More Between Us Chapter 55/? "Bedside Manner"
More Between Us, Chapter 55/? "Bedside Manner"
Day 14, December 24, Late afternoon/early evening
His sleep was disturbed several times and his dreams were very strange. Sylar kept looking for his anchor as he wandered an abandoned building but something else was chasing him. The thing chasing him was going to maim him and tease him with hope and the promise of death before it bled him out. And if he escaped it, he knew the chances of finding his anchor were slim and he’d be left roaming, alone, always looking over his shoulder, until he breathed his last. Either way, he was going to die alone. Clocks followed him throughout the dream, floating in mid-air. Sometimes the ticking relaxed him with its lively, hollow presence and petrified him with its meaning and time-threatening like a countdown. The passage of time was annoying even while he slept. Eventually their hands reached out to claw at him. ‘Sleep when you’re dead!’ his mother’s voice harked.
When he did finally wake, it was to a more peaceful atmosphere. It was darker outside than it had been earlier and he mumbled for his brotherly companion on instinct - he knew he was around here somewhere, “Peter?” Sylar opened his eyes and glanced around until he spotted Peter beside him. “Hey.” He smiled, then noticed Peter’s clothes were different, a fitted gray t-shirt and black sweat pants. Worriedly, he asked, “Why did you change?” Did he do something? What happened? How long have I been out?
XXX
“I went out for a while. I had to go to the hospital to get stuff for you.” Peter gestured to the bag of rehydration solution hanging from the headboard above Sylar's head, the thin, clear tube running down to the man's arm and taped in place. “My clothes got wet so I had to change.” His voice sounded tired, even to himself.
XXX
His eyes tracked to the bag of medical-looking fluids. Curare was colorless, too. Sylar hadn’t been paying attention when the glycemerine came into play. He started badly I knew it! low, desperate whine escaped him as he clawed the needle from his elbow, throwing it away as he made to sit up, gasping with fight-or-flight instinct. His body was sluggish and uncoordinated, definitely dehydrated, moving his head and neck was agonizing now. “What the hell is that, Peter?! What did you do?!&rdquo What did I do? I’ll die soon enough, just leave me alone and I’ll die - you don’t need to hurry me along! I don’t have any powers! This is what I get for sleeping around you.
XXX
“Whoa, whoa! Sylar, no!” Peter started up, hands reaching out to thwart Sylar's thrashing, but he was way too slow and that wasn't because of his physical condition. It was simply the effect of Sylar's own panic and haste. Peter stopped moving, hands still out but pulling them closer to himself as he eased back a little. He gave the inside of Sylar's elbow a quick glance - it wasn't bleeding badly, but the entire shunt had been jerked out. Next his eyes went to the disconnected tube, off in the middle of the bed, on the other side of Sylar from where Peter was. It was probably dripping, but no big deal. Then his eyes flicked to the bag - still hanging there and the valve to turn off the flow was over Sylar's head. He wasn't about to reach for it. He looked at Sylar - eye contact.
“Sylar, you didn't even wake up when I put that in. You were unconscious.” He spoke in a slow, deliberate fashion, trying to role model being calm and sane. Peter dipped his head, pulling his hands all the way in, and then on second thought, extending his right to rest on Sylar's blanket-covered shin. “I'm not going to let you die. And if I have to fight you over that, then I will,” he said with determination.
XXX
The nurse backed off, adding another layer of confusion onto an already thick mixture. Sylar’s eyes widened at being touched.
XXX
“There is nothing in that bag except a basic IV rehydration solution - sterile water, salt, sugar, some electrolytes - no drugs,” he ended, guessing at one of the causes of Sylar's agitation. Peter knew if their positions were reversed, he'd be wildly paranoid. “I promise you. My word of honor - I'm not trying to hurt you.” He gave Sylar's leg a slight squeeze before his hand left the man as Peter leaned back to his previous resting position in his chair. He gave Sylar time to calm down and respond.
XXX
No drugs? Word of….Indecision reigned. Sylar was at Peter’s mercy. It boiled down to whether or not the solution contained drugs (and what else, if anything, Peter was going to do while he slept - a needle in his arm was somewhat violating). If it did, he’d die or wake up somewhere; his situation couldn’t get much worse. If the solution was clean…He twitched when Peter released him, blinking and tracking the other man’s movements. “Sounds to good to be true,” he muttered before threatening with more volume, “Don’t you dare stick me with anything else. I will make you regret it.” It didn’t quite strike him that all Peter need do was stand and he could do whatever the heck he liked, but his objection had been voiced. “Shouldn’t have bothered with this.” Either let me die or heal on my own time. Slowly, Sylar made himself comfortable, partially upright, eyes primarily on his companion. With a wave of a shaking arm, gesturing between Peter and the IV, he snipped, “Fine, have your fun,” then tried not to think of glycemerine.
XXX
Peter made a small noise, like a swallowed 'huh' or maybe a grunt, before levering himself up out of his chair. That had gone easier than it could have. He waved at the IV and tube, asking, “Can you reach up and clamp that tube for me? It's going to wet the bed if you don't.”
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Looking up, Sylar fumbled his way up the tube, pinching it in one hand and twisting the dreaded tab with the other. The whole operation took a several minutes.
XXX
He shuffled around the chair in the slim space between it and the wall. Outside, snow continued to fall, though not terribly heavily. He went to the wheelchair he'd parked just inside the door, searching through the stuff piled on it for another syringe, catheter, adhesive patch, and other stuff. Equipment assembled, he considered his options: climbing on the bed to get to Sylar's left antecubital, trying to lean over him for the same, doing his right distal, or trying the right antecubital again. Much as he didn't like dropping a line in the same location twice, it remained the best choice for the same reasons he'd picked it to start with - the small of his back and his groin muscles were killing him from slipping on the ice, which precluded getting on the bed as a working location; he didn't think Sylar would tolerate him leaning across him (and neither would his back); and he suspected the IV would remain in place longer if it wasn't on the hand.
XXX
Sylar watched his companion, immediately noting the wheelchair. “Oh, c’mon….” he protested that.
XXX
He returned to Sylar's side, laying his things out on top of the legal pad on the night stand. “I take it you've had IVs before,” he said to make conversation. Nathan had, at least. Peter tried not to think on that. Much as habit and good medical hygiene dictated he wear gloves, one of Peter's hands was in a brace; and the whole glove thing seemed a bit pointless in fantasy-land. Bare-handed, he reached to cup Sylar's elbow with one hand and turn it with the other, examining the bloody spot where the original IV had been. To explain himself, he said, “I'm looking to make sure you cleared the whole mechanism, cannula included. Looks like it.” He put his fingers in a V shape and pushed lightly on either side of the spot to be sure. Then he put a clean cotton ball over the injection site, holding it for a few moments. He looked up at his patient while making sure the site clotted. “Hey, I can't let you die here. I'd be all alone then. For years. Might not be anyone coming for me. They certainly haven't yet. We gotta look out for each other.”
XXX
“Mmm,” was the affirmation. How could something be left behind? Fired through his brain but Sylar didn’t bother to chase it down for an answer. Let Peter do his thing. He didn’t know what to say to the rest of what Peter said. Why wouldn’t anyone be coming for Pete? Who else is around?
XXX
Peter put aside the cotton ball and swabbed the area down, then carefully applied a tourniquet around Sylar's bicep. “Hand me that tube over there, will you?”
Peter detached the old catheter and set it aside with the rest of his trash, checked the end of the tubing, let it flush a little, and attached a new connector. A quick glance at Sylar's arm showed him the tourniquet was doing its job. Thus prepared, he picked up the syringe and looked to Sylar. “Okay. I'm about ready. You good?”
