More Between Us Chapter 56/? "Breakfast of Champions"
More Between Us, Chapter 56/? "Breakfast of Champions"
Day 15, December 25, morning
Peter emerged from the bathroom in a much better mood, feeling much better, too. He was hungry, having been too worn out the day before (and honestly, worried about Sylar) to get himself dinner. Sylar was now at the table, reading and looking well, so Peter left him there undisturbed as he moved over to the stove to see what the deal was with the opened loaf of bread and the butter next to it. “Oh, you found the butter. Good. Not real keen on margarine anyway.”
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Sylar glanced up mostly to see if Peter was dressed - he was; that was too bad. He rolled his eyes about the butter v. margarine affair. As Peter followed his heart (otherwise ignoring him), Sylar went back to his book rather than stare at Peter’s back.
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Peter turned up the heat on the stove. “I'm guessing you want toast?” “What happened, did you get started over here and get distracted or something?” he asked as he wandered over to score one of the glasses of milk, downing half of it in a single, lengthy gulp. The taste was really appealing. Sylar probably wasn't the only one a little dehydrated. With a quick glance to make sure the bread was doing okay in the pan, he got down a bowl and a box of cereal, one of those granola types with bits of nuts and fruit in it. Peter set them both on the table and returned to the stove in time to flip the bread.
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Want toast? Having been buried in his book and forgotten his plans, Sylar was curious why Peter would jump to that assumption. His eyes narrowed when Peter made a crack about his mental state. Getting distracted. Ha! Did you walk out naked and I missed it? Just hit my head? Sudden onset of amnesia? Then no, I didn’t get distracted. Sylar was quite assured his mind was (usually) a steel trap. It was his key to survival and sanity. “No,” he practically growled, “Cold toast sucks so I got it ready and waited for you so you could deal with the stove.” Peter did him one better in passive-aggressively waving his other preferred breakfast in his face before walking off. Sylar stared at the cereal box, wounded despite himself, his gesture being thrown in his face. Does he think I can’t cook? I’m not even doing the cooking. I prepared it. Was I supposed to know he wanted cereal? Did I miss something? I haven’t cooked for him yet - he didn’t want to eat with me. So that’s how its going to be. In a grumpy/hurt tone, he explained because he had to, “Two of those are for you, Petrelli. Like I can eat three pieces of toast.”
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“Three pieces of toast wouldn't even be a full-sized breakfast for you, Sylar. Hey, go get the pills from next to the bed, will you? And if you could get that chair out from next to it, that would help.” It had been difficult enough to maneuver it over there one-handedly.
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Mouth a moue of a pout, Sylar sighed, snapping his book shut, and rising. Menial chores now? Because I didn’t do a good job with the food? He’s the one who stuck his tongue all over my butter! He returned with desired objects, clunking the chair down, snagging some pills.
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“What do you want to do today? I'd rather stay in this building, unless there's something you need really bad from your apartment.” That was Peter's way of saying, 'Sliding around on the ice sucked so badly yesterday that I'm having trouble convincing myself to do something as trivial as merely cross the street to get my toothbrush.' “Oh,” he added with a sudden thought, “I found that clock in one of the other rooms. Thought it might help you sleep.” So maybe I won't have to sleep in the chair next time. He finished up with the bread and brought it to the table, rebelliously putting all three slices on Sylar's plate, while fetching the rest of the milk for his cereal.
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“I’d want to do completely nasty things repeatedly on a mattress. Otherwise I need to do something or I’ll tear you, the apartment or that very nice clock apart just for fun.” He had noticed the gesture and it fit so well with Sylar’s own apartment that he’d been calmed without being particularly aware of the source. Now it was his turn for cabin fever. “I have a book, though. The clock was…It helped a lot. That and hearing you breathe.” In for a penny, while he was being grateful and saying what he wanted he might as well throw that out there for reinforcement, assuming Peter was interested in it. Sylar blankly eyed the pile of toast with confusion.
