More Between Us Chapter 50/? "Lullaby"
More Between Us Chapter 50/? "Lullaby"
Day 13, Afternoon
Sylar gathered from the way Peter spoke about it that he’d had two stints in juvie as well. What a hell of a thing to have in common. It’s like…manifester’s initiation. Trial by fire. “So…how’d they get you?” he asked, curious but uncaring. It was by minor miracle (and Peter’s niceness, one and the same thing) that kept the sarcasm from his delivery, because, really…a Petrelli in prison? The idea was laughable. Not that one shouldn’t be in prison; but that it had happened at all. The difference in treatment they’d each received was as different as mud from water - his own being the mud, of course. He was not expecting any true horror story here.
XXX
Peter looked off into the room, talking without looking directly at his companion. “They pitched it to me as a rehabilitation program at first - that 'help' I said- I thought you should- Well, anyway, I nearly blew up New York, so I probably would have gone in even if they told me exactly what it was, which was just a prison. I had a cell. They drugged me up enough that I didn't mind most of the time. Adam was in the cell next to me. We'd talk sometimes. I'd see Elle a couple times a day most days, the guards the other days. That was pretty much it. Couple months of absolutely nothing, aside from the electroshock and the occasional screams down the hallway.”
XXX
It was a good thing Peter wasn’t looking at him because Sylar glared. Don’t even start with me. The sad thing is, if the Company had soft-balled (or hard-balled) it to him when he’d manifested and killed Brian Davis, he’d have probably went eagerly; in handcuffs, too. Sylar shifted at the mention of that long-lost angel. That’s right. C’mon, you were stupid to ever think she was…innocent. The only thing about her that was was her face. He snorted on hearing about Peter’s electro-therapy, feeling somewhat vindicated that Peter had suffered even a little bit or at least been unhappy.
XXX
He turned to face Sylar. “How about you? Can you tell me about that 'first time'? I don't think I know anything about that.” He was calmer now. His time in Level Five wasn't nearly as upsetting to him as the persistent and senseless betrayals by his cursed family. Listening to Sylar was a nice break, although he hoped whatever had happened to the man wasn't yet another sin to be laid at the feet of House Petrelli (which meant it all fell to Peter, since everyone else guilty was dead except Angela … and mad as Peter was, he wouldn't make her answer for what she'd done. She was his mother; she was exempt).
XXX
I don’t see why you care. But it didn’t hurt to tell Peter. His sandwich forgotten, Sylar answered, a little surprised at himself for doing so, “I was the ‘screams down the hall’. Right after your swan dive off the stadium…Homecoming, imagine Bennet getting his hands on the man chasing after his precious indestructible daughter and that’s how it went. You know how much they love their research.” He cast Peter a you-know-how-it-is glance every sentence or so before amending, “Or…you wouldn’t, but…They tried to put me through my paces. I wouldn’t give them anything and they couldn’t find anything but telekinesis in all of my genetic code.” That, he stated with arrogant pride. That his power was something undetectable (read: safe) by modern science was a pretty fucking cool. It was like Intuitive Aptitude came with a fail-safe.
His native ability, once thought impossible, un-special and non-existent, came from behind like an underdog to hide his stolen ones he knew not where. His was the only one capable of transferring, stealing - not replicating - abilities with a mere touch and the raw intelligence of his mind. From what he knew of Peter’s own loss of abilities, Arthur had used a power to do it; therefor he was completely unique! With less joy-filled recollection, he continued, “OD’d a few times; said they gave me enough drugs to kill an elephant.”
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“No. I think got a taste of how much they ‘love their research’ at Pinehearst. Thanks for that, by the way - getting me out of there.” Mostly he meant saving him from Mohinder’s syringe, but Peter supposed getting thrown out the window counted, too. He started to take another bite, then glanced over at Sylar’s sandwich resting on his knee. “Eat up, Sylar. I can’t have you starving to death on me here,” he joked gently.
XXX
Sylar looked over at Peter, getting a mix of unfamiliar and familiar feelings. Easily he could have blamed it on his near-constant déjà vu à la Nathan Petrelli and it was to blame in part, but Peter was interacting with him. Another thank you. Is he the only one who values having his life saved? I’ve never been thanked so much in my life. He frowned slightly and nodded, accepting the gratitude but not knowing what to do with it or the conversation. He didn’t have do much in the end - Peter piped up, still chatting away mostly. Sylar was happy he didn’t have to answer why he’d saved Peter in the first place. Talk of starvation earned Peter an amused/confused expression. I’m not hungry. I had breakfast - he was there. He’s…always been there since the fight, at least that I can remember. Huh. He cares if I starve. Dutifully, Sylar hefted his sandwich and took a bite, making a bit of a show of it. He hasn’t tried to force me to eat, either. I guess he does know about the nausea.
XXX
“You know, something I’ve been meaning to say … I’m a nurse and a paramedic. I’m not a doctor, definitely not a neurosurgeon. I didn’t pay any special attention to how to deal with head injuries in any of my classes and I’ve already told you I never had any bad ones myself. If I’m pushing you too much … tell me. Same if I’m not.” A little softer, he added, “Don’t ‘I’m fine’ me. I’m trying to help.”
XXX
At first he couldn’t figure what Peter was trying to get at. Then Sylar’s gaze slid over him, some of the wariness returning. Do you think I’m that stupid? What do you think you’re going to do if I do say it’s too much? Or if it’s not too much, hmm? Annoyance spiked but not to dangerous or even verbal levels. So tuning a piano across the street is you helping me? You’re just here to help me, not get me to save your girlfriend, right? Oh, please.
Sylar plastered on something of a pleasant face, “You know what they say; if you can’t trust your doctor…” who can you trust? That would be no one.
XXX
Peter gave a half-hearted nod in response. After finishing his sandwich, he went over to the piano and began a careful exploration of it, looking for anything useful - a tuning key, a label, directions, anything. He found a label and read it aloud to Sylar, but it wasn’t particularly helpful. “I’ll bet that music store we went to would have stuff for how to tune this. Might even have a book. Or the library would have a book, I’m sure.” Fake book, because this whole place is fake. But a metaphorical fix is still a fix. He glanced over at Sylar. Seeing the man’s expression, he hastened to add, “We can go check there some other time - not today. Let me try playing some stuff and we’ll see how out of tune this thing really is.”
XXX
Fed and comfortable, as much as he could be and he hadn’t finished his sandwich, he felt tired so Sylar was sure his face showed everything he was thinking on it - please no; don’t demand that; I can’t make that; I don’t want to. And Peter saw it, but he didn’t insist on the trek of pointless doom. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed eagerly (at least about going to the music store another day). How did Nathan keep up with him? Twelve years older…I’m only a few years older than Peter (I think). This feels…almost like having a little brother. Now if only I didn’t want to strangle him every time he opened his mouth but that’s not just me - everyone wants to do that. Peter certainly had a holier-than-thou complex that he paired subtly with that endearing, boy-next-door attitude and charm. It was quite winning.
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Peter arranged himself in front of the instrument, without sheet music and with the front panel still off. With one hand, one finger, and one thumb, he stumbled through ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’, doing a recognizable job of it. He glanced over at Sylar for approval or at least reaction, then turned back to repeat it - same song, several times, showing the patience that had served him well in school, drawing, and medicine, but was at odds with how he approached crisis situations. By the end, even given his limitations, he was playing appreciably better.
XXX
What a ham, Sylar thought, completely entertained by the idea of a personal concert, even if the instrument in question was going to burst his eardrums. The music was broken, off-key, but Peter didn’t hit a whole lot of wrong notes. It was impressive. When was the last time he played? And he still remembers the notes and…how to play. It seemed like a lot of memorization over a long period of time, from what little he knew or could guess at. His impression of the maestro was confirmed when Peter checked back after finishing the song - a fitting choice about saints. “Sounds good,” he grinned a little, delighted at hearing human sound filling a room.
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Peter stood to fish around under the lid of the piano seat, pulling out some music and then replacing the front panel. “So what do you want to hear - popular folk tunes or hymns?”
