, Sylar leaned back, waiting for his head to settle, and opened the wipes. Belatedly, he realized he should explain; the guy couldn’t see the injuries or what was going on. “There’s some…lacerations and breaks in your skin,” Very nice skin, he thought after he dug up the more medical name for ‘scrape’. Gently so as not to upset any of the scabs, Sylar went about cleaning them up. Next was the ointment he smeared liberally around them all, amused by the texture but the band-aids were a little trickier. The whole affair was taking him longer than it should have yet he couldn’t bring himself to be bothered about that; it just wasn’t important. It was pleasant to see what he’d been feeling blindly earlier and he knew he wasn’t supposed to be paying attention to things like that. Sylar pressed the freed band-aids over the appropriate areas, smoothing them down a few times each.
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Peter kept glancing back, trying to gauge when Sylar was done. He was being handled gently, carefully and thoroughly - and not being felt up. He didn’t comment, but he appreciated it quietly, wondering about Sylar’s motivations. Not the savior kind? Why would he bother with my back like this? This isn’t because he’s concerned I’ll die and leave him alone - whatever he’s bandaging back there can’t be very bad. It’s not life-threatening. He’s being nice. And maybe he sees this as a quid pro quo. Fairness - that seems important to him. I’m helping him, so he’s going to help me so he can feel better about himself. Competitive, maybe? Hm. Peter let the thoughts mull around, not trying to force any conclusion.
When the man seemed finished, Peter let the shirt fall, stretching as it settled on him. He could feel it catch and cling a little were the ointment hadn’t been covered by band-aids. He wriggled his torso with a pained grunt, getting the shirt where he wanted it. The back thing had gone well enough to calm Peter down about having Sylar look at his knee. Sighing resolutely, he began the process of getting out of his pants. He turned to sit normally on the couch, unfastening his jeans.
“I’ve got to get my pants off again if you’re going to look at my knee,” he explained. He squirmed and shifted to get out of them, pausing once for several seconds because he just didn’t feel good. Too many things were sore. I should have just stood up to do this. I wonder if that was why Sylar stood up to take his shirt off? But he got them down and pushed the garment past his knees, shuffling his feet to let gravity take them the rest of the way to his ankles. Sighing again, Peter leaned forward to look at his left knee, the one that was injured. Conveniently, it was the one on Sylar’s side. It featured what looked more like a scrape or a jean-burn than a bruise, and was a little puffy over the patella. He touched at it, probing to find the tendons above and below the joint. Nothing seemed out of place.
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Continued...