XXX
Sylar met his eyes and gave a single upwards nod. He glanced only once at his arm - and the damned needle. How he hated the pincushion, guinea pig, piece-of-meat feeling. There were violations and justified paranoias that lingered in him from the past - even Peter was an offender. “There’d better not be any drugs in there, Peter,” he reiterated, mostly to assuage his fears of hallucinations, spinal taps and waking up as someone else. I must be stupid to trust him. I don’t trust him. I just don’t have a choice. The needle slid in and he waited for any kind of adverse effect, scanning Peter’s handsome face. Part of him wanted to ask if Peter got off on this and why he’d bothered with the uncomfortable and somewhat dangerous trip to the hospital but he knew what the answers would be - the same as they always were.
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“I’m extra-sure you needed this from how you woke up so fast once I got the drip going on you,” Peter said as he carefully and securely taped everything in place. He was mostly watching what he was doing, expression intent, with only the occasional glance at Sylar’s face. Now that he was done, though, he looked at him more. “I’ve heard they use IV fluids as a hangover cure in some parts. I’m hoping it will be a big help to you.”
XXX
After some moments passed and the idea of harm-free assistance began to sink in, he spoke, eyebrows furrowed with some emotion, “How did….how did you find your way?” If there’s no drugs then he…did that for me? “It’s snowing; what…” was worth that? And why’d you do it? Am I really that messed up? I sure feel like it. He must be… Crap.
XXX
Peter gave a laugh that was mid-way between ironic and humorless. “Yeah, and underneath that snow is a layer of ice.” He reached up and turned the valve on the tubing, letting the solution flow again. Peter began to gather up the plethora of wrappers and trash that were collecting on the nightstand. He waved generally at the window. “I left this morning, but you might notice it’s dark out. I got lost trying to get there. On the way back, I was using that wheelchair as a walker,” he said with a snort. “I didn’t know if you’d need it or not, but I know I did, for carrying stuff and keeping my balance.”
Things gathered, Peter squeezed between the chair and wall as he took it to the trash in the kitchen.
XXX
“Could you grab my book? It’s out there, somewhere,” Sylar pointed hopefully to the living room/kitchen. “Then you should rest.” It sounded like Peter needed it more than ever.
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Peter grumbled about Sylar’s direction for him to rest, but it was merely stubbornness. He needed the rest. Reflecting on that, he got the painkillers, took several with a swig of water from his bottle out of the fridge, then replaced his bottle and got out Sylar’s. Pills and bottle in one hand, he found the book and picked it up with his right, putting the apple he’d found with it between forearm and his body. Thus loaded, he returned to the bed and recluttered the night stand, only this time with things they wanted. He looked at the book before handing it over, face brightening at the subject of baseball. “Oh, hey. That’s cool. You like baseball?” Realizing he’d forgotten something he needed, Peter went back to fetch another bag of saline so he wouldn’t have to get up for it later.
XXX
“Thank you,” Sylar murmured, grateful for more than just the book as he took it. The apple was still good, still looked good, too. Fruit would be hydrating. He’s sure pampering me. And he hasn’t forced me to do much of anything - hasn’t so much as asked for it either. As screwed up as he was, he would almost prefer for there to be a motive behind Peter’s kindness; at least that way he knew what to look for and how to handle it. Genuine nurturing perplexed him, left him off-balance yet touched, assuming he could recognize it.
“Y- um, it’s…sports,” he replied. He was pleased Peter had noticed and brought it up - that had been the whole point of reading it. As useful as Nathan was (dead, of course), Sylar wanted his own knowledge on the topic, memories of books instead of a tainted sleaze bag.
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Peter settled into his chair mostly because that’s where it happened to be; he didn’t give any thought to choosing to sit elsewhere - further away, or using the bed in the next room. He’d been using it before to keep an eye on his unconscious patient. Now maybe that wasn’t needed. Once seated, looking forward at a wakeful Sylar, it occurred to Peter they were a bit close, but moving the chair was tedious and a glance at the bag over Sylar’s head told him he might as well stick around to change it in a half hour or so. He hadn’t cranked the flow to full bore this time like he had when Sylar was passed out. Out of interest and to cover for his presence at the bedside, Peter asked, “Can you tell me what you’re reading? Like, right now?”
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Sylar was gleeful that Peter sat again - so close! It was nice, even that much proximity, warming him more than the blankets. It was like little sparks of life, tingles, making him feel human and decent. “Uuhm….” He hedged, leafing through the book to find his place, “That’s a good ques- Ah! Batter/Pitcher Matchups,” he then gazed at Peter. When the other man looked interested - of course he was, Peter liked baseball - Sylar thought to elaborate, eyes traveling back to the pages. “It talks about…randomization and….pitchers throwing or not throwing to big hitters. It’s mostly numbers and technical stuff,” he admitted even though that’s what drew him to it. He looked to Peter again for a response, if any was coming.
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“But … yeah, what I meant was could you actually read it?” Peter feared that maybe that was too awkward, too intrusive, maybe rude. Or juvenile, as his emotions turned to worry. Is he going to think I'm like a kid asking for a bedtime story? Or ...
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He wants me to…? Like…? “Sure, get comfortable. It’ll bore you, though,” Sylar warned, flashing a grin anyway. He was still nauseous, his head still hurt, but he felt a bit stronger and more aware. When he took a break, he’d drink, eat a snack, take some more pills and see if Peter would take more, too. Sylar propped the book on his stomach and read from ‘The Book’. “In discussing strategies of intentional walks, we tend to focus on the ‘yes/no’ question: should the pitcher walk the hitter, or pitch normally to him?”
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He was relieved that Sylar didn't make a big deal out of the request and began reading. Peter settled back in the chair, listening and watching. Oddly, his memory flashed back to reading the stock pages with Charles Deveaux. It was weird how much he missed that guy. Out of all his patients and all the people he'd lost (Nathan and Caitlyn excluded - they were special cases), Charles was the one he missed most. More than Simone or his dad or different patients he'd lost. He'd felt like there was so much more there that they should have, could have talked about. Plus, the guy had … he'd treated Peter with respect. His empathy had worked back then and he knew how Charles felt about him. It was how Peter imagined family members should feel for each other. Not the way … He swallowed and worked his way back in the chair, letting his lids droop as he listened with decreasing attention to what Sylar was saying. When his body urged him to turn to his side and pull his feet in to curl up, Peter refused. He blinked his eyes fully open and rubbed them, getting to his feet.
“I'm going to change the IV bag. It's still got a little in it, but I might as well switch it now.” He didn't want to admit he was doing it now out of concern he'd fall asleep and not do it at all. Peter shuffled next to Sylar, putting his hand on the wall to lean in carefully. Spiking the new bag took only a moment. He paused to review his patient, whose color was remarkably better, eyes tracking well, and looking much more alert. His ability to read, by itself, was a heartening sign of his mental function.
Peter smiled a little, so glad the trip had been worth it. On the way to the hospital, he'd thought of little other than getting there and what he'd need to get. On the way back, he'd started to entertain doubts. What if Sylar was fine and he was overreacting? What if Sylar was dead and he'd fucked up by waiting too long? What if Sylar resented his interference and would have rather died? What if Sylar woke up hateful and acting like Peter's efforts were nothing special, just like he doubted the sincerity of everything else Peter was doing for him? Respect - he wanted a little respect - not a casual assumption that Peter was here to kill him.
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Sylar paused in his reading to watch Peter’s hands as he messed with changing the IV bags. He was much more at ease with Peter being around, even as the man stood over him, angelic bangs of mercy hanging down in his tired face. Softly, he urged, “Lie down, Peter. You need to rest.” Lie down next to me and we’ll sleep again. He adopted his most innocent expression but he was sure he looked as rough if not worse than Peter. His mouth was a bit dry from reading, unused to the activity. Sylar stretched out an arm to reach water bottle and pills, downing more of one and a few of the other before resuming his position.
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Peter's smile strengthened. He suspected Sylar had no idea how (non-sexually) seductive that was to him, especially coupled with the look on the man's face. Or maybe he did know, since after all, it sounded like he was trying to talk Peter into bed with him. “No, I think I'll just sit here for a little while longer.” Which Peter knew was ridiculous even as he said it. What he meant was that he was going to sleep in the chair. He just didn't want to say that.