XXX
Sylar had settled in now that Peter had a toy to play with, allowing his lids to droop as he stared at nothing, focused on listening, taking it in. It almost ached in his chest, the feeling of being in the same room with someone, of music and lack of immediate threat or requirement. He could just…sit and be and listen. Peter seemed very taken with the piano, playing the same song several times - Sylar assumed he was trying to get it right. Motion lazily caught his eye and he looked to his companion. “Folk tunes, please.” Please! Not hymns. I’d puncture my own eardrums if I had to put up with that. Or I’d crawl back to my apartment. It interested him that he’d been asked his opinion, not the first time Peter had done so.
XXX
Peter played, trying to get the hang of not having enough fingers to hit the right notes. For some songs, he could bridge it and manage, although there were awkward pauses as he moved his hands. For others, he simply couldn’t play them recognizably. He noticed very soon that Sylar was dozing. We need to get a couch down here, or an easy chair or something. Maybe we could get one down the elevator. He let his thoughts wander, thinking about Emma and the tiara, about patients and their situations, like that of a little boy with a broken leg who didn’t want the ambulance to leave until someone went inside for his boo-bear-lion. Hesam had done the honors, escorting the stuffed animal from house to ambulance before they left. Comfort articles, Peter mused. They’re important. He thought about his empty room and how driven he’d felt to strip out everything not absolutely necessary. He wasn’t sure what it meant.
Hours whiled by with longer pauses between songs as he rested his hands. He’d had a bathroom break and stood up to stretch a few times as well. His stomach rumbled at his last and latest break as he sat turned towards Sylar, regarding him fixedly. Sylar’s sandwich caught Peter’s eye. It was less than half-eaten. In the apartment, Sylar usually managed an entire sandwich. If he’d even so much opened his soda here, Peter couldn’t tell. I pushed him too hard. He over-exerted and lost his appetite. He sighed. And now we’ve got the walk back, after which he probably won’t want to eat either.
Peter frowned, disappointed at himself. It was easy to be angry - at the moment he was also in pain. He sat cradling his right hand, which ached continually and throbbed slightly from the afternoon of using it and the frequent small impacts it had to endure. He’d managed to give himself a nasty blister on the side of his middle finger where it rubbed against the brace. Sylar wasn’t the only one who’d over-exerted himself, not that Peter would admit to that even as he sat there silently, a little hunkered to the side from the hurt. He’d enjoyed playing and a little pain was something he was willing to pay for it. But he was definitely looking forward to some painkillers. That, and the repeated growl from his stomach decided it. He was done playing piano for the day.
Day 13, Evening
It was that still kind of quiet that woke him - it never failed to. The lack of faint, normal noise for the first time, probably since he’d lain down served as a signal. Surprisingly he’d had something of a decent rest, the undisturbed kind. Sylar’s eyes cracked open and he surveyed an unfamiliar room. Why did I fall asleep here? And where is here? he thought before he noticed he had a watcher. Oh. Sylar froze, just staring back as Peter watched him, unsure of what was going on. Peter looked rough, but he tried to hide it when he straightened up. Told you this piano adventure was a bad idea. The other man was hardly a threat, that relaxed him enough to start pushing himself up. “Sorry.” He supposed that was rude of him to sleep, but as usual done was done. “I heard the whole thing, just resting my eyes,” he said lightly, admitting he’d failed as an audience.
Sylar hoped it didn’t offend Peter or get him thinking he’d fall asleep every time the man played. It had no bearing on how good Peter’s playing actually was, either. He rubbed at his brow as the altitude went to his head, immediately aggravating the dull aching of his cranium. “Ugh,” he remarked, belatedly trying to make that sound sleepy. Oriented and uncomfortable now, he looked over his partner. “You look like crap.” You should sleep and play more and work less. All work and no play turn you into…well…me. I suppose he did ‘play’, though. “Maybe you’re the one who needs a rest.”
XXX
I keep getting caught looking at him while he's asleep. That's … I need to quit that. Either doing it, or getting caught. Or both. But … what? Should I be staring at the wall instead? I wouldn't have this problem if we weren't nearly living together. Peter snorted at Sylar's 'I was just resting my eyes' thing and stood up, stretching and trying to loosen his back as his thoughts faded into the background, unheeded by the main part of his consciousness. That portion was more concerned with how his shoulders hurt. He might be in good shape, but hours of repetitive muscle strain wasn't good for anyone.
He laughed at being told he looked like crap. “Sylar … you and me ...” He exhaled and shook his head, bemused. “I feel like crap, too. We need to get a couch down here, or maybe a couple easy chairs and a coffee table. I'll bet they'd fit in the elevators. I could rest then. That something else we can do some other day, though.”
XXX
You and me what, Peter? He speculated. Sylar grinned a little that Peter found any of that amusing. Couches sounded like a great idea - when they were both fit enough for that kind of heavy lifting.
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Peter stretched backwards a bit, arching enough that his shirt rode up his stomach slightly, and then straightened to try (and fail) to pop his neck. He frowned and rubbed at it with his left hand. “I'm not going to play anymore and I'm getting kind of hungry. Are you okay with going back now or do you want to stay here? I'm sure I could find some food upstairs. For both of us.” He shot a glance at the sandwich. Would it be better to have him eat before we went? Exertion isn't good on a full stomach, but … I don't know. I'll see what he wants to do.
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I wonder how much time he spends in the gym (or at work) to avoid sleeping to get that…in-shape. “Yeah, I’m okay to go back now.” Sylar nodded, briefly rubbing his palms together.
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“Let's bag our stuff up.” Peter came closer for the bag, stuffing his empty sandwich bag inside. He'd long since finished his drink and disposed of it. “Might as well leave the other sodas here for next time.” Plus, he didn't want them weighting the bag and dangling. He started to take a step away, then shifted his balance back, switching the bag to his right and offering a steadying, unasked-for hand to help Sylar stand. The first few moments on his feet would probably be the dizziest.
XXX
Once packed, Peter offered him a hand. Sylar looked at it, then at Peter, tilted his head like some sort of shrug and clasped his hand to Peter’s. It wasn’t like the nurse didn’t know he could use the help - the vulnerability wasn’t new - more importantly, that Sylar hasn’t asked for it. The world swung drunkenly but with persistent blinking, he got it sorted. On standing it felt like a weight settled into his cranium and there was little to be done about it. His bruised hip pulled, his wrist tweaked itself, his toes throbbed dully and his back felt like a twisted, stiff mess especially after laying on a bunch of chairs. He didn’t want to expend the energy necessary to get home but he wanted his own bed all the same. Maybe I can ask him to stick close again. I know he doesn’t want to but it would make me feel better.
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“Okay?” Peter asked hopefully. He left Sylar to his own balance and walked to the piano, peering in like he was looking for something briefly (he was - the label - but it was too dark to see and he gave it up immediately, making a mental note to bring a flashlight next time, whenever 'next time' was). He pushed in the bench and headed for the door, opening it and waiting for the slower Sylar to join him, holding it for Sylar to pass through. Peter wore no particular expression, giving no thought to who was holding the door or relative status or anything like that. He was thinking of the blister on his finger and how he needed to get a bandage on it to minimize irritating it further.
XXX
“Yeah,” Sylar thought but didn’t voice the ‘I’m fine’, though it made his lips twitch with humor. He took the opportunity to yawn, doing some light, post-sleep stretches himself. Peter looked at the piano again, searching for something, then he made for the door and Sylar followed. The door was held for him and he grunted thanks in passing, returning the favor so Peter could exit.
XXX
It was at that point Peter realized just how late it was and what that meant in late December at whatever latitude they were simulating here. The view out the glass doors was black, save for the lit foyer of Peter's own apartment building across the street. For whatever reason, street lights didn't come on automatically in this world (perhaps light detection didn't work, just like most electronics here), but other lights didn't turn themselves off, either. There was no blinking neon to disturb the night, though he assumed such signs would work if turned on.
Peter gave Sylar a worried glance and walked faster to the nearest set of doors, peering outside because it wasn't just normal darkness going on. It was raining - pavement wet, stuff still falling heavily. “Shit,” he said quietly. Even if I find an umbrella, even if Sylar holds it while I steady him … He overexerted getting here, in the day, when it was dry, when he wasn't having to hold anything, when he hadn't basically skipped a meal and had to sleep curled up on chairs. Peter exhaled and looked over at Sylar to see his reaction to the development.