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Peter laughed. “Completely nasty things, huh? You go find your own bed to do that in,” he said lightly, leaning some of his weight on the table as he settled into his chair. He read Sylar's other comments as a 'thank you' of sorts for the clock and staying in the room with him. That was nice and cheered Peter up enough to banter. “But something I'd like to do is repeat that mini-mental exam on you so I can see how much the IV fluids improved things. Something's sure made you perky this morning,” Peter said, chuckling at Sylar's second (or was it third?) sexual innuendo/invitation of the morning. Most of Peter's apprehension about the threat Sylar might pose to him was gone. He poured cereal and then milk into his bowl. In a more sober tone, but his eyes still smiling, Peter said very genuinely, “I'm really glad to hear you're feeling good.”
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The lot of that caught Sylar’s attention, his eyes locked onto Peter. As opposed to ’our’ bed? ‘Your’ bed? Not that I need a bed at all…When his thoughts, questions, whatever they were went unanswered, he let it drop. “Perky’s a word for it,” he murmured. It wasn’t the ideal word to describe his mood. Peter probably just liked that he was less needy. Yeah right. “You can make me feel even better, Petrelli. Doing completely nasty things and eating toast,” Sylar intoned but he was too late on the breakfast front.
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Peter snorted, not giving the invitation any more of a response than that, then took a few bites of cereal. He would have preferred it with sugar, but not enough to go look for it. He definitely preferred it softer, so he stirred it into the milk and said, “Maybe we could find an electric razor or two? Or I could probably use a blade now, or even a safety razor if I had to.” Peter wiggled the free fingers on his right hand, miming the act of shaving for a few strokes. He'd latched onto the electric razor before because he hadn't been sure he could manipulate anything else reliably with his right hand. Now he felt more confident he could handle it. He eye-balled Sylar's vigorously growing scruff. “Get one for you, too, unless you're going for the mountain man look.”
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Embarrassment flashed through him when Peter struck one of his more obvious, long-held insecurities. Dressing nicely (like a nerd, even in the middle of a New York summer) came in handy sometimes, covering him from neck to toes. That way no one but he and mom knew he was hairier than a fur rug, and not an attractive, expensive one, either. There was no other way to tame it so he let it be. Only after he’d bloodied his hands had he allowed his beard some leeway. That served a purpose, too. The stubble, his attire and his body language of assumed power gained him notice. It worked wonders for sex appeal, go figure - he’d been clean-shaven his whole life. /’Your skin is so soft; like a baby.’/
‘Mountain man’ didn’t sound complimentary and that wasn’t a look he was going for. Voice short, Sylar snapped in the ‘what’s it to you?’ tone, “Yes, I’d like one.” After a brief glaring look to make sure Peter wasn’t trying to make that a punch line, he bit into some of his own dry, grilled toast. That’s crappy toast. The butter had been made into a crust but it offered little flavor - it was basically cooked plain bread. No wonder he wants cereal. Sylar went to the kitchen to retrieve the butter and knife mostly because he refused to allow his breakfast to suck more than it had to, not when he could fix it. Applying the butter, he tested it. Much better. The grilling was a different texture but toast was still toast. Then Sylar wondered if his ‘mountain man’ look was keeping him from getting laid; he sent a sideways, curious glance over towards Peter. What the hell, “The beard not doing it for you?”
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Peter did a double-take - first at Sylar, then at his 'beard', then at Sylar again. On a lark, he humored the man. More thoughtfully, he gave serious consideration to how facial hair contributed to Sylar's appearance. His eyes scanned over Sylar's various rather handsome and attractive features, considering his beautiful eyes, shapely bone structure, perfect lips, and intimidating brows. It seemed a crime that such an angelic face had been granted to such a demonic man. Peter looked at his hair, in a bit of disarray and frizzed, probably due to bad hair product. Even so, it framed his face nicely. The picture Sylar made was a lot dark despite his pale skin, with a well-defined face that didn't benefit from being obscured by facial hair. Even clean-shaven, Sylar virtually exuded menace most of the time. More hair did not reduce the perception of threat. Peter made up his mind. “No, doesn't do it for me.” He took another bite, looking Sylar over again while thinking about the man's repeated overtures to him this morning.
