More Between Us Chapter 48/? "Butterfingers"
Chapter 48/? "Butterfingers"
Day 13, Noon
Peter took off into the kitchen, setting out a couple sandwich bags and then getting out the cloth reusable bag he'd been using for groceries. He couldn't think of anything else they'd need. The place probably had a vending machine somewhere they could raid for drinks. Failing that, there were always apartments. He turned and leaned against the counter, trying to stifle his enthusiasm, frustrated already that Sylar couldn't keep up and that Peter would need to go slow.
Peter gave a small cock to his head as he stared at the faded, slightly uneven linoleum. I'm thinking about … me. Not him. Not what he needs. I'm not … caring that I'm going too fast or he needs me to slow down. His head tilted the other way now. Of course, why should I care about him? Given who he is? Peter had lived his life doing for others. He sensed what they needed or wanted and he provided. There was no thought about it, no consideration of whether or not he wanted to do that with his time. It just was. Barring his disastrous interactions with authority figures, his life was a constant flow of finding out how he could be what other people wanted him to be - the hero. His understanding was so intuitive that he rarely paused to think about what people would really benefit from, or about nuances of needs. He certainly had never caught himself, before now, thinking about what he wanted with no regard for the desires of another.
Peter was caught in the dilemma that not only was he being selfish, but he didn't want to be anything other. For the first time, he didn't think this other person deserved, or had a right to, Peter's selflessness. His eyes came up to the doorway, a small line in place between his eyes to mark the serious thought he was giving this.
XXX
Somehow Sylar did not get the feeling that he’d actually be allowed the time it would take for him to ‘catch his breath’. Sylar took a few anyway, desperate to calm his nerves before throwing himself into what was sure to be the middle of the storm. Why are “we” tuning a piano again? Although a piano makes music…maybe he wants to play…and I could listen? That was very good motivation for going at all (or trying to go at all, rather). He’d lacked sound or company for too long. Grunting, he pulled himself to his feet (still dressed in pajama pants and a T-shirt from the day before, but he was groomed for the day) and wobbled into the kitchen blearily, rubbing his face before he was in view of Peter. Something about a can opener? When he did round the corner to see Peter, the guy had a deep, thinking face on and that stopped him short in the doorway. He felt, as usual, that he was out of place and interrupting. Sylar tilted his head, curious as to what was causing that expression (of mixed feelings about it even if Peter was finally contemplating poisoning him) and wondering what he should be doing. Really, that face can’t be good for me. Peter’s thinking…not a good sign? He didn’t speak, in case that, in addition to his presence, was out of line; instead he tried to school his own face into a somewhat-interested blank canvas, ready and available for anything.
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Peter straightened and focused on Sylar, waving at the can where it sat on the counter. “If you could finish opening that for me, I'd really appreciate it.” He shelved his too-deep introspection. He wanted to go and he wanted to bring sandwiches, so that clarified what he needed to do at the moment. He glanced around the kitchen, again trying to think of what was next. Bread and a fork were already sitting out, so … spread? “What do you want on yours?”
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Sylar followed the directions, glad to be given any at all, glad Peter’s…mood had passed (leaving him unharmed). The can was easy with two hands; he shuffled over and threw away the ‘lid’ of the can, returning to the counter. “Mayo and mustard…Please.”
XXX
Peter got out the condiments along with bringing over the butter and dinner knife. He stood there for a few seconds, trying to figure out how to juggle this, with who doing what, that would work out best. He only needed to butter one piece of his bread for his customary treatment, which meant he could use the salmon right now. And he didn't know how much of what Sylar wanted on his sandwich. “Uh … here. You hand me the salmon and the fork. I'll give you the bread and toppings. You set up yours like you want it and I'll get some fish on mine.” Peter pulled out two slices for himself first, then pushed the stuff over in front of Sylar.
Peter smiled a little in quiet amusement that he and Sylar were cooperating on a project, however trivial. Sylar had proven to be a lot of help around the kitchen, which Peter appreciated a lot. The combativeness and uncertainty of the first few days had faded. Now they were standing practically shoulder to shoulder doing something together. It was cheering, given the prospect of being stuck in this place for the long haul.
XXX
Sylar took bread, condiments and knife, opening the jar of mayo with ease. He applied it with far less coordination than a watchmaker or brain-man should, or so he felt, and that upset him because his hands wouldn’t obey (even though he knew the cause was his brain - it was always at fault). Something with the balance involved with knife and delicate bread with both hands was taking too long, and he did try to hurry and be thorough because…Peter was in a hurry. He didn’t question that or his own rushing. Mayo went on one half of the bread, mustard on the other.
XXX
Peter handed over the can of salmon and the fork after he was done, waiting for Sylar to hand him the knife. “Knife, please,” he prompted when Sylar didn't seem to clue to that right away. Peter licked off the mayo and mustard without a second thought, followed by using the knife to cut into the stick of softened butter for his own spread.
XXX
After that Sylar was stumped, left holding the knife, literally. Ha? Murder weapon. He gave a slight start, mostly at hearing Peter’s voice again (and so close to him), looking at the utensil before passing it over. Peter then licked the knife…and stuck it in the butter. Sylar gaped. When he recovered, his voice was part whine, part rebuke, “Peter! What the hell?” He shelved his thoughts of, Well, I don’t mind watching him lick things, but the rest of that…”That’s gross!” Now his tone was definitely wheedling, but he couldn’t help it.
XXX
“What?” Peter's voice sounded more startled and confused than outraged or argumentative. He shot a quick glance down at his partly-buttered bread. You aren't one of those guys who object to meat with dairy, are you? I always thought that was just beef and pork anyway. “It's … it's just butter,” Peter stammered uncertainly, thrown on the defensive and having no idea what Sylar was objecting to.
XXX
“You licked the knife and stuck it in the butter.” Sylar with dripping condescension, not buying Peter’s little innocence act. I’m not Nathan and that won’t work on me. Peter’s fuck up, intentional or otherwise, was obvious.
XXX
“Well, uh ...” Yeah, that's gross. He looked dumbly at the butter again, trying to weigh if he should defend himself aggressively, maybe by asserting there wasn't anything wrong with what he did? After all, Peter helped with food prep all the time and … yeah, indefensible. And he didn't want to pursue that angle and perhaps make it so Sylar refused to eat anything Peter made. He wondered how many times Sylar had not noticed Peter tasting things while they were cooking. Given the number of times he'd 'gotten away with' it (generally without considering any potential wrongness to what he was doing), he didn't feel like apologizing, either. “So what?” Peter threw that out there with mild belligerence, committing himself to little and hoping that Sylar would back down. “It's my sandwich,” he added, trying to distract from the part about putting the knife into the communal butter. I'm not doing anything wrong … right?
XXX
Blinking and honestly stunned by the insinuation that proper food etiquette was above his ilk and that he should just roll over and take that disrespect, Sylar decided that rolling over once would only encourage more of the same from Peter. With some heat, he shot back, “So that’s unsanitary and gross. That’s my butter you just licked. Why would you do that? Do you know how many germs exist in the mouth? Do you think I want that all over my fucking food?” Really, Peter! Just because it’s my fucking butter, it’s okay to spit in, is that it? I’m not a monster, but you’ll slobber on my food and that’s okay? That doesn’t even make sense!
XXX
“I didn’t lick the butter!” But Peter was retreating, physically at the very least, as he went to the sink and tossed the knife beside it with more force than necessary. It clattered noisily on the counter. And it’s not YOUR butter as long as we’re eating here together all the time!
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Sylar twitched and winced at the noise (and noise level) of the knife being thrown into the sink. Peter was still speaking, so he listened, feeling strangely that he was the one doing something wrong, not Peter.
XXX
“There’s nothing gross about it. Germs don’t live on butter. That’s why people leave it out all the time.” Peter had no idea if that was true or not. He had the feeling he was going to get himself into trouble that direction. Butter was a dairy product and dairy products went bad, so why did people leave butter out? “It’s like … olive oil. It doesn’t go bad.” That seemed like a safer analogy. People left that stuff in the pantry forever and it was just fine. Biblical folks did, too. Of course, they probably didn’t contaminate it first, but they couldn’t have been that cleanly two thousand years ago, could they?