XXX
Sylar’s head tilted immediately at that expression. The medic stopped at the inner doors, looking out like a kid seeing his play-time had been ruined by the weather, nose pressed to the glass so to speak. Rain, huh? His head righted itself when Peter looked back at him with the most complexly worried expression of upset. Sylar’s eyebrows lofted as if to say ‘what?’ Oh, don’t blame this on me. The problem was inescapable, though: Sylar couldn’t make it home. Now he would find out if Peter would leave him to find a suitable bed (the chairs he’d napped on if all else failed) or stay and make camp with him. “Uh…so…Do you want to go back to your place?” It’s closer. I’ll get to see your apartment then. That might be fun. He was pretty sure he’d get turned down. No port in this storm but the one they were already in. It’s just water. Maybe he doesn’t want to have to deal with undressing me from wet clothes and…stuff. He’s tired, too.
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“No,” Peter answered, looking back out at the rain. The apartment building he considered 'his' was just right across the road and even if he'd stripped out his own, there were others Sylar could stay in. But he didn't want him in there. The whole world was Sylar's. Peter didn't want him in his apartment, occupying his space. Or even in the same building if he could help it. “I only have one bed,” Peter muttered as if that had something to do with it. And no food. Or at least, not very much food.
XXX
Sylar frowned. Who said we’d sleep in the same bed? And you’ve slept at my place where neither of us used the bed. Whatever, his place is not an option. “Okay,” he shrugged and turned around in the lobby, facing the elevator and stairs now. The only other solution was obvious - staying here. Which floor did I leave my book on again? Casually he suggested while partially limping towards the elevators, “I think the second floor has beds.” Yes, I said beds. You and your delicate sensibilities. Big talk coming from Mr. Not-Paying-Roommates. Once there, button pressed, he teased over his shoulder as Peter approached, “We’ll save your hair and sleep here.” Despite his tiredness and desire to be in his own bed, he couldn’t help but be excited at the prospect of someone sleeping even near him.
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“Yeah, there's beds up there,” Peter said, trailing along behind and ignoring the crack about his hair. There's a gun up there somewhere, too. And a baseball bat. He wasn't afraid or even really concerned - just aware. “I got the sodas out of the first apartment. I didn't check the fridge, but there was a lot of other stuff in the pantry. Let's check there for food. Are you even hungry?”
XXX
“I think I could…eat something, yeah.” Sylar blamed the nap for making him hungry. He watched Peter carefully, trying to gauge how his health was doing since he was giving Sylar a run for his money for being close-mouthed about his medical state. Mostly he didn’t know what he’d do if Peter passed out or needed help. Silence was king until the elevator dinged for the second floor.
XXX
The doors opened; Peter stepped out. He looked up and down the hallway, memory trickling back. The gun had been in a messy, one-bedroom bachelor apartment at the end of the hall. These two closer to the elevator had made less of an impression on him, although he recalled one had a record player that wouldn't play. The other was the one he'd gotten the sodas from and was where he went now, his stomach dictating his choices. Just like when he'd come here earlier in the afternoon, he didn't notice the book and apple sitting next to the wall beside the elevator.
Inside the apartment, he went to the fridge - apples, bagels, cream cheese spread, milk, juice, condiments, cheese (and good cheese, too - several kinds with their high-end labels neatly slipped inside the ziplock for the ones that had already been opened). “Oh, wow. Good cheese.” Peter yanked a couple of those out and tossed them on the counter. He could make a meal of cheese and crackers all by themselves. “There's some bagels in here and spread. I don't want to aggravate my jaw with something that chewy, but if you wanted them …?” He looked back at the other man.
XXX
Aha! Sylar was glad he’d remembered correctly; he scooped up his book and apple, far more interested in the book as they would be looking for food. He smiled to himself as Peter buzzed to the apartment in question, then wandered after him. Sylar considered waiting at the door or the entry of the kitchen, but found himself in the kitchen on instinct. What’s more, he was helping bag the…cheese. Did he loose his marbles or is cheese somehow a meal? He likes crackers and chips so maybe…You would know, Peter, about good cheese, not me. He rolled his eyes a little, taking zip-locked cheese and placing it in Peter’s canvas bag. “No thanks. But bring the spread.” That will go good on crackers, assuming that’s what we’re doing.
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Peter could see that Sylar was taking the cheese he intended to eat and stuffing it into the bag with their lunch trash. That was … weird. But maybe Sylar thought they'd go to different apartments to gather more stuff? With a mostly internal shrug, he said, “Just the spread, huh?” and reached for it. What's he going to put that on?
XXX
“Is that still bothering you?” he asked, reaching out to touch that side of Peter’s face, aiming for his jaw when Peter turned back with the spread. His touch would be gentle, just cupping the curve of face to bring it and the man closer for inspection…and a bit of perving. Maybe the idea of bed and Peter had gone to his head. “How many days has it been?”
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Peter's offer of the spread was ignored as Sylar was reaching for his face, not the food. What? Peter blinked several times and straightened, the plastic tub in his hand forgotten as he thought over what to do about this. 'Nothing' seemed like a good response - this wasn't violent or dangerous, and Sylar's expression was neutral. Finding his words was a little harder, especially as Sylar's fingers skimmed over the skin in front of his right ear so softly as to be erotic. “Wr, yeah, uh, I mean, just a few days. What, three or four?”
XXX
Sylar chuckled, very much pleased with himself. The power of touch was intense for both of them unless he missed his guess - because he’d been looking for a reaction, namely a negative one, and had received, well, this. And I thought I was the one with a concussion who can’t keep track of the days. Birthday. Why do I keep forgetting that? He’s distracting. He affirmed the count, three or four days, “Hmm.” Ever-so lightly, he probed at the hinge of the man’s jaw after stepping closer.
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Peter put his left hand to the side blindly to slip the cream cheese onto the counter, not moving his head much and thereby letting Sylar continue whatever examination he was doing. His mind flashed to that pause in their last fight where Sylar had crouched over him, abruptly and bizarrely interested in helping Peter get his jaw back into joint. Apparently this is a deal to him - jaws or maybe dislocated joints? “Yeah, it still bothers me. It might take a week or two to quit hurting.” His left hand touched his jaw more normally on the other side, moving it a little and testing the range of motion.
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“I guess you would know,” Sylar said of the medic. He’d been a little zoned out, focused on something that was fixable and akin to a socket. It seemed like quite a mechanical body-part, the hinge of the jaw. Apparently it appealed to his inner-watchmaker (or worse, his ability, what was left of it here). Broken fingers he couldn’t fix, nor a concussion or bruise. Lacerations could be tended, which he’d done before for Peter. He broke his concentration of that area with effort, looking over the rest of Peter’s face. It was still mottled; the bruises around his eyes were fading, changing colors, too. “Maybe you should get some more ice for your face while we’re here.” A final lingering look at him before Sylar turned away from the obvious vulnerabilities presented in soft, human flesh. “And look around for something sweet."
XXX
“Sweet?” Peter asked, perplexed.
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Sylar answered without turning, “For the birthday boy.”
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“Ah. I wouldn't turn down some ice cream.” Peter chuckled slightly in turn and went to get the apple juice out of the fridge. “I think it's a little late for my face, though. But you know what else I'd like? Some painkillers. And a bandage. I gave myself a blister on the piano. If you could grab whatever crackers are in the pantry and see if there's a cheese slicer, I'm going to go check the bathroom for Tylenol and bandaids.”
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Sylar did turn at the word ‘bandage’, his eyes immediately searching for the injury. I was only sleeping a couple hours, tops. What kind of trouble can you get into, Petrelli? He saw nothing worth a bandage and thus stood there confused until Peter got to the part about a fricking bandaid. He closed his eyes in exasperated relief. At least he mentioned his cracker plot. He’s a real college snack kind of guy. How do you do a paramedic’s job on…college food I wonder. “Yeah, sure,” was his reply, going back to peering into cabinets and drawers. What does a cheese slicer even look like? I’ll be the one cutting it anyway; he’s only got one hand.
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Peter found a bandaid in the bathroom, but no painkillers of any kind. Disappointed, he returned to the kitchen to doctor his finger out of simple human desire to be with his companion. He peeled off the wrapping and backing, observing as he did, “I see you're bagging stuff up. Do you want to go hit another apartment to eat there? Maybe they've got better food? I didn't find any painkillers, so if you see any here, let me know.” He wondered if Sylar's stomach was feeling finicky or if they just genuinely hadn't found anything he wanted to eat yet, other than the spread. Maybe he wasn't as much of a cheese person as Peter was. Peter's focus was mostly on his finger, so his questions were asked mainly while he was looking down, but he was listening and could see Sylar peripherally.