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Sylar tilted his head to the side at being inspected. That he had not been expecting. Then Peter continued looking him over, several times…Sylar stared back after it reached (and passed) the point of awkwardness and discomfort. The longer it went on, the more uncertain he became because after that much time, the answer was sure to be a negative one. Finally Peter answered but it seemed a simple answer to the stated question; the nurse didn’t expand to include the face. So something else does do it for you. Sylar smirked; he was allowed to.
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“Your beard or lack of a beard isn't why you aren't getting laid. There's two big reasons,” Peter said, waving the hand without the spoon in a general way, “one is everything you are, or at least that I think you are. You seem mean and you're difficult for me to predict, along with everything that's happened,” Peter swallowed and his voice roughened, his face tilting down a little as he continued, “before.” His lips thinned and he looked to the side, biting his lip briefly before looking back, trying to push aside his anger. He was trying to explain himself so Sylar would stop it with the passes, so the man would understand why he wasn't getting anywhere.
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There was a barely-noticeable hitch in Sylar’s breakfast motions at that. There goes that theory. Stupidly, he was surprised his motive had been sussed out (at all and so quickly, too), but it had been an obvious one. How many times has he figured it out? He’s not dumb; smarter than he looks; smarter than he lets on. Not just another pretty face. Once that was dealt with, he focused on Peter. I seem ‘mean’? (That’s so schoolyard! ‘Mean’) I seem mean? Gee, I can’t imagine why...Was no one ever mean to you, pretty Peter, is that it? More like he thinks no one should be mean to him - ha! He’s a hero, a good guy, martyr on a mission, handle with care. Sylar held back (though it was a near thing) from rolling his eyes.
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“The other reason is that you're sick, you're injured. I don't do my patients. At all. Especially ones that are mentally … compromised.” He gave Sylar a look like he must think the worst of Peter to think he'd take advantage of the situation. “You want to have more of a chance with me? Eat.” He gestured at the toast. “Drink. Get better. Focus on that.”
Peter shook his head, feeling around the edges of his rage about the other reason - Sylar struck him as an asshole and that was on top of him being a murderer. He pressed his lips together so firmly it was a grimace before serving himself another bite of cereal and forcing himself to eat it. With a huffy breath, he reached over for the painkillers, getting out the usual number he gave Sylar and taking them.
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Didn’t stop you from sleeping with me, Sylar plotted a response, thinking Peter was finished. He wasn’t finished: ‘you’re insane but something might happen when you get better?’ And less important, ‘quit bugging me.’ “You’re a moron. You can’t even stick to your own rules. Why would you expect me to?” Sylar threw out bluntly, boiling inside yet calmly taking a bite of toast. ‘Setting the example’ I believe its called. Ask my parents; they did a fantastic job as you can see. Results: the insanity everyone likes so much. They think I like being that way.
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“A moron?” Peter sputtered a little at how absurd that was. Don't ask a question you don't already know the answer to, ran through his mind from Petrelli Verbal Defense Training 101, but he ignored it. “What rule are you talking about?”
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“Rule Number One was not calling me crazy. What do you think ‘mentally compromised’ means? I’m not stupid, I have a huge headache because my brain was bashed around. And I asked about fucking before we fought,” Sylar was marginally sure about that last point. “Do you think I can’t make decisions or have an opinion like this?” He was insulted which made him angry and the insults only grew the more he spoke, the more he thought. “If I’m not much of a patient then you aren’t much of a nurse, Dr. Petrelli.” One of the last things Sylar remembered was Matt telling him to abandon all hope; ‘that ship sailed…You really are insane.’ It was a touchy subject coming from a household where his thoughts and emotions were called into question just for existing. It was a label he’d had to endure without knowing if it was true; /‘The man is a deranged sociopath.’ ‘You’re a psychopath.’ ‘Unrestrained lunatic.’ ‘Serial killer.’ ‘You’re a monster…like me.’ ‘You’re damned.’/
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Peter snorted in disdain and answered hotly, “I think 'mentally compromised' means you have a fucking concussion bad enough that you can't look out for your own best interests. It doesn't matter when you asked. We're right now, right here,” he stabbed a finger down at the tabletop in emphasis, “and you were unconscious yesterday afternoon. It doesn't matter how bad you want to do it, I'm not interested until you're well!” Peter glared at him, steaming a bit. “And ...” he faltered, realizing what he'd said sounded like he'd be all over Sylar once the guy recovered, which was far from the truth, “and probably not even then. No, not even then. At all. Definitely.” Shaking his head in exasperation, he dug into his cereal, muttering, “Fuck it.” Just shut up and stop arguing with him, Peter!