XXX
“I…” was Sylar’s brilliant defense, his head thundering and it felt like it was blinding him of reason and expression. Peter’s explanation made sense, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember if it was factual or not. He had no idea how to find out - obviously asking Peter, his erstwhile caretaker, wasn’t going to work. Olive oil? Sure, that stuff lasted for a while, but that had nothing to do with butter or germs near as Sylar could determine (which wasn’t accurate in and of itself either). Assuming the topic truly was germs or butter. I’m confused…
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Peter got out another knife from the drawer and came back, making an elaborate show of using the new knife to carve off the next chunk of butter, along with an exasperated but somewhat playful look at Sylar. “See? All my germs are going on my sandwich which will go in my mouth. The butter is purified again.” He tried to put a good face on it, hoping Sylar would drop the matter. He’d fixed it and he’d make sure to be more careful next time if Sylar was in line of sight.
XXX
Feeling put on the hot seat for doing something wrong, he didn’t know what it was, and properly put in his place, Sylar experienced hurt. Peter acted like whatever it was Sylar had done was far beyond what Sylar thought it was, though that wasn’t a new occurrence in his life. I-I didn’t think it was that bad…I don’t even know what I did…But somehow, it was his fault, not Peter’s. I was just upset about the b-…Oh. I can’t…be upset now? Not even about my food? What will he do next time I complain and he has a sharp object? Sylar considered the force behind throwing the knife and the elaborate posturing and sarcasm Peter made when getting a new knife. The threat sunk in and Peter made his point. Sylar’s face shifted from hurt and confused to understanding and blank with a healthy hint of ‘I don’t like this; I still think you’re wrong.’ “Okay,” he said quietly, still unhappy, ducking his head back down to tend to his sandwich (at least, he thought that’s what he’d been doing before, given the ingredients that lay before him), applying his probably-contaminated salmon to the bread. That’s still really gross. I don’t…see why I have to put up with this.
XXX
'Okay?' Peter thought, watching Sylar as much as he could out of the corner of his eye as he assembled his own sandwich. That's it? He replaced the cover on the butter dish and pushed it to the rear of the counter. Peter carried his knife over to the sink, resisting the urge to defiantly lick this one, too. He set it down with less flourish. Sylar was acting weird - a bit drawn up, fidgeting with his sandwich, head down. I wonder if I intimidated him somehow? Peter couldn't think of what he'd done that might be taken that way, so he gave a slight roll of his eyes and went to collect up a baggie for his sandwich. As he passed by Sylar, the man stopped all movements until Peter took his former position next to him. Peter wasn't sure what to say about that. He bagged his sandwich. Finished, Peter turned and scrutinized Sylar more obviously as he mulled over what it meant that Sylar had conceded so quickly.
XXX
Sylar felt the other man’s eyes on him. He’d been spotted. Surely that was a silent social demand for an explanation or submission of some sort. Sylar angled himself away as much as possible as he hastened to conclude making his sandwich. When Peter didn’t quit, Sylar glanced towards him, murmuring a half-honest, half-confused, “I’m sorry…?” to see if that would lift the watchfulness or alleviate whatever Peter’s problem was (Peter seemed to think it was Sylar’s fault to begin with).
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“You … you don't need to be sorry,” Peter said slowly, looking away. I was the one who did something wrong, not you. Is he afraid I'll leave if he argues with me? Is that what he'd do if our positions were reversed? What kind of care would he take of me? Peter's eyes unfocused a little as he thought about Sylar taping his hand a few days before, holding the brace for him a few days before that. He wasn't sure what kind of a caretaker Sylar would be. Seems likely Sylar doesn't know either.
XXX
That said, with nothing else to do, Sylar looked around until Peter told him, “Bag your sandwich.”
What? Where are…? He glanced for the bags, spotting them, procuring one and getting his meal in with little trouble. He wanted to move away, but didn’t, even after his tasks were done. Sylar was not comfortable or appreciative of Peter’s orders (even if he supposed they were rational - Sylar was the irrational one here, of course) and once they were completed, he had nothing to do but stand there in the man’s continued presence - something that might prove dangerous in long periods.
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Peter looked up at Sylar. “Get that bag over there and lets put the sandwiches in them. Is there anything else you want to take with us?”
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Sylar turned to his left and saw the canvas bag Peter had been using of late; he brought it within their combined reach and assisted in loading it, once again, without question or comment. I’d like a Taser to keep you away from me if things get bad. I really can’t keep up…This isn’t good.
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He glanced down Sylar's form, giving a tiny jerk as he noticed something amiss. “Um, you need to change into jeans. Get some socks and shoes on. And you'll need your jacket. It's been gloomy and overcast out there for most of the week.” Pretty much since they'd had the fight. Peter had wondered if there was a connection, but speculating about it seemed as pointless as trying to pretend he didn't need sleep or food here in this crazy world. The world was as it was, regardless of what was causing it. “I'm pretty sure it rained or drizzled overnight once,” he added conversationally, wondering if that was a new thing for Sylar here or if it was just something that happened now and then. “The pavement was wet when I went out.”
XXX
“Huh?” Sylar looked down at himself more slowly because of his head. It took him longer to reach Peter’s conclusion, but he got there, taking that as a dismissal, he shuffled out into the living room to look for the items. He wasn’t in any particular hurry, aside from Peter’s jittery mood. They weren’t anywhere apparent, in plain view. He thought to check where Peter was before he began and saw Peter watching him from the entryway; he straightened and did his best to walk like he wasn’t hurt; Peter was searching for weaknesses. When he’d fooled his nurse into disinterest -Peter having returned to the kitchen - he moved slow once again, his steps less sure, his expression lost. A few long moments later, he’d gathered socks and jeans, taking them into the bathroom on habit, instinct - there was company in the apartment after all. He tripped on the leg of the jeans on the way, grunting and huffing, but Peter wasn’t there to see and his neck remained unbroken. He sat on the covered toilet seat - door shut - and changed pants, then suffered through the splitting pounding of the headache by leaning over to apply the socks. Uhh. That hurts. It hurts. Everything hurts. Why are we going out? Why do I have to go? He did stop to check his hair, sweeping it back again anyway, just in case.
Sylar returned to the kitchen, jean- and sock-clad, clearly forgetting the other two garments. He waited once more for direction, trying to take up as little space and annoy as little as possible.
XXX
Peter puttered around the kitchen while Sylar did his thing. He put away the mayonnaise and mustard, then sealed the bread and put it away. Lacking anything else to do, he went the extra mile and wiped up the crumbs from the counter and rinsed the knives. There really wasn’t much else to do while Sylar was in the bathroom, so he washed the knives, thinking still-slightly-outraged thoughts about Sylar calling his habits ‘gross’.
Then Sylar returned, still missing shoes. That made Peter think about what else he’d directed and realize that wasn’t the only thing missing. “Shoes, Sylar,” he said with an exasperated tone. “You’re gonna need your shoes. Do you know where they are?” Peter gave a quick sweep of the kitchen, having no idea where the guy kept most of his things. Next to the door? Peter herded Sylar out of the kitchen, looking next to the door. No shoes.
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Uh-oh. No, I don’t know where they are, obviously. Peter advanced on him and Sylar backed up, not liking the empath’s tone. His hands were jerked from his pockets as he back-pedaled into the living room. He was ready to defend because he couldn’t tell what Peter was going to do - or do to him - about the lack of shoes. “Uh…um…” he threw out as a stalling tactic (really, it was all he thought to say), his voice a bit strained. Sylar didn’t feel like incurring more bodily harm than strictly necessary. Think…try to think. Where were they last? On thinking that, he heard his mother’s voice harping that at him, and not just about shoes. It was a good lesson - one he would have figured out eventually, but this one had her voice ingrained into it like a broken record. It probably helped freak him out more in his…impressionable state.
XXX
“Sit … just … sit down, Sylar.” Peter considered reaching out and steering the guy to the couch, but thought better of that. Touching him seemed like a bad idea with Sylar acting apprehensive like this. Instead he just gestured and waited for Sylar to comply. “I’ll find them.” And just like that, he spotted the toe of one shoe sticking out from next to the couch, between the tote and the furniture. He maneuvered around his companion, picking up the shoes and handing them to him.
