More Between Us Chapter 36/? "Water Torture"
Chapter 36/? "Water Torture"
See the puzzle here.
Day 11, Late morning
Sliding into the almost-too-hot water had Sylar’s stomach tickling or clenching, it stung his hip and knee and fried his toes; once in, he felt great. Of course, it wasn’t going to be wholly relaxing with the door open…Sylar couldn’t decide if the heat was helping his headache or sharpening it. With eyes half open, he observed the water pouring from the spout, thinking only briefly if Peter had watched him or cared. I’m not gonna ask if he liked what he saw. Peter’s ever-professional demeanor was going to drive Sylar further up a wall or it was going to be fun to get rid of. It was getting in the way of Sylar’s fun currently. Who’d have thought he’d be a stick in the mud?
Idly, his hand rubbed at his chest while he mainly tuned out, feeling himself melt. The water rose and he eventually turned the handle with his foot to shut it off, far too lazy and head-achy to sit up and do it. Why didn’t I think to do this before? Athletes take ice baths and get massages after working out and competing. Given his size, though, sinking in as far as he would have liked (up to his neck, at least to his pecs) was difficult and left his knees poking up above the rim of the tub with his feet near the drain.
Sylar called out, purely to rattle and irritate his companion, “Peter, you need to try one of these. It’s counteracting your fighting skills.”
XXX
“Try one of what?” Peter asked sullenly, not looking into the bathroom as he maneuvered the rolling chair back to its original position behind Sylar’s worktable. He sat down in it, inwardly regretting his snappish tone. The open bathroom door was bugging the crap out of him, far out of proportion to what it was. Nudity bothered him not a bit, but all Peter could figure was that this showing off was an extension of Sylar making moves at him - either that or some passive aggressive ‘you didn’t shut the door so I won’t’ thing. What was bugging him was his uncertainty as to how to respond to it - look?, don’t look?, act normal?, go shut the door himself?, what? If he was talking to the guy, though, then he was going to look at him, even though he figured Sylar was trying to bait him into just that. So he looked. He could see Sylar’s head and face, along with the tops of his shoulders. From his angle, that was all Peter could see, but to be that slouched down in the tub, Sylar had to be somewhat scrunched up. He supposed he was relieved.
XXX
“A bath, Peter.” Sylar was smug in his amusement, shifting his eyes towards Peter enough that he could see that the man was looking at him (Interesting…) but Sylar couldn’t see the exact expression on the man’s face. That had him smirking slightly, facing forward again, sinking further into the bath to try to partially hide it.
XXX
Peter blew air out his nose and shuffled the puzzle pieces mindlessly for a moment. He frowned sourly and ignored Sylar’s implication that Peter hadn’t been bathing. If it weren’t for being here taking care of you, I’d be down at the hot tub at that hotel, soaking it up. “I beat you up because I was angry. It wasn’t so you’d be laid up. There was no plan. My plan sucks. Don’t have a plan.” He shook his head and dumped the puzzle pieces out of the lower part of the box, spreading them out and flipping any straight-edged pieces he came across into the box lid. He thought bitterly about recounting, yet again, his mission to have Sylar return with him to save Emma, but it seemed pointless to assert to someone who didn’t even believe there was anywhere else to return to.
Watching his puzzle pieces as he sorted out the edge pieces and started flipping the rest pattern up, he said, “I’m not a ‘planning’ guy. I find out what I need to do and then I go do it. It’s that simple.” I just usually don’t get stranded in people’s heads in the process. All that planning and premeditation struck him wrong in a moral sense. It was too much machination, too inherently manipulative. His father had strongly endorsed complicated, long-range plans; he called them ‘strategy’. Nathan had followed along, most of the time rather blindly, which Peter thought invalidated the whole purpose. There was no point in working out your personal goals if they all boiled down to following orders.
XXX
Sylar burst out chuckling, not really interested in holding it back. Planning? How did we get on planning? “No shit, Petrelli.” That was so funny and stupid Sylar couldn’t think of anything more to say for a while, too busy enjoying Peter’s random tangent. Sylar raised a wet hand to comb it into his scalp, the heat starting to make sweat start to prick on any dry skin. His face was next to be swiped, then his neck. Now it was beginning to feel weird to hold a conversation while he was in the bath; that basic instinct of talking while naked starting to get to him. Oh, well. “Of all the things you could plan for, getting me a bath wasn’t on your list,” he chuckled again; I wish.