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Uh, apparently it does matter when I asked. Sylar inhaled for a sigh. He mentioned that before, being unconscious. I was just sleeping. Then he blinked when Peter slipped up - he knew it would happen eventually. The whole ‘keep asking the same question’ routine worked for a reason (even though it was kind of an interrogation-slash-torture tactic). His eyebrows went up in glee as he smiled broadly. As expected, Peter tried to back out and deny; that had him chuckling, leaning forward and smirking next, “You wanna try that again, Peter? I didn’t really feel the conviction there.” Sylar felt validated, being right and somewhat desired was an incredible, rare feeling. It was kind of…fluttery. Someone would care if he died, would do things to prevent it; someone had a preference about his looks and gave a damn about his health; someone might want to touch him. That was a big deal and it was serious motivation to get better. In fact, he resolved to make a miraculously quick recovery.
He snorted openly in amusement when Peter swore, taking a drink before sarcastically mollifying, “Whatever you need to tell yourself.” The denial stung but it wasn’t lethal, it came with the package. “Too bad Hiro isn’t around to see this,” he said in a low tone, focused on not looking too eager while his insides were jumping, and forcing down the toast.
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“What's that about Hiro?” Peter asked suspiciously, still scowling and trying mightily to ignore Sylar's idiotic gloating about a simple slip of the tongue. He hunched around his bowl of cereal like he was trying to defend it.
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Sylar went still. “He…said something that…it’s been a thorn in my side for some years now. You’d be proving him wrong.” Another pause before he decided to admit, quietly, “For me, that’s a good thing.” Just maybe that type of thing mattered to Peter but it was a long shot. Sylar was always wondering if he’d survived the ‘die alone’ part since nearly every one of his deaths was without friend or companion except the person killing him (which he didn’t think counted). It was the not-knowing that spiked his anxiety.
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Peter didn't know what Sylar was talking about, but at least the smirking had ended quickly. Too quickly, Peter suspected. He shot Sylar several suspicious glances, but the man seemed to be applying himself to his breakfast. Peter did the same, slowly relaxing his posture. Sylar wasn't going to take his cereal, so there was no point in circling his arms around it like a barrier. No, Sylar was the one who tended to eat his food like that, and although he wasn't as hyper-vigilant about it as he'd been at first, he still ate like a prisoner.
“Just as long as you eat, drink, and get better,” he said in a low voice. And if it served to motivate Sylar in taking care of himself - whatever - Peter added, “Nobody's going to be getting any action if you're dead.”
Peter felt around his feelings again, but this time different ones than the rage. He had no love for Sylar and barely anything that qualified as friendly. What he had was an admission that Sylar was here, he was human, and he had some traits that Peter could see could be likeable, if the jerk decided to play them that way. The deal-killers were Sylar's past, Nathan (a separate deal-killer from all the other murders), his unwillingness to help Emma, lack of understanding about the world they were trapped in, and that he took too much joy and pride in hurting, scaring, and being superior to Peter. Peter relaxed a little further because put that way, he didn't think Sylar had a snowball's chance in hell of making it with him. Some of them were issues the man couldn't change and the rest seemed so core to his personality that it seemed unlikely he would change them, assuming he was capable of it.
Cereal finished, Peter leaned back in the chair and stretched a little, the chair back being just the right height for him to pop his spine in a place or two. He made a tiny, happy noise and settled back.
“Let's get started on the MME. What's the date today?” That was the first time it had occurred to Peter that it was Christmas Day by Sylar's reckoning in here. He tried not to think about what the holiday would be like the next time he had to deal with it for real. Spending it snowed in with Sylar was actually better than the alternative of merely being alone.