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Sylar located the crackers and chips next to the fridge (one of the last places he looked). Saltines and Lays Classics were present and added to their bagged items. Of course, the cheese slicer remained at large - he had always used a knife so a knife would do fine now. Peter’s entry drew his attention. “I…thought we’d eat wherever we’re going to sleep. I don’t care where.” He didn’t know what to say about ‘better food’ - he hadn’t complained, nor did cheese and crackers bother him. “I didn’t see any pills in here. You already…checked the bathroom,” Sylar mused aloud, “I’m sure there’s more around. There always is. Didn’t find a cheese slicer, either. I don’t know what one looks like,” he admitted sliding his hands into his pockets, idly watching Peter work. “Do you…need a hand with that?”
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Without hesitating, Peter answered, “Yeah. Come over and put your finger right here.” When Sylar approached, Peter elaborated, pointing with his left index finger at a flap of the bandaid that was on the top of Peter's right middle finger. “Right there. Just hold it.” He maneuvered the other wing of the adhesive bandage through the gap between his fingers, over his blister, and wrapped it where he wanted it. “There. That should do it. Thanks.” He was casual and comfortable, glancing up at Sylar for a moment as that realization passed through his mind. Yeah. I think I'm okay here … with him. For now, at least. He's okay.
It wasn't a huge concession. It didn't change anything Sylar had done in the past. It just meant Peter was admitting to himself that Sylar was okay to be with right now. Since Sylar seemed to think they'd be bedding down together - probably in the same apartment unit rather than in two separate ones - that was kind of important. It was the sort of thing Peter needed to work out to decide if he wanted to argue over where they slept. At the moment, the answer was 'no need to argue'.
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“Mmm,” Sylar made an answering noise to the thanks. He peeked up from the hand to check on the guy’s face, accidentally catching his eye in a returned look. He was already glancing away but he did a brief double-take, apparently thinking Peter had something to communicate. Or he just wanted to be aware of what and how Peter was looking at him. Nothing came of it and he stayed where he was - close to Peter.
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Peter looked away, uncomfortable to have been caught staring. Instead, he brushed his bandaid trash together and dropped them in the kitchen trashcan. “You don't know what a cheese slicer looks like?” he said with a teasing smile, changing the subject. “I seem to remember you getting onto me about not knowing what a dish scraper looked like. What goes around, comes around, man.” Ha. Got you back! He grabbed the apple juice with his left hand and gestured at the sack with his right. “Grab that and let's go check out the next place. That's pretty funny, though.” He looked back at Sylar to check the other man's reaction to his good-natured ribbing.
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He gave Peter a steady stare that implied more thought should have been applied before speaking; the look said ‘duh’ as if that much was obvious. How many people even have cheese slicers? It’s probably some fancy, top-of-the-line thing rich people have. Sylar pursed his lips. If he’d had more energy, he’d have made his irritation verbally clear. Perhaps it was that Peter Petrelli knew something he didn’t - and that something was a household kitchen item, albeit far more costly than he would have ever seen as a watchmaker. As it was, he just heaved a sigh, “A cheese slicer is totally different from a dish scraper, Peter.” That much was obvious, he was sure.
Sylar took up the bag as ordered, book in hand, trailing after his companion. “What?” he demanded at the purposeful glance back Peter made.
XXX
“What?” Peter said back playfully, hoping he wasn't about to get chased through the apartment and beaned with a bag full of packaged cheese and a box of crackers. But that was a risk he was willing to take. He chuckled, grinning broadly as he opened the door across the hall. “You can let me win one, big guy. You'll still be way in the lead, you know.”
XXX
Eyes narrowed in unarticulated response. ‘Big guy’? Sylar didn’t know what to do with that one. It was friendly (and nicer than other options); he kind of liked it - it sounded like a compliment - so he let it lie without much question. I suppose. But ‘letting’ you win anything isn’t in my nature, Pete. He almost protested that but…the cause lacked importance.
XXX
Feeling happy and showing it with an ebullient demeanor, Peter headed for the kitchen here, too, passing the shelves of knick-knacks and tchotchkes, including the bell collection memorializing various tourist destinations. Peter didn't give it a second look, having seen it before. He plonked down the juice bottle and started looking in cabinets for either food or medicine. He didn't recall having explored this one all that much - just that he'd rang one of the bells and been distracted by the turntable. “Look in the fridge, will you? I've pretty much got my dinner. Let me know if you see something in there that works for you.”
XXX
Sylar entered more sedately, looking around. He was instantly reminded of his fa- uncle’s shop in Baltimore on seeing the turntable and the figurines smacked of Tom Miller’s and Virginia’s apartments - a very unhealthy cross between them. He didn’t like it. Uncomfortable, defensive and on-edge, he avoided contact with anything in the place. And that was before he spotted the bell collection. He stopped dead, bag in hand, wanting out-of-here-now. “Oh, Jesus…” he said quietly on seeing it, half expecting to see corny kid pictures from grade-school as well. Peter was already in the kitchen and Sylar wanted to drag him out with him.
This place was clingy and musty and dirty, maybe not physically, but his mind had no trouble layering on the filth and disgust from his memories and their associations. It was practically haunted. Nausea made itself known. “N-no. I’m...” good, he nearly finished, responding automatically without processing what Peter had actually said, but that would have been a lie. Like hell I am! No way in hell am I sleeping here. “I’ll-I’ll be in the hall,” he blurted and didn’t wait for an answer. Sylar zipped into the hallway and leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing down the nausea and memories. He was grateful that he hadn’t had one of his lapses in recollecting things from the past though his imagination eagerly planted a bloody mural of an exploding city on the floor and his signature - SYLAR - swiped in blood on the wall.
XXX
What? Peter had heard the 'no' and assumed there was some other dialogue coming after it to explain. A moment later it arrived, but it only gave him more questions. He stuck his head out of the kitchen to see the door still open and Sylar, as he'd said, gone. Given that last, choked up tone of voice, Peter surged forward and out into the hall, almost missing that Sylar was right there - having not continued down the hall as Peter had expected. He looked Sylar up and down as the other man opened his eyes and straightened. Sylar looked shaken and trying to quickly put his guards up. Upset. Physically fine, I think. Peter's expression softened from alarmed to intent, maybe concerned, but he didn't stick around or say anything before going back in the apartment they'd just left, looking around with a protective fervor. It wasn't something I said. It had to be something in here. Peter scanned the room quickly for the source of the threat. It looked perfectly banal to him.
Peter poked his head back out for a moment - Sylar was still there. Then Peter turned in the doorway and surveyed the room again. Was there a weapon maybe? No … and that doesn't explain him being upset instead of angry. With a shake of his head, he walked out to ask the only one who really knew. “What's going on?”
XXX
Sylar felt Peter’s presence as well as hearing it. The speed of it was gratifying - it warmed him and helped calm him down. He was grateful for it. “Just needed some air,” Sylar replied, not yet looking at him. “Let’s look somewhere else.” He pushed off the wall and headed off down the hall.
XXX
Peter didn't budge. “I don't want to go down that way. Let's go to the top floor. Somewhere we haven't been before. Maybe this isn't a good floor.” Mostly, he knew what was in the direction Sylar was going - two smallish apartments, neither of which seemed likely to have much in the way of food and one of which had a gun. Also, he wasn't sure what had spooked Sylar (for all Peter knew, Sylar might have just seen an odd shadow cast by Peter in the kitchen and freaked over it), but Peter had seen his face. And Peter had nothing at all invested in this floor of the building versus any other.
XXX
Sylar halted and turned. “Fine by me.” It was. He remembered there was a gun around here somewhere. As he passed Peter on his way to the elevator, he managed humor and a smirk, “Admit it; you just wanna jump on some rich guy’s bed with your shoes on,” he said of the suites that were probably on the top floor. He assumed Peter was following him - he was. They got in and rode the elevator to the top and exited to a much different hallway, significantly wider and more posh. He looked back at Peter as he exited the elevator car, then selected a room at random, walking into a more open space with streamlined dark wood and neon accent décor that looked modern and expensive. The rugs and carpet looked soft and the couch untouched. There was a foldout…door or collapsible wall to separate the bedroom from the living room. It felt like a fuck-pad from Vegas of which Nathan was familiar.