XXX
“Sylar … that’s why I’m here.” Peter turned to face the bathroom, looking straight at him. “Do you not get it?” Peter asked peevishly, being less reserved with his comments than he usually was, not that he was a model of restraint when it came to telling people how he felt. “I’m sticking around here to help you take care of yourself - to make sure you take care of yourself. Concussion victims have a bad habit of lying around doing nothing if they aren’t watched and st- motivated.” He caught himself from using the standard medical term, ‘stimulated’, which he didn’t think Sylar would take right.
XXX
He could feel Peter’s gaze trying to bore some sense into the side of his face - Sylar knew Peter. He knew that look. There were different ways to handle it, depending on how much he wanted to placate, play along and make a move later, let it bounce off unheard, or just plain send the glarer into a rage. He settled for a combination of playing along and letting it bounce off because Peter’s whole rant made little sense as usual, that and he’d heard it before (and it still didn’t make sense). I should have shut the door. That was his hacked off thought about the situation. I could have been having peace and quiet in privacy.
Then Peter really hit it: Motivated, huh? You make me fucking lay down, rest and let you do everything and I’m LAZY? Not that the theme was a new one. In all honesty, he should have seen it coming, especially with Peter’s whole channeling-of-Virginia thing.
XXX
His tone short and sharp, Peter went on, “I am here to make sure that you eat. To make sure you take medications that will help you feel better. To make sure you take basic care of yourself. And in case you have an accident. So yes, as a matter of fact, having you take a bath was on the list. I just didn’t figure you’d do it until tomorrow,” he huffed.
Of course he doesn’t get it! He’s got a fucking concussion, Peter. He gave an exasperated, purely mental sigh. Maybe I ought to go take a walk. Maybe he’ll be out of the bath with the fucking door closed when I get back. Or maybe he’ll have slipped trying to get out, fell and brained himself on the edge and then drowned in the freaking tub - that would be just my stupid luck. For the moment, the unreality of the world wasn’t on Peter’s mind.
XXX
Sylar appeared to calmly get out his bar of soap from the tray and shower cover he had. Inside he was seething and doing his best to think of horrible things he could do to Peter with the soap. Continuing with his same thought process as before: And filthy, too. And stupid. Sitting up a bit, he went about soaping up, starting with his legs. And just to really send Peter over the edge of sanity, he began to whistle ‘Hound Dog’ at low volume - for now. It was fitting. He took another side-glance at Peter lest the man be eyeing him while he soaped up because that would blow holes in Peter’s ‘I’m not interested’ stance he had trouble hanging onto…
XXX
Sylar ignored him; Peter blinked in the man’s direction a few times, rolled his eyes a little and went back to the puzzle, ignoring him back. Leave the fucking door open and want to talk to me and argue about things and … wait, did he start the argument or did I? Are we even arguing? I think we’re just sniping at each other. Or maybe I’m just sniping at him. Yeah, that’s a great idea, Pete - lecture the guy who has an altered mental state. I’m sure that will totally work for you, right?
He frowned at the puzzle pieces, completing his initial sort and staring at the straight edges, wondering which ones went where, given that they were inside the lid that he needed to look at. Sylar’s whistling caught his ear at that moment and he looked towards the source of the sound. A vision of his mother came to Peter’s mind, talking to him with a pleased smile, some fifteen or twenty years before, about how much she’d loved Elvis when she was younger. He stared blankly at the bathroom for a moment before jerking his eyes away. Sylar was doing nothing worth watching - just washing up as far as Peter could tell. The lyrics did not immediately make an impression, but the tune was an earworm.