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Sylar had since been playing with his food to fool Peter into thinking he was still eating. He’d consumed a piece and a half of toast (he thought that was significant). The what? “The…twenty-fourth?” I didn’t do anything special for his birthday and now Christmas is going to go by. This had not been a shining example of his…hosting skills. It worried him because he could do much better and he didn’t want Peter thinking he didn’t care about the man’s birthday or holidays. Sylar himself didn’t much care for his own birthday or the holiday but it was an excuse to do things in a boring, eventless world and he wanted to make use of it. A crappy welcome he was giving his companion; here he was housebound, sickly and holding Peter back. It was like performance evaluation was coming around and he was asleep on the job.
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Peter asked, “What's the full date, month and year?”
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A frown rose to his face unbidden as he fretted over his near failures. Oh, who cares about that, Peter? He looked at his nurse with some confusion, hastily trying to answer the question so he could get back to his plans, “Um…the twenty-fourth of December…2,000…12.”
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“What's the season?” He smiled wanly at this one, because the snowstorm made that pretty obvious.
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The smile halted him. His head inched to the side. Sylar glanced straight ahead, out the window to double check; his lips twitching at a grin, “Winter, obviously.” Christmas - winter, that’s really easy, Peter.
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“What day of the week is it?”
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Sylar shrugged from his sudden slouch, muttering, “I don’t know,” as he fiddled with his cup.
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Peter wondered if Sylar was throwing the test deliberately, although he couldn't fathom why. Sylar had been seeming pretty well put together earlier, but asking someone to focus on something outside their usual train of thought was an effort - an effort the test was designed to evaluate. “What town, county, and state are we in, to the best of your knowledge?”
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“New York. Queens, Brooklyn…Manhattan? New York.” Now he gave Peter an expression that questioned the empath’s sanity.
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Okay, so that one's easy for him - location good, time bad. I wouldn't have guessed that. “What's the address of the building we're in?”
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This was a more honest non-answer. Living for three years in the same place had blinded him to those details - he had no need for addresses. “I really don’t know. It’s…the one across the street, to the right. P-something. Nice building.”
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Well, I don't know where we are either, so there's that. “What floor are we on?”
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“The top.” That was a pure educated guess.
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Peter didn't know whether to count that as correct or not, but decided to go with it as such. “I'm going to list three objects. You're supposed to remember them and recite them back to me later in the test, when I ask you to. They are orange, chair, nickel.” Peter made sure he had Sylar's attention for that part. “Can you repeat them to me right now?”
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Another look told Peter he was wasting his time, but he parroted it back to make the man happy.
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“I'm going to spell a word forwards and I want you to spell it back to me backwards. The word is 'world'. W-O-R-L-D. Spell it back to me in reverse order.”
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Sylar focused on ‘seeing’ the word in his head, to see the letters. Maybe sounding it out or something. “D, L, R,” ‘World’ like ‘word.’ “O, W.”
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Peter pointed at the table they were sitting at. “What's this called?” Then he tugged at his shirt. “And what's this?”
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“Table.” He smirked, looking over the clothing. That’s the thing you’ll take off for me later. “Shirt.” Bye-bye, shirt.
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Peter didn't care for that smirk, but he didn't comment on it. “Can you repeat the three words I told you to memorize earlier?”
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He started with the easiest, “Chair, nickel….” Sylar cast around the room, looking for the last word. It was fruity and colorful…He spotted it on the couch’s pillow, “Lime.”
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“I need you to repeat the following, exactly: 'No ifs, ands, or buts.'
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An eyebrow arched at that. It seemed random or maybe Peter was just having a laugh. Or worse, laying out conditions for something, getting him to ‘agree’…His eyes narrowed and he leaned back, straightening. “I can, but I’m not going to. Sally sells seashells by the seashore. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood,” he rattled off. Social skills and communication - crap; linguistics and verbal retention - excellent. Tongue twisters posed little difficulty. “There’s another one about Peter but I don’t know that one.” Nathan did, though. No way a nursery rhyme about his little brother was going to get by him. “//Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; a peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked. If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?//” Guess I do know it. He was already leaned away from Peter so he settled for inspecting the tabletop to avoid eye contact.
