More Between Us Chapter 54/? "Passing Out"
More Between Us, Chapter 54/? "Passing Out"
Day 14, December 24, Morning
Peter snorted immediately at Sylar's insinuation that Peter was interested in him. He most certainly wasn't - appreciating the obvious was a long way from actually wanting to be with someone. He gave Sylar a glare accompanied by a rather aggressive look down his body before turning back to the stove. Peter stirred the eggs.
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“You didn’t answer my question. Why did you lock the door?”
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Peter sighed, a bit more dramatically than necessary. Can't the guy take a hint? Answer: No, probably not. Time to be blunt, then. “Because I didn't want you in there, Sylar,” he said, finishing up with this round of fiddling with the food. He put the spatula down and turned to face his companion. “If I wait until you've barged in with me, then you're already in there. You got in my bed last night and-” Peter made an exasperated chuffing. “I was too upset and sleepy and whatever to kick you out like I should have. You shouldn't have been there!” he said with emphasis.
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You don’t know that. How is that even a comparison? I hate the keep-away game. Shouldn’t have- Since when shouldn’t… Sylar’s frown was extensive. He realized Nathan must have...must have what? He was thinking from the brother perspective and Peter wasn’t his brother. That was shocking on several levels, horrifying, depressing and just plain hurtful to come back to himself in a sense. He was reminded of the differences between himself and Nathan - the reasons why he’d liked being Nathan in the first place. It felt like a roller-coaster drop into Hell, except with less fun. The upheaval in his upper stomach smelt of guilt - Peter wasn’t his anything and he hadn’t asked or invited him. Sylar didn’t like the feeling or the implications one bit so he pushed it aside and tried to crush it. He was being wrongly accused here, no surprise.
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Peter was getting worked up, agitated by the contradiction of his feelings. Angry now, he spat out his accusation, “You saw a moment of weakness and took advantage of it. We're not sleeping together tonight; we're not even sleeping in the same apartment. Mine's right across the street. That way, you can leave whatever door you want open, run around naked if that makes you happy. But if you want me around, you're going to have to act right.”
It was a bizarre rant, given Peter's own tendency to wander his apartment in the nude and his gratefulness for Sylar's sympathy the night before. The heat in his words was in direct proportion to the unwanted and unasked for warmth of his feelings. He shouldn't, and wouldn't, feel that way about Sylar. Peter had slept well and woke up full of energy and life, which was now being vented at the other man. He turned and went back to messing with the eggs, a scowl in place as he suspected he'd be eating them alone at this rate.
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Eventually, Sylar was going to have to answer but this blame didn’t belong to him - it was Nathan’s. What was I thinking? Crawling in bed with him. “What?!” ‘Taken advantage’? How was I supposed to know? Sylar’s mouth went tight and linear, his face a confused, angry, defensive mess. “You are one to talk about running around naked,” he growled, dredging up that hypocrisy with ease. “And you can enjoy your nightmares uninterrupted from now on, Petrelli.” Just like me.
Peter had turned away, dismissing him and ordering him around like it was nothing - like it was all his fault and Peter had no share in it. Sylar advanced quickly, gripping Peter’s arm and yanking him around to face him. He was probably standing too close but he refused to be ignored. Unfortunately, he had no words to specify his indignation, frustration, anger; his glare faltered as he struggled to come up with meaningful dialogue. Mostly he was stunned and hurt, the attack seemed to come from nowhere, the paranoia unfounded.
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Peter freaked out when Sylar grabbed him. In that second of terror, he thought he'd pushed it too far; was about to get slammed into the stove and beaten, maybe killed; there were knives and painful things in the kitchen; and how it had been a mistake to ever take the serial killer on as a patient. He dropped the spatula - it was too flimsy as a weapon if they were seriously throwing down, and grabbed blindly for the handle on the skillet…which wasn't where he'd hoped it was. He was left grabbing at empty air and with his broken right hand, anyway. Even if he'd connected, he wouldn't have much strength in a swing using that hand. Sylar had his left.
That realization made - that he was ill-suited to defend himself - another was close on the heels of it - that Sylar was just staring at him. Peter stared back, heart going 90 miles an hour, breathing fast, teeth slightly bared. For a moment, they were still, just looking, as Peter watched emotions playing across Sylar's face. Another realization - Sylar's emotions … maybe Peter didn't need to be concerned about the guy trying to kill him?
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After a few long seconds, Sylar finally blurted, “I am not a child.” So do not fucking treat me like one. “How is any of that taking advantage? I didn’t take anything you didn’t want to give or you’d have said something.” Right? I hope…? “You’re seriously going to try to punish me for that?” This is hopeless then. “Seriously?” And out of all the other moments of weakness? “No, you’re right. I saw a moment of weakness and took advantage. Lying in wait for my chance, waiting for you to…what, snore?” Sylar snorted in contempt at that.
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Relief washed over Peter subtly as he still stood in Sylar's grip. Okay … we're not fighting. “Neither am I, Sylar. We're both adults, with adult needs. There's no punishment; I'm not your parent and I'm not your jailer. But that doesn't mean there aren't consequences. You piss me off? I'm going to do things because I'm pissed off. You get in bed with me like that and I feel threatened, so I'm going to do things to protect myself. I don't feel safe with you.” He jerked his arm away from Sylar's grip. “Now included. Get your hands off me,” he said, voice dropping to a low, threatening growl.
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Sylar could only frown more. Weren’t consequences synonymous with punishment? At least, that was an awfully parental word to use. “But why would you f-“ Sylar shot back before it hit him like a thunderbolt. Sexually threatened. Because I got in bed with him? Oh. That seemed like a rational conclusion to draw, even for no-boundaries Peter Petrelli, which was why it hadn’t occurred to him before now. If Peter had slid in bed with him, Sylar knew he’d assume…Oh. He blinked and dumbly allowed Peter to free himself. That felt strange. He felt bereft. Of course he had no right to touch Peter (in any way, his mind added). Apparently that included comfort even. “I…didn’t…” he fumbled, stepping back in confusion. But he didn’t say anything…He didn’t protest what I said about him wanting it so why…?
He’d at least learned what a shut door meant growing up. He wasn’t that socially incompetent. When Mom shut the door, he was not ever to enter. The symbolism wasn’t hard to miss. He’d never liked that, not having access to her should he ever need or desire it but such was life. Sylar tried not to see the similarities between Peter’s locked door and the last time Mom had shut the door on him. It freaked him out regardless. Not a punishment, though? With some haste, he seated himself at the table, leaving the kitchen to Peter because he suddenly feared what shut doors and barred access might mean, or worse, what it might lead to.
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Peter's breathing slowed, ramping down from the combat-high he'd had going there for a few seconds. He watched warily as Sylar retreated to the table, not sure what the guy was going to do. Peter blinked when he realized that what Sylar was doing was complete capitulation, totally backing down, with Sylar slouching at the table meekly, still and quiet and making himself small and inoffensive. I've seen that before. When he was afraid I was going to deck him. Peter let his eyes drop and turned back to the stove, picking up the spatula and turning the eggs. They were a little browned on the opposite side, but not burned. He kept an ear tuned to Sylar, but as he'd expected there was not a peep of sound.
I'm not going to take this. Peter didn't try to put his finger on what about the situation he found intolerable, but he definitely wasn't going to let it continue. He snapped off the stove, noisily set aside the skillet, and strode back to the table. He couldn't take up the stance he wanted with both hands on the table and leaning his weight against it, so he compromised by holding the back of the chair on his side of the table. “No, Sylar, you didn't. You didn't do anything bad to me. You surprised me and surprises, from you, don't go over real well with me. You surprised me by being kind; you surprised me by getting in bed with me. The second, with the first … makes me wonder if helping me with the nightmare was just an excuse to push my boundaries a little and see what I'd let you get away with when I was upset. Well, now you know, which is why we're not going to be sleeping in the same apartment anymore.” Peter waited for a response, his attention completely and intently fixed on Sylar.