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So stubborn. Insisting that I don’t kill myself but its okay for you to kill yourself, all in the line of duty. Whatever, Peter. You’ll come around. “Eh-heh,” Sylar sounded dubiously, “Then go get a blanket.” This time he tried a more commanding tone, demanding smarts and self-care from and for Peter.
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Peter made a disagreeable sound, but went to fetch it anyway. If he were going to sleep in the chair, then he would need every comfort he could get to be able to truly rest. He stood in front of the guest room bed, tugging at the blanket. I could just sleep here. I'm sleepy. I'm here. Sylar will be alright … right? Yeah, he'll be fine. Peter's eyes swept over the bed, then he shut them, swaying slightly in place. He hurt. He was tired. But those weren't the real factors making his decision - it was that he didn't want to be alone. What if Sylar needs something? I ought to be there. It was a complete lie to himself and he knew it, trying to shove off responsibility on the other man. He opened his eyes and pulled the blanket off the bed. Well, he might need something. And what if I need something? No, that sounds dirty. Maybe I just want to be close to someone like last night? There's nothing wrong with that, is there? But that's why I need to be in the chair, not the bed. It's okay if I'm in the chair. (Right?) He returned, blanket in hand, still lost in thought even as he went about doing something his conscience was half-heartedly arguing about.
Peter settled into the chair, tired and sleepy, letting his defenses down and giving up the fight with himself. He squirmed under the blanket, trying to find a comfortable position. He'd fallen more than once on his trip, bruising his knee, hip, and elbow, but the main problem was how much it had strained and worsened the muscles that had been pulled when Sylar fell on Peter's upraised knee. “Could you keep reading?” he asked hopefully, since that had taken his mind off his ills earlier.
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His wonderings were answered when his companion returned. Peter’s voice brought him right back to when the younger man was a child - lonely, eager and cute by anyone’s standards, otherwise irresistible. Nathan had dealt with the majority of Peter’s emotional neediness growing up, at least giving the illusion of ‘shoulder to cry on.’ He was very fond of the kid who wouldn’t grow up. Sylar took all that in, having no words to describe it. It was wonderful to be desired, as company or for a task. His lips twitched towards a grin as he watched Peter seat himself, blanket in hand. “Yeah,” he replied, feeling warm on the inside. He didn’t quite know how to categorize ‘reading to Peter’ - teacher/student, parent/child…? It wasn’t important. “The primary motivation for modern bullpen strategy, at least, how a team's best reliever is used, is the save rule…”
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Peter sighed, thinking it was kind of unfair that Sylar wasn't sleepy, even if that made perfect sense - the guy had slept all day and at the moment, the worst symptoms of his concussion were probably fading fast. Sylar might be feeling better than he had since the fight! Peter, not so much. He made a small, unintentional noise of discomfort, eyes opening again at that embarrassing sound as he began another round of shifting to find the right position. I want the footrest. That's what I want. He looked at the edge of the bed, right there, so inviting, able to elevate his feet and stretch out just like the footrest would allow, but without having to get up and get the damn thing. And even more, Sylar's leg was on it. Peter shut his eyes for a moment, remembering how he'd woke up next to the guy, one foot touching him, or as close to touching him as he could get. He wouldn't mind, would he? (Of course he wouldn't mind. He wants me.) Is it bad, what I want? (I should have stayed in the guest room.) I told him that I didn't mind my own … Don't think real well when I'm tired. Just want … It's not wrong, is it? I put my feet on the end of the bed this morning while he was in it. That wasn't wrong? I don't know.
He put his feet, both of them, on the edge of the bed next to Sylar's leg. Peter didn't look at Sylar's expression - once his feet were in position, he shut his eyes and curled to the side, tugging up the blanket and tucking himself in to sleep. And oh yeah, that was almost exactly what he wanted. Almost. He pushed his feet to the side a little until one of them was right up against Sylar's leg (though separated by sock and blanket and sheet and Sylar's jeans). Ah, that's perfect. Sleep stole over him.
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Sylar glanced up when Peter made a noise but there was nothing wrong beyond the fact that Peter was in a chair when he didn’t have to be. He went back to reading aloud, ignoring Peter’s antics with whatever he was up to, “If a reliever has a saves clause, he'd love to get in those three-run games, if only to make padding his saves that much easier. As well, relievers themselves may prefer a defined role that is based on the inning, rather than the leverage of the situation.”
Moments later a pair of sock-clad feet were beside his leg, resting on the bed. O-oh, Sylar clued in, pleased by the passive-aggressive development, so you still want a piece of it. Why not take the whole thing when its offered? He paused to smirk at Peter’s snoozing form before reading some more, “Relievers can appreciate the fact that there may be a situation in the seventh or eighth inning that can be a turning point for the game, but their conditioning prepares them only for the ninth inning, or perhaps two outs in the eighth inning.” Another motion had Peter’s feet against his leg. Hmmm, Sylar thought, flying high on the contact. That was no accident. He was desirable enough for that. He continued his oration until he heard those sleep-breaths from Peter, which didn’t take long. The poor guy was out with good cause.
Sylar took some time to watch the nurse’s sleeping form and think about their weird day. He really did the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing. For me. I can trust him to….what? Take care of me in a near-death situation that he caused? He won’t pull his punches but he’d do the rest of that for me. He could have gone out and got poison; he could have left and not come back and he….I guess he doesn’t want me dead. He just wants to kill me. He knew there was a difference in motive and meaning to ‘kill and inflict pain’ and ‘want you dead and gone.’ Actually, Peter’s behavior, his actions showed his particular affliction was the less deadly of the two. If Sylar was going to die it would be by accident at Peter’s hands.
Sylar slid himself down so his head could rest on the pillow, careful not to overly-disturb Peter’s feet - not that the empath wouldn’t come right back. He absorbed the text silently now, for some hours as his brain insisted on staying awake, his body somewhat nervy, desiring activity. Peter lying there so innocently was a temptation for activity. Laying the book aside, he tried closing his eyes to see if sleep would come and it did.
Another uncomfortable urgency woke him. This had better not become a habit, he groused to himself, throwing off the blankets only to be entangled in the IV tube. Owch! Fuck. Sylar waited until reason struck him, sitting there getting cold and more awake as he stared at the IV solution like it was to blame. I’m stuck? Something has to give here. The bag was long since empty. Isn’t there a thing where you can take the tube off and leave the needle? Will Peter be pissed if I ditch the needle? He’ll have to stick me again…Fumbling with the bag told him that there was a wire involved with the headboard. Christ, this is ridiculous, he growled audibly as he struggled with the restricting apparatus. Eventually he got the wire loose, taking the bag, tubes, needle and all with him - over the bed because Peter was blocking the way - for a wobbly, dark dash to the bathroom for blinding and urination. Thus relieved, he came back and saw Peter curled up with his feet sticking out of the blanket. Huh, usually that’s my problem for being tall. He had sympathy for that and he approached with caution. At worst, he’d be accused of molestation, but it was for a good cause. Sylar lifted Peter’s feet, watching his face as he did, lifting the bed’s blankets to slide the man’s feet under.
XXX
Peter stirred some. Hands were on his ankles, moving them. He sucked in a shallow breath, gripping the arm of the chair to dispel the fleeting sensation of falling that came from being sleepy and having his feet lifted. Even the very slight change of balance point triggered it. He blinked, looking muzzily at Sylar, registering the man's identity and for some strange reason coding him as 'safe'. Peter's lids fluttered down again as he let Sylar do whatever it was he was doing.
XXX
“It’s okay, just…” Sylar began but Peter didn’t seem aware anymore. Sylar crawled back onto the bed, tossing the still-connected IV junk aside to sleep. The empath’s feet snugged against him and they slept again.
Day 15, December 25, Christmas Day, Morning
Peter's foot flexed before he woke, pressing into Sylar's thigh enough to establish his location. Contact. Life. Presence. It soothed Peter before he was even conscious. “Hmmm,” he hummed as he became aware of himself, blinking his eyes open. Chair. What am I doing in a chair? Oh, yeah, I remember … Sylar? He turned to look at the head of the bed.