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Sylar sat as directed, not wanting to find out what frustrated Peter would do if he didn’t. Peter was clearly frustrated with him and he didn’t like that feeling at all. He couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten so bad all of a sudden. (It’s just shoes…) You can’t keep track of your own goddamn shoes? No wonder he’s upset! (I don’t…want to make trouble…) Than keep track of your shit. Luckily Peter first offered to look for them - he’d certainly do a better, faster job at it than Sylar would - then found them almost immediately after. “Thank you,” he murmured gratefully and bent down to slip them on, tightening and tying off the laces as best he could, but the pressure to his head upon leaning over was incredible.
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Peter turned away immediately, scanning around the place. “Now where’s your jacket?” He gave Sylar a quick glance and then went to the closet, looking around through it without so much as asking permission. Am I being a dick or am I being helpful, trying to find his jacket and get us both moving? Probably being a dick. He sighed, not having found what he wanted anyway. There was no jacket; although there were a couple shirts heavier than what Sylar was currently wearing that would be better than nothing. It’s got to be around here somewhere.
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Fuck. The jacket, too? Ye-ah, we’re going out, remember? Can’t remember anything today. “I don’t know,” he said in the same tone as before, minus the gratitude. He looked up at the sounds of Peter…opening his closet. While Peter had already seen the contents, the action seemed a little…rude. Peter thought he owned the place, which, again, wasn’t anything new to Sylar. Act like a kid, get treated like one, he thought with resignation. He tried to think back if he’d ever tried to get the guy to respect his belongings. Aside from…butter, I guess.
XXX
“Maybe it’s in the bathroom,” he muttered, closing the closet door and passing by Sylar on his way there. A quick search was fruitless. His bed? Didn’t he get undressed over here? Peter went to Sylar’s bedside, trying to remember. I brought Sylar in. He sat on the couch. I cleaned him up. He … he took his jacket off and used it like a pillow. Peter turned and looked at the couch. Sure enough, there under the blanket, an easy arm’s reach from Sylar, was the jacket, wedged into the seam of the couch.
Peter walked over slowly, hands a little out to either side, palms forward. “Hey.” He tried to soften his voice some because he had the feeling he was being a bit rough. “Your jacket’s right here.” He pulled it out and offered it. Peter gave a brief mental debate about taking a breather or taking off right away. His stomach growling settled the matter. They could rest and hang out wherever they were going rather than impatiently cooling his heels here, waiting for whatever. “Put it on and we’ll take off.”
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Sylar breathed something of a sigh of relief. His companion found the- his wayward jacket. Both shoes and jacket had been within reach the entire time, too, but Peter made no additional comment about that, didn’t rub it in. Best of all, Peter appeared to take his intensity level down a notch, which Sylar appreciated almost as much. Sylar took the jacket, flashing a brief twitch of his lips towards a grin in thanks, both for the assistance and the muted behavior. He threw the jacket around himself with hands that decreased their previous shaking and poked his left fist at the armhole a few times before succeeding. He looked up at Peter on hearing the hunger pangs. That was…kind of amusing. He bit back his facial expression in reaction to it, though his face probably shifted before smoothing out again: situation normal. Standing, after a few seconds to balance, he moved past Peter and towards the door with the feeling that he really was forgetting something now. Sylar hesitated at the hallway, betwixt kitchen, living room and entry door.
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Peter grabbed his own jacket off the chair, swinging into it with only a few pangs from lingeringly sore muscles and joints. Head down as he followed, he was wondering if he should look out the window before they went or what, when Sylar stopped suddenly. Peter noticed out of the corner of his eye and nearly ran into the guy before putting on the brakes. His left hand flew up and touched Sylar's hip or waist. “Oh! Sorry. Almost ...” Yeah. Peter sidestepped away to the right, looking at Sylar expectantly for the cause of the delay.
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“Um…” Sylar gulped. Even that casual touch was distracting. Whatever he’d been trying to remember or think on was blasted into a million pieces on that contact. He looked once, quickly, at Peter, noting that he wasn’t going to be slugged or dragged around or berated or even sighed at for having stopped the show. That helped. He turned in something of a half circle, taking his time, looking over his apartment, hoping whatever he’d forgotten would jump out at him with obviousness. When his eyes reached the kitchen, he spotted it. Sylar pointed to the cloth bag with the sandwiches inside, saying to the closer, more mobile man, “Peter,” with something of a nod. His body language said something to the effect of ‘would you?’
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Peter's brows rose slightly and he pulled his head back in surprise at the familiarity, although it certainly wasn't out of place since he'd been virtually helping the guy dress. He turned and looked where Sylar was gesturing. “Ha. Yeah, almost forgot. Got distracted with the clothes and stuff.” We're a weird pair, aren't we? Peter thought with a moment of warmth. He reached for the bag and slipped it up his right arm to the elbow, turning back and hesitating himself now. He made a couple formless gestures as he mocked out how he might support or catch Sylar if the man lost his balance. He mentally ran through different positions - leading, guiding, or even the more involved Sylar's-arm-over-Peter's-shoulder that they'd used to get Sylar from the fight to his apartment. In any of them, having the bag on his right arm seemed best, even if it was a bit purse-like at the moment. The appearance of masculinity was not very important.
Peter settled on leaving the bag where it was and waved decisively at the door. “Let's go.” And out they went.
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He stifled a sigh. Back to it, I see. He’s really going to frog-march and drag me to the piano whether I’m up for it or not. Once he realized the severity of it, Sylar did his best to settle into ‘alert energy conservation’ mode. He knew he couldn’t go at his own speed, either, for Peter would be on him, hovering or huffing at him. Keeping up was his only option. He didn’t like that much, but none of this (barring the sandwich) was for him. I could have sworn he said bed rest and sleep…This just doesn’t seem like a good idea to me. Hell, just being in the hall was a little chilling, so, yes, Sylar was biased in wanting to slide back under his blanket on the couch. If he did that, though, Peter would just leave him there for God-alone-knew how long and go without him.
Hands at his sides, he proceeded down the hall, leaving Peter to shut the door which he did, Sylar heard. He walked at a medium-slow pace, still limping on toes and hip though he tried to cover that up; his back and neck were protesting the motion. When he rounded the corner to get to the elevator, taking it because he really didn’t want to take his chances with Peter in a stairwell, he noticed the nurse was catching up to him, like he’d been lingering behind for some reason. That was baffling. He’s not admiring the view, not with this limp; even if he is practically riding me to get me going on this adventure. He slowed to accommodate, until he was waiting with Peter at the elevator, having pushed the button already for the doors to open.
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Peter hung back. He was still impatient, yes, but he'd nearly rear-ended Sylar once already and he also needed to see how well Sylar was moving. He didn't know if he needed to give a lot of support or just walk slowly. For now, Sylar had a lot of surfaces to hang onto as they made their way to the elevator. Peter glanced into the cart of books and at the piles of stuff scattered around. Peter wasn't a neat freak or compulsive about organizing things, but the stuff still nagged at him. He didn't even really want to put it up or throw it out so much as understand what it was doing here, in Sylar's head. Cluttered? Sylar's head is cluttered? What's it mean that I emptied my apartment? That I'm brainless or something? He didn't feel brainless or unthinking, so that couldn't be it. Maybe he has a lot of baggage to unpack and that's what all this stuff is? Though if that's the case, then why's my apartment empty? I'm not exactly baggage-free myself.
He watched Sylar contemplatively. You and I both have a lot of … stuff to process before we can be … Peter's mind blanked, not able to find the right word. 'Normal', 'sane', 'decent' … none seemed right. Functional, maybe. “Hey, I'm glad you're coming with me.” Peter made a tip of his head. “Getting out. Today. Thanks.” He hoped it wasn't more effort that Sylar was up to.