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Sylar didn’t bother straightening up when Peter stalked over, but he did stare back at him just so Peter would know he wasn’t cowed. The first half of Peter’s explanation was…most welcome, relieving. He’d done something right. Peter even sounded like he appreciated it. It was only part of something right - never a whole. The empath wasn’t pleased with his methods or maybe he wasn’t thrilled with Sylar’s motivation, but either way, there was still something wrong with it and he didn’t know how to fix it for next time. Oh, come on! He railed about not sleeping in the same apartment. Punishment to fit the crime, Petrelli; Jesus! He was already upset, I didn’t do that. His face showed his resentment plain as day. I just wanted to hear you breathe. That’s not a bad thing. I know you’d want the same thing if you were me. There’s no clocks here, weird bed, no pajamas - its not my apartment; it’s weird. But he said none of that. “We’ve been sleeping in the same apartment for weeks now,” he ground out, reasoning, hinting, “It’s too quiet.” It was such a tiny thing yet here it was going to be taken away regardless. It seemed cruel.
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Peter teetered on the cusp of an angry, argumentative retort before an image came to mind of Sylar, curled on the chairs and dozing while Peter played the piano. It was enough noise and much of it off-key at that, to keep anyone awake, yet the thing that had woke Sylar at the end was the long, still silence after Peter had stopped. He blinked as the light bulb went off over his head, now thinking of all those continually ticking, clicking, and whirring clocks in Sylar's apartment. “Okay,” he said weakly, straightening from the confrontational posture he'd had before. “Okay … then … you were wanting to hear me snore?” He tried to avoid sounding like that was as bizarre as it seemed, but his expression was clearly taken aback. “That's … you were serious then? Oh.” Peter's eyes darted around the room a little randomly as he breathed out, taking his hands off the chair and letting them hang at his sides.
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His companion eased off but Sylar was still uncomfortable, now for new reasons. I sound like a freak when you say it that way, Petrelli. “Sure,” he replied, “Snoring, breathing, sound…” He couldn’t read Peter or the direction things were going. Do I push or… Blow it off and say it’s meaningless, never mind? Is he reconsidering? Probably not but at least it’s…out there. He just thinks I’m a freak now. “Not that I think you snore that much - you didn’t last night, just…” his voice tapered off. I behaved myself. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he won’t stay. “So what does that mean?” Sylar looked up as he rubbed at his orbital socket to try to alleviate his headache. It was sapping his patience and control; soon he was going to be irritable and needy. Needier. What irked him was that a headache, a little head injury, was going to get the best of him in front of Peter. Sylar wasn’t fond of the painkillers but he clearly saw their purpose this morning - he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken some. He wanted to roll back into bed, alone or not, and lie there, miserable in the dark, for the rest of the day.
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Still very thrown by the turn of the conversation, Peter said, “I … um, I think it means I'll need to think about that. Maybe we could … um, work something out.” A metronome maybe? We could look for clocks here … Or I could stay, after I already said I wouldn't … It'd be stupid to pretend I was locked into that. It wasn't like a promise or anything. He stood there for a moment, feeling a bit awkward, then went to fetch the two glasses of milk Sylar had poured earlier. He pushed one partly across the table to Sylar as a show that the argument or confrontation or whatever had ended.
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Peter was not ruling out sleeping in the same flat again. Awesome. Doubt (and possibly guilt) were fantastic footholds. A sealed-shut answer would have meant he was screwed. Sylar slowly reached across for the halfway proffered glass, sipping at it, quite satisfied with himself. Except for his headache.
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“It's not something that's on my list of things I won't do - you know, being in the same room with someone. Not that I'd really … Yeah, we've slept in the same apartment, but I was in a chair. It's way different in a bed,” Peter confessed nervously. “I don't, you know, I don't necessarily mind my own business in a bed.” He eyed Sylar uneasily for a moment, uncomfortable in the knowledge that he'd woke up mostly on Sylar's side of the bed, his foot wedged under the other man's leg, disturbingly close to being back to back with him. Who knows what I might have been doing if he hadn't been on top of the covers? And that was the real issue - Peter was about as concerned about what he would do as he was about Sylar. Already, last night he'd declined to make a fuss when he really felt he should have. He didn't like the position he was in here - not at all.
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The chair was a good piece of information. If necessary, one of them could sleep on another, separate apparatus but it wasn’t ideal. Sylar smugly eyed his companion right back as he confessed to ‘not minding his own business’. His discomfort was cute, acting like he’d done something completely sinful just in getting a night’s sleep. Sylar’s lips twitched at a smirk, his imagination going wild. Oh, if only. And that, too, was useful information. Nathan certainly remembered being cuddled and welcomed into bed with his little brother after a nightmare or traumatic event. “Okay.”
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Fidgeting, Peter went back for plates and forks, bringing them in a stack to the table for Sylar to distribute while Peter went back for the eggs. He divvied them up before sitting, toying with his fork rather than digging in.
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After a glance, Sylar separated the utensils with a muffled groan of protest as his brain felt like it was sliding and sloshing into the front of his skull. Then awkwardness reigned as neither of them went for the food. Between his head and his stomach, Sylar felt like he was being split in two - the scent of the doubtlessly wholesome eggs wasn’t helping. He fiddled with his glass instead. It was too much to resist, “So how did you sleep, Peter?” he murmured in a low voice.
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Sylar's near-purr earned him a brief glare, followed by a pointed look at Sylar's food. Peter barely kept himself from snapping a retaliatory order for the man to eat. He leaned away in his chair instead, distancing himself. Though hungry, Peter had more pressing things to consider than feeding his face. Sylar looked and sounded way too happy about things. Why shouldn't he be happy? Maybe he's getting something he wants - noisy sleep, apparently. Peter still felt vaguely used, like his discomfort with the whole arrangement was being mocked somehow; that tone of voice and the smugness didn't sit well. He liked the guy better when he was meek. Groveling would be nice.
Peter shook his head at that uncharacteristically dark thought and cast about for something else to think about. Sylar was still not eating, ostensibly waiting for Peter to answer him. “Fine,” he said shortly. “You?”
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The empath’s less-than-thrilled response garnered a sigh. “Good.” It was Sylar’s turn to pick at his food. “Really good, actually. Nothing weird.” Sylar kept his head down, clarifying that last part. It was quite a new experience sleeping in the same bed with another human being.
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Somewhat mollified, Peter drew closer to the table to eat, picking up his fork with his right hand. One finger rubbed across the slick strangeness of the band-aid between cast and the neighboring digit. He waggled that finger back and forth a few times. The blister still hurt. A lot of things hurt - not so much after the rest and workout, but … It occurred to him he'd never found those painkillers he'd been looking for the night before. A suspicious glance across the table at his companion's still-full plate had him thinking about how chronic pain caused nausea which manifested in decreased appetite.
Peter sighed and rubbed his face with his left hand, feeling across the sore spot in his left brow and the lingering sensitive areas on his face that didn't hurt unless he probed at them as he was doing now. He had other parts that pained him more frequently - his hand and the small of his back and groin. But they were manageable - basically if he didn't use them, they didn't hurt. He could still think and be responsible for his own self-care. Head injuries like Sylar's … not so much. Peter's reason for putting up with the jerk was to look after elements of Sylar's well-being that Sylar couldn't be trusted to do on his own.
“Have you seen any painkillers around here?” he asked, looking up with a lack of enthusiasm as his role here as a nurse or at least health care aide came back to him. “How's your stomach? Or your head?”
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Crap. Was I supposed to be looking for some? Sylar’s head came up, meeting Peter’s eyes with a bit of a shocked expression. He shook his head, “No.” Somehow Peter’s clear lack of interest, despite the questions, made him feel like the jerk, reminding him that, yes, he was the jerk here. “They’re both going to kill me before you do. Champagne and ice cream are in the fridge for when that happens, happy birthday and Merry Christmas.” He snorted and chuckled a little, recalling a similar breakfast setting. “When I was in Mexico, my babysitter there was some girl, Candice - she was an illusionist. A real shame I didn’t get that power, but she made me eggs, too.” He nibbled a clump of egg.