XXX
Once his body was clean, it was time for shampoo. Convenient that he had to get his hair wet in the waxier, soapy water…Again, lack of or bad planning was biting him in the ass. Sylar quit whistling after a few renditions of the main verse, dipping to wet his hair, clearing his eyes and going about the shampoo. Another check Peter’s way as he did it, both arms raised to get all the sections of his head, which didn’t appreciate the tilting and angling. He seriously debated making some sort of panicked noise or appearing to ‘stay under’ too long to freak Peter out. He didn’t because Peter would probably come over and get a real view (if he hadn’t already), but the idea of CPR was tempting. He went back under to rinse, spitting suds from his mouth, swiping his face to clear it, too.
Not to be ‘lazy’ and linger, he braced his foot and made a bit of a controlled lunge for the towels hanging near his head on the wall, succeeding in grabbing one. It had his head spinning to the point of dizziness and his hip complaining. Recovering, he took a moment to think how he would get out. He wanted a body-rinse in the shower to get off all the suds from the water and remaining stubble, so he leaned to unplug the tub and begin the draining process.
XXX
The different splashing noises earned glances towards the bathroom - just a basic awareness of what was going on, in case there was trouble. Otherwise, Peter was starting to zone out. Something about ‘hound dog’ and ‘crying all the time’ and ‘high class’ was running through his mind. He tried to recall the rest of the words, remembering having done a few Presley songs on the guitar but having a tough time, at the moment, working out if this had been one of them. Even if he hadn’t played this one in particular, he figured he might be able to pick out the notes, with no real limit to the time available to practice, or to think he was practicing.
He had a few straight-edged pieces on the table that he was pushing around, but he’d let himself be distracted and it wasn’t like he was in any hurry. Focusing again, he began a more purposeful project of carefully shoving aside all the interior pieces so as to create a space to transfer the edge pieces into and thus free up the lid so he could see the picture. He heard the plug get pulled from the tub, or rather, the resulting noises of cavitation.
Two things struck him one on top of the other: first, Sylar was going to be getting out of the tub and the look/don’t look dilemma was still in force; second, Sylar had picked that song for a reason. One of the other lyrics surfaced from his memory all of a sudden - ‘you ain’t no friend of mine’. “Damn,” Peter whispered, wishing he could remember the rest of it, then almost as quickly deciding that he probably didn’t want to know. It was most likely insulting. He felt more deeply stung than he wanted to admit that Sylar was probably passive aggressively reminding him that they were enemies and he hated him. Peter shook his head, shoved the chair back, and got to his feet. This was an excellent time to go get a drink, or otherwise fiddle around in the kitchen.
XXX
When the tub was drained or nearly so, Sylar sat up, dropping the towel to the floor, and moved to the middle of the tub, swishing the curtain about halfway and turning on the shower nozzle. He had to move back a bit to get the spray to hit his head and front, the water disorientating, but eventually the rinse was a success.
XXX
Peter had hardly reached the entry to the kitchen when he heard the shower kick on. It was like Sylar had been waiting for his attention to wander and that thought - that Sylar might in fact be trying to hurt himself so he could guilt Peter with having failed - propelled Peter back faster than he should have moved. His head pounded from the sudden surge and he felt dizzy as he gripped the frame of the bathroom door. The shower curtain was partly pulled, obscuring his sight, but he could see Sylar wasn’t even standing up. The imagined, deliberate self-endangerment was merely a figment of Peter’s imagination. After a few seconds of watching the back of Sylar’s darkly haired head dip in and out of view as the man rinsed off, Peter gave himself a shake and returned to his seat at the worktable, all thoughts of getting a drink or politely absenting himself having been driven from his mind by the moment of near-panic.
Sylar. Showering. Rinsing. Water running down his body. Peter tried to focus on the edge pieces he was moving out of the box lid. That was really hard to do for some reason.
XXX
After a quick rubdown, Sylar turned off the water completely. The curtain was shoved back and he leaned out to get the towel again, maneuvering with slippery difficulty to get his left leg over the rim to the outside. It was more difficult than it looked and his head being lower than his knees every so often, the effort his heard had to put into pumping was making him dizzy, but not dangerously so. He was so not playing up to Peter’s paramedic background - needing saving from the tub like a little old lady. He managed to push himself to straddle the rim (which was now freezing in comparison to the warmer material of the inside of the tub - freezing him in places that failed to appreciate the temperature difference, drawing a hiss from him), still clutching the towel in a death grip; he used it to cover himself decently. It was easier to brace himself on the far wall and spin to get his right leg on the outside so he sat on the rim.