“Hey, how'd you-” Sylar began.
Peter's foot flexed again involuntarily before he snatched it back guiltily. His knee hurt incredibly at the motion, provoking a gasped, “Oh, fu- I mean, ow.”
XXX
"Ah. Told you so, should have slept in bed," Sylar smirked, With me.
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Peter rolled painfully from his curled-up, side-lying position to his back, having difficulty believing how stiff and pained his knee was from what he wouldn't have thought was a high-stress position. His back and hips made their own input to the discomfort-o-meter. Gruffly, he asked, “Did I lay like that all night, with my legs stuck out like that? Feels like I hyperextended the damn thing!” He sat up (another mild agony in itself) and put both hands on either side of his right knee. He'd fallen on it the day before so it was a little swollen and more than a little bruised, but the problem was mainly the protesting tendons. He rubbed gingerly.
Ignoring Sylar's last comment, Peter answered the first, abbreviated one, his voice still rough. “I slept okay. How about you?” It felt weird to be exchanging bedroom pleasantries with Sylar, but what else was there to do? Irritation surged around in him that Sylar kept inching up the intimacy level between them way more than Peter was comfortable with. And yet it was hard to blame Sylar - he hadn't necessarily been mentally competent and a long-range plan seemed definitely beyond his abilities. It was more … circumstances, but Peter still found it annoying. Especially given how much he now wished he'd just said to hell with it and shared the bed. Or been strong enough to have slept in the guest room.
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“I slept well,” Sylar nodded, pleased with the results and with the exchange.
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Snarling more at his own weakness of resolve than the pain of getting up, Peter levered himself to his feet and stumbled forward to look at the disconnected IV bag on the headboard. It was a little askew. It took him a moment to realize there was supposed to be two of them there and another moment to figure out the other was right in front of his feet on the floor. Damn, I need coffee. “Did you disconnect that?” he said as his eyes traced the intact tubing up to Sylar's arm.
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Geez, Peter looked rough. Maybe it was his turn for a day of bed rest. Sylar couldn’t remember if the other man had gotten any (aside from the other night) since the fight or…since he got here. He didn’t care for the accusation, after all, he’d left the damn needle in! “No, it just jumped off by itself last night. You pumped me full of fluids, I had to go!”
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“How are you feeling?” Peter said, voice softening from earlier. He took Sylar's elbow and forearm with a couple checking glances to his face. “Hang on and I'll ...” He ran his hand across the skin, then down to the back of Sylar's hand so he could pinch it up to check turgor as he had the day before. Satisfied with what he saw, he concluded, “I'll take that out.”
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The wind blew out of his sails at that. “Better. I think the IV helped,” Sylar admitted. Peter grabbed him very familiarly, no question or consent. Medical exam be damned, even this light contact was going to bring a blush to his face - he was definitely feeling warm everywhere else. Waking up with someone who took care of him and talked to him was indescribable. “Okay.” That pinch was almost sexy. Sylar licked his lips and ogled his otherwise-focused nurse as he removed the needle.
The other man’s distraction continued as he rubbernecked about for something before instructing Sylar to place his thumb on the bleed. Sylar made a bit of a face; it seemed kind of trivial since he wasn’t going to bleed out, vein versus artery, but he supposed it needed to clot so he obeyed. He’s not going to put another one in? Sylar was very aware of how much trust he’d given Peter lately, medically and as a caretaker, and Peter had failed to confirm the worst of his fears. He knew he was going to act like a pathetic puppy from now on, following the guy around, getting on his nerves, inevitably being kicked away - but worrying about his ultimate safety was off his plate for now. If he fell, maybe, just maybe, Peter would pick him up. He wanted to kick himself on instinct just for daring to hope.
Squirming to sit up more, feeling vulnerable enough as it was, he caught Peter’s arm with his clean hand before he could turn away, “Should- You should rest.” Now that Sylar felt he was out of imminent danger, he conceded that he was worried about Peter’s health now. He had to at least look out for the younger man since he was doing a rather crappy job of it himself and Sylar didn’t want him dying either. Still flushed, heart rate elevated, he used the expression that had gotten a reaction before, open, pleading, intent; adding in a low voice, “I know a few things that could help.” Like orgasm. Orgasm is great for joint pain and anything else you’ve got. We even have a bed.
XXX
Peter's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; his breath came faster at that look, especially coming on the heels of cooperation, what might be gratitude, and a sign of care. It really stopped him in his tracks. His face showed his unthinking curiosity about things beyond just the 'things' Sylar might be able to help with. “Like what?”
XXX
That darling idiot bought it. That was cute; it gave him a rush. "Sex. Massage. Shower. Stretching," Sylar shrugged.
XXX
That was a stupid question. Just idiotic. And I fell right into it. Peter shut his eyes for a long beat, opening them with a slight roll of his head and a definite pull away from Sylar's contact. “No,” he articulated clearly and firmly. Massage sounds nice, his mind traitorously informed him. “I just got up,” he went on in a surly tone, giving up on trying to make it clear to Sylar he wasn't interested. (Which probably wouldn't have been very convincing anyway, what with the suckered-in expression Peter had just had on his face.) “I don't need to rest,” he complained as he shuffled around the side of the chair, using it copiously for balance. On the other side, he surveyed the room, unsure of where he wanted to go. Wistfully, he said, “A bath or a hot tub sure would be nice, though.” Followed by a massage. That would be extra nice. He growled at the turn of his thoughts. Remember the part about being crucified? And Nathan being dead? Yeah? Good. Don't forget it with him, no matter how innocent he can work himself up to looking.
There's a tub here, though. Don't really want to make breakfast feeling like this. “I'm going to take a long soak.”
XXX
As expected, the answer was a shutdown, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been in the past - far more…civil? “A bath is good,” Sylar agreed, calling after Peter, “You know we could do all four in there!” There was no answer. He’s gonna make me rest and I just woke up.
XXX
Peter hobbled over in that direction. Lock the door or not? What did we decide yesterday? I don't think we decided anything, but he went off to the table and sat himself down and didn't argue anymore. Peter shut the door, hesitated, and didn't lock it. He'd better not come in here, or else I'll hit him in the face with the damn toilet brush, Peter thought irritably, setting up the water to run as hot as he could stand. Or I could throw water on him. I'll bet he wouldn't like that - wet washcloth to the face. Yeah, that would suck. Peter continued his not-very-mean-spirited grousing until he was submerged in hot water, slowly loosening the knots in his muscles. Considering who he was complaining about, his retaliatory plans were mild.
XXX
Peter was gone and Sylar was left trying not to picture that ‘long soak’ with little success. Wet, smooth skin, sweat, relaxation…in the nude…Sylar sighed mournfully. He definitely wanted something, wanted more - all this teasing and taste-testing was giving him a bad case of idle hands. As a brain-picking murderer and watchmaker with more curiosity than he knew what to do with mixed with too much brains and unanswered questions and no social interaction or physical contact made for a very insane, lonely, motivated background. He wanted to touch, to talk and he wasn’t getting it nor was he likely to.
Then there was the freaking niceness from Peter, who had been talking to him for a minute there. Sylar had gratitude and no way to express it. Gifts weren’t viable at the moment since he was somewhat house-bound; Peter’s birthday and Christmas seemingly forgotten. It was a distressing combination. How long is ‘a long soak’? Breakfast would be a good start but he didn’t know what Peter wanted or even what he could make on his own. Toast? But first he had to pee and Peter was in the only bathroom (he knew he wasn’t allowed in, especially if the guy was naked - more was the pity) so he wandered down the hall to the next suite and used the bathroom there. Adjusting his hair and disparaging at his growing beard, he returned to the kitchen to find bread but no toaster. Fuck. Typical. Time to get creative. A grilled piece of bread would have a similar toasting affect. He found a pan and heated it, getting out some butter and coating both sides of several slices. Sylar poured milk for two and got his book from the bedroom, waiting for one-handed Peter to start breakfast.