XXX
Continued...
Day 13, Afternoon
Sylar gathered from the way Peter spoke about it that he’d had two stints in juvie as well. What a hell of a thing to have in common. It’s like…manifester’s initiation. Trial by fire. “So…how’d they get you?” he asked, curious but uncaring. It was by minor miracle (and Peter’s niceness, one and the same thing) that kept the sarcasm from his delivery, because, really…a Petrelli in prison? The idea was laughable. Not that one shouldn’t be in prison; but that it had happened at all. The difference in treatment they’d each received was as different as mud from water - his own being the mud, of course. He was not expecting any true horror story here.
XXX
Peter looked off into the room, talking without looking directly at his companion. “They pitched it to me as a rehabilitation program at first - that 'help' I said- I thought you should- Well, anyway, I nearly blew up New York, so I probably would have gone in even if they told me exactly what it was, which was just a prison. I had a cell. They drugged me up enough that I didn't mind most of the time. Adam was in the cell next to me. We'd talk sometimes. I'd see Elle a couple times a day most days, the guards the other days. That was pretty much it. Couple months of absolutely nothing, aside from the electroshock and the occasional screams down the hallway.”
XXX
It was a good thing Peter wasn’t looking at him because Sylar glared. Don’t even start with me. The sad thing is, if the Company had soft-balled (or hard-balled) it to him when he’d manifested and killed Brian Davis, he’d have probably went eagerly; in handcuffs, too. Sylar shifted at the mention of that long-lost angel. That’s right. C’mon, you were stupid to ever think she was…innocent. The only thing about her that was was her face. He snorted on hearing about Peter’s electro-therapy, feeling somewhat vindicated that Peter had suffered even a little bit or at least been unhappy.
XXX
He turned to face Sylar. “How about you? Can you tell me about that 'first time'? I don't think I know anything about that.” He was calmer now. His time in Level Five wasn't nearly as upsetting to him as the persistent and senseless betrayals by his cursed family. Listening to Sylar was a nice break, although he hoped whatever had happened to the man wasn't yet another sin to be laid at the feet of House Petrelli (which meant it all fell to Peter, since everyone else guilty was dead except Angela … and mad as Peter was, he wouldn't make her answer for what she'd done. She was his mother; she was exempt).
XXX
I don’t see why you care. But it didn’t hurt to tell Peter. His sandwich forgotten, Sylar answered, a little surprised at himself for doing so, “I was the ‘screams down the hall’. Right after your swan dive off the stadium…Homecoming, imagine Bennet getting his hands on the man chasing after his precious indestructible daughter and that’s how it went. You know how much they love their research.” He cast Peter a you-know-how-it-is glance every sentence or so before amending, “Or…you wouldn’t, but…They tried to put me through my paces. I wouldn’t give them anything and they couldn’t find anything but telekinesis in all of my genetic code.” That, he stated with arrogant pride. That his power was something undetectable (read: safe) by modern science was a pretty fucking cool. It was like Intuitive Aptitude came with a fail-safe.
His native ability, once thought impossible, un-special and non-existent, came from behind like an underdog to hide his stolen ones he knew not where. His was the only one capable of transferring, stealing - not replicating - abilities with a mere touch and the raw intelligence of his mind. From what he knew of Peter’s own loss of abilities, Arthur had used a power to do it; therefor he was completely unique! With less joy-filled recollection, he continued, “OD’d a few times; said they gave me enough drugs to kill an elephant.”
XXX
“No. I think got a taste of how much they ‘love their research’ at Pinehearst. Thanks for that, by the way - getting me out of there.” Mostly he meant saving him from Mohinder’s syringe, but Peter supposed getting thrown out the window counted, too. He started to take another bite, then glanced over at Sylar’s sandwich resting on his knee. “Eat up, Sylar. I can’t have you starving to death on me here,” he joked gently.
XXX
Sylar looked over at Peter, getting a mix of unfamiliar and familiar feelings. Easily he could have blamed it on his near-constant déjà vu à la Nathan Petrelli and it was to blame in part, but Peter was interacting with him. Another thank you. Is he the only one who values having his life saved? I’ve never been thanked so much in my life. He frowned slightly and nodded, accepting the gratitude but not knowing what to do with it or the conversation. He didn’t have do much in the end - Peter piped up, still chatting away mostly. Sylar was happy he didn’t have to answer why he’d saved Peter in the first place. Talk of starvation earned Peter an amused/confused expression. I’m not hungry. I had breakfast - he was there. He’s…always been there since the fight, at least that I can remember. Huh. He cares if I starve. Dutifully, Sylar hefted his sandwich and took a bite, making a bit of a show of it. He hasn’t tried to force me to eat, either. I guess he does know about the nausea.
XXX
“You know, something I’ve been meaning to say … I’m a nurse and a paramedic. I’m not a doctor, definitely not a neurosurgeon. I didn’t pay any special attention to how to deal with head injuries in any of my classes and I’ve already told you I never had any bad ones myself. If I’m pushing you too much … tell me. Same if I’m not.” A little softer, he added, “Don’t ‘I’m fine’ me. I’m trying to help.”
XXX
At first he couldn’t figure what Peter was trying to get at. Then Sylar’s gaze slid over him, some of the wariness returning. Do you think I’m that stupid? What do you think you’re going to do if I do say it’s too much? Or if it’s not too much, hmm? Annoyance spiked but not to dangerous or even verbal levels. So tuning a piano across the street is you helping me? You’re just here to help me, not get me to save your girlfriend, right? Oh, please.
Sylar plastered on something of a pleasant face, “You know what they say; if you can’t trust your doctor…” who can you trust? That would be no one.
XXX
Peter gave a half-hearted nod in response. After finishing his sandwich, he went over to the piano and began a careful exploration of it, looking for anything useful - a tuning key, a label, directions, anything. He found a label and read it aloud to Sylar, but it wasn’t particularly helpful. “I’ll bet that music store we went to would have stuff for how to tune this. Might even have a book. Or the library would have a book, I’m sure.” Fake book, because this whole place is fake. But a metaphorical fix is still a fix. He glanced over at Sylar. Seeing the man’s expression, he hastened to add, “We can go check there some other time - not today. Let me try playing some stuff and we’ll see how out of tune this thing really is.”
XXX
Fed and comfortable, as much as he could be and he hadn’t finished his sandwich, he felt tired so Sylar was sure his face showed everything he was thinking on it - please no; don’t demand that; I can’t make that; I don’t want to. And Peter saw it, but he didn’t insist on the trek of pointless doom. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed eagerly (at least about going to the music store another day). How did Nathan keep up with him? Twelve years older…I’m only a few years older than Peter (I think). This feels…almost like having a little brother. Now if only I didn’t want to strangle him every time he opened his mouth but that’s not just me - everyone wants to do that. Peter certainly had a holier-than-thou complex that he paired subtly with that endearing, boy-next-door attitude and charm. It was quite winning.
XXX
Peter arranged himself in front of the instrument, without sheet music and with the front panel still off. With one hand, one finger, and one thumb, he stumbled through ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’, doing a recognizable job of it. He glanced over at Sylar for approval or at least reaction, then turned back to repeat it - same song, several times, showing the patience that had served him well in school, drawing, and medicine, but was at odds with how he approached crisis situations. By the end, even given his limitations, he was playing appreciably better.
XXX
What a ham, Sylar thought, completely entertained by the idea of a personal concert, even if the instrument in question was going to burst his eardrums. The music was broken, off-key, but Peter didn’t hit a whole lot of wrong notes. It was impressive. When was the last time he played? And he still remembers the notes and…how to play. It seemed like a lot of memorization over a long period of time, from what little he knew or could guess at. His impression of the maestro was confirmed when Peter checked back after finishing the song - a fitting choice about saints. “Sounds good,” he grinned a little, delighted at hearing human sound filling a room.
XXX
Peter stood to fish around under the lid of the piano seat, pulling out some music and then replacing the front panel. “So what do you want to hear - popular folk tunes or hymns?”
XXX
Sylar had settled in now that Peter had a toy to play with, allowing his lids to droop as he stared at nothing, focused on listening, taking it in. It almost ached in his chest, the feeling of being in the same room with someone, of music and lack of immediate threat or requirement. He could just…sit and be and listen. Peter seemed very taken with the piano, playing the same song several times - Sylar assumed he was trying to get it right. Motion lazily caught his eye and he looked to his companion. “Folk tunes, please.” Please! Not hymns. I’d puncture my own eardrums if I had to put up with that. Or I’d crawl back to my apartment. It interested him that he’d been asked his opinion, not the first time Peter had done so.