He had either the worst or the funniest image: /Ripping the buttons of the jacket he wore as a shirt, yanking off shoes and socks to turn on the shower as he jumped in, his jeans still very much on. A fast dip to get his hair and torso wet, he snatched a hand towel and ran for the door, already annoyed by the knocking because he knew the irritating source on the other side; what with her “Gahbrielle”-ing. Adrenaline was high, his brain buzzing most pleasantly at having conquered and dominated - ridding himself of a threat, really, a step closer to completing his goal. He slowed enough to open the door. “I didn’t hear you with the water running; is everything okay?” He’d added some fake hard breathing while he pretended to dry his hair, baring his chest all the more to her former-nun’s innocent eyes. It worked like a charm and he enjoyed the whole ten seconds of silence and lusty, devoted attention./ Guess that answers whether or not I walk out wet, Sylar sniggered to himself, wrapping the towel around his hips.
Smug, still dizzy and heat-baked with a blasting headache, he padded right out of the bathroom.
XXX
Peter heard Sylar getting out of the tub, but he wasn’t paying any attention to it. Sure, he would have perked up, maybe even jumped into action had Sylar fallen, but it didn’t happen and so his thoughts continued unhindered. His brain was totally fuzzed up with his imagination filling in what he wasn't seeing behind the curtain, troubled about Sylar hating him and being unwelcome, troubled about having lectured Sylar stupidly and rudely, troubled about whether he needed to worry about Sylar hurting himself on purpose and trying to nail down why he'd even think that. It was too much to process, so he sat there, absently rubbing the edges of a particular puzzle piece.
A part of his brain perked up at Sylar’s entry to the room. Sylar’s very presence was a vague threat and there were too many mixed signals for Peter to discount it. Plus, there was that burning curiosity in his head, working at him, wondering what he’d see. Peter decided immediately to satisfy that urge rather than sit there consumed by it. Sylar had left the door open; walked out; apparently he didn’t mind being seen. Whatever. Peter turned and looked, for as long as he thought he could politely get away with, which wasn’t long. Head (bruised face); wet, hairy chest; nice stomach (bruised over one hip); black towel; thighs; calves; feet (reddened skin on the toes of one foot); and back up his eyes went, no faster or slower, just a steady, quick once-over. Or twice over. His eyes went last to the hand holding up the towel. The cloth wasn’t tied off or tucked - just held. Kind of … precarious. Peter turned back to his puzzle.
XXX
Peter looked up immediately which was gratifying as was the look, head to toes to head again, all with the Peter version of a non-expression. He didn’t miss the glance at where he held the towel, either. Uh-huh, Peter. Not interested at all, are you, big boy. Sylar wanted to smirk, but didn’t because that was a solid point for him - his face was probably smug anyway. When Peter had looked his fill and returned his gaze to the table, Sylar went about his way, walking by the watch table Peter sat at to get to his dresser on the other side. He paused, though, to look the puzzle over. Peter wasn’t finished getting the outline out yet, but Sylar thought he’d imbue some wisdom for when he did. “The pros use color- or shape-organization in groups of six, by the way.” Then went on his way for clothes.
XXX
Peter swayed away when Sylar stopped to look over his shoulder, far enough away that Peter couldn’t feel the heat that he knew was probably radiating off the man’s skin. He could certainly smell him and Peter wasn’t usually all that sensitive to such things. But freshly washed, virtually steaming, right next to him? Yeah, Peter was not a stone, even if all sorts of parts of him were perking up about the awkward situation.
He kept himself from snapping something argumentative and bitchy, because he knew that was just frustration wanting to talk. He kept telling himself there was nothing to be frustrated about, even if he desperately wanted Sylar to get his clothes on and stop acting weird. Even more he wanted to stop his brain from helpfully and eagerly suggesting that now was a perfect time for Sylar (or someone else, like … someone helpful and considerate) to apply ben-gay to Sylar’s undoubtedly sore muscles, or reapply the wrap to the man’s wrist, or … whatever. Peter tried to ignore all of that, his forefinger and thumb having long since found the center of rotation for the puzzle piece in his hand, the same one that had been there minutes before, spinning it slowly and jerkily as he continued to endure this freaking water torture going on behind him.