XXX
Continued...
Day 14, December 24, Late afternoon/early evening
His sleep was disturbed several times and his dreams were very strange. Sylar kept looking for his anchor as he wandered an abandoned building but something else was chasing him. The thing chasing him was going to maim him and tease him with hope and the promise of death before it bled him out. And if he escaped it, he knew the chances of finding his anchor were slim and he’d be left roaming, alone, always looking over his shoulder, until he breathed his last. Either way, he was going to die alone. Clocks followed him throughout the dream, floating in mid-air. Sometimes the ticking relaxed him with its lively, hollow presence and petrified him with its meaning and time-threatening like a countdown. The passage of time was annoying even while he slept. Eventually their hands reached out to claw at him. ‘Sleep when you’re dead!’ his mother’s voice harked.
When he did finally wake, it was to a more peaceful atmosphere. It was darker outside than it had been earlier and he mumbled for his brotherly companion on instinct - he knew he was around here somewhere, “Peter?” Sylar opened his eyes and glanced around until he spotted Peter beside him. “Hey.” He smiled, then noticed Peter’s clothes were different, a fitted gray t-shirt and black sweat pants. Worriedly, he asked, “Why did you change?” Did he do something? What happened? How long have I been out?
XXX
“I went out for a while. I had to go to the hospital to get stuff for you.” Peter gestured to the bag of rehydration solution hanging from the headboard above Sylar's head, the thin, clear tube running down to the man's arm and taped in place. “My clothes got wet so I had to change.” His voice sounded tired, even to himself.
XXX
His eyes tracked to the bag of medical-looking fluids. Curare was colorless, too. Sylar hadn’t been paying attention when the glycemerine came into play. He started badly I knew it! low, desperate whine escaped him as he clawed the needle from his elbow, throwing it away as he made to sit up, gasping with fight-or-flight instinct. His body was sluggish and uncoordinated, definitely dehydrated, moving his head and neck was agonizing now. “What the hell is that, Peter?! What did you do?!&rdquo What did I do? I’ll die soon enough, just leave me alone and I’ll die - you don’t need to hurry me along! I don’t have any powers! This is what I get for sleeping around you.
XXX
“Whoa, whoa! Sylar, no!” Peter started up, hands reaching out to thwart Sylar's thrashing, but he was way too slow and that wasn't because of his physical condition. It was simply the effect of Sylar's own panic and haste. Peter stopped moving, hands still out but pulling them closer to himself as he eased back a little. He gave the inside of Sylar's elbow a quick glance - it wasn't bleeding badly, but the entire shunt had been jerked out. Next his eyes went to the disconnected tube, off in the middle of the bed, on the other side of Sylar from where Peter was. It was probably dripping, but no big deal. Then his eyes flicked to the bag - still hanging there and the valve to turn off the flow was over Sylar's head. He wasn't about to reach for it. He looked at Sylar - eye contact.
“Sylar, you didn't even wake up when I put that in. You were unconscious.” He spoke in a slow, deliberate fashion, trying to role model being calm and sane. Peter dipped his head, pulling his hands all the way in, and then on second thought, extending his right to rest on Sylar's blanket-covered shin. “I'm not going to let you die. And if I have to fight you over that, then I will,” he said with determination.
XXX
The nurse backed off, adding another layer of confusion onto an already thick mixture. Sylar’s eyes widened at being touched.
XXX
“There is nothing in that bag except a basic IV rehydration solution - sterile water, salt, sugar, some electrolytes - no drugs,” he ended, guessing at one of the causes of Sylar's agitation. Peter knew if their positions were reversed, he'd be wildly paranoid. “I promise you. My word of honor - I'm not trying to hurt you.” He gave Sylar's leg a slight squeeze before his hand left the man as Peter leaned back to his previous resting position in his chair. He gave Sylar time to calm down and respond.
XXX
No drugs? Word of….Indecision reigned. Sylar was at Peter’s mercy. It boiled down to whether or not the solution contained drugs (and what else, if anything, Peter was going to do while he slept - a needle in his arm was somewhat violating). If it did, he’d die or wake up somewhere; his situation couldn’t get much worse. If the solution was clean…He twitched when Peter released him, blinking and tracking the other man’s movements. “Sounds to good to be true,” he muttered before threatening with more volume, “Don’t you dare stick me with anything else. I will make you regret it.” It didn’t quite strike him that all Peter need do was stand and he could do whatever the heck he liked, but his objection had been voiced. “Shouldn’t have bothered with this.” Either let me die or heal on my own time. Slowly, Sylar made himself comfortable, partially upright, eyes primarily on his companion. With a wave of a shaking arm, gesturing between Peter and the IV, he snipped, “Fine, have your fun,” then tried not to think of glycemerine.
XXX
Peter made a small noise, like a swallowed 'huh' or maybe a grunt, before levering himself up out of his chair. That had gone easier than it could have. He waved at the IV and tube, asking, “Can you reach up and clamp that tube for me? It's going to wet the bed if you don't.”
XXX
Looking up, Sylar fumbled his way up the tube, pinching it in one hand and twisting the dreaded tab with the other. The whole operation took a several minutes.
XXX
He shuffled around the chair in the slim space between it and the wall. Outside, snow continued to fall, though not terribly heavily. He went to the wheelchair he'd parked just inside the door, searching through the stuff piled on it for another syringe, catheter, adhesive patch, and other stuff. Equipment assembled, he considered his options: climbing on the bed to get to Sylar's left antecubital, trying to lean over him for the same, doing his right distal, or trying the right antecubital again. Much as he didn't like dropping a line in the same location twice, it remained the best choice for the same reasons he'd picked it to start with - the small of his back and his groin muscles were killing him from slipping on the ice, which precluded getting on the bed as a working location; he didn't think Sylar would tolerate him leaning across him (and neither would his back); and he suspected the IV would remain in place longer if it wasn't on the hand.
XXX
Sylar watched his companion, immediately noting the wheelchair. “Oh, c’mon….” he protested that.
XXX
He returned to Sylar's side, laying his things out on top of the legal pad on the night stand. “I take it you've had IVs before,” he said to make conversation. Nathan had, at least. Peter tried not to think on that. Much as habit and good medical hygiene dictated he wear gloves, one of Peter's hands was in a brace; and the whole glove thing seemed a bit pointless in fantasy-land. Bare-handed, he reached to cup Sylar's elbow with one hand and turn it with the other, examining the bloody spot where the original IV had been. To explain himself, he said, “I'm looking to make sure you cleared the whole mechanism, cannula included. Looks like it.” He put his fingers in a V shape and pushed lightly on either side of the spot to be sure. Then he put a clean cotton ball over the injection site, holding it for a few moments. He looked up at his patient while making sure the site clotted. “Hey, I can't let you die here. I'd be all alone then. For years. Might not be anyone coming for me. They certainly haven't yet. We gotta look out for each other.”
XXX
“Mmm,” was the affirmation. How could something be left behind? Fired through his brain but Sylar didn’t bother to chase it down for an answer. Let Peter do his thing. He didn’t know what to say to the rest of what Peter said. Why wouldn’t anyone be coming for Pete? Who else is around?
XXX
Peter put aside the cotton ball and swabbed the area down, then carefully applied a tourniquet around Sylar's bicep. “Hand me that tube over there, will you?”
Peter detached the old catheter and set it aside with the rest of his trash, checked the end of the tubing, let it flush a little, and attached a new connector. A quick glance at Sylar's arm showed him the tourniquet was doing its job. Thus prepared, he picked up the syringe and looked to Sylar. “Okay. I'm about ready. You good?”
XXX
Sylar met his eyes and gave a single upwards nod. He glanced only once at his arm - and the damned needle. How he hated the pincushion, guinea pig, piece-of-meat feeling. There were violations and justified paranoias that lingered in him from the past - even Peter was an offender. “There’d better not be any drugs in there, Peter,” he reiterated, mostly to assuage his fears of hallucinations, spinal taps and waking up as someone else. I must be stupid to trust him. I don’t trust him. I just don’t have a choice. The needle slid in and he waited for any kind of adverse effect, scanning Peter’s handsome face. Part of him wanted to ask if Peter got off on this and why he’d bothered with the uncomfortable and somewhat dangerous trip to the hospital but he knew what the answers would be - the same as they always were.