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They moved inside the car and Peter pressed the button for the lobby as Sylar settled into the railing, making it look casual even though it was more of a slump. At the man’s dialogue, Sylar made a quizzical, somewhat wary face. So now I’m likeable? We go on a trip and now you like me? Up til now Sylar was pretty damn sure he’d been the ball-and-chain holding Peter back. Still the nurse had some moments of appearing calm, relaxed and peaceful, even happy - he’d given a smile just earlier. ‘Drag your patients around much, Petrelli?’ he thought to quip, but didn’t. He’s glad? The door dinged and he moved to exit the car, making a half nod back, “Yeah, sure.” He’s thanking me for this? Why does he act like I have a choice? He must be planning something. That’s the only explanation. I bet he’s gonna make me clean up the glass he broke. Sylar walked through the lobby and out onto the street, catching the full effect of the overcast clouds and slightly rainy weather in his face. He was relieved that Peter was carrying the bag because looking over the wide streets, which offered him no support; he knew he’d need all the balance he could get. His mind was filled with the fear of stumbling or growing tired, left to crawl after Peter as he walked away and left him there on the sidewalk and that was going to have to be enough motivation to keep himself upright and moving.
Again he waited, bracing himself for the journey, for Peter to indicate their direction. I don’t even know where he’s going to find him, he thought with more paranoia disguising his fear.
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Peter came outside, looking up at the crappy weather. It wasn't nasty by any means and certainly wasn't something to send him back inside, but it wasn't good. “I should have brought an umbrella. Well, it's not far.” He popped his collar against the chilly air and gestured to the right. For the first block (the same one that Sylar's apartment building was on), they could walk under the overhang of the buildings, with a firm (though glass) wall on the right if Sylar wanted support. Peter fell into step on the man's left, moving slowly and taking small steps.
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Somehow that gesture made him feel better - just a little bit. Peter popping his collar was familiar to him.
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Once they were past this block, they would cross a street and have a half block of nothing useful as support (well, aside from trees and a flimsy fence on this side of the street, and intermittent planters on the other side). Then, if they went to the other side of the street, they'd be back under an awning for the other half of the block. The building Peter wanted to go to was on that side, the next block over. So from where they were, they had a half block of protected distance, a street to cross diagonally, a half block of open space, another half block of protection, cross another street, and they were at their destination. Seemed simple, right?
Peter sized Sylar up discreetly as they walked. He seemed stable enough. But he was also very stiff, very careful, pale, and shooting Peter irregular, jerky looks. The looks were like Peter was a predator who might at any point detect weakness and pounce. Sylar looked stressed and scared, but reading this guy's emotions was like deciphering code. Peter thought about what had worked before. Even though he was itching to ask Sylar if he needed or wanted help, he was virtually certain that wouldn't get him an honest answer - just an 'I'm fine' like earlier.
Peter swapped the bag of food to his left, taking the straps in his hand. He stepped closer to Sylar and offered his right arm, sticking out his elbow like he was offering to guide a blind person. “Take hold of my elbow,” he said, direct and plain, very intentionally not asking, but telling. He had to say the words distinctly and with effort to avoid asking, 'do you want to take hold …'. The obvious answer to that was 'no', because no, Sylar didn't want help. Or rather, he did want it, but he couldn't get his ego out of the way enough to ask for it. So Peter didn't make it a question.
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Uh…what? At first confused, he caught on when he saw the elbow. Sylar immediately felt like a girl being asked to dance or maybe a granny being asked about assistance to, yes, cross the fucking road, with Peter’s elbow proffered like that. He frowned. Another glance at Peter’s face made it clear this wasn’t optional. He set his mouth, trying not to sneer at the offer, really. He’s making me dependent on him now. Great. He didn’t bother to hide his reluctance in taking Peter’s arm - Thank God there’s no one here to see this, thank God there’s no one here to see this, thank God…
XXX
After fifty feet or so of walking, Peter tried to make small talk - the contact, even so slight, changed the tenor between them from semi-comfortable silence to Peter wanting to engage. He didn't know what to say, so he tossed something out at random. In a low, neutral voice he asked, “Did you grow up here, in this neighborhood?” This neighborhood that was all in Sylar's head, but it was a representation and served well enough for the conversation.
XXX
The silence and steps dragged on until Sylar was quite uncomfortable. His hand was fisted in Peter’s sleeve jacket to hold Peter to him in case the nurse made a dash for it or perhaps tried to trip him or…something, he didn’t much know. Peter was too short for this to really work, but he was solid and something as they neared the next block where there would be no otherwise support. “Ha!” The question was an odd and unexpected one, so he laughed, sort of. “No, no. No,” he shook his head, amused and a little envious of the idea. He thinks I came from somewhere like this? I must…be doing a good job, then.
“I was raised by wolves,” Sylar elaborated.
XXX
Peter laughed at that and looked back to flash Sylar a grin. “Oh, really? Ha.” He shook his head slightly. “I was just wondering. So how old were you when you moved here?” He ambled diagonally across the street, jay-walking for the hell of it. He noticed Sylar really had a grip on his sleeve. The fabric was tight around Peter's arm. The weird part was that Sylar didn't seem to be using it for stability. It was more like he was just hanging onto him. Huh.
XXX
Another strange question, not one he was unwilling to answer, though, so he did. “Um…four or five, I think….?” I wasn’t- I don’t think I was born here. Don’t know where I was born, actually. There was that…diner. Big Jim’s. I think I was about that age. “My mom would tell you I was born at Queens Hospital, but…” he exhaled and shook his head again dismissively. It didn’t quite register what exactly he’d let slip (or nearly so) for a moment. It sunk in and he panicked some more, needing a hasty, believable, cover-up. “Uh…I mean…She was….easily…confused.” She’s not the only one…
XXX
Peter glanced back again. “Yeah? Moms,” he said, looking away with an eloquent expression of disapproval towards certain maternal figures. Almost entirely, Peter meant his own, but it was … interesting to know that Sylar's mother hadn't been a stable, trustworthy element in his life, either. He recalled Sylar saying something about not knowing if he had any siblings. That could mean a lot of different things.
“I had a call once - EMT work - for a teenage boy who'd overdosed on drugs. The kid's mother had called us, but as soon as we got there, she started insisting he was fine and that she didn't know why we were there. We had the right address. We asked to see him anyway and he definitely was in trouble. So we started getting him out of there and all the time his mother is telling us that he hadn't taken anything, he was just sick from eating too much candy. There was a grandmother in the home. Far as I could tell from seeing her around, she had some form of senile dementia. There was no one else in the house. Poor kid. We were loading him into the ambulance and his mom was yelling at us that he'd never done anything wrong and didn't deserve to be taken away from her again. The kid was real quiet through everything. Of course he was hurting, but he was real quiet.” Peter hesitated, Sylar's adamant 'I'm fine' and persistent efforts to conceal his injuries coming to mind, along with the odd way he was hanging onto Peter's sleeve. “Once the doors were shut, the boy started talking. He said his mother knew he was doing pills and stuff, but … I remember he told me, 'She doesn't talk to people. I mean, she says things, yeah, but she doesn't talk to them. Like Gramma.' It stuck with me.”
XXX
Sylar swallowed. See I’m not the only one. He felt something shift in his chest at this story. He couldn’t help but feel a little bit bad for the other kid because he knew just how horrible that could be. He couldn’t help but wonder why the kid talked and admitted to the drugs. Clearly, the boy hadn’t learned that every scrap of information circled back to the mother and telling medical officials anything was definitely a bad move. “Did he make it? The kid?” Sylar couldn’t believe he was asking after the well-being of a drug-user, one too stupid to keep his mouth shut at that, but he was, apparently. If Peter keeps making these not-subtle metaphors, maybe there’s something to this ending. The answer or conclusion seemed quite important, enough to ask after it.
XXX
“Yeah. Yeah, he did. They pumped his stomach and kept him overnight for observation. He was okay, as far as the drugs went. I don’t think it was a suicide attempt.” There was something to Sylar's tone that implied he was deeply interested, so Peter hesitated for a moment, thinking back and trying to pull up anything else he remembered about the case. “I heard they had to call social services to have someone pick him up, though. His mother didn’t show. I hope they looked into his family life.”
XXX
Continued...