He’s an asshole. He’s a serial killer. He’s a psyc- he has mental issues - he’s got to. He’s messed up. He’s compromised. He can’t be trusted. He’s doing this on purpose. He’s trying to get to you. Shake it off. Ignore it. Do your job. Focus! He set down the puzzle piece at last and started to reach for another, then changed his mind and dumped the entire lid, beginning to flip those that had landed upside down, right side up. He got faster as he went, mind slowly pulling itself out of the gutter as his self-talk finally had the desired effect.
XXX
Sylar found a problem. Well, more than one, but they fit under the sub-heading of ‘one problem’. Well, I can’t ask Peter to stand up and do it. He’ll think I’m…Uh…I could…kneel down….but with the towel…Bend do- no, I’ll fall over. And Peter’s right there. Crouch?...That’d be worse. Maybe hold the…dresser? And ease down or…something? So there he stood, in front of his dresser, slowly getting goosebumps from being wet and drying in the cooler room while still dripping due to the dilemma.
XXX
Peter glanced back, out of the corner of his eye, wondering about the continued inactivity. It occurred to him he was a lot more calm about having Sylar unobserved behind him than he had been even a few days before, but perhaps Sylar’s condition and relative nakedness had a lot to do with that. But why was Sylar just standing there? “You okay, man?” he asked in a low voice, head canted to the side, looking at Sylar out of the corner of his right (good) eye.
XXX
“Uh,” he grunted. Maybe just…get my jeans? Sylar pivoted to look around for the pair from the other day, “Where are my…” he whispered to himself. Those were dirty anyway. New jeans?…I need clothes! I just need to get dressed! Can I even get into jeans by myself? Who cares? I am not asking him for help. He wobbled his way to the closet, settling for ‘plan B’ of jeans and button-ups instead of the easier, more comfortable, yet inaccessible pajamas. Opening the door, looked at jeans and a shirt. He would still be missing his undershirt, boxers, and socks, but he could go commando, right? Sylar adjusted his towel, firmly tucking an end under to hold it up. It freed up a hand to get out the clothes and shut the closet door whereupon he walked back to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat again. His headache was only getting worse and he was getting tired, but there was nothing for it. He had to dress. What about the door? Shut it now or…
XXX
Changing out of pajamas, I see, Peter thought, watching Sylar’s progression with clothes. Does he think he’s going to get out and about today? Or does he want to defend himself better? Should I say something or mind my own business? He exhaled voluminously, gave his head a slight shake, and finished flipping his puzzle pieces. He hooked a couple obvious pieces together and then looked at the four corner pieces, figuring out where two of them went for sure. The other two were less easily determined, but he took a guess and put them down on opposite corners. They had to be somewhere.
He watched as Sylar finished wobbling into the bathroom, moving carefully so as to hold clothes and not lose his towel at the same time, or so Peter supposed. Really, he should have just left the fucking towel in the bathroom. If he doesn’t want me to see him, then why is he parading around? “Sylar, please shut the bathroom door.” That ‘please’ cost him, but he got it out anyway. He couldn’t do anything about the somewhat grating tone of voice though.
XXX
Sylar growled underneath an exhale. Fine! Was his immature response while ‘Yes, dear!’ would have been his answer had he not been concussed. You were the one who should have shut the damn door, Petrelli, but nooo…It was not my idea to leave it open. Sylar reached out a foot and gave a swinging kick to get the door closed, but not latched properly. Conveniently, it jacked his hip and made him groan, which was probably Peter’s scheme all along. “Uhh…” He made to clutch at his hip, but stopped himself short. Now out of sight, he gave himself a moment to recover from the stretch and sudden pain. Sylar removed the towel; again freezing his ass on the toilet seat, he began to rub down to dry as quickly as possible without losing balance. Jeans were shaken out and he put both feet in, wrangling the fabric around until his soles touched the floor again. He took his time to stand again, much more at ease knowing he wasn’t being watched, yet still nervous for that same reason, so he didn’t rush the pants process. Buttoned and zipped, he looked around the bathroom while his fingers rubbed at his abdomen, seeing nothing that he was forgetting, he still wanted to brush his teeth. Egg breath. Brushing went without a hitch beyond a few stumbles and blinks for balance. He slowly leaned for the used towel he’d set on the toilet seat, hanging it up to dry.