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Peter raised his brows slightly. He doesn't know it, so he recites it to me? He waited a beat for an explanation, but Sylar studied the surface of the table instead, looking guilty and insecure. Peter exhaled and looked over in the direction of the bed, thinking about the next part of the test. It required a pad of paper, which was conveniently in the room, inconveniently far from where he was sitting. Oh well, part of it is the ability to follow directions. “Could you go get that pad of paper for me? It's on the night stand, under the clock. There's a pen next to it.”
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Sylar waited for a moment, watching his partner. Why does he need paper? Paper airplane? No, he wants a pen. Can’t he get- He got an IV in a snowstorm and nearly broke his hips. That decided him and he stood without hurry. When he got there and picked up the pad, he saw there was something already written on it which shocked him. No people here; there were no left-over notes, no farewell, no notice from previous occupants. Sylar stood there to read it, personal, unimportant or whatever, it was of interest. Peter must have…Yeah, that’s his handwriting: ‘Sylar - I've gone to the hospital to get stuff for you. I will come back. I'm not leaving you. -Peter.’ The sick part was that he wanted to keep the note. He could feel his masculinity slipping away. The note was…so help him, sweet. Working that over in his head, he trudged back, more focused on the pad then on where he was going. He had to course-correct when he nearly ran into the back of Peter’s chair. He took the liberty of stripping the top note before handing the pad to the other man as he sat.
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“Thank you,” Peter said, accepting the pad. He hesitated before writing the standard direction, 'Close your eyes.' Under normal circumstances, an EMT or nurse was administering the test, a trusted individual who was being voluntarily allowed to provide medical services. One had nothing to fear in closing one's eyes in front of them. Sylar … might not feel that way about Peter. I could ask him to lift his plate or count him going to get the pad as following an order. But … I'd also like to know if he trusts me that much. He wrote the standard command and passed the pad to Sylar.
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He took it and read it. A blink at the page, then a glance at Peter. This is his idea of a kinky game? I suppose I’ll hear him get up and he can’t reach me…Sylar settled back in his own chair and shut his eyes. Only then did he wonder what the point of that action was. God, he was whipped and he wasn’t even getting any. Yet.
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Peter waited a beat, sitting perfectly still and smiling a little, relieved and pleased. “You can open your eyes.”
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Eyes open, Sylar quirked an eyebrow to express his question. It went unanswered as Peter was moving on.
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He passed over the pen. “Please write any complete sentence. Doesn't matter what it is.” This one shouldn't be hard, as Sylar had been able to read fine the night before.
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Well, now, that sounded like a trick question. What is that, Freud? What’s that called; it has a name…”Um…” The only problem was what to write. ‘A tourbillion is not a complication,’ he wrote as neatly as he could.
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Peter reclaimed the pad and took a glance at the sentence. All he cared about was that it was an intelligible, complete sentence. He did a double-take. What the hell is a tourbillion? With a small shake of his head, he moved on. The test was supposed to be administered without interruptions or distractions, so he'd have to ask about it later. He and drew an interlocking pair of pentagrams, focusing carefully to get them regularly shaped. He pushed the paper back over with the pen. “Now copy that picture as you see it, on the same piece of paper.”
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He sighed at that one. A couple of house-shaped (or was that home-plate-shaped?) figures, really? Sylar cast him a thanks-so-much look but took the implements. I should draw something shocking. I would if I could draw better. Instead he set about copying the picture a little too literally but he assumed Peter wanted perfection. As such, it took him longer than it should have mostly because of that.
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“Thanks.” Peter looked at the rendering. It was a little skewed, but it met the basics. He and tore out an extra page from the notepad. “Take this piece of paper in your right hand, fold it with both hands, and put it in your lap.” Only after he was done did he lift the sheet and extend it for Sylar to take.