Day 13, Noon
Peter took off into the kitchen, setting out a couple sandwich bags and then getting out the cloth reusable bag he'd been using for groceries. He couldn't think of anything else they'd need. The place probably had a vending machine somewhere they could raid for drinks. Failing that, there were always apartments. He turned and leaned against the counter, trying to stifle his enthusiasm, frustrated already that Sylar couldn't keep up and that Peter would need to go slow.
Peter gave a small cock to his head as he stared at the faded, slightly uneven linoleum. I'm thinking about … me. Not him. Not what he needs. I'm not … caring that I'm going too fast or he needs me to slow down. His head tilted the other way now. Of course, why should I care about him? Given who he is? Peter had lived his life doing for others. He sensed what they needed or wanted and he provided. There was no thought about it, no consideration of whether or not he wanted to do that with his time. It just was. Barring his disastrous interactions with authority figures, his life was a constant flow of finding out how he could be what other people wanted him to be - the hero. His understanding was so intuitive that he rarely paused to think about what people would really benefit from, or about nuances of needs. He certainly had never caught himself, before now, thinking about what he wanted with no regard for the desires of another.
Peter was caught in the dilemma that not only was he being selfish, but he didn't want to be anything other. For the first time, he didn't think this other person deserved, or had a right to, Peter's selflessness. His eyes came up to the doorway, a small line in place between his eyes to mark the serious thought he was giving this.
XXX
Somehow Sylar did not get the feeling that he’d actually be allowed the time it would take for him to ‘catch his breath’. Sylar took a few anyway, desperate to calm his nerves before throwing himself into what was sure to be the middle of the storm. Why are “we” tuning a piano again? Although a piano makes music…maybe he wants to play…and I could listen? That was very good motivation for going at all (or trying to go at all, rather). He’d lacked sound or company for too long. Grunting, he pulled himself to his feet (still dressed in pajama pants and a T-shirt from the day before, but he was groomed for the day) and wobbled into the kitchen blearily, rubbing his face before he was in view of Peter. Something about a can opener? When he did round the corner to see Peter, the guy had a deep, thinking face on and that stopped him short in the doorway. He felt, as usual, that he was out of place and interrupting. Sylar tilted his head, curious as to what was causing that expression (of mixed feelings about it even if Peter was finally contemplating poisoning him) and wondering what he should be doing. Really, that face can’t be good for me. Peter’s thinking…not a good sign? He didn’t speak, in case that, in addition to his presence, was out of line; instead he tried to school his own face into a somewhat-interested blank canvas, ready and available for anything.
XXX
Peter straightened and focused on Sylar, waving at the can where it sat on the counter. “If you could finish opening that for me, I'd really appreciate it.” He shelved his too-deep introspection. He wanted to go and he wanted to bring sandwiches, so that clarified what he needed to do at the moment. He glanced around the kitchen, again trying to think of what was next. Bread and a fork were already sitting out, so … spread? “What do you want on yours?”
XXX
Sylar followed the directions, glad to be given any at all, glad Peter’s…mood had passed (leaving him unharmed). The can was easy with two hands; he shuffled over and threw away the ‘lid’ of the can, returning to the counter. “Mayo and mustard…Please.”
XXX
Peter got out the condiments along with bringing over the butter and dinner knife. He stood there for a few seconds, trying to figure out how to juggle this, with who doing what, that would work out best. He only needed to butter one piece of his bread for his customary treatment, which meant he could use the salmon right now. And he didn't know how much of what Sylar wanted on his sandwich. “Uh … here. You hand me the salmon and the fork. I'll give you the bread and toppings. You set up yours like you want it and I'll get some fish on mine.” Peter pulled out two slices for himself first, then pushed the stuff over in front of Sylar.
Peter smiled a little in quiet amusement that he and Sylar were cooperating on a project, however trivial. Sylar had proven to be a lot of help around the kitchen, which Peter appreciated a lot. The combativeness and uncertainty of the first few days had faded. Now they were standing practically shoulder to shoulder doing something together. It was cheering, given the prospect of being stuck in this place for the long haul.
XXX
Sylar took bread, condiments and knife, opening the jar of mayo with ease. He applied it with far less coordination than a watchmaker or brain-man should, or so he felt, and that upset him because his hands wouldn’t obey (even though he knew the cause was his brain - it was always at fault). Something with the balance involved with knife and delicate bread with both hands was taking too long, and he did try to hurry and be thorough because…Peter was in a hurry. He didn’t question that or his own rushing. Mayo went on one half of the bread, mustard on the other.
XXX
Peter handed over the can of salmon and the fork after he was done, waiting for Sylar to hand him the knife. “Knife, please,” he prompted when Sylar didn't seem to clue to that right away. Peter licked off the mayo and mustard without a second thought, followed by using the knife to cut into the stick of softened butter for his own spread.
XXX
After that Sylar was stumped, left holding the knife, literally. Ha? Murder weapon. He gave a slight start, mostly at hearing Peter’s voice again (and so close to him), looking at the utensil before passing it over. Peter then licked the knife…and stuck it in the butter. Sylar gaped. When he recovered, his voice was part whine, part rebuke, “Peter! What the hell?” He shelved his thoughts of, Well, I don’t mind watching him lick things, but the rest of that…”That’s gross!” Now his tone was definitely wheedling, but he couldn’t help it.
XXX
“What?” Peter's voice sounded more startled and confused than outraged or argumentative. He shot a quick glance down at his partly-buttered bread. You aren't one of those guys who object to meat with dairy, are you? I always thought that was just beef and pork anyway. “It's … it's just butter,” Peter stammered uncertainly, thrown on the defensive and having no idea what Sylar was objecting to.
XXX
“You licked the knife and stuck it in the butter.” Sylar with dripping condescension, not buying Peter’s little innocence act. I’m not Nathan and that won’t work on me. Peter’s fuck up, intentional or otherwise, was obvious.
XXX
“Well, uh ...” Yeah, that's gross. He looked dumbly at the butter again, trying to weigh if he should defend himself aggressively, maybe by asserting there wasn't anything wrong with what he did? After all, Peter helped with food prep all the time and … yeah, indefensible. And he didn't want to pursue that angle and perhaps make it so Sylar refused to eat anything Peter made. He wondered how many times Sylar had not noticed Peter tasting things while they were cooking. Given the number of times he'd 'gotten away with' it (generally without considering any potential wrongness to what he was doing), he didn't feel like apologizing, either. “So what?” Peter threw that out there with mild belligerence, committing himself to little and hoping that Sylar would back down. “It's my sandwich,” he added, trying to distract from the part about putting the knife into the communal butter. I'm not doing anything wrong … right?
XXX
Blinking and honestly stunned by the insinuation that proper food etiquette was above his ilk and that he should just roll over and take that disrespect, Sylar decided that rolling over once would only encourage more of the same from Peter. With some heat, he shot back, “So that’s unsanitary and gross. That’s my butter you just licked. Why would you do that? Do you know how many germs exist in the mouth? Do you think I want that all over my fucking food?” Really, Peter! Just because it’s my fucking butter, it’s okay to spit in, is that it? I’m not a monster, but you’ll slobber on my food and that’s okay? That doesn’t even make sense!
XXX
“I didn’t lick the butter!” But Peter was retreating, physically at the very least, as he went to the sink and tossed the knife beside it with more force than necessary. It clattered noisily on the counter. And it’s not YOUR butter as long as we’re eating here together all the time!
XXX
Sylar twitched and winced at the noise (and noise level) of the knife being thrown into the sink. Peter was still speaking, so he listened, feeling strangely that he was the one doing something wrong, not Peter.
XXX
“There’s nothing gross about it. Germs don’t live on butter. That’s why people leave it out all the time.” Peter had no idea if that was true or not. He had the feeling he was going to get himself into trouble that direction. Butter was a dairy product and dairy products went bad, so why did people leave butter out? “It’s like … olive oil. It doesn’t go bad.” That seemed like a safer analogy. People left that stuff in the pantry forever and it was just fine. Biblical folks did, too. Of course, they probably didn’t contaminate it first, but they couldn’t have been that cleanly two thousand years ago, could they?