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Peter gave a single 'ha' laugh at Sylar's remark about his head and gut hurting him, but sobered fast as Sylar went on. I didn't come here to kill you! And that Sylar thought he might celebrate anyone's death? It left Peter staring as Sylar looked down at his plate and went on to talk about Mexico. Peter set his fork aside, appetite flagging and wondering why he felt a sense of betrayal that Sylar thought that of him. After all, it wasn't like Peter didn't have reason to feel that way, or that he hadn't within the last couple months, or that he didn't want Sylar to suffer for what he'd done. Plus, Peter hadn't made a secret of any of that. Ultimately, though, it seemed more likely that Sylar was speaking of how he thought Peter felt, based on how Sylar would feel were their positions reversed. That was sad and irritating. I'm not you.
“I'm going to look for the pills.” He sighed as he stood up, walking off sedately to the kitchen to go systematically through the cupboards, looking for medication. He had lots of experience with locating people's meds. They were either in the kitchen, the bathroom, or nightstand. If not in those three prime areas, then it could be random, but Peter figured 9 out of 10 were in one of those spots.
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Oh my God. Just keep your mouth shut already! Frustration lanced through him at his failure to interact ‘right’ as Peter so aptly put it. He felt bad enough already at having scared and taken advantage of the guy (all in the name of comfort or communication), and Peter felt he had to stay and take care of him when he obviously didn’t want to - here Sylar was not eating the prepared breakfast he was certain tasted good… “I’m sure your eggs are better,” he placated in hindsight, in case Peter was taking offense at that.
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“What were you … Um, why didn't you get her power?” he asked as he nosed around. The question he ended up going with wasn't much better than the one he'd almost asked, 'what were you doing in Mexico?', but he had a hunch Sylar would answer the second one easier than the first.
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Having occupied himself in the now-lonely living room, Sylar had just finished sipping at his milk when he heard a question that truly surprised him. “You’re - You-“ want to know about me killing someone? “Uh…” he floundered for a moment to deal with the shock. His track record of the day for dialogue wasn’t doing him any favors. “I guess you can’t…absorb powers when you…don’t have any yourself. Obvious now, I know.” It would have been much the same as shape-shifting but…a year earlier. “I had the Shanti virus,” Sylar clarified.
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Wait, does that mean he killed her anyway? Damn it! Peter had actually been hoping for some evidence that Sylar was able to be with someone, especially someone taking care of him, without ill effect. That the guy had killed even his caretakers was so offensive as to be ridiculous. He shook his head in dismay and exasperation, glad he was out of Sylar's line of sight for the moment. Not finding the painkillers, though he'd found vitamins, Peter crossed the living room for the bathroom. “What were you doing with the Shanti virus?” Whatever that is - maybe threatening to infect everyone if you didn't get what you wanted?
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“The Company injected me with it to keep me harmless or something like that.” Sylar stressed, “It’s really difficult to be harmless with them around.” How many had he killed without his powers? Maya’s brother, the car owner, Candice, Maya…A significant number anyway.
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“Yeah?” he called out from the bathroom, relieved that 'had the Shanti virus' meant Sylar had been sick rather than physically possessed whatever it was with intent to distribute. That the Company had an injectable ability-neutralizing agent wasn't surprising. Homeland Security had gotten those neutralizing rigs from somewhere, after all. Peter's continuing search turned up a bottle of aspirin right off. It wasn't the painkiller he favored, but it would do. “The Company had some really screwed up ideas of how to handle people,” he offered as he left the bathroom, for the moment putting off his various questions about this Shanti virus in favor of dealing with Sylar's current distress.
Peter returned to stand next to the table, thumbing open the bottle, left-handed, with ease. “Do you think you're going to be able to eat much? If you can get some food down, I think you should take a double dose. If you can't, just the standard.” 'The standard' for what Peter was doling out to Sylar was still double what the bottle recommended for pain management, but recommended doses were calibrated to a smaller person than Sylar was, and were selected for treating run of the mill headaches. Peter didn't know what Sylar's head felt like, but he was assuming it was something more along the line of 'migraine'.
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As much as he didn’t favor medication, painkillers being like a cop out for ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ (as much as he feared being called a wuss for opting out of pin), Sylar knew he needed the pills. He was losing his calm, Peter was already pissy and threatening - it was only a matter of time until he said or did something that would tank the situation. After he set the situation on fire and broke it to splinters. Rock and a hard place decisions and what’s more, he had to trust Peter and hope he would care for him to avoid disaster. “I…I’d love to eat; I’m probably hungry, I just don’t know that It’s going to happen.” Dead serious, he stared grimly up at his companion, “You’re probably going to need to drug the hell out of me today, whether I eat or not.”
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Peter sighed a little, eyeing Sylar and trying to get a feel for what the man was implying. Was he in a lot of pain? Or was he saying that Peter ought to knock him out somehow because he was going to be an asshole otherwise? Or both? He counted out four times the regular dose. “Well, eat as much as you can, at least. If you don't, this is going to make you even sicker to your stomach.” He gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “I can make you something else - toast, there was some yoghurt, I'm sure there's stuff in the other apartments - if you think you'd eat more of something else. Like if eggs are a bad choice? Too greasy or heavy or something?”
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Sylar merely nodded, taking the pill from Peter. I know. Making another meal seemed like overkill. “That’s not…I don’t think that will be necessary. I like your eggs; its just my stomach.”
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Looking at Sylar was quickly turning into an examination, as Peter's eyes widened back to normal and a little past it. His brows drew together in his 'I'm concentrating' face. Sylar looked peaked. His body language was off - posture more defeated, slumped and drawn at the same time; motions overly deliberate with none of the casualness that should have been there; eyes tracking a little too slowly. “Do you mind if I take your pulse?” he asked, beginning the motion towards Sylar's left hand with his own. It wasn't that he had any real concern for Sylar's heart rate. Peter wanted the opportunity to feel his skin for other symptoms. Taking a pulse was more socially acceptable than randomly holding someone's hand or the more maternal forehead touch.
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“No, sure.” Sylar proffered the hand, his left because he knew that much without it being indicated. He had to pull his jacket and shirt cuff back a little to expose his wrist, holding them there while he watched Peter work. Did he see something?
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Peter found the pulse point immediately, turning his wrist out of habit to glance at his useless, nonfunctioning watch. He made a tiny grunt of displeasure and rolled his eyes a bit before putting his focus back on his patient. He didn't need an exact reading to tell the heart rate was a bit too fast, that Sylar was warm but not too warm, and not clammy. After a dozen or so seconds, Peter curled his hand over the back of Sylar's, rubbing a little. He directed quietly, “Hold still,” and pinched up the skin for a few seconds before letting it go. It didn't relax flat as fast as it should have.
He pursed his lips, trying to remember the last time he'd seen Sylar drinking much of anything. Still had a full champagne glass after dinner, not even sure he opened his soda at lunch, so … yesterday morning? “You're dehydrated. You need to drink - constantly - until you start peeing clear. I'll get you some water in case you can hold that down better than the milk. We're not going out today. We'll just take it easy here.”
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Sylar smiled about the watch not working. Should have let me fix it. People never know how much they need a clock until they don’t have one. He didn’t move, watching his companion to see what the fuss was, beginning to feel some doubt about his symptoms with the light of Peter’s examination shining on him. The petting on his hand was wonderful, calming, something he needed at that moment. The touch did its purpose but something in his gut spiraled out of control anyway. I didn’t think of that. I haven’t really had to pee. Isn’t there more water in water than milk? I had some water, just not enough. Relief and gratitude flooded him like a head-to-toe wave. “Okay,” he croaked. Peter was going to be bored as hell with no puzzle or piano in the room, assuming he stuck around at all. He said ‘we’… “I’m sorry. I think I saw some magazines by the couch.” Sylar pointed, definitely trying to keep Peter here in spite of everything. Not wanting to be trouble collided with wanting the attention, treating his symptoms versus amplifying them. Now he was split between the two.