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Now Sylar’s look was bland disbelief at this latest absurdity. He snatched the paper, matched the ends (with both hands) and pressed the crease, setting it in his lap for all of two seconds before he crumpled it (with both hands) and tossed it against Peter’s shoulder where it bounced off. “Ha,” he chuckled. That was his idea of a subtle clue that he was through with the test. “It’s going to take more than that to keep me entertained. And origami comes with directions. I saw a cool dragon once.” There was table football and those strange number-triangle-flap options the girls in high school used to annoy with, too, if they were really that desperate.
“What would entertain me is hearing about what does it for you,” Sylar suggested liltingly, canting his head.
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Peter jerked a little about the thrown paper, but didn't overreact. “In a sec,” he said to Sylar's suggestion. Peter took up the pen and made a few marks on the paper, running through the questions in his head and tallying. He didn't know how to count some of them, like the building neither he nor Sylar knew the address of, or Sylar's refusal to repeat 'ifs, ands, or buts' but then supplying several tongue twisters in its place. He wrote '24' on the paper and looked up at Sylar.
“What it does for me is give me an idea of how much, if at all, getting the IV helped you. The first time I had you do the MMSE, the day after the fight, you scored just a little better than severely impaired. The second a couple days later, you were a little better still. Now you're at the top end of lightly impaired, which is a pretty big jump. It's just a snapshot diagnostic, but it ...” Peter leaned back and looked upwards for a moment, “it helps me get some of my bias out of evaluating how you're doing, and more importantly, it helps me stay focused on what you need. Like, help and stuff. Instead of me ...” he shrugged, making a little head wiggle of ambivalence, “focusing on things that aren't helpful.” Like beating you up some more, for example.
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I never would have guessed you’re biased. I’ve been saying that all along.
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“You need to eat some more of your toast. You've got more than a piece left there.” Peter leaned forward again, pointing at the incriminating evidence still on Sylar's plate. “Come on and help me out here,” he tried to cajole. “A piece and a half of toasted bread is not a meal, Sylar. You need to eat.”
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“I am eating!” Sylar immediately defended. “I know that. I can’t eat when you’re asking me questions and giving me stupid tests.” There was no way he was taking all the blame for this. He’d been good - was being good still - and he’d assisted in making his own admittedly bad breakfast. Peter was glass half-emptying him while Sylar felt that a piece and a half was an accomplishment, even in baby steps. They always demand change in more volume that you can accommodate. It’s not reasonable. It was little wonder he couldn’t meet the necessary quotas.
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Unimpressed by the excuses, Peter pushed. “Come on, man. At least finish your milk.” He waited patiently, showing not the least inclination to get up, hurry, or go do anything else. He had nothing more important on his schedule for the day than making sure Sylar got enough food and liquids in him to avoid needing the IV again.
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In a sassy tone, Sylar retorted, “Al-right.” Peter didn’t so much as blink for movement. Realization dawned at that. “You’d better not stare me through it, because that’s not going to help get it done,” he warned with surety. It was unnerving now the focus was on his eating capacity. Some of his earliest memories were being stared at while he tried to eat at the Gray’s dinner table. Adjusting to what he now knew was his ‘new family’s’ way of doing things had been a rough transition, amnesia included. He glared until he was sure his message took before hefting the glass.
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In mild exasperation, Peter asked, “Then what do I have to do here? Tell me. Because I am not looking forward to trying to rig a feeding tube.”
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Sylar stopped drinking to lick away whatever milk mustache he undoubtedly had, given that he already had a dark mustache of his own. “Are you threatening me?” He didn’t know what a feeding tube was, but it sounded like medical equipment penetrated him somehow, somewhere and he didn’t like the sound of that. It sounded completely uncalled for. Panic began and he started planning a quick exit strategy. His whole body’s hurt; I only have to watch out for my head. “I thought you wanted to play nice.”
XXX
“Playing nice only counts if you're alive,” Peter snapped. When the threat didn't get the desired result, he switched gears to a different sort of threat. “I got some Zofran while I was out. It helps with nausea, but most of what I picked up was injective. On the plus side, it should help the queasiness right away. Do you want me to go get it?” Peter hooked his thumb in the direction of the wheelchair and the bags of medical supplies on it.