Sylar raked back, as best he could, his tangled still-wet hair, making more unhappy noises at it. It needed to dry, so he snagged a hand towel and his shirt and threw open the door, probably subconsciously to see if he could startle Peter.
XXX
The door shut; Sylar made a pained noise. Peter’s head jerked up and he watched the door for a moment, but there was no other sound to indicate help was needed. Miscellaneous, normal sounds issued from the room, so Peter went back to his project. He set up the lid, nested in the box itself, where he could see it easily and started to work.
Minutes passed. Water flowed - it sounded like Sylar was brushing his teeth again. He really seems to have something going on about being clean. Considering what he’s done - all the blood - that’s just so weird. Maybe there’s something psychological about not being contaminated by the kills? ‘Blood of Jesus washes me clean’ sort of thing? I wonder what he believes in? ‘I am not a religious man. But there is one thing I do believe in: blood.’ Peter grunted suddenly, tensing in his seat and hunching a little as his mind stumbled over a traumatic event he had definitely not finished processing. From Peter’s point of view, the whole mess at Thanksgiving had happened less than a month previous. He put his hand over his brows, shielding his eyes while the moment passed. Being forced to sit helplessly and watch while someone he loved was about to be murdered had wounded Peter in a way that had yet to heal. Betrayal stacked on betrayal that morning.
Poor choice of things to think about. Just don’t think about it. My own fault, really-
And at that moment, Sylar flung the bathroom door open abruptly, sending Peter back along the fight-or-flight spiral with him kicking away reflexively from the desk even as his right hand skittered suddenly along the top of the table, reaching for something, anything, any of the likely and usable weapons stacked neatly on that side. Puzzle pieces scattered. His brain started catching up with his body as he managed to bump the lamp hard enough to make it wobble in his blind grasping. Since Sylar was just standing there, Peter risked a glance at the source of the new motion to his right, saw the lamp was already oscillating back to stationary, and his hand fell on that screwdriver he’d looked at much earlier.
He stared at that instrument for a half second, then lifted his hand away from it, leaving it on the table. We’re not fighting. Stop it. He shook his head and glanced sullenly over at Sylar. Peter reached up and stroked his left hand over his forehead again as he tried to calm his racing heart, shielding the left side of his face from view even as he continued glaring with his right eye, teeth slightly bared.
XXX
Sylar stood still, eyes wider than usual, waiting for Peter’s reaction to…end. Nice to know he’s calm, medicated, and well-adjusted. His gaze followed Peter’s hand, whacking the lamp before settling on the screwdriver. Are you gonna use that, Pete? You have a serious thing for ironically sexual tools that make for great...whatever that term is. Sylar wasn’t worried for his safety, though, but his face showed disapproval, when he made eye contact, that Peter would feel the need to grab for the screwdriver at all. His head was officially killing him, the drugs he’d had for breakfast were probably long gone from his system; thinking was becoming difficult and all he wanted as a nap. Cranky and feeling a permanent frown coming on along with his own partial glare to match Peter’s, “That made my top ten list of…” he paused, pushing the pounding blood in his head away to allow words to formulate, “reactions to me being shirtless. Bravo.” Sylar gave a single clap, moving to sit at the head of his bed, behind Peter.
XXX
Peter pivoted the chair to track Sylar’s progress. When the man settled on his bed, Peter swung back the other way, partly facing away, but completely blind to Sylar because it was Peter’s left side towards him. That was intentional - he wanted to prove that he wasn’t afraid of Sylar, to himself at least. Peter shook his head slowly and ran his left hand back through his hair in a single, prolonged rake. He sighed, letting the tension defuse as much as it would with the nagging awareness that Sylar was a few feet away, unseen. Peter didn’t think he had anything to rationally worry about - it was the irrational responses that were getting him. He didn’t beat himself up about it. It was just a thing he’d get over eventually, or maybe someday his paranoia would be proven right. Frowning at that thought, he leaned back in the chair a little and looked to his right on the desk. He hadn’t managed to knock anything over. He pushed the puzzle pieces at the edge back onto the table and looked down at the ones on the floor.