Sylar scrubbed at his forehead before hefting his fork, holding his breath so he wouldn’t smell the food and brought it to his mouth. It still tasted, obviously, his stomach still rebelled but he forced it down. Beaten by eggs.
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Peter stalked off to get Sylar's bottle of water from the refrigerator. It had seemed reasonable to keep it from the night before because it was nearly full. So was Peter's, but he'd finished off his champagne, and in any case, he wasn't suffering from a condition for which one of the prime treatments was to have the person drink lots of fluids. He brought it over and set it next to Sylar's plate, then took a seat on his side of the table. Peter looked at his so-far untouched eggs. They'd cooled a lot, but just as he was still hungry, he was also not ready to eat them. He picked up his fork and stabbed them anyway.
Never done long-term treatment of a concussion. What was it the teacher said in class? They needed constant supervision and assistance with self-care, might have otherwise unexplained personality or behavioral shifts, will sleep a lot, push fluids on them, keep out of bright light and the reach of children? Something like that. He put his forkful of breakfast into his mouth. I've been treating him like a hospice patient, letting him dictate a lot of his care, because a sense of control is important. But that's not what he is. He's more like an ambulatory trauma patient who doesn't know what's good for him. Leaving him in control is stupid. Peter ate a few more bites, silently, not wanting to set a bad example by trashing his food like he felt perversely inclined to do.
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Sylar immediately took a few sips of the water when it arrived. His caretaker did not interact further, focused on his own food. Sylar assumed the silence was due to his failure to thrive and slumped to continue the trick of at least getting food past his nose and into his mouth. He considered nausea: why does the body even have that function? It’s going to do the opposite thing its supposed to do - keep me alive. How can you go hungry when you have food? Does this happen to everybody or just me? Did he hit me in a certain spot of the head? He knew it wasn’t on purpose if that was the case and Peter seemed intent on clarifying that nausea was a symptom of concussion. It still bothered him that his own body was attacking him and there seemed little he could do about it except force-feed himself breakfast.
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“Can you at least get down one more big drink of water?” Peter watched as Sylar seemed to take the minimum amount he could get away with. It impressed on Peter that the guy was trying to be cooperative. It just wasn't enough. Getting persistent - begging, pleading, pressuring him - was not only undignified, but it hardly ever worked - not with hospice patients and certainly not with Sylar.
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Sylar nodded. You sound like my grade school teachers. But he took a big gulp. The water wasn’t hard on his stomach, the food was. So why am I dehydrated? They’d been…talking a lot while eating he supposed. Peter was a good distraction from anything and everything. Ironic, then that the self-proclaimed healer-helper was getting in the way of his own goal.
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Peter cleared away their dishes as Sylar went to retire. He piped up, “Hey, if you're going to sleep, do it out here where I can keep an eye on you.” He gestured at the bed they'd shared the night before, which in the avant-garde, open floor plan of the penthouse suite, was open to the living room unless the wall screen was pulled out. Peter had left the screen tucked away the night before out of stubbornness. Now it was convenient in allowing him to keep Sylar where he could see him. “You'll be able to hear me better, too,” he added, hoping that sweetened the deal for the other man.
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That caught Sylar’s limited attention. He didn’t bother making much of an expression - he didn’t want to waste the energy and Peter wasn’t watching anyway. I guess I was thinking I’d be banished to the guest room. After all the fuss he made about never-ever sleeping together or in the same suite and spying on him while he slept…The last request, offer, demand hooked him. He didn’t answer but shuffled into the bedroom, stripping out of his coat to situate himself in Peter’s side of the bed. That way he’d be able to smell and hear Peter and think...more perverted, intimately impossible things.
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Dishes were dealt with; the kitchen was cleaned. Peter poured a half glass of champagne and collected up the magazines Sylar had mentioned and a coffee table book on Western European art that he had not. He drew a big, leather-clad, tilting chair over near the bed and rudely put his feet up on the dark wooden footboard of the bed, using the foot stool that had come with the chair as a make-shift end table for his drink and resting place for his reading materials. He was being sloppy and low class. He didn't think Sylar would mind. Or notice.
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True enough, though Sylar heard Peter settling in (quite close it sounded), he was already drifting off. A brief shift to snuggle himself deeper in the comforter with the illusion of genuine care, despite his pained body, he was virtually content.
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He paged through magazines that would have been better off blank-paged, devoid of interesting content as they were. He had one about food and one about fashion, full of women's clothing, accessories, and make-up. His eyes would have glazed over in the real world just as fast as they did here. The art book was more entertaining, but it had almost nothing new in it. Peter had seen most of the works himself, in person, on various family trips to Europe. Which is not surprising, because we're not really here. This is all from my memory. He set aside the book and finished off his drink, looking at the slumbering man in front of him. I need to focus!
Okay, focusing. My problem here is that Sylar is fucked up and he's not getting better. A few days ago, he was okay during the day, getting up to work on the puzzle and being engaged most of the time. Now … Yesterday he slept almost all day; today looks the same. Worse, maybe. He shouldn't be getting worse! He should be getting better! That's why I thought he'd be okay to come here. But how the hell do I get him back to his apartment, short of carrying him? On the ice. In the cold. With him being conscious and contrary enough to fight with me over it. That won't work.
There's got to be another way. What am I doing here? Waiting for him to die? He put his feet down and leaned forward, brow furrowed. I've got to do something! I could … go to the hospital and get IV fluids. Maybe there's some medical books there I could jump-start my memory with on how to treat a concussion. I could bring back a wheelchair in case I need to get him back to his apartment in case maybe his whole problem is being too far away from his clocks. He shot a glance at the window. He'd looked out earlier that morning when he went down to exercise. The ground was covered with a sheet of ice from the night's precipitation and when he'd looked, light flurries were coming down. He could see more white through the windows now. He stood and walked over, looking out at the lowering clouds and the continuing snow, falling heavier than it had been. It's only going to get worse. I'm going to get fucking snowed in here with a guy who might need medical care, badly, and … and maybe this means he's dying or something in the real world. Fuck. Doesn't matter - he's dying here.
Resolved on a mission, Peter moved into action. He searched the nearby apartments for thermal underwear and thicker socks, finding a heavily insulated coat that went down to mid-thigh. The selling point for it was the wrap-around throat-guard and the drawstring on the front of the hood. Although his own jacket was fine for crossing the street from one building to another, he had no idea how long he'd be out. A bigger challenge than the weather was going to be finding the damn place - he'd been there once as part of a looping route. It almost certainly wasn't going to be a 'walk ten or fifteen blocks and then come back' sort of thing. There was also his still-hurting psoas muscle. In his workout, it had been easy to select exercises that didn't exacerbate it. He wouldn't have that luxury sliding around on ice. Such barriers had never stopped him before; they wouldn't now.
He found a yellow legal pad and left a note: 'Sylar - I've gone to the hospital to get stuff for you. I will come back. I'm not leaving you. -Peter' That looks sappy as hell. He held the pen poised to strike through the last sentence, but decided against it. It was what mattered most to Sylar - that had become clear. On the off-chance he woke alone, he needed to know he wasn't abandoned. Peter set the pad on the nightstand. He stared at it for a moment, then walked off down the hall quickly, having thought of something he'd seen while searching for adequate winter clothing. He returned with an old-looking, wooden desk clock - all Peter knew about it was that it made a ticking noise. Maybe that will help? He set it on top of the note and left.
XXX
Continued...