XXX
“I…” was Sylar’s brilliant defense, his head thundering and it felt like it was blinding him of reason and expression. Peter’s explanation made sense, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember if it was factual or not. He had no idea how to find out - obviously asking Peter, his erstwhile caretaker, wasn’t going to work. Olive oil? Sure, that stuff lasted for a while, but that had nothing to do with butter or germs near as Sylar could determine (which wasn’t accurate in and of itself either). Assuming the topic truly was germs or butter. I’m confused…
XXX
Peter got out another knife from the drawer and came back, making an elaborate show of using the new knife to carve off the next chunk of butter, along with an exasperated but somewhat playful look at Sylar. “See? All my germs are going on my sandwich which will go in my mouth. The butter is purified again.” He tried to put a good face on it, hoping Sylar would drop the matter. He’d fixed it and he’d make sure to be more careful next time if Sylar was in line of sight.
XXX
Feeling put on the hot seat for doing something wrong, he didn’t know what it was, and properly put in his place, Sylar experienced hurt. Peter acted like whatever it was Sylar had done was far beyond what Sylar thought it was, though that wasn’t a new occurrence in his life. I-I didn’t think it was that bad…I don’t even know what I did…But somehow, it was his fault, not Peter’s. I was just upset about the b-…Oh. I can’t…be upset now? Not even about my food? What will he do next time I complain and he has a sharp object? Sylar considered the force behind throwing the knife and the elaborate posturing and sarcasm Peter made when getting a new knife. The threat sunk in and Peter made his point. Sylar’s face shifted from hurt and confused to understanding and blank with a healthy hint of ‘I don’t like this; I still think you’re wrong.’ “Okay,” he said quietly, still unhappy, ducking his head back down to tend to his sandwich (at least, he thought that’s what he’d been doing before, given the ingredients that lay before him), applying his probably-contaminated salmon to the bread. That’s still really gross. I don’t…see why I have to put up with this.
XXX
'Okay?' Peter thought, watching Sylar as much as he could out of the corner of his eye as he assembled his own sandwich. That's it? He replaced the cover on the butter dish and pushed it to the rear of the counter. Peter carried his knife over to the sink, resisting the urge to defiantly lick this one, too. He set it down with less flourish. Sylar was acting weird - a bit drawn up, fidgeting with his sandwich, head down. I wonder if I intimidated him somehow? Peter couldn't think of what he'd done that might be taken that way, so he gave a slight roll of his eyes and went to collect up a baggie for his sandwich. As he passed by Sylar, the man stopped all movements until Peter took his former position next to him. Peter wasn't sure what to say about that. He bagged his sandwich. Finished, Peter turned and scrutinized Sylar more obviously as he mulled over what it meant that Sylar had conceded so quickly.
XXX
Sylar felt the other man’s eyes on him. He’d been spotted. Surely that was a silent social demand for an explanation or submission of some sort. Sylar angled himself away as much as possible as he hastened to conclude making his sandwich. When Peter didn’t quit, Sylar glanced towards him, murmuring a half-honest, half-confused, “I’m sorry…?” to see if that would lift the watchfulness or alleviate whatever Peter’s problem was (Peter seemed to think it was Sylar’s fault to begin with).
XXX
“You … you don't need to be sorry,” Peter said slowly, looking away. I was the one who did something wrong, not you. Is he afraid I'll leave if he argues with me? Is that what he'd do if our positions were reversed? What kind of care would he take of me? Peter's eyes unfocused a little as he thought about Sylar taping his hand a few days before, holding the brace for him a few days before that. He wasn't sure what kind of a caretaker Sylar would be. Seems likely Sylar doesn't know either.
XXX
That said, with nothing else to do, Sylar looked around until Peter told him, “Bag your sandwich.”
What? Where are…? He glanced for the bags, spotting them, procuring one and getting his meal in with little trouble. He wanted to move away, but didn’t, even after his tasks were done. Sylar was not comfortable or appreciative of Peter’s orders (even if he supposed they were rational - Sylar was the irrational one here, of course) and once they were completed, he had nothing to do but stand there in the man’s continued presence - something that might prove dangerous in long periods.
XXX
Peter looked up at Sylar. “Get that bag over there and lets put the sandwiches in them. Is there anything else you want to take with us?”
XXX
Sylar turned to his left and saw the canvas bag Peter had been using of late; he brought it within their combined reach and assisted in loading it, once again, without question or comment. I’d like a Taser to keep you away from me if things get bad. I really can’t keep up…This isn’t good.
XXX
He glanced down Sylar's form, giving a tiny jerk as he noticed something amiss. “Um, you need to change into jeans. Get some socks and shoes on. And you'll need your jacket. It's been gloomy and overcast out there for most of the week.” Pretty much since they'd had the fight. Peter had wondered if there was a connection, but speculating about it seemed as pointless as trying to pretend he didn't need sleep or food here in this crazy world. The world was as it was, regardless of what was causing it. “I'm pretty sure it rained or drizzled overnight once,” he added conversationally, wondering if that was a new thing for Sylar here or if it was just something that happened now and then. “The pavement was wet when I went out.”
XXX
“Huh?” Sylar looked down at himself more slowly because of his head. It took him longer to reach Peter’s conclusion, but he got there, taking that as a dismissal, he shuffled out into the living room to look for the items. He wasn’t in any particular hurry, aside from Peter’s jittery mood. They weren’t anywhere apparent, in plain view. He thought to check where Peter was before he began and saw Peter watching him from the entryway; he straightened and did his best to walk like he wasn’t hurt; Peter was searching for weaknesses. When he’d fooled his nurse into disinterest -Peter having returned to the kitchen - he moved slow once again, his steps less sure, his expression lost. A few long moments later, he’d gathered socks and jeans, taking them into the bathroom on habit, instinct - there was company in the apartment after all. He tripped on the leg of the jeans on the way, grunting and huffing, but Peter wasn’t there to see and his neck remained unbroken. He sat on the covered toilet seat - door shut - and changed pants, then suffered through the splitting pounding of the headache by leaning over to apply the socks. Uhh. That hurts. It hurts. Everything hurts. Why are we going out? Why do I have to go? He did stop to check his hair, sweeping it back again anyway, just in case.
Sylar returned to the kitchen, jean- and sock-clad, clearly forgetting the other two garments. He waited once more for direction, trying to take up as little space and annoy as little as possible.
XXX
Peter puttered around the kitchen while Sylar did his thing. He put away the mayonnaise and mustard, then sealed the bread and put it away. Lacking anything else to do, he went the extra mile and wiped up the crumbs from the counter and rinsed the knives. There really wasn’t much else to do while Sylar was in the bathroom, so he washed the knives, thinking still-slightly-outraged thoughts about Sylar calling his habits ‘gross’.
Then Sylar returned, still missing shoes. That made Peter think about what else he’d directed and realize that wasn’t the only thing missing. “Shoes, Sylar,” he said with an exasperated tone. “You’re gonna need your shoes. Do you know where they are?” Peter gave a quick sweep of the kitchen, having no idea where the guy kept most of his things. Next to the door? Peter herded Sylar out of the kitchen, looking next to the door. No shoes.
XXX
Uh-oh. No, I don’t know where they are, obviously. Peter advanced on him and Sylar backed up, not liking the empath’s tone. His hands were jerked from his pockets as he back-pedaled into the living room. He was ready to defend because he couldn’t tell what Peter was going to do - or do to him - about the lack of shoes. “Uh…um…” he threw out as a stalling tactic (really, it was all he thought to say), his voice a bit strained. Sylar didn’t feel like incurring more bodily harm than strictly necessary. Think…try to think. Where were they last? On thinking that, he heard his mother’s voice harping that at him, and not just about shoes. It was a good lesson - one he would have figured out eventually, but this one had her voice ingrained into it like a broken record. It probably helped freak him out more in his…impressionable state.
XXX
“Sit … just … sit down, Sylar.” Peter considered reaching out and steering the guy to the couch, but thought better of that. Touching him seemed like a bad idea with Sylar acting apprehensive like this. Instead he just gestured and waited for Sylar to comply. “I’ll find them.” And just like that, he spotted the toe of one shoe sticking out from next to the couch, between the tote and the furniture. He maneuvered around his companion, picking up the shoes and handing them to him.