XXX
“I’m extra-sure you needed this from how you woke up so fast once I got the drip going on you,” Peter said as he carefully and securely taped everything in place. He was mostly watching what he was doing, expression intent, with only the occasional glance at Sylar’s face. Now that he was done, though, he looked at him more. “I’ve heard they use IV fluids as a hangover cure in some parts. I’m hoping it will be a big help to you.”
XXX
After some moments passed and the idea of harm-free assistance began to sink in, he spoke, eyebrows furrowed with some emotion, “How did….how did you find your way?” If there’s no drugs then he…did that for me? “It’s snowing; what…” was worth that? And why’d you do it? Am I really that messed up? I sure feel like it. He must be… Crap.
XXX
Peter gave a laugh that was mid-way between ironic and humorless. “Yeah, and underneath that snow is a layer of ice.” He reached up and turned the valve on the tubing, letting the solution flow again. Peter began to gather up the plethora of wrappers and trash that were collecting on the nightstand. He waved generally at the window. “I left this morning, but you might notice it’s dark out. I got lost trying to get there. On the way back, I was using that wheelchair as a walker,” he said with a snort. “I didn’t know if you’d need it or not, but I know I did, for carrying stuff and keeping my balance.”
Things gathered, Peter squeezed between the chair and wall as he took it to the trash in the kitchen.
XXX
“Could you grab my book? It’s out there, somewhere,” Sylar pointed hopefully to the living room/kitchen. “Then you should rest.” It sounded like Peter needed it more than ever.
XXX
Peter grumbled about Sylar’s direction for him to rest, but it was merely stubbornness. He needed the rest. Reflecting on that, he got the painkillers, took several with a swig of water from his bottle out of the fridge, then replaced his bottle and got out Sylar’s. Pills and bottle in one hand, he found the book and picked it up with his right, putting the apple he’d found with it between forearm and his body. Thus loaded, he returned to the bed and recluttered the night stand, only this time with things they wanted. He looked at the book before handing it over, face brightening at the subject of baseball. “Oh, hey. That’s cool. You like baseball?” Realizing he’d forgotten something he needed, Peter went back to fetch another bag of saline so he wouldn’t have to get up for it later.
XXX
“Thank you,” Sylar murmured, grateful for more than just the book as he took it. The apple was still good, still looked good, too. Fruit would be hydrating. He’s sure pampering me. And he hasn’t forced me to do much of anything - hasn’t so much as asked for it either. As screwed up as he was, he would almost prefer for there to be a motive behind Peter’s kindness; at least that way he knew what to look for and how to handle it. Genuine nurturing perplexed him, left him off-balance yet touched, assuming he could recognize it.
“Y- um, it’s…sports,” he replied. He was pleased Peter had noticed and brought it up - that had been the whole point of reading it. As useful as Nathan was (dead, of course), Sylar wanted his own knowledge on the topic, memories of books instead of a tainted sleaze bag.
XXX
Peter settled into his chair mostly because that’s where it happened to be; he didn’t give any thought to choosing to sit elsewhere - further away, or using the bed in the next room. He’d been using it before to keep an eye on his unconscious patient. Now maybe that wasn’t needed. Once seated, looking forward at a wakeful Sylar, it occurred to Peter they were a bit close, but moving the chair was tedious and a glance at the bag over Sylar’s head told him he might as well stick around to change it in a half hour or so. He hadn’t cranked the flow to full bore this time like he had when Sylar was passed out. Out of interest and to cover for his presence at the bedside, Peter asked, “Can you tell me what you’re reading? Like, right now?”
XXX
Sylar was gleeful that Peter sat again - so close! It was nice, even that much proximity, warming him more than the blankets. It was like little sparks of life, tingles, making him feel human and decent. “Uuhm….” He hedged, leafing through the book to find his place, “That’s a good ques- Ah! Batter/Pitcher Matchups,” he then gazed at Peter. When the other man looked interested - of course he was, Peter liked baseball - Sylar thought to elaborate, eyes traveling back to the pages. “It talks about…randomization and….pitchers throwing or not throwing to big hitters. It’s mostly numbers and technical stuff,” he admitted even though that’s what drew him to it. He looked to Peter again for a response, if any was coming.
XXX
“But … yeah, what I meant was could you actually read it?” Peter feared that maybe that was too awkward, too intrusive, maybe rude. Or juvenile, as his emotions turned to worry. Is he going to think I'm like a kid asking for a bedtime story? Or ...
XXX
He wants me to…? Like…? “Sure, get comfortable. It’ll bore you, though,” Sylar warned, flashing a grin anyway. He was still nauseous, his head still hurt, but he felt a bit stronger and more aware. When he took a break, he’d drink, eat a snack, take some more pills and see if Peter would take more, too. Sylar propped the book on his stomach and read from ‘The Book’. “In discussing strategies of intentional walks, we tend to focus on the ‘yes/no’ question: should the pitcher walk the hitter, or pitch normally to him?”
XXX
He was relieved that Sylar didn't make a big deal out of the request and began reading. Peter settled back in the chair, listening and watching. Oddly, his memory flashed back to reading the stock pages with Charles Deveaux. It was weird how much he missed that guy. Out of all his patients and all the people he'd lost (Nathan and Caitlyn excluded - they were special cases), Charles was the one he missed most. More than Simone or his dad or different patients he'd lost. He'd felt like there was so much more there that they should have, could have talked about. Plus, the guy had … he'd treated Peter with respect. His empathy had worked back then and he knew how Charles felt about him. It was how Peter imagined family members should feel for each other. Not the way … He swallowed and worked his way back in the chair, letting his lids droop as he listened with decreasing attention to what Sylar was saying. When his body urged him to turn to his side and pull his feet in to curl up, Peter refused. He blinked his eyes fully open and rubbed them, getting to his feet.
“I'm going to change the IV bag. It's still got a little in it, but I might as well switch it now.” He didn't want to admit he was doing it now out of concern he'd fall asleep and not do it at all. Peter shuffled next to Sylar, putting his hand on the wall to lean in carefully. Spiking the new bag took only a moment. He paused to review his patient, whose color was remarkably better, eyes tracking well, and looking much more alert. His ability to read, by itself, was a heartening sign of his mental function.
Peter smiled a little, so glad the trip had been worth it. On the way to the hospital, he'd thought of little other than getting there and what he'd need to get. On the way back, he'd started to entertain doubts. What if Sylar was fine and he was overreacting? What if Sylar was dead and he'd fucked up by waiting too long? What if Sylar resented his interference and would have rather died? What if Sylar woke up hateful and acting like Peter's efforts were nothing special, just like he doubted the sincerity of everything else Peter was doing for him? Respect - he wanted a little respect - not a casual assumption that Peter was here to kill him.
XXX
Sylar paused in his reading to watch Peter’s hands as he messed with changing the IV bags. He was much more at ease with Peter being around, even as the man stood over him, angelic bangs of mercy hanging down in his tired face. Softly, he urged, “Lie down, Peter. You need to rest.” Lie down next to me and we’ll sleep again. He adopted his most innocent expression but he was sure he looked as rough if not worse than Peter. His mouth was a bit dry from reading, unused to the activity. Sylar stretched out an arm to reach water bottle and pills, downing more of one and a few of the other before resuming his position.
XXX
Peter's smile strengthened. He suspected Sylar had no idea how (non-sexually) seductive that was to him, especially coupled with the look on the man's face. Or maybe he did know, since after all, it sounded like he was trying to talk Peter into bed with him. “No, I think I'll just sit here for a little while longer.” Which Peter knew was ridiculous even as he said it. What he meant was that he was going to sleep in the chair. He just didn't want to say that.