Day 14, December 24, Morning
Peter snorted immediately at Sylar's insinuation that Peter was interested in him. He most certainly wasn't - appreciating the obvious was a long way from actually wanting to be with someone. He gave Sylar a glare accompanied by a rather aggressive look down his body before turning back to the stove. Peter stirred the eggs.
XXX
“You didn’t answer my question. Why did you lock the door?”
XXX
Peter sighed, a bit more dramatically than necessary. Can't the guy take a hint? Answer: No, probably not. Time to be blunt, then. “Because I didn't want you in there, Sylar,” he said, finishing up with this round of fiddling with the food. He put the spatula down and turned to face his companion. “If I wait until you've barged in with me, then you're already in there. You got in my bed last night and-” Peter made an exasperated chuffing. “I was too upset and sleepy and whatever to kick you out like I should have. You shouldn't have been there!” he said with emphasis.
XXX
You don’t know that. How is that even a comparison? I hate the keep-away game. Shouldn’t have- Since when shouldn’t… Sylar’s frown was extensive. He realized Nathan must have...must have what? He was thinking from the brother perspective and Peter wasn’t his brother. That was shocking on several levels, horrifying, depressing and just plain hurtful to come back to himself in a sense. He was reminded of the differences between himself and Nathan - the reasons why he’d liked being Nathan in the first place. It felt like a roller-coaster drop into Hell, except with less fun. The upheaval in his upper stomach smelt of guilt - Peter wasn’t his anything and he hadn’t asked or invited him. Sylar didn’t like the feeling or the implications one bit so he pushed it aside and tried to crush it. He was being wrongly accused here, no surprise.
XXX
Peter was getting worked up, agitated by the contradiction of his feelings. Angry now, he spat out his accusation, “You saw a moment of weakness and took advantage of it. We're not sleeping together tonight; we're not even sleeping in the same apartment. Mine's right across the street. That way, you can leave whatever door you want open, run around naked if that makes you happy. But if you want me around, you're going to have to act right.”
It was a bizarre rant, given Peter's own tendency to wander his apartment in the nude and his gratefulness for Sylar's sympathy the night before. The heat in his words was in direct proportion to the unwanted and unasked for warmth of his feelings. He shouldn't, and wouldn't, feel that way about Sylar. Peter had slept well and woke up full of energy and life, which was now being vented at the other man. He turned and went back to messing with the eggs, a scowl in place as he suspected he'd be eating them alone at this rate.
XXX
Eventually, Sylar was going to have to answer but this blame didn’t belong to him - it was Nathan’s. What was I thinking? Crawling in bed with him. “What?!” ‘Taken advantage’? How was I supposed to know? Sylar’s mouth went tight and linear, his face a confused, angry, defensive mess. “You are one to talk about running around naked,” he growled, dredging up that hypocrisy with ease. “And you can enjoy your nightmares uninterrupted from now on, Petrelli.” Just like me.
Peter had turned away, dismissing him and ordering him around like it was nothing - like it was all his fault and Peter had no share in it. Sylar advanced quickly, gripping Peter’s arm and yanking him around to face him. He was probably standing too close but he refused to be ignored. Unfortunately, he had no words to specify his indignation, frustration, anger; his glare faltered as he struggled to come up with meaningful dialogue. Mostly he was stunned and hurt, the attack seemed to come from nowhere, the paranoia unfounded.
XXX
Peter freaked out when Sylar grabbed him. In that second of terror, he thought he'd pushed it too far; was about to get slammed into the stove and beaten, maybe killed; there were knives and painful things in the kitchen; and how it had been a mistake to ever take the serial killer on as a patient. He dropped the spatula - it was too flimsy as a weapon if they were seriously throwing down, and grabbed blindly for the handle on the skillet…which wasn't where he'd hoped it was. He was left grabbing at empty air and with his broken right hand, anyway. Even if he'd connected, he wouldn't have much strength in a swing using that hand. Sylar had his left.
That realization made - that he was ill-suited to defend himself - another was close on the heels of it - that Sylar was just staring at him. Peter stared back, heart going 90 miles an hour, breathing fast, teeth slightly bared. For a moment, they were still, just looking, as Peter watched emotions playing across Sylar's face. Another realization - Sylar's emotions … maybe Peter didn't need to be concerned about the guy trying to kill him?
XXX
After a few long seconds, Sylar finally blurted, “I am not a child.” So do not fucking treat me like one. “How is any of that taking advantage? I didn’t take anything you didn’t want to give or you’d have said something.” Right? I hope…? “You’re seriously going to try to punish me for that?” This is hopeless then. “Seriously?” And out of all the other moments of weakness? “No, you’re right. I saw a moment of weakness and took advantage. Lying in wait for my chance, waiting for you to…what, snore?” Sylar snorted in contempt at that.
XXX
Relief washed over Peter subtly as he still stood in Sylar's grip. Okay … we're not fighting. “Neither am I, Sylar. We're both adults, with adult needs. There's no punishment; I'm not your parent and I'm not your jailer. But that doesn't mean there aren't consequences. You piss me off? I'm going to do things because I'm pissed off. You get in bed with me like that and I feel threatened, so I'm going to do things to protect myself. I don't feel safe with you.” He jerked his arm away from Sylar's grip. “Now included. Get your hands off me,” he said, voice dropping to a low, threatening growl.
XXX
Sylar could only frown more. Weren’t consequences synonymous with punishment? At least, that was an awfully parental word to use. “But why would you f-“ Sylar shot back before it hit him like a thunderbolt. Sexually threatened. Because I got in bed with him? Oh. That seemed like a rational conclusion to draw, even for no-boundaries Peter Petrelli, which was why it hadn’t occurred to him before now. If Peter had slid in bed with him, Sylar knew he’d assume…Oh. He blinked and dumbly allowed Peter to free himself. That felt strange. He felt bereft. Of course he had no right to touch Peter (in any way, his mind added). Apparently that included comfort even. “I…didn’t…” he fumbled, stepping back in confusion. But he didn’t say anything…He didn’t protest what I said about him wanting it so why…?
He’d at least learned what a shut door meant growing up. He wasn’t that socially incompetent. When Mom shut the door, he was not ever to enter. The symbolism wasn’t hard to miss. He’d never liked that, not having access to her should he ever need or desire it but such was life. Sylar tried not to see the similarities between Peter’s locked door and the last time Mom had shut the door on him. It freaked him out regardless. Not a punishment, though? With some haste, he seated himself at the table, leaving the kitchen to Peter because he suddenly feared what shut doors and barred access might mean, or worse, what it might lead to.
XXX
Peter's breathing slowed, ramping down from the combat-high he'd had going there for a few seconds. He watched warily as Sylar retreated to the table, not sure what the guy was going to do. Peter blinked when he realized that what Sylar was doing was complete capitulation, totally backing down, with Sylar slouching at the table meekly, still and quiet and making himself small and inoffensive. I've seen that before. When he was afraid I was going to deck him. Peter let his eyes drop and turned back to the stove, picking up the spatula and turning the eggs. They were a little browned on the opposite side, but not burned. He kept an ear tuned to Sylar, but as he'd expected there was not a peep of sound.
I'm not going to take this. Peter didn't try to put his finger on what about the situation he found intolerable, but he definitely wasn't going to let it continue. He snapped off the stove, noisily set aside the skillet, and strode back to the table. He couldn't take up the stance he wanted with both hands on the table and leaning his weight against it, so he compromised by holding the back of the chair on his side of the table. “No, Sylar, you didn't. You didn't do anything bad to me. You surprised me and surprises, from you, don't go over real well with me. You surprised me by being kind; you surprised me by getting in bed with me. The second, with the first … makes me wonder if helping me with the nightmare was just an excuse to push my boundaries a little and see what I'd let you get away with when I was upset. Well, now you know, which is why we're not going to be sleeping in the same apartment anymore.” Peter waited for a response, his attention completely and intently fixed on Sylar.