XXX
Peter played, trying to get the hang of not having enough fingers to hit the right notes. For some songs, he could bridge it and manage, although there were awkward pauses as he moved his hands. For others, he simply couldn’t play them recognizably. He noticed very soon that Sylar was dozing. We need to get a couch down here, or an easy chair or something. Maybe we could get one down the elevator. He let his thoughts wander, thinking about Emma and the tiara, about patients and their situations, like that of a little boy with a broken leg who didn’t want the ambulance to leave until someone went inside for his boo-bear-lion. Hesam had done the honors, escorting the stuffed animal from house to ambulance before they left. Comfort articles, Peter mused. They’re important. He thought about his empty room and how driven he’d felt to strip out everything not absolutely necessary. He wasn’t sure what it meant.
Hours whiled by with longer pauses between songs as he rested his hands. He’d had a bathroom break and stood up to stretch a few times as well. His stomach rumbled at his last and latest break as he sat turned towards Sylar, regarding him fixedly. Sylar’s sandwich caught Peter’s eye. It was less than half-eaten. In the apartment, Sylar usually managed an entire sandwich. If he’d even so much opened his soda here, Peter couldn’t tell. I pushed him too hard. He over-exerted and lost his appetite. He sighed. And now we’ve got the walk back, after which he probably won’t want to eat either.
Peter frowned, disappointed at himself. It was easy to be angry - at the moment he was also in pain. He sat cradling his right hand, which ached continually and throbbed slightly from the afternoon of using it and the frequent small impacts it had to endure. He’d managed to give himself a nasty blister on the side of his middle finger where it rubbed against the brace. Sylar wasn’t the only one who’d over-exerted himself, not that Peter would admit to that even as he sat there silently, a little hunkered to the side from the hurt. He’d enjoyed playing and a little pain was something he was willing to pay for it. But he was definitely looking forward to some painkillers. That, and the repeated growl from his stomach decided it. He was done playing piano for the day.
Day 13, Evening
It was that still kind of quiet that woke him - it never failed to. The lack of faint, normal noise for the first time, probably since he’d lain down served as a signal. Surprisingly he’d had something of a decent rest, the undisturbed kind. Sylar’s eyes cracked open and he surveyed an unfamiliar room. Why did I fall asleep here? And where is here? he thought before he noticed he had a watcher. Oh. Sylar froze, just staring back as Peter watched him, unsure of what was going on. Peter looked rough, but he tried to hide it when he straightened up. Told you this piano adventure was a bad idea. The other man was hardly a threat, that relaxed him enough to start pushing himself up. “Sorry.” He supposed that was rude of him to sleep, but as usual done was done. “I heard the whole thing, just resting my eyes,” he said lightly, admitting he’d failed as an audience.
Sylar hoped it didn’t offend Peter or get him thinking he’d fall asleep every time the man played. It had no bearing on how good Peter’s playing actually was, either. He rubbed at his brow as the altitude went to his head, immediately aggravating the dull aching of his cranium. “Ugh,” he remarked, belatedly trying to make that sound sleepy. Oriented and uncomfortable now, he looked over his partner. “You look like crap.” You should sleep and play more and work less. All work and no play turn you into…well…me. I suppose he did ‘play’, though. “Maybe you’re the one who needs a rest.”
XXX
I keep getting caught looking at him while he's asleep. That's … I need to quit that. Either doing it, or getting caught. Or both. But … what? Should I be staring at the wall instead? I wouldn't have this problem if we weren't nearly living together. Peter snorted at Sylar's 'I was just resting my eyes' thing and stood up, stretching and trying to loosen his back as his thoughts faded into the background, unheeded by the main part of his consciousness. That portion was more concerned with how his shoulders hurt. He might be in good shape, but hours of repetitive muscle strain wasn't good for anyone.
He laughed at being told he looked like crap. “Sylar … you and me ...” He exhaled and shook his head, bemused. “I feel like crap, too. We need to get a couch down here, or maybe a couple easy chairs and a coffee table. I'll bet they'd fit in the elevators. I could rest then. That something else we can do some other day, though.”
XXX
You and me what, Peter? He speculated. Sylar grinned a little that Peter found any of that amusing. Couches sounded like a great idea - when they were both fit enough for that kind of heavy lifting.
XXX
Peter stretched backwards a bit, arching enough that his shirt rode up his stomach slightly, and then straightened to try (and fail) to pop his neck. He frowned and rubbed at it with his left hand. “I'm not going to play anymore and I'm getting kind of hungry. Are you okay with going back now or do you want to stay here? I'm sure I could find some food upstairs. For both of us.” He shot a glance at the sandwich. Would it be better to have him eat before we went? Exertion isn't good on a full stomach, but … I don't know. I'll see what he wants to do.
XXX
I wonder how much time he spends in the gym (or at work) to avoid sleeping to get that…in-shape. “Yeah, I’m okay to go back now.” Sylar nodded, briefly rubbing his palms together.
XXX
“Let's bag our stuff up.” Peter came closer for the bag, stuffing his empty sandwich bag inside. He'd long since finished his drink and disposed of it. “Might as well leave the other sodas here for next time.” Plus, he didn't want them weighting the bag and dangling. He started to take a step away, then shifted his balance back, switching the bag to his right and offering a steadying, unasked-for hand to help Sylar stand. The first few moments on his feet would probably be the dizziest.
XXX
Once packed, Peter offered him a hand. Sylar looked at it, then at Peter, tilted his head like some sort of shrug and clasped his hand to Peter’s. It wasn’t like the nurse didn’t know he could use the help - the vulnerability wasn’t new - more importantly, that Sylar hasn’t asked for it. The world swung drunkenly but with persistent blinking, he got it sorted. On standing it felt like a weight settled into his cranium and there was little to be done about it. His bruised hip pulled, his wrist tweaked itself, his toes throbbed dully and his back felt like a twisted, stiff mess especially after laying on a bunch of chairs. He didn’t want to expend the energy necessary to get home but he wanted his own bed all the same. Maybe I can ask him to stick close again. I know he doesn’t want to but it would make me feel better.
XXX
“Okay?” Peter asked hopefully. He left Sylar to his own balance and walked to the piano, peering in like he was looking for something briefly (he was - the label - but it was too dark to see and he gave it up immediately, making a mental note to bring a flashlight next time, whenever 'next time' was). He pushed in the bench and headed for the door, opening it and waiting for the slower Sylar to join him, holding it for Sylar to pass through. Peter wore no particular expression, giving no thought to who was holding the door or relative status or anything like that. He was thinking of the blister on his finger and how he needed to get a bandage on it to minimize irritating it further.
XXX
“Yeah,” Sylar thought but didn’t voice the ‘I’m fine’, though it made his lips twitch with humor. He took the opportunity to yawn, doing some light, post-sleep stretches himself. Peter looked at the piano again, searching for something, then he made for the door and Sylar followed. The door was held for him and he grunted thanks in passing, returning the favor so Peter could exit.
XXX
It was at that point Peter realized just how late it was and what that meant in late December at whatever latitude they were simulating here. The view out the glass doors was black, save for the lit foyer of Peter's own apartment building across the street. For whatever reason, street lights didn't come on automatically in this world (perhaps light detection didn't work, just like most electronics here), but other lights didn't turn themselves off, either. There was no blinking neon to disturb the night, though he assumed such signs would work if turned on.
Peter gave Sylar a worried glance and walked faster to the nearest set of doors, peering outside because it wasn't just normal darkness going on. It was raining - pavement wet, stuff still falling heavily. “Shit,” he said quietly. Even if I find an umbrella, even if Sylar holds it while I steady him … He overexerted getting here, in the day, when it was dry, when he wasn't having to hold anything, when he hadn't basically skipped a meal and had to sleep curled up on chairs. Peter exhaled and looked over at Sylar to see his reaction to the development.