XXX
So stubborn. Insisting that I don’t kill myself but its okay for you to kill yourself, all in the line of duty. Whatever, Peter. You’ll come around. “Eh-heh,” Sylar sounded dubiously, “Then go get a blanket.” This time he tried a more commanding tone, demanding smarts and self-care from and for Peter.
XXX
Peter made a disagreeable sound, but went to fetch it anyway. If he were going to sleep in the chair, then he would need every comfort he could get to be able to truly rest. He stood in front of the guest room bed, tugging at the blanket. I could just sleep here. I'm sleepy. I'm here. Sylar will be alright … right? Yeah, he'll be fine. Peter's eyes swept over the bed, then he shut them, swaying slightly in place. He hurt. He was tired. But those weren't the real factors making his decision - it was that he didn't want to be alone. What if Sylar needs something? I ought to be there. It was a complete lie to himself and he knew it, trying to shove off responsibility on the other man. He opened his eyes and pulled the blanket off the bed. Well, he might need something. And what if I need something? No, that sounds dirty. Maybe I just want to be close to someone like last night? There's nothing wrong with that, is there? But that's why I need to be in the chair, not the bed. It's okay if I'm in the chair. (Right?) He returned, blanket in hand, still lost in thought even as he went about doing something his conscience was half-heartedly arguing about.
Peter settled into the chair, tired and sleepy, letting his defenses down and giving up the fight with himself. He squirmed under the blanket, trying to find a comfortable position. He'd fallen more than once on his trip, bruising his knee, hip, and elbow, but the main problem was how much it had strained and worsened the muscles that had been pulled when Sylar fell on Peter's upraised knee. “Could you keep reading?” he asked hopefully, since that had taken his mind off his ills earlier.
XXX
His wonderings were answered when his companion returned. Peter’s voice brought him right back to when the younger man was a child - lonely, eager and cute by anyone’s standards, otherwise irresistible. Nathan had dealt with the majority of Peter’s emotional neediness growing up, at least giving the illusion of ‘shoulder to cry on.’ He was very fond of the kid who wouldn’t grow up. Sylar took all that in, having no words to describe it. It was wonderful to be desired, as company or for a task. His lips twitched towards a grin as he watched Peter seat himself, blanket in hand. “Yeah,” he replied, feeling warm on the inside. He didn’t quite know how to categorize ‘reading to Peter’ - teacher/student, parent/child…? It wasn’t important. “The primary motivation for modern bullpen strategy, at least, how a team's best reliever is used, is the save rule…”
XXX
Peter sighed, thinking it was kind of unfair that Sylar wasn't sleepy, even if that made perfect sense - the guy had slept all day and at the moment, the worst symptoms of his concussion were probably fading fast. Sylar might be feeling better than he had since the fight! Peter, not so much. He made a small, unintentional noise of discomfort, eyes opening again at that embarrassing sound as he began another round of shifting to find the right position. I want the footrest. That's what I want. He looked at the edge of the bed, right there, so inviting, able to elevate his feet and stretch out just like the footrest would allow, but without having to get up and get the damn thing. And even more, Sylar's leg was on it. Peter shut his eyes for a moment, remembering how he'd woke up next to the guy, one foot touching him, or as close to touching him as he could get. He wouldn't mind, would he? (Of course he wouldn't mind. He wants me.) Is it bad, what I want? (I should have stayed in the guest room.) I told him that I didn't mind my own … Don't think real well when I'm tired. Just want … It's not wrong, is it? I put my feet on the end of the bed this morning while he was in it. That wasn't wrong? I don't know.
He put his feet, both of them, on the edge of the bed next to Sylar's leg. Peter didn't look at Sylar's expression - once his feet were in position, he shut his eyes and curled to the side, tugging up the blanket and tucking himself in to sleep. And oh yeah, that was almost exactly what he wanted. Almost. He pushed his feet to the side a little until one of them was right up against Sylar's leg (though separated by sock and blanket and sheet and Sylar's jeans). Ah, that's perfect. Sleep stole over him.
XXX
Sylar glanced up when Peter made a noise but there was nothing wrong beyond the fact that Peter was in a chair when he didn’t have to be. He went back to reading aloud, ignoring Peter’s antics with whatever he was up to, “If a reliever has a saves clause, he'd love to get in those three-run games, if only to make padding his saves that much easier. As well, relievers themselves may prefer a defined role that is based on the inning, rather than the leverage of the situation.”
Moments later a pair of sock-clad feet were beside his leg, resting on the bed. O-oh, Sylar clued in, pleased by the passive-aggressive development, so you still want a piece of it. Why not take the whole thing when its offered? He paused to smirk at Peter’s snoozing form before reading some more, “Relievers can appreciate the fact that there may be a situation in the seventh or eighth inning that can be a turning point for the game, but their conditioning prepares them only for the ninth inning, or perhaps two outs in the eighth inning.” Another motion had Peter’s feet against his leg. Hmmm, Sylar thought, flying high on the contact. That was no accident. He was desirable enough for that. He continued his oration until he heard those sleep-breaths from Peter, which didn’t take long. The poor guy was out with good cause.
Sylar took some time to watch the nurse’s sleeping form and think about their weird day. He really did the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing. For me. I can trust him to….what? Take care of me in a near-death situation that he caused? He won’t pull his punches but he’d do the rest of that for me. He could have gone out and got poison; he could have left and not come back and he….I guess he doesn’t want me dead. He just wants to kill me. He knew there was a difference in motive and meaning to ‘kill and inflict pain’ and ‘want you dead and gone.’ Actually, Peter’s behavior, his actions showed his particular affliction was the less deadly of the two. If Sylar was going to die it would be by accident at Peter’s hands.
Sylar slid himself down so his head could rest on the pillow, careful not to overly-disturb Peter’s feet - not that the empath wouldn’t come right back. He absorbed the text silently now, for some hours as his brain insisted on staying awake, his body somewhat nervy, desiring activity. Peter lying there so innocently was a temptation for activity. Laying the book aside, he tried closing his eyes to see if sleep would come and it did.
Another uncomfortable urgency woke him. This had better not become a habit, he groused to himself, throwing off the blankets only to be entangled in the IV tube. Owch! Fuck. Sylar waited until reason struck him, sitting there getting cold and more awake as he stared at the IV solution like it was to blame. I’m stuck? Something has to give here. The bag was long since empty. Isn’t there a thing where you can take the tube off and leave the needle? Will Peter be pissed if I ditch the needle? He’ll have to stick me again…Fumbling with the bag told him that there was a wire involved with the headboard. Christ, this is ridiculous, he growled audibly as he struggled with the restricting apparatus. Eventually he got the wire loose, taking the bag, tubes, needle and all with him - over the bed because Peter was blocking the way - for a wobbly, dark dash to the bathroom for blinding and urination. Thus relieved, he came back and saw Peter curled up with his feet sticking out of the blanket. Huh, usually that’s my problem for being tall. He had sympathy for that and he approached with caution. At worst, he’d be accused of molestation, but it was for a good cause. Sylar lifted Peter’s feet, watching his face as he did, lifting the bed’s blankets to slide the man’s feet under.
XXX
Peter stirred some. Hands were on his ankles, moving them. He sucked in a shallow breath, gripping the arm of the chair to dispel the fleeting sensation of falling that came from being sleepy and having his feet lifted. Even the very slight change of balance point triggered it. He blinked, looking muzzily at Sylar, registering the man's identity and for some strange reason coding him as 'safe'. Peter's lids fluttered down again as he let Sylar do whatever it was he was doing.
XXX
“It’s okay, just…” Sylar began but Peter didn’t seem aware anymore. Sylar crawled back onto the bed, tossing the still-connected IV junk aside to sleep. The empath’s feet snugged against him and they slept again.
Day 15, December 25, Christmas Day, Morning
Peter's foot flexed before he woke, pressing into Sylar's thigh enough to establish his location. Contact. Life. Presence. It soothed Peter before he was even conscious. “Hmmm,” he hummed as he became aware of himself, blinking his eyes open. Chair. What am I doing in a chair? Oh, yeah, I remember … Sylar? He turned to look at the head of the bed.