XXX
Well, that was dramatic, Sylar thought, moving his pillow beside him, laying his shirt on it. He leaned against a tall bookshelf that served as his headboard, crossing his ankles and taking up the towel to dry his hair. Something was tickling his brain to fits of amusement because Peter had strewn puzzle pieces across the floor and Peter was going to have to pick them up. With his head buried in the towel, he chuckled a little, eyeing the pieces. “Think you missed a few, Peter.”
XXX
“Yeah,” Peter said blandly, having finally calmed back down. One thing the excitement had done was driven out of his mind whatever had upset him in the first place. He decided not to dwell on recovering that thought and instead stood, rolling the chair out of the way. He stepped away, used his foot to scuff some of the puzzle pieces out of his way, and used his right hand and then elbow to brace himself on the desk as he went down to his knees, roughly facing Sylar. He scooped up the pieces quietly.
XXX
Sylar watched in equal silence. Hair as dry as it was going to be from the towel, he patted his shoulders, chest and neck to rid his skin of any additional droplets.
XXX
“I’m going to go to the store,” Peter said in a subdued tone, as if trying to compensate for having overreacted by going to the other extreme of sedateness. “You want anything else other than bread, eggs, milk and snacks?” He collected up the last of the pieces and dumped them on the worktable, giving a final look around to make sure he hadn’t missed any before rising to his feet.
XXX
What? But I just got here. I’m awake, fed, clean and…Sylar glanced down at his bare chest, then back at Peter. Mostly dressed. He winced and his hands itched at the sight of Peter carelessly dumping the recovered pieces onto the table, atop other pieces and the border the nurse had been working on. That arrangement, or lack thereof, would bother him greatly - pieces on top of pieces, most likely upside down, all over the place with no order, the framework a mess and buried. But if he’s leaving am I allowed to play with his puzzle? It might be a consolation. “I don’t think so.”
XXX
Peter nodded, pushing the chair in as far as it would go on the worktable and walking past, making another unnecessary, nerves-driven swipe at his hair as he did.
XXX
Are you sure he’s coming back? His watch his still broken…”I can fix that, you know. Your watch.” Sylar pointed to it, looking up at Peter, his face hesitantly hopeful and resigned to pout eventually at being left alone.
XXX
“Yeah?” Peter asked, looking down at it. I don’t want it fixed, was his immediate thought. On the heels of that was, Why would he want to fix it? Is that like something to do in return for me taking care of him? Or just a clumsy apology for scaring the crap out of me just by opening a door too fast? He made his way to the apartment door and paused next to the far arm of the couch. The ritual of politeness required him to say his good-byes and receive an acknowledgement before leaving.
Speaking of acknowledgement, he had to say something a little more meaningful in response to Sylar’s … not really an offer, more like an observation. It was oblique, like a lot of what Sylar said. He was very indirect in his communication. ‘I can fix your watch’, not ‘would you like me to fix your watch?’ or the even more direct of ‘leave your watch here and I’ll fix it while you’re out.’ His actions weren’t much better - something that was a straightforward expression of intent and sentiment in a normal person came off ambiguous and uncertain when Sylar did it.
Peter held the watch up to his ear, but it was impossible to make anything out given the constant background ticking in here. It made him wonder how Sylar managed to do repairs in here at all, or maybe the other man’s senses were just more refined than Peter’s. Peter had, after all, no difficulty in following Sylar’s pulse or picking up minor variations in his breathing.