XXX
Sylar’s head tilted immediately at that expression. The medic stopped at the inner doors, looking out like a kid seeing his play-time had been ruined by the weather, nose pressed to the glass so to speak. Rain, huh? His head righted itself when Peter looked back at him with the most complexly worried expression of upset. Sylar’s eyebrows lofted as if to say ‘what?’ Oh, don’t blame this on me. The problem was inescapable, though: Sylar couldn’t make it home. Now he would find out if Peter would leave him to find a suitable bed (the chairs he’d napped on if all else failed) or stay and make camp with him. “Uh…so…Do you want to go back to your place?” It’s closer. I’ll get to see your apartment then. That might be fun. He was pretty sure he’d get turned down. No port in this storm but the one they were already in. It’s just water. Maybe he doesn’t want to have to deal with undressing me from wet clothes and…stuff. He’s tired, too.
XXX
“No,” Peter answered, looking back out at the rain. The apartment building he considered 'his' was just right across the road and even if he'd stripped out his own, there were others Sylar could stay in. But he didn't want him in there. The whole world was Sylar's. Peter didn't want him in his apartment, occupying his space. Or even in the same building if he could help it. “I only have one bed,” Peter muttered as if that had something to do with it. And no food. Or at least, not very much food.
XXX
Sylar frowned. Who said we’d sleep in the same bed? And you’ve slept at my place where neither of us used the bed. Whatever, his place is not an option. “Okay,” he shrugged and turned around in the lobby, facing the elevator and stairs now. The only other solution was obvious - staying here. Which floor did I leave my book on again? Casually he suggested while partially limping towards the elevators, “I think the second floor has beds.” Yes, I said beds. You and your delicate sensibilities. Big talk coming from Mr. Not-Paying-Roommates. Once there, button pressed, he teased over his shoulder as Peter approached, “We’ll save your hair and sleep here.” Despite his tiredness and desire to be in his own bed, he couldn’t help but be excited at the prospect of someone sleeping even near him.
XXX
“Yeah, there's beds up there,” Peter said, trailing along behind and ignoring the crack about his hair. There's a gun up there somewhere, too. And a baseball bat. He wasn't afraid or even really concerned - just aware. “I got the sodas out of the first apartment. I didn't check the fridge, but there was a lot of other stuff in the pantry. Let's check there for food. Are you even hungry?”
XXX
“I think I could…eat something, yeah.” Sylar blamed the nap for making him hungry. He watched Peter carefully, trying to gauge how his health was doing since he was giving Sylar a run for his money for being close-mouthed about his medical state. Mostly he didn’t know what he’d do if Peter passed out or needed help. Silence was king until the elevator dinged for the second floor.
XXX
The doors opened; Peter stepped out. He looked up and down the hallway, memory trickling back. The gun had been in a messy, one-bedroom bachelor apartment at the end of the hall. These two closer to the elevator had made less of an impression on him, although he recalled one had a record player that wouldn't play. The other was the one he'd gotten the sodas from and was where he went now, his stomach dictating his choices. Just like when he'd come here earlier in the afternoon, he didn't notice the book and apple sitting next to the wall beside the elevator.
Inside the apartment, he went to the fridge - apples, bagels, cream cheese spread, milk, juice, condiments, cheese (and good cheese, too - several kinds with their high-end labels neatly slipped inside the ziplock for the ones that had already been opened). “Oh, wow. Good cheese.” Peter yanked a couple of those out and tossed them on the counter. He could make a meal of cheese and crackers all by themselves. “There's some bagels in here and spread. I don't want to aggravate my jaw with something that chewy, but if you wanted them …?” He looked back at the other man.
XXX
Aha! Sylar was glad he’d remembered correctly; he scooped up his book and apple, far more interested in the book as they would be looking for food. He smiled to himself as Peter buzzed to the apartment in question, then wandered after him. Sylar considered waiting at the door or the entry of the kitchen, but found himself in the kitchen on instinct. What’s more, he was helping bag the…cheese. Did he loose his marbles or is cheese somehow a meal? He likes crackers and chips so maybe…You would know, Peter, about good cheese, not me. He rolled his eyes a little, taking zip-locked cheese and placing it in Peter’s canvas bag. “No thanks. But bring the spread.” That will go good on crackers, assuming that’s what we’re doing.
XXX
Peter could see that Sylar was taking the cheese he intended to eat and stuffing it into the bag with their lunch trash. That was … weird. But maybe Sylar thought they'd go to different apartments to gather more stuff? With a mostly internal shrug, he said, “Just the spread, huh?” and reached for it. What's he going to put that on?
XXX
“Is that still bothering you?” he asked, reaching out to touch that side of Peter’s face, aiming for his jaw when Peter turned back with the spread. His touch would be gentle, just cupping the curve of face to bring it and the man closer for inspection…and a bit of perving. Maybe the idea of bed and Peter had gone to his head. “How many days has it been?”
XXX
Peter's offer of the spread was ignored as Sylar was reaching for his face, not the food. What? Peter blinked several times and straightened, the plastic tub in his hand forgotten as he thought over what to do about this. 'Nothing' seemed like a good response - this wasn't violent or dangerous, and Sylar's expression was neutral. Finding his words was a little harder, especially as Sylar's fingers skimmed over the skin in front of his right ear so softly as to be erotic. “Wr, yeah, uh, I mean, just a few days. What, three or four?”
XXX
Sylar chuckled, very much pleased with himself. The power of touch was intense for both of them unless he missed his guess - because he’d been looking for a reaction, namely a negative one, and had received, well, this. And I thought I was the one with a concussion who can’t keep track of the days. Birthday. Why do I keep forgetting that? He’s distracting. He affirmed the count, three or four days, “Hmm.” Ever-so lightly, he probed at the hinge of the man’s jaw after stepping closer.
XXX
Peter put his left hand to the side blindly to slip the cream cheese onto the counter, not moving his head much and thereby letting Sylar continue whatever examination he was doing. His mind flashed to that pause in their last fight where Sylar had crouched over him, abruptly and bizarrely interested in helping Peter get his jaw back into joint. Apparently this is a deal to him - jaws or maybe dislocated joints? “Yeah, it still bothers me. It might take a week or two to quit hurting.” His left hand touched his jaw more normally on the other side, moving it a little and testing the range of motion.
XXX
“I guess you would know,” Sylar said of the medic. He’d been a little zoned out, focused on something that was fixable and akin to a socket. It seemed like quite a mechanical body-part, the hinge of the jaw. Apparently it appealed to his inner-watchmaker (or worse, his ability, what was left of it here). Broken fingers he couldn’t fix, nor a concussion or bruise. Lacerations could be tended, which he’d done before for Peter. He broke his concentration of that area with effort, looking over the rest of Peter’s face. It was still mottled; the bruises around his eyes were fading, changing colors, too. “Maybe you should get some more ice for your face while we’re here.” A final lingering look at him before Sylar turned away from the obvious vulnerabilities presented in soft, human flesh. “And look around for something sweet."
XXX
“Sweet?” Peter asked, perplexed.
XXX
Sylar answered without turning, “For the birthday boy.”
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“Ah. I wouldn't turn down some ice cream.” Peter chuckled slightly in turn and went to get the apple juice out of the fridge. “I think it's a little late for my face, though. But you know what else I'd like? Some painkillers. And a bandage. I gave myself a blister on the piano. If you could grab whatever crackers are in the pantry and see if there's a cheese slicer, I'm going to go check the bathroom for Tylenol and bandaids.”
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Sylar did turn at the word ‘bandage’, his eyes immediately searching for the injury. I was only sleeping a couple hours, tops. What kind of trouble can you get into, Petrelli? He saw nothing worth a bandage and thus stood there confused until Peter got to the part about a fricking bandaid. He closed his eyes in exasperated relief. At least he mentioned his cracker plot. He’s a real college snack kind of guy. How do you do a paramedic’s job on…college food I wonder. “Yeah, sure,” was his reply, going back to peering into cabinets and drawers. What does a cheese slicer even look like? I’ll be the one cutting it anyway; he’s only got one hand.
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Peter found a bandaid in the bathroom, but no painkillers of any kind. Disappointed, he returned to the kitchen to doctor his finger out of simple human desire to be with his companion. He peeled off the wrapping and backing, observing as he did, “I see you're bagging stuff up. Do you want to go hit another apartment to eat there? Maybe they've got better food? I didn't find any painkillers, so if you see any here, let me know.” He wondered if Sylar's stomach was feeling finicky or if they just genuinely hadn't found anything he wanted to eat yet, other than the spread. Maybe he wasn't as much of a cheese person as Peter was. Peter's focus was mostly on his finger, so his questions were asked mainly while he was looking down, but he was listening and could see Sylar peripherally.