“Hey, how'd you-” Sylar began.
Peter's foot flexed again involuntarily before he snatched it back guiltily. His knee hurt incredibly at the motion, provoking a gasped, “Oh, fu- I mean, ow.”
XXX
"Ah. Told you so, should have slept in bed," Sylar smirked, With me.
XXX
Peter rolled painfully from his curled-up, side-lying position to his back, having difficulty believing how stiff and pained his knee was from what he wouldn't have thought was a high-stress position. His back and hips made their own input to the discomfort-o-meter. Gruffly, he asked, “Did I lay like that all night, with my legs stuck out like that? Feels like I hyperextended the damn thing!” He sat up (another mild agony in itself) and put both hands on either side of his right knee. He'd fallen on it the day before so it was a little swollen and more than a little bruised, but the problem was mainly the protesting tendons. He rubbed gingerly.
Ignoring Sylar's last comment, Peter answered the first, abbreviated one, his voice still rough. “I slept okay. How about you?” It felt weird to be exchanging bedroom pleasantries with Sylar, but what else was there to do? Irritation surged around in him that Sylar kept inching up the intimacy level between them way more than Peter was comfortable with. And yet it was hard to blame Sylar - he hadn't necessarily been mentally competent and a long-range plan seemed definitely beyond his abilities. It was more … circumstances, but Peter still found it annoying. Especially given how much he now wished he'd just said to hell with it and shared the bed. Or been strong enough to have slept in the guest room.
XXX
“I slept well,” Sylar nodded, pleased with the results and with the exchange.
XXX
Snarling more at his own weakness of resolve than the pain of getting up, Peter levered himself to his feet and stumbled forward to look at the disconnected IV bag on the headboard. It was a little askew. It took him a moment to realize there was supposed to be two of them there and another moment to figure out the other was right in front of his feet on the floor. Damn, I need coffee. “Did you disconnect that?” he said as his eyes traced the intact tubing up to Sylar's arm.
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Geez, Peter looked rough. Maybe it was his turn for a day of bed rest. Sylar couldn’t remember if the other man had gotten any (aside from the other night) since the fight or…since he got here. He didn’t care for the accusation, after all, he’d left the damn needle in! “No, it just jumped off by itself last night. You pumped me full of fluids, I had to go!”
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“How are you feeling?” Peter said, voice softening from earlier. He took Sylar's elbow and forearm with a couple checking glances to his face. “Hang on and I'll ...” He ran his hand across the skin, then down to the back of Sylar's hand so he could pinch it up to check turgor as he had the day before. Satisfied with what he saw, he concluded, “I'll take that out.”
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The wind blew out of his sails at that. “Better. I think the IV helped,” Sylar admitted. Peter grabbed him very familiarly, no question or consent. Medical exam be damned, even this light contact was going to bring a blush to his face - he was definitely feeling warm everywhere else. Waking up with someone who took care of him and talked to him was indescribable. “Okay.” That pinch was almost sexy. Sylar licked his lips and ogled his otherwise-focused nurse as he removed the needle.
The other man’s distraction continued as he rubbernecked about for something before instructing Sylar to place his thumb on the bleed. Sylar made a bit of a face; it seemed kind of trivial since he wasn’t going to bleed out, vein versus artery, but he supposed it needed to clot so he obeyed. He’s not going to put another one in? Sylar was very aware of how much trust he’d given Peter lately, medically and as a caretaker, and Peter had failed to confirm the worst of his fears. He knew he was going to act like a pathetic puppy from now on, following the guy around, getting on his nerves, inevitably being kicked away - but worrying about his ultimate safety was off his plate for now. If he fell, maybe, just maybe, Peter would pick him up. He wanted to kick himself on instinct just for daring to hope.
Squirming to sit up more, feeling vulnerable enough as it was, he caught Peter’s arm with his clean hand before he could turn away, “Should- You should rest.” Now that Sylar felt he was out of imminent danger, he conceded that he was worried about Peter’s health now. He had to at least look out for the younger man since he was doing a rather crappy job of it himself and Sylar didn’t want him dying either. Still flushed, heart rate elevated, he used the expression that had gotten a reaction before, open, pleading, intent; adding in a low voice, “I know a few things that could help.” Like orgasm. Orgasm is great for joint pain and anything else you’ve got. We even have a bed.
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Peter's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; his breath came faster at that look, especially coming on the heels of cooperation, what might be gratitude, and a sign of care. It really stopped him in his tracks. His face showed his unthinking curiosity about things beyond just the 'things' Sylar might be able to help with. “Like what?”
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That darling idiot bought it. That was cute; it gave him a rush. "Sex. Massage. Shower. Stretching," Sylar shrugged.
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That was a stupid question. Just idiotic. And I fell right into it. Peter shut his eyes for a long beat, opening them with a slight roll of his head and a definite pull away from Sylar's contact. “No,” he articulated clearly and firmly. Massage sounds nice, his mind traitorously informed him. “I just got up,” he went on in a surly tone, giving up on trying to make it clear to Sylar he wasn't interested. (Which probably wouldn't have been very convincing anyway, what with the suckered-in expression Peter had just had on his face.) “I don't need to rest,” he complained as he shuffled around the side of the chair, using it copiously for balance. On the other side, he surveyed the room, unsure of where he wanted to go. Wistfully, he said, “A bath or a hot tub sure would be nice, though.” Followed by a massage. That would be extra nice. He growled at the turn of his thoughts. Remember the part about being crucified? And Nathan being dead? Yeah? Good. Don't forget it with him, no matter how innocent he can work himself up to looking.
There's a tub here, though. Don't really want to make breakfast feeling like this. “I'm going to take a long soak.”
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As expected, the answer was a shutdown, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been in the past - far more…civil? “A bath is good,” Sylar agreed, calling after Peter, “You know we could do all four in there!” There was no answer. He’s gonna make me rest and I just woke up.
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Peter hobbled over in that direction. Lock the door or not? What did we decide yesterday? I don't think we decided anything, but he went off to the table and sat himself down and didn't argue anymore. Peter shut the door, hesitated, and didn't lock it. He'd better not come in here, or else I'll hit him in the face with the damn toilet brush, Peter thought irritably, setting up the water to run as hot as he could stand. Or I could throw water on him. I'll bet he wouldn't like that - wet washcloth to the face. Yeah, that would suck. Peter continued his not-very-mean-spirited grousing until he was submerged in hot water, slowly loosening the knots in his muscles. Considering who he was complaining about, his retaliatory plans were mild.
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Peter was gone and Sylar was left trying not to picture that ‘long soak’ with little success. Wet, smooth skin, sweat, relaxation…in the nude…Sylar sighed mournfully. He definitely wanted something, wanted more - all this teasing and taste-testing was giving him a bad case of idle hands. As a brain-picking murderer and watchmaker with more curiosity than he knew what to do with mixed with too much brains and unanswered questions and no social interaction or physical contact made for a very insane, lonely, motivated background. He wanted to touch, to talk and he wasn’t getting it nor was he likely to.
Then there was the freaking niceness from Peter, who had been talking to him for a minute there. Sylar had gratitude and no way to express it. Gifts weren’t viable at the moment since he was somewhat house-bound; Peter’s birthday and Christmas seemingly forgotten. It was a distressing combination. How long is ‘a long soak’? Breakfast would be a good start but he didn’t know what Peter wanted or even what he could make on his own. Toast? But first he had to pee and Peter was in the only bathroom (he knew he wasn’t allowed in, especially if the guy was naked - more was the pity) so he wandered down the hall to the next suite and used the bathroom there. Adjusting his hair and disparaging at his growing beard, he returned to the kitchen to find bread but no toaster. Fuck. Typical. Time to get creative. A grilled piece of bread would have a similar toasting affect. He found a pan and heated it, getting out some butter and coating both sides of several slices. Sylar poured milk for two and got his book from the bedroom, waiting for one-handed Peter to start breakfast.
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Continued...