XXX
Sylar didn’t bother straightening up when Peter stalked over, but he did stare back at him just so Peter would know he wasn’t cowed. The first half of Peter’s explanation was…most welcome, relieving. He’d done something right. Peter even sounded like he appreciated it. It was only part of something right - never a whole. The empath wasn’t pleased with his methods or maybe he wasn’t thrilled with Sylar’s motivation, but either way, there was still something wrong with it and he didn’t know how to fix it for next time. Oh, come on! He railed about not sleeping in the same apartment. Punishment to fit the crime, Petrelli; Jesus! He was already upset, I didn’t do that. His face showed his resentment plain as day. I just wanted to hear you breathe. That’s not a bad thing. I know you’d want the same thing if you were me. There’s no clocks here, weird bed, no pajamas - its not my apartment; it’s weird. But he said none of that. “We’ve been sleeping in the same apartment for weeks now,” he ground out, reasoning, hinting, “It’s too quiet.” It was such a tiny thing yet here it was going to be taken away regardless. It seemed cruel.
XXX
Peter teetered on the cusp of an angry, argumentative retort before an image came to mind of Sylar, curled on the chairs and dozing while Peter played the piano. It was enough noise and much of it off-key at that, to keep anyone awake, yet the thing that had woke Sylar at the end was the long, still silence after Peter had stopped. He blinked as the light bulb went off over his head, now thinking of all those continually ticking, clicking, and whirring clocks in Sylar's apartment. “Okay,” he said weakly, straightening from the confrontational posture he'd had before. “Okay … then … you were wanting to hear me snore?” He tried to avoid sounding like that was as bizarre as it seemed, but his expression was clearly taken aback. “That's … you were serious then? Oh.” Peter's eyes darted around the room a little randomly as he breathed out, taking his hands off the chair and letting them hang at his sides.
XXX
His companion eased off but Sylar was still uncomfortable, now for new reasons. I sound like a freak when you say it that way, Petrelli. “Sure,” he replied, “Snoring, breathing, sound…” He couldn’t read Peter or the direction things were going. Do I push or… Blow it off and say it’s meaningless, never mind? Is he reconsidering? Probably not but at least it’s…out there. He just thinks I’m a freak now. “Not that I think you snore that much - you didn’t last night, just…” his voice tapered off. I behaved myself. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he won’t stay. “So what does that mean?” Sylar looked up as he rubbed at his orbital socket to try to alleviate his headache. It was sapping his patience and control; soon he was going to be irritable and needy. Needier. What irked him was that a headache, a little head injury, was going to get the best of him in front of Peter. Sylar wasn’t fond of the painkillers but he clearly saw their purpose this morning - he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken some. He wanted to roll back into bed, alone or not, and lie there, miserable in the dark, for the rest of the day.
XXX
Still very thrown by the turn of the conversation, Peter said, “I … um, I think it means I'll need to think about that. Maybe we could … um, work something out.” A metronome maybe? We could look for clocks here … Or I could stay, after I already said I wouldn't … It'd be stupid to pretend I was locked into that. It wasn't like a promise or anything. He stood there for a moment, feeling a bit awkward, then went to fetch the two glasses of milk Sylar had poured earlier. He pushed one partly across the table to Sylar as a show that the argument or confrontation or whatever had ended.
XXX
Peter was not ruling out sleeping in the same flat again. Awesome. Doubt (and possibly guilt) were fantastic footholds. A sealed-shut answer would have meant he was screwed. Sylar slowly reached across for the halfway proffered glass, sipping at it, quite satisfied with himself. Except for his headache.
XXX
“It's not something that's on my list of things I won't do - you know, being in the same room with someone. Not that I'd really … Yeah, we've slept in the same apartment, but I was in a chair. It's way different in a bed,” Peter confessed nervously. “I don't, you know, I don't necessarily mind my own business in a bed.” He eyed Sylar uneasily for a moment, uncomfortable in the knowledge that he'd woke up mostly on Sylar's side of the bed, his foot wedged under the other man's leg, disturbingly close to being back to back with him. Who knows what I might have been doing if he hadn't been on top of the covers? And that was the real issue - Peter was about as concerned about what he would do as he was about Sylar. Already, last night he'd declined to make a fuss when he really felt he should have. He didn't like the position he was in here - not at all.
XXX
The chair was a good piece of information. If necessary, one of them could sleep on another, separate apparatus but it wasn’t ideal. Sylar smugly eyed his companion right back as he confessed to ‘not minding his own business’. His discomfort was cute, acting like he’d done something completely sinful just in getting a night’s sleep. Sylar’s lips twitched at a smirk, his imagination going wild. Oh, if only. And that, too, was useful information. Nathan certainly remembered being cuddled and welcomed into bed with his little brother after a nightmare or traumatic event. “Okay.”
XXX
Fidgeting, Peter went back for plates and forks, bringing them in a stack to the table for Sylar to distribute while Peter went back for the eggs. He divvied them up before sitting, toying with his fork rather than digging in.
XXX
After a glance, Sylar separated the utensils with a muffled groan of protest as his brain felt like it was sliding and sloshing into the front of his skull. Then awkwardness reigned as neither of them went for the food. Between his head and his stomach, Sylar felt like he was being split in two - the scent of the doubtlessly wholesome eggs wasn’t helping. He fiddled with his glass instead. It was too much to resist, “So how did you sleep, Peter?” he murmured in a low voice.
XXX
Sylar's near-purr earned him a brief glare, followed by a pointed look at Sylar's food. Peter barely kept himself from snapping a retaliatory order for the man to eat. He leaned away in his chair instead, distancing himself. Though hungry, Peter had more pressing things to consider than feeding his face. Sylar looked and sounded way too happy about things. Why shouldn't he be happy? Maybe he's getting something he wants - noisy sleep, apparently. Peter still felt vaguely used, like his discomfort with the whole arrangement was being mocked somehow; that tone of voice and the smugness didn't sit well. He liked the guy better when he was meek. Groveling would be nice.
Peter shook his head at that uncharacteristically dark thought and cast about for something else to think about. Sylar was still not eating, ostensibly waiting for Peter to answer him. “Fine,” he said shortly. “You?”
XXX
The empath’s less-than-thrilled response garnered a sigh. “Good.” It was Sylar’s turn to pick at his food. “Really good, actually. Nothing weird.” Sylar kept his head down, clarifying that last part. It was quite a new experience sleeping in the same bed with another human being.
XXX
Somewhat mollified, Peter drew closer to the table to eat, picking up his fork with his right hand. One finger rubbed across the slick strangeness of the band-aid between cast and the neighboring digit. He waggled that finger back and forth a few times. The blister still hurt. A lot of things hurt - not so much after the rest and workout, but … It occurred to him he'd never found those painkillers he'd been looking for the night before. A suspicious glance across the table at his companion's still-full plate had him thinking about how chronic pain caused nausea which manifested in decreased appetite.
Peter sighed and rubbed his face with his left hand, feeling across the sore spot in his left brow and the lingering sensitive areas on his face that didn't hurt unless he probed at them as he was doing now. He had other parts that pained him more frequently - his hand and the small of his back and groin. But they were manageable - basically if he didn't use them, they didn't hurt. He could still think and be responsible for his own self-care. Head injuries like Sylar's … not so much. Peter's reason for putting up with the jerk was to look after elements of Sylar's well-being that Sylar couldn't be trusted to do on his own.
“Have you seen any painkillers around here?” he asked, looking up with a lack of enthusiasm as his role here as a nurse or at least health care aide came back to him. “How's your stomach? Or your head?”
XXX
Crap. Was I supposed to be looking for some? Sylar’s head came up, meeting Peter’s eyes with a bit of a shocked expression. He shook his head, “No.” Somehow Peter’s clear lack of interest, despite the questions, made him feel like the jerk, reminding him that, yes, he was the jerk here. “They’re both going to kill me before you do. Champagne and ice cream are in the fridge for when that happens, happy birthday and Merry Christmas.” He snorted and chuckled a little, recalling a similar breakfast setting. “When I was in Mexico, my babysitter there was some girl, Candice - she was an illusionist. A real shame I didn’t get that power, but she made me eggs, too.” He nibbled a clump of egg.