XXX
Sylar sat as directed, not wanting to find out what frustrated Peter would do if he didn’t. Peter was clearly frustrated with him and he didn’t like that feeling at all. He couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten so bad all of a sudden. (It’s just shoes…) You can’t keep track of your own goddamn shoes? No wonder he’s upset! (I don’t…want to make trouble…) Than keep track of your shit. Luckily Peter first offered to look for them - he’d certainly do a better, faster job at it than Sylar would - then found them almost immediately after. “Thank you,” he murmured gratefully and bent down to slip them on, tightening and tying off the laces as best he could, but the pressure to his head upon leaning over was incredible.
XXX
Peter turned away immediately, scanning around the place. “Now where’s your jacket?” He gave Sylar a quick glance and then went to the closet, looking around through it without so much as asking permission. Am I being a dick or am I being helpful, trying to find his jacket and get us both moving? Probably being a dick. He sighed, not having found what he wanted anyway. There was no jacket; although there were a couple shirts heavier than what Sylar was currently wearing that would be better than nothing. It’s got to be around here somewhere.
XXX
Fuck. The jacket, too? Ye-ah, we’re going out, remember? Can’t remember anything today. “I don’t know,” he said in the same tone as before, minus the gratitude. He looked up at the sounds of Peter…opening his closet. While Peter had already seen the contents, the action seemed a little…rude. Peter thought he owned the place, which, again, wasn’t anything new to Sylar. Act like a kid, get treated like one, he thought with resignation. He tried to think back if he’d ever tried to get the guy to respect his belongings. Aside from…butter, I guess.
XXX
“Maybe it’s in the bathroom,” he muttered, closing the closet door and passing by Sylar on his way there. A quick search was fruitless. His bed? Didn’t he get undressed over here? Peter went to Sylar’s bedside, trying to remember. I brought Sylar in. He sat on the couch. I cleaned him up. He … he took his jacket off and used it like a pillow. Peter turned and looked at the couch. Sure enough, there under the blanket, an easy arm’s reach from Sylar, was the jacket, wedged into the seam of the couch.
Peter walked over slowly, hands a little out to either side, palms forward. “Hey.” He tried to soften his voice some because he had the feeling he was being a bit rough. “Your jacket’s right here.” He pulled it out and offered it. Peter gave a brief mental debate about taking a breather or taking off right away. His stomach growling settled the matter. They could rest and hang out wherever they were going rather than impatiently cooling his heels here, waiting for whatever. “Put it on and we’ll take off.”
XXX
Sylar breathed something of a sigh of relief. His companion found the- his wayward jacket. Both shoes and jacket had been within reach the entire time, too, but Peter made no additional comment about that, didn’t rub it in. Best of all, Peter appeared to take his intensity level down a notch, which Sylar appreciated almost as much. Sylar took the jacket, flashing a brief twitch of his lips towards a grin in thanks, both for the assistance and the muted behavior. He threw the jacket around himself with hands that decreased their previous shaking and poked his left fist at the armhole a few times before succeeding. He looked up at Peter on hearing the hunger pangs. That was…kind of amusing. He bit back his facial expression in reaction to it, though his face probably shifted before smoothing out again: situation normal. Standing, after a few seconds to balance, he moved past Peter and towards the door with the feeling that he really was forgetting something now. Sylar hesitated at the hallway, betwixt kitchen, living room and entry door.
XXX
Peter grabbed his own jacket off the chair, swinging into it with only a few pangs from lingeringly sore muscles and joints. Head down as he followed, he was wondering if he should look out the window before they went or what, when Sylar stopped suddenly. Peter noticed out of the corner of his eye and nearly ran into the guy before putting on the brakes. His left hand flew up and touched Sylar's hip or waist. “Oh! Sorry. Almost ...” Yeah. Peter sidestepped away to the right, looking at Sylar expectantly for the cause of the delay.
XXX
“Um…” Sylar gulped. Even that casual touch was distracting. Whatever he’d been trying to remember or think on was blasted into a million pieces on that contact. He looked once, quickly, at Peter, noting that he wasn’t going to be slugged or dragged around or berated or even sighed at for having stopped the show. That helped. He turned in something of a half circle, taking his time, looking over his apartment, hoping whatever he’d forgotten would jump out at him with obviousness. When his eyes reached the kitchen, he spotted it. Sylar pointed to the cloth bag with the sandwiches inside, saying to the closer, more mobile man, “Peter,” with something of a nod. His body language said something to the effect of ‘would you?’
XXX
Peter's brows rose slightly and he pulled his head back in surprise at the familiarity, although it certainly wasn't out of place since he'd been virtually helping the guy dress. He turned and looked where Sylar was gesturing. “Ha. Yeah, almost forgot. Got distracted with the clothes and stuff.” We're a weird pair, aren't we? Peter thought with a moment of warmth. He reached for the bag and slipped it up his right arm to the elbow, turning back and hesitating himself now. He made a couple formless gestures as he mocked out how he might support or catch Sylar if the man lost his balance. He mentally ran through different positions - leading, guiding, or even the more involved Sylar's-arm-over-Peter's-shoulder that they'd used to get Sylar from the fight to his apartment. In any of them, having the bag on his right arm seemed best, even if it was a bit purse-like at the moment. The appearance of masculinity was not very important.
Peter settled on leaving the bag where it was and waved decisively at the door. “Let's go.” And out they went.
XXX
He stifled a sigh. Back to it, I see. He’s really going to frog-march and drag me to the piano whether I’m up for it or not. Once he realized the severity of it, Sylar did his best to settle into ‘alert energy conservation’ mode. He knew he couldn’t go at his own speed, either, for Peter would be on him, hovering or huffing at him. Keeping up was his only option. He didn’t like that much, but none of this (barring the sandwich) was for him. I could have sworn he said bed rest and sleep…This just doesn’t seem like a good idea to me. Hell, just being in the hall was a little chilling, so, yes, Sylar was biased in wanting to slide back under his blanket on the couch. If he did that, though, Peter would just leave him there for God-alone-knew how long and go without him.
Hands at his sides, he proceeded down the hall, leaving Peter to shut the door which he did, Sylar heard. He walked at a medium-slow pace, still limping on toes and hip though he tried to cover that up; his back and neck were protesting the motion. When he rounded the corner to get to the elevator, taking it because he really didn’t want to take his chances with Peter in a stairwell, he noticed the nurse was catching up to him, like he’d been lingering behind for some reason. That was baffling. He’s not admiring the view, not with this limp; even if he is practically riding me to get me going on this adventure. He slowed to accommodate, until he was waiting with Peter at the elevator, having pushed the button already for the doors to open.
XXX
Peter hung back. He was still impatient, yes, but he'd nearly rear-ended Sylar once already and he also needed to see how well Sylar was moving. He didn't know if he needed to give a lot of support or just walk slowly. For now, Sylar had a lot of surfaces to hang onto as they made their way to the elevator. Peter glanced into the cart of books and at the piles of stuff scattered around. Peter wasn't a neat freak or compulsive about organizing things, but the stuff still nagged at him. He didn't even really want to put it up or throw it out so much as understand what it was doing here, in Sylar's head. Cluttered? Sylar's head is cluttered? What's it mean that I emptied my apartment? That I'm brainless or something? He didn't feel brainless or unthinking, so that couldn't be it. Maybe he has a lot of baggage to unpack and that's what all this stuff is? Though if that's the case, then why's my apartment empty? I'm not exactly baggage-free myself.
He watched Sylar contemplatively. You and I both have a lot of … stuff to process before we can be … Peter's mind blanked, not able to find the right word. 'Normal', 'sane', 'decent' … none seemed right. Functional, maybe. “Hey, I'm glad you're coming with me.” Peter made a tip of his head. “Getting out. Today. Thanks.” He hoped it wasn't more effort that Sylar was up to.