XXX
The empath lifted his watch up in an attempt to ‘hear’ it. Somehow, that gesture, to this day, still bothered Sylar. He knew the average person’s hearing was far below his level, so what the hell did they expect to actually hear when they did that? They only checked it like a heartbeat - if they heard sound, they moved on, assuming everything was working properly, too stupid to know that the watch might not be keeping the correct time. Most times he saw it, the customer of Gray and Sons was double-checking his work, like they thought he was some half-trained, dim-witted circus monkey fixing their watch. They’d do it within his sight, too, insulting his profession and his talent. Then there were the times he saw that gesture made when he knew the person didn’t care about the watch - they cared only about the time, rather, the time they might not have if the watch was malfunctioning. They, the watches, were rarely broken, but that flew in the face of everything Americanized, consumerist, digitalized society thought. Sylar felt a tendril of hope when Peter ceased his listening and actually examined the watch.
XXX
Peter studied the timepiece, thinking, I wonder if it’s working by counting off time as it is in the outside world? I don’t remember what it was when I looked at it before … twelve something. If I measured it and it was a little different, like seconds in the real world are hours here or something, would that matter? I don’t think that would tell me anything. All that matters is how long it takes to get out of here; if I can think of a way to save Emma … And he didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he knew it was there somewhere: that he didn’t want to go back and admit defeat, that he’d come here to get Sylar and save Emma, and it wasn’t working out.
He frowned at the watch and his thoughts. “What do you think’s wrong with it?” he asked mostly hypothetically, not intending to turn it over for Sylar’s fixing, but willing to make conversation about it.
XXX
That was another thing Sylar had often heard - the DIY-er or the cheap or deal-hunting shopper, the businessman, the paranoid or fond owner’s question. It was almost a test, a standard one, but he liked it. It meant the person might have a care for the watch itself, not just the time it carried. “Could be lots of things: could be general damage, age, or poor construction, a screw might be loose,” Sylar listed that one with some relish; the tie-in being close to what he thought about Peter’s mental state. “Some parts may be warped. I doubt water damage or weather. Sometimes the owner’s electrical fields screw up the battery, but your battery is fine. It might be a dial pin getting in the way of a train wheel, something might be too tight, it might be overly magnetized, a screw might be too long…uh…The list goes on. Think of all the things that can go or be wrong about a human body and you’ll come up with…a similar number of things that can go wrong with a watch. Usually I can tell from a distance, but I don’t…see anything wrong with it, so I’d have to look.” He noticed he’d not been given a hint of preference towards having it fixed or not beyond Peter’s distance. Sylar doubted he’d be getting a peek inside, but that didn’t stop his hands and brain from itching to do just that.
XXX
Peter looked at Sylar initially as the man began to rattle off possibilities. Then he looked at his watch and fiddled with it on his wrist. How do you know my battery is fine? He’d gone through a number of watches in the last few years, screwy electrical fields being the least of his problems. “Heh,” he grunted softly as he recalled that he’d lost one while in the future getting, or trying to get, Sylar’s core ability. And then being nearly vaporized minutes later. Proof positive that regeneration could bring him back from ludicrous amounts of damage - one of those times when he was glad the perceiving portion of his brain had checked out. Either that or Claire had recovered first and shoved something in the back of his head. Yeah, that’s probably more likely.
Sylar finished and Peter looked back up at him, trying to recall the end of that list he’d … um … sort of tuned out on. “Yeah … you’d have to look.” He fidgeted with it a little more on his wrist, still making no move to take it off. “I … I’ll think about it.” His eyes dropped, skimming briefly over Sylar’s still shirtless form, over the worktable and across the floor. There was the tote, unattended and off to the side. A thought from earlier resurfaced, probably in response to Sylar making something of an offer to be helpful, even if Peter wasn’t going to take him up on it.
“Hey,” Peter said, walking to the tote and starting to bend to it too fast. Assailed by dizziness, he caught himself on the arm of the couch; swayed for a moment, then continued on to snap off the lid like it was no big deal. He had to go down on his knees to dig through it properly, finding what he wanted and struggling back to his feet. “Here.” He started to toss over the tube of ben-gay, then reconsidered and walked the few steps over to Sylar. Peter would be throwing left-handed at a guy whose equilibrium was compromised - simpler to walk.
“Smear that stuff around before you put your shirt on. You’ll be more comfortable.” He offered the container. “I’m going to head out now. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
Continued...