XXX
Peter gave a single 'ha' laugh at Sylar's remark about his head and gut hurting him, but sobered fast as Sylar went on. I didn't come here to kill you! And that Sylar thought he might celebrate anyone's death? It left Peter staring as Sylar looked down at his plate and went on to talk about Mexico. Peter set his fork aside, appetite flagging and wondering why he felt a sense of betrayal that Sylar thought that of him. After all, it wasn't like Peter didn't have reason to feel that way, or that he hadn't within the last couple months, or that he didn't want Sylar to suffer for what he'd done. Plus, Peter hadn't made a secret of any of that. Ultimately, though, it seemed more likely that Sylar was speaking of how he thought Peter felt, based on how Sylar would feel were their positions reversed. That was sad and irritating. I'm not you.
“I'm going to look for the pills.” He sighed as he stood up, walking off sedately to the kitchen to go systematically through the cupboards, looking for medication. He had lots of experience with locating people's meds. They were either in the kitchen, the bathroom, or nightstand. If not in those three prime areas, then it could be random, but Peter figured 9 out of 10 were in one of those spots.
XXX
Oh my God. Just keep your mouth shut already! Frustration lanced through him at his failure to interact ‘right’ as Peter so aptly put it. He felt bad enough already at having scared and taken advantage of the guy (all in the name of comfort or communication), and Peter felt he had to stay and take care of him when he obviously didn’t want to - here Sylar was not eating the prepared breakfast he was certain tasted good… “I’m sure your eggs are better,” he placated in hindsight, in case Peter was taking offense at that.
XXX
“What were you … Um, why didn't you get her power?” he asked as he nosed around. The question he ended up going with wasn't much better than the one he'd almost asked, 'what were you doing in Mexico?', but he had a hunch Sylar would answer the second one easier than the first.
XXX
Having occupied himself in the now-lonely living room, Sylar had just finished sipping at his milk when he heard a question that truly surprised him. “You’re - You-“ want to know about me killing someone? “Uh…” he floundered for a moment to deal with the shock. His track record of the day for dialogue wasn’t doing him any favors. “I guess you can’t…absorb powers when you…don’t have any yourself. Obvious now, I know.” It would have been much the same as shape-shifting but…a year earlier. “I had the Shanti virus,” Sylar clarified.
XXX
Wait, does that mean he killed her anyway? Damn it! Peter had actually been hoping for some evidence that Sylar was able to be with someone, especially someone taking care of him, without ill effect. That the guy had killed even his caretakers was so offensive as to be ridiculous. He shook his head in dismay and exasperation, glad he was out of Sylar's line of sight for the moment. Not finding the painkillers, though he'd found vitamins, Peter crossed the living room for the bathroom. “What were you doing with the Shanti virus?” Whatever that is - maybe threatening to infect everyone if you didn't get what you wanted?
XXX
“The Company injected me with it to keep me harmless or something like that.” Sylar stressed, “It’s really difficult to be harmless with them around.” How many had he killed without his powers? Maya’s brother, the car owner, Candice, Maya…A significant number anyway.
XXX
“Yeah?” he called out from the bathroom, relieved that 'had the Shanti virus' meant Sylar had been sick rather than physically possessed whatever it was with intent to distribute. That the Company had an injectable ability-neutralizing agent wasn't surprising. Homeland Security had gotten those neutralizing rigs from somewhere, after all. Peter's continuing search turned up a bottle of aspirin right off. It wasn't the painkiller he favored, but it would do. “The Company had some really screwed up ideas of how to handle people,” he offered as he left the bathroom, for the moment putting off his various questions about this Shanti virus in favor of dealing with Sylar's current distress.
Peter returned to stand next to the table, thumbing open the bottle, left-handed, with ease. “Do you think you're going to be able to eat much? If you can get some food down, I think you should take a double dose. If you can't, just the standard.” 'The standard' for what Peter was doling out to Sylar was still double what the bottle recommended for pain management, but recommended doses were calibrated to a smaller person than Sylar was, and were selected for treating run of the mill headaches. Peter didn't know what Sylar's head felt like, but he was assuming it was something more along the line of 'migraine'.
XXX
As much as he didn’t favor medication, painkillers being like a cop out for ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ (as much as he feared being called a wuss for opting out of pin), Sylar knew he needed the pills. He was losing his calm, Peter was already pissy and threatening - it was only a matter of time until he said or did something that would tank the situation. After he set the situation on fire and broke it to splinters. Rock and a hard place decisions and what’s more, he had to trust Peter and hope he would care for him to avoid disaster. “I…I’d love to eat; I’m probably hungry, I just don’t know that It’s going to happen.” Dead serious, he stared grimly up at his companion, “You’re probably going to need to drug the hell out of me today, whether I eat or not.”
XXX
Peter sighed a little, eyeing Sylar and trying to get a feel for what the man was implying. Was he in a lot of pain? Or was he saying that Peter ought to knock him out somehow because he was going to be an asshole otherwise? Or both? He counted out four times the regular dose. “Well, eat as much as you can, at least. If you don't, this is going to make you even sicker to your stomach.” He gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “I can make you something else - toast, there was some yoghurt, I'm sure there's stuff in the other apartments - if you think you'd eat more of something else. Like if eggs are a bad choice? Too greasy or heavy or something?”
XXX
Sylar merely nodded, taking the pill from Peter. I know. Making another meal seemed like overkill. “That’s not…I don’t think that will be necessary. I like your eggs; its just my stomach.”
XXX
Looking at Sylar was quickly turning into an examination, as Peter's eyes widened back to normal and a little past it. His brows drew together in his 'I'm concentrating' face. Sylar looked peaked. His body language was off - posture more defeated, slumped and drawn at the same time; motions overly deliberate with none of the casualness that should have been there; eyes tracking a little too slowly. “Do you mind if I take your pulse?” he asked, beginning the motion towards Sylar's left hand with his own. It wasn't that he had any real concern for Sylar's heart rate. Peter wanted the opportunity to feel his skin for other symptoms. Taking a pulse was more socially acceptable than randomly holding someone's hand or the more maternal forehead touch.
XXX
“No, sure.” Sylar proffered the hand, his left because he knew that much without it being indicated. He had to pull his jacket and shirt cuff back a little to expose his wrist, holding them there while he watched Peter work. Did he see something?
XXX
Peter found the pulse point immediately, turning his wrist out of habit to glance at his useless, nonfunctioning watch. He made a tiny grunt of displeasure and rolled his eyes a bit before putting his focus back on his patient. He didn't need an exact reading to tell the heart rate was a bit too fast, that Sylar was warm but not too warm, and not clammy. After a dozen or so seconds, Peter curled his hand over the back of Sylar's, rubbing a little. He directed quietly, “Hold still,” and pinched up the skin for a few seconds before letting it go. It didn't relax flat as fast as it should have.
He pursed his lips, trying to remember the last time he'd seen Sylar drinking much of anything. Still had a full champagne glass after dinner, not even sure he opened his soda at lunch, so … yesterday morning? “You're dehydrated. You need to drink - constantly - until you start peeing clear. I'll get you some water in case you can hold that down better than the milk. We're not going out today. We'll just take it easy here.”