XXX
They moved inside the car and Peter pressed the button for the lobby as Sylar settled into the railing, making it look casual even though it was more of a slump. At the man’s dialogue, Sylar made a quizzical, somewhat wary face. So now I’m likeable? We go on a trip and now you like me? Up til now Sylar was pretty damn sure he’d been the ball-and-chain holding Peter back. Still the nurse had some moments of appearing calm, relaxed and peaceful, even happy - he’d given a smile just earlier. ‘Drag your patients around much, Petrelli?’ he thought to quip, but didn’t. He’s glad? The door dinged and he moved to exit the car, making a half nod back, “Yeah, sure.” He’s thanking me for this? Why does he act like I have a choice? He must be planning something. That’s the only explanation. I bet he’s gonna make me clean up the glass he broke. Sylar walked through the lobby and out onto the street, catching the full effect of the overcast clouds and slightly rainy weather in his face. He was relieved that Peter was carrying the bag because looking over the wide streets, which offered him no support; he knew he’d need all the balance he could get. His mind was filled with the fear of stumbling or growing tired, left to crawl after Peter as he walked away and left him there on the sidewalk and that was going to have to be enough motivation to keep himself upright and moving.
Again he waited, bracing himself for the journey, for Peter to indicate their direction. I don’t even know where he’s going to find him, he thought with more paranoia disguising his fear.
XXX
Peter came outside, looking up at the crappy weather. It wasn't nasty by any means and certainly wasn't something to send him back inside, but it wasn't good. “I should have brought an umbrella. Well, it's not far.” He popped his collar against the chilly air and gestured to the right. For the first block (the same one that Sylar's apartment building was on), they could walk under the overhang of the buildings, with a firm (though glass) wall on the right if Sylar wanted support. Peter fell into step on the man's left, moving slowly and taking small steps.
XXX
Somehow that gesture made him feel better - just a little bit. Peter popping his collar was familiar to him.
XXX
Once they were past this block, they would cross a street and have a half block of nothing useful as support (well, aside from trees and a flimsy fence on this side of the street, and intermittent planters on the other side). Then, if they went to the other side of the street, they'd be back under an awning for the other half of the block. The building Peter wanted to go to was on that side, the next block over. So from where they were, they had a half block of protected distance, a street to cross diagonally, a half block of open space, another half block of protection, cross another street, and they were at their destination. Seemed simple, right?
Peter sized Sylar up discreetly as they walked. He seemed stable enough. But he was also very stiff, very careful, pale, and shooting Peter irregular, jerky looks. The looks were like Peter was a predator who might at any point detect weakness and pounce. Sylar looked stressed and scared, but reading this guy's emotions was like deciphering code. Peter thought about what had worked before. Even though he was itching to ask Sylar if he needed or wanted help, he was virtually certain that wouldn't get him an honest answer - just an 'I'm fine' like earlier.
Peter swapped the bag of food to his left, taking the straps in his hand. He stepped closer to Sylar and offered his right arm, sticking out his elbow like he was offering to guide a blind person. “Take hold of my elbow,” he said, direct and plain, very intentionally not asking, but telling. He had to say the words distinctly and with effort to avoid asking, 'do you want to take hold …'. The obvious answer to that was 'no', because no, Sylar didn't want help. Or rather, he did want it, but he couldn't get his ego out of the way enough to ask for it. So Peter didn't make it a question.
XXX
Uh…what? At first confused, he caught on when he saw the elbow. Sylar immediately felt like a girl being asked to dance or maybe a granny being asked about assistance to, yes, cross the fucking road, with Peter’s elbow proffered like that. He frowned. Another glance at Peter’s face made it clear this wasn’t optional. He set his mouth, trying not to sneer at the offer, really. He’s making me dependent on him now. Great. He didn’t bother to hide his reluctance in taking Peter’s arm - Thank God there’s no one here to see this, thank God there’s no one here to see this, thank God…
XXX
After fifty feet or so of walking, Peter tried to make small talk - the contact, even so slight, changed the tenor between them from semi-comfortable silence to Peter wanting to engage. He didn't know what to say, so he tossed something out at random. In a low, neutral voice he asked, “Did you grow up here, in this neighborhood?” This neighborhood that was all in Sylar's head, but it was a representation and served well enough for the conversation.
XXX
The silence and steps dragged on until Sylar was quite uncomfortable. His hand was fisted in Peter’s sleeve jacket to hold Peter to him in case the nurse made a dash for it or perhaps tried to trip him or…something, he didn’t much know. Peter was too short for this to really work, but he was solid and something as they neared the next block where there would be no otherwise support. “Ha!” The question was an odd and unexpected one, so he laughed, sort of. “No, no. No,” he shook his head, amused and a little envious of the idea. He thinks I came from somewhere like this? I must…be doing a good job, then.
“I was raised by wolves,” Sylar elaborated.
XXX
Peter laughed at that and looked back to flash Sylar a grin. “Oh, really? Ha.” He shook his head slightly. “I was just wondering. So how old were you when you moved here?” He ambled diagonally across the street, jay-walking for the hell of it. He noticed Sylar really had a grip on his sleeve. The fabric was tight around Peter's arm. The weird part was that Sylar didn't seem to be using it for stability. It was more like he was just hanging onto him. Huh.
XXX
Another strange question, not one he was unwilling to answer, though, so he did. “Um…four or five, I think….?” I wasn’t- I don’t think I was born here. Don’t know where I was born, actually. There was that…diner. Big Jim’s. I think I was about that age. “My mom would tell you I was born at Queens Hospital, but…” he exhaled and shook his head again dismissively. It didn’t quite register what exactly he’d let slip (or nearly so) for a moment. It sunk in and he panicked some more, needing a hasty, believable, cover-up. “Uh…I mean…She was….easily…confused.” She’s not the only one…
XXX
Peter glanced back again. “Yeah? Moms,” he said, looking away with an eloquent expression of disapproval towards certain maternal figures. Almost entirely, Peter meant his own, but it was … interesting to know that Sylar's mother hadn't been a stable, trustworthy element in his life, either. He recalled Sylar saying something about not knowing if he had any siblings. That could mean a lot of different things.
“I had a call once - EMT work - for a teenage boy who'd overdosed on drugs. The kid's mother had called us, but as soon as we got there, she started insisting he was fine and that she didn't know why we were there. We had the right address. We asked to see him anyway and he definitely was in trouble. So we started getting him out of there and all the time his mother is telling us that he hadn't taken anything, he was just sick from eating too much candy. There was a grandmother in the home. Far as I could tell from seeing her around, she had some form of senile dementia. There was no one else in the house. Poor kid. We were loading him into the ambulance and his mom was yelling at us that he'd never done anything wrong and didn't deserve to be taken away from her again. The kid was real quiet through everything. Of course he was hurting, but he was real quiet.” Peter hesitated, Sylar's adamant 'I'm fine' and persistent efforts to conceal his injuries coming to mind, along with the odd way he was hanging onto Peter's sleeve. “Once the doors were shut, the boy started talking. He said his mother knew he was doing pills and stuff, but … I remember he told me, 'She doesn't talk to people. I mean, she says things, yeah, but she doesn't talk to them. Like Gramma.' It stuck with me.”
XXX
Sylar swallowed. See I’m not the only one. He felt something shift in his chest at this story. He couldn’t help but feel a little bit bad for the other kid because he knew just how horrible that could be. He couldn’t help but wonder why the kid talked and admitted to the drugs. Clearly, the boy hadn’t learned that every scrap of information circled back to the mother and telling medical officials anything was definitely a bad move. “Did he make it? The kid?” Sylar couldn’t believe he was asking after the well-being of a drug-user, one too stupid to keep his mouth shut at that, but he was, apparently. If Peter keeps making these not-subtle metaphors, maybe there’s something to this ending. The answer or conclusion seemed quite important, enough to ask after it.
XXX
“Yeah. Yeah, he did. They pumped his stomach and kept him overnight for observation. He was okay, as far as the drugs went. I don’t think it was a suicide attempt.” There was something to Sylar's tone that implied he was deeply interested, so Peter hesitated for a moment, thinking back and trying to pull up anything else he remembered about the case. “I heard they had to call social services to have someone pick him up, though. His mother didn’t show. I hope they looked into his family life.”
XXX
Continued...