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Sylar located the crackers and chips next to the fridge (one of the last places he looked). Saltines and Lays Classics were present and added to their bagged items. Of course, the cheese slicer remained at large - he had always used a knife so a knife would do fine now. Peter’s entry drew his attention. “I…thought we’d eat wherever we’re going to sleep. I don’t care where.” He didn’t know what to say about ‘better food’ - he hadn’t complained, nor did cheese and crackers bother him. “I didn’t see any pills in here. You already…checked the bathroom,” Sylar mused aloud, “I’m sure there’s more around. There always is. Didn’t find a cheese slicer, either. I don’t know what one looks like,” he admitted sliding his hands into his pockets, idly watching Peter work. “Do you…need a hand with that?”
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Without hesitating, Peter answered, “Yeah. Come over and put your finger right here.” When Sylar approached, Peter elaborated, pointing with his left index finger at a flap of the bandaid that was on the top of Peter's right middle finger. “Right there. Just hold it.” He maneuvered the other wing of the adhesive bandage through the gap between his fingers, over his blister, and wrapped it where he wanted it. “There. That should do it. Thanks.” He was casual and comfortable, glancing up at Sylar for a moment as that realization passed through his mind. Yeah. I think I'm okay here … with him. For now, at least. He's okay.
It wasn't a huge concession. It didn't change anything Sylar had done in the past. It just meant Peter was admitting to himself that Sylar was okay to be with right now. Since Sylar seemed to think they'd be bedding down together - probably in the same apartment unit rather than in two separate ones - that was kind of important. It was the sort of thing Peter needed to work out to decide if he wanted to argue over where they slept. At the moment, the answer was 'no need to argue'.
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“Mmm,” Sylar made an answering noise to the thanks. He peeked up from the hand to check on the guy’s face, accidentally catching his eye in a returned look. He was already glancing away but he did a brief double-take, apparently thinking Peter had something to communicate. Or he just wanted to be aware of what and how Peter was looking at him. Nothing came of it and he stayed where he was - close to Peter.
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Peter looked away, uncomfortable to have been caught staring. Instead, he brushed his bandaid trash together and dropped them in the kitchen trashcan. “You don't know what a cheese slicer looks like?” he said with a teasing smile, changing the subject. “I seem to remember you getting onto me about not knowing what a dish scraper looked like. What goes around, comes around, man.” Ha. Got you back! He grabbed the apple juice with his left hand and gestured at the sack with his right. “Grab that and let's go check out the next place. That's pretty funny, though.” He looked back at Sylar to check the other man's reaction to his good-natured ribbing.
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He gave Peter a steady stare that implied more thought should have been applied before speaking; the look said ‘duh’ as if that much was obvious. How many people even have cheese slicers? It’s probably some fancy, top-of-the-line thing rich people have. Sylar pursed his lips. If he’d had more energy, he’d have made his irritation verbally clear. Perhaps it was that Peter Petrelli knew something he didn’t - and that something was a household kitchen item, albeit far more costly than he would have ever seen as a watchmaker. As it was, he just heaved a sigh, “A cheese slicer is totally different from a dish scraper, Peter.” That much was obvious, he was sure.
Sylar took up the bag as ordered, book in hand, trailing after his companion. “What?” he demanded at the purposeful glance back Peter made.
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“What?” Peter said back playfully, hoping he wasn't about to get chased through the apartment and beaned with a bag full of packaged cheese and a box of crackers. But that was a risk he was willing to take. He chuckled, grinning broadly as he opened the door across the hall. “You can let me win one, big guy. You'll still be way in the lead, you know.”
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Eyes narrowed in unarticulated response. ‘Big guy’? Sylar didn’t know what to do with that one. It was friendly (and nicer than other options); he kind of liked it - it sounded like a compliment - so he let it lie without much question. I suppose. But ‘letting’ you win anything isn’t in my nature, Pete. He almost protested that but…the cause lacked importance.
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Feeling happy and showing it with an ebullient demeanor, Peter headed for the kitchen here, too, passing the shelves of knick-knacks and tchotchkes, including the bell collection memorializing various tourist destinations. Peter didn't give it a second look, having seen it before. He plonked down the juice bottle and started looking in cabinets for either food or medicine. He didn't recall having explored this one all that much - just that he'd rang one of the bells and been distracted by the turntable. “Look in the fridge, will you? I've pretty much got my dinner. Let me know if you see something in there that works for you.”
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Sylar entered more sedately, looking around. He was instantly reminded of his fa- uncle’s shop in Baltimore on seeing the turntable and the figurines smacked of Tom Miller’s and Virginia’s apartments - a very unhealthy cross between them. He didn’t like it. Uncomfortable, defensive and on-edge, he avoided contact with anything in the place. And that was before he spotted the bell collection. He stopped dead, bag in hand, wanting out-of-here-now. “Oh, Jesus…” he said quietly on seeing it, half expecting to see corny kid pictures from grade-school as well. Peter was already in the kitchen and Sylar wanted to drag him out with him.
This place was clingy and musty and dirty, maybe not physically, but his mind had no trouble layering on the filth and disgust from his memories and their associations. It was practically haunted. Nausea made itself known. “N-no. I’m...” good, he nearly finished, responding automatically without processing what Peter had actually said, but that would have been a lie. Like hell I am! No way in hell am I sleeping here. “I’ll-I’ll be in the hall,” he blurted and didn’t wait for an answer. Sylar zipped into the hallway and leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing down the nausea and memories. He was grateful that he hadn’t had one of his lapses in recollecting things from the past though his imagination eagerly planted a bloody mural of an exploding city on the floor and his signature - SYLAR - swiped in blood on the wall.
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What? Peter had heard the 'no' and assumed there was some other dialogue coming after it to explain. A moment later it arrived, but it only gave him more questions. He stuck his head out of the kitchen to see the door still open and Sylar, as he'd said, gone. Given that last, choked up tone of voice, Peter surged forward and out into the hall, almost missing that Sylar was right there - having not continued down the hall as Peter had expected. He looked Sylar up and down as the other man opened his eyes and straightened. Sylar looked shaken and trying to quickly put his guards up. Upset. Physically fine, I think. Peter's expression softened from alarmed to intent, maybe concerned, but he didn't stick around or say anything before going back in the apartment they'd just left, looking around with a protective fervor. It wasn't something I said. It had to be something in here. Peter scanned the room quickly for the source of the threat. It looked perfectly banal to him.
Peter poked his head back out for a moment - Sylar was still there. Then Peter turned in the doorway and surveyed the room again. Was there a weapon maybe? No … and that doesn't explain him being upset instead of angry. With a shake of his head, he walked out to ask the only one who really knew. “What's going on?”
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Sylar felt Peter’s presence as well as hearing it. The speed of it was gratifying - it warmed him and helped calm him down. He was grateful for it. “Just needed some air,” Sylar replied, not yet looking at him. “Let’s look somewhere else.” He pushed off the wall and headed off down the hall.
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Peter didn't budge. “I don't want to go down that way. Let's go to the top floor. Somewhere we haven't been before. Maybe this isn't a good floor.” Mostly, he knew what was in the direction Sylar was going - two smallish apartments, neither of which seemed likely to have much in the way of food and one of which had a gun. Also, he wasn't sure what had spooked Sylar (for all Peter knew, Sylar might have just seen an odd shadow cast by Peter in the kitchen and freaked over it), but Peter had seen his face. And Peter had nothing at all invested in this floor of the building versus any other.
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Sylar halted and turned. “Fine by me.” It was. He remembered there was a gun around here somewhere. As he passed Peter on his way to the elevator, he managed humor and a smirk, “Admit it; you just wanna jump on some rich guy’s bed with your shoes on,” he said of the suites that were probably on the top floor. He assumed Peter was following him - he was. They got in and rode the elevator to the top and exited to a much different hallway, significantly wider and more posh. He looked back at Peter as he exited the elevator car, then selected a room at random, walking into a more open space with streamlined dark wood and neon accent décor that looked modern and expensive. The rugs and carpet looked soft and the couch untouched. There was a foldout…door or collapsible wall to separate the bedroom from the living room. It felt like a fuck-pad from Vegas of which Nathan was familiar.
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Continued...