XXX
Sylar smiled about the watch not working. Should have let me fix it. People never know how much they need a clock until they don’t have one. He didn’t move, watching his companion to see what the fuss was, beginning to feel some doubt about his symptoms with the light of Peter’s examination shining on him. The petting on his hand was wonderful, calming, something he needed at that moment. The touch did its purpose but something in his gut spiraled out of control anyway. I didn’t think of that. I haven’t really had to pee. Isn’t there more water in water than milk? I had some water, just not enough. Relief and gratitude flooded him like a head-to-toe wave. “Okay,” he croaked. Peter was going to be bored as hell with no puzzle or piano in the room, assuming he stuck around at all. He said ‘we’… “I’m sorry. I think I saw some magazines by the couch.” Sylar pointed, definitely trying to keep Peter here in spite of everything. Not wanting to be trouble collided with wanting the attention, treating his symptoms versus amplifying them. Now he was split between the two.
Sylar scrubbed at his forehead before hefting his fork, holding his breath so he wouldn’t smell the food and brought it to his mouth. It still tasted, obviously, his stomach still rebelled but he forced it down. Beaten by eggs.
XXX
Peter stalked off to get Sylar's bottle of water from the refrigerator. It had seemed reasonable to keep it from the night before because it was nearly full. So was Peter's, but he'd finished off his champagne, and in any case, he wasn't suffering from a condition for which one of the prime treatments was to have the person drink lots of fluids. He brought it over and set it next to Sylar's plate, then took a seat on his side of the table. Peter looked at his so-far untouched eggs. They'd cooled a lot, but just as he was still hungry, he was also not ready to eat them. He picked up his fork and stabbed them anyway.
Never done long-term treatment of a concussion. What was it the teacher said in class? They needed constant supervision and assistance with self-care, might have otherwise unexplained personality or behavioral shifts, will sleep a lot, push fluids on them, keep out of bright light and the reach of children? Something like that. He put his forkful of breakfast into his mouth. I've been treating him like a hospice patient, letting him dictate a lot of his care, because a sense of control is important. But that's not what he is. He's more like an ambulatory trauma patient who doesn't know what's good for him. Leaving him in control is stupid. Peter ate a few more bites, silently, not wanting to set a bad example by trashing his food like he felt perversely inclined to do.
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Sylar immediately took a few sips of the water when it arrived. His caretaker did not interact further, focused on his own food. Sylar assumed the silence was due to his failure to thrive and slumped to continue the trick of at least getting food past his nose and into his mouth. He considered nausea: why does the body even have that function? It’s going to do the opposite thing its supposed to do - keep me alive. How can you go hungry when you have food? Does this happen to everybody or just me? Did he hit me in a certain spot of the head? He knew it wasn’t on purpose if that was the case and Peter seemed intent on clarifying that nausea was a symptom of concussion. It still bothered him that his own body was attacking him and there seemed little he could do about it except force-feed himself breakfast.
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“Can you at least get down one more big drink of water?” Peter watched as Sylar seemed to take the minimum amount he could get away with. It impressed on Peter that the guy was trying to be cooperative. It just wasn't enough. Getting persistent - begging, pleading, pressuring him - was not only undignified, but it hardly ever worked - not with hospice patients and certainly not with Sylar.
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Sylar nodded. You sound like my grade school teachers. But he took a big gulp. The water wasn’t hard on his stomach, the food was. So why am I dehydrated? They’d been…talking a lot while eating he supposed. Peter was a good distraction from anything and everything. Ironic, then that the self-proclaimed healer-helper was getting in the way of his own goal.
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Peter cleared away their dishes as Sylar went to retire. He piped up, “Hey, if you're going to sleep, do it out here where I can keep an eye on you.” He gestured at the bed they'd shared the night before, which in the avant-garde, open floor plan of the penthouse suite, was open to the living room unless the wall screen was pulled out. Peter had left the screen tucked away the night before out of stubbornness. Now it was convenient in allowing him to keep Sylar where he could see him. “You'll be able to hear me better, too,” he added, hoping that sweetened the deal for the other man.
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That caught Sylar’s limited attention. He didn’t bother making much of an expression - he didn’t want to waste the energy and Peter wasn’t watching anyway. I guess I was thinking I’d be banished to the guest room. After all the fuss he made about never-ever sleeping together or in the same suite and spying on him while he slept…The last request, offer, demand hooked him. He didn’t answer but shuffled into the bedroom, stripping out of his coat to situate himself in Peter’s side of the bed. That way he’d be able to smell and hear Peter and think...more perverted, intimately impossible things.
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Dishes were dealt with; the kitchen was cleaned. Peter poured a half glass of champagne and collected up the magazines Sylar had mentioned and a coffee table book on Western European art that he had not. He drew a big, leather-clad, tilting chair over near the bed and rudely put his feet up on the dark wooden footboard of the bed, using the foot stool that had come with the chair as a make-shift end table for his drink and resting place for his reading materials. He was being sloppy and low class. He didn't think Sylar would mind. Or notice.
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True enough, though Sylar heard Peter settling in (quite close it sounded), he was already drifting off. A brief shift to snuggle himself deeper in the comforter with the illusion of genuine care, despite his pained body, he was virtually content.
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He paged through magazines that would have been better off blank-paged, devoid of interesting content as they were. He had one about food and one about fashion, full of women's clothing, accessories, and make-up. His eyes would have glazed over in the real world just as fast as they did here. The art book was more entertaining, but it had almost nothing new in it. Peter had seen most of the works himself, in person, on various family trips to Europe. Which is not surprising, because we're not really here. This is all from my memory. He set aside the book and finished off his drink, looking at the slumbering man in front of him. I need to focus!
Okay, focusing. My problem here is that Sylar is fucked up and he's not getting better. A few days ago, he was okay during the day, getting up to work on the puzzle and being engaged most of the time. Now … Yesterday he slept almost all day; today looks the same. Worse, maybe. He shouldn't be getting worse! He should be getting better! That's why I thought he'd be okay to come here. But how the hell do I get him back to his apartment, short of carrying him? On the ice. In the cold. With him being conscious and contrary enough to fight with me over it. That won't work.
There's got to be another way. What am I doing here? Waiting for him to die? He put his feet down and leaned forward, brow furrowed. I've got to do something! I could … go to the hospital and get IV fluids. Maybe there's some medical books there I could jump-start my memory with on how to treat a concussion. I could bring back a wheelchair in case I need to get him back to his apartment in case maybe his whole problem is being too far away from his clocks. He shot a glance at the window. He'd looked out earlier that morning when he went down to exercise. The ground was covered with a sheet of ice from the night's precipitation and when he'd looked, light flurries were coming down. He could see more white through the windows now. He stood and walked over, looking out at the lowering clouds and the continuing snow, falling heavier than it had been. It's only going to get worse. I'm going to get fucking snowed in here with a guy who might need medical care, badly, and … and maybe this means he's dying or something in the real world. Fuck. Doesn't matter - he's dying here.
Resolved on a mission, Peter moved into action. He searched the nearby apartments for thermal underwear and thicker socks, finding a heavily insulated coat that went down to mid-thigh. The selling point for it was the wrap-around throat-guard and the drawstring on the front of the hood. Although his own jacket was fine for crossing the street from one building to another, he had no idea how long he'd be out. A bigger challenge than the weather was going to be finding the damn place - he'd been there once as part of a looping route. It almost certainly wasn't going to be a 'walk ten or fifteen blocks and then come back' sort of thing. There was also his still-hurting psoas muscle. In his workout, it had been easy to select exercises that didn't exacerbate it. He wouldn't have that luxury sliding around on ice. Such barriers had never stopped him before; they wouldn't now.
He found a yellow legal pad and left a note: 'Sylar - I've gone to the hospital to get stuff for you. I will come back. I'm not leaving you. -Peter' That looks sappy as hell. He held the pen poised to strike through the last sentence, but decided against it. It was what mattered most to Sylar - that had become clear. On the off-chance he woke alone, he needed to know he wasn't abandoned. Peter set the pad on the nightstand. He stared at it for a moment, then walked off down the hall quickly, having thought of something he'd seen while searching for adequate winter clothing. He returned with an old-looking, wooden desk clock - all Peter knew about it was that it made a ticking noise. Maybe that will help? He set it on top of the note and left.
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Continued...