XXX
What annoyed him was that his first question was ‘Do you think I need it?’ After that came ‘Why didn’t you offer it before?’ That was suspicious. Of course it’s injective. I can’t trust that. Is that really a question if I want it or not? Sylar pointed a finger in Peter’s face, “You do that and I’m leaving. If you want me to eat, shut the fuck up and go play with something. Take a nap if you’re cranky, I don’t care. Keep this up and I’ll starve out of spite. Jesus, do you bully all your patients like this? I can see why you got sued.”
XXX
Peter's lips pressed together in a thin line as his face fell, along with his gaze. Equal parts angry, stricken, and shamed (no, probably not equal - he felt angry more than anything else), he pushed himself up from the table silently and took the milk and cereal box back to their places in fridge and cabinet, returning just as quietly and impassively to take the bowl and spoon to the sink. As he came back by the table, he swiped the pen and pad of paper, taking them with him as he went to the bed and straightened the covers a little so he could lie on top of them. He stole the pillows from the side Sylar had slept on, making enough of a mound to prop him up a little. He helped himself into bed by scooting and tugging at his pant leg to help swing his left leg onto the mattress. At no time did he look at Sylar; the apartment could have been empty other than Peter.
XXX
Finally. Sylar breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t wanted to leave or fight. Now he could breathe without his every move being watched. He initially thought Peter wouldn’t get annoying. Boy, was that a stupid idea; failure to think through the younger man’s history. I guess I’m just surprised he threatened me that way, medically; all that trust me, you have my word crap. Make up your mind. Peter was miffed big time, he knew, but didn’t care. He’d deal with it later, assuming he had to at all. Finally, his mind was able to blank and focus on his food, the little self-care he could manage on his own.
XXX
With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he looked at the scribbles on the pad and tried not to think about what Sylar had said - any of it. What the hell is a tour-billion and why isn't it complicated? He looked at where he'd written '24' and drew the face of a clock around it, putting tiny numbers from one to twenty-four on it like the military clock Nathan used to have in his office. Wonder where that thing went? I haven't seen it in years. By convenience and intention, the notepad he held in front of him was directly between him and Sylar, blocking line of sight.
Depending on how one looked at it, Peter was either sulking, coping, or copping out. Sylar had managed to hit enough buttons in that one outburst that Peter completely disengaged - there was the implication he was a kid (needing to play with something), he was unfriendly (cranky), that his pushy attempts to help had Sylar threatening to self-harm (not that Peter took that seriously, but it was still there), and of course the capper being a general slur to his ability to help people. If his leg and lower back hadn't hurt so bad, Peter would have left the apartment entirely. Instead, he lay on the bed and tried not to be depressed over how sometimes people didn't want his help, or to be saved, or for him to make a difference. They just didn't want him and they had a right to that. He tried very hard to lose himself in drawing fire consuming the bottom of the page and think of nothing at all.
XXX
Sylar refused himself the right to miss Peter’s proximity and attention. He worked on his bland breakfast, eventually downing another piece of cold toast (his total now two and a half). It went down a lot easier with milk and a book. There was definitely something to be said for reading during a meal. When he was alone, he hadn’t ever really had a reason to stop reading to eat so it was something of a habit. Butter. It has nutritional value. So does bread, carbs. Toast is so a meal. From the guy who thinks cheese and crackers is a meal. Toast just wasn’t very filling. Sylar attempted a few bites of the last half of toast but didn’t get very far. That avenue exhausted, he turned to Peter who was dutifully doing something and resting (hopefully he’d gotten his threatening mood under control). “We should get more food if we’re going to stay here,” he addressed his companion. That should make him happy. Exercise, adventure, following his idea. He supposed they could move to another suite but aside from new scenery, that would be pointless.
XXX
Peter made no response to the statement other that to think nastily to himself, For someone who doesn't like being alone, he sure doesn't do much to make people want to be around him.
XXX
Perhaps he was antsy. Sylar’s attention lit on the clock Peter had provided - he hadn’t gotten a chance to look at the antique properly. He walked there and picked it up for examination. Even at arm’s length, he could hear it ticking warmly. It had a voice, even if it was ‘out of tune’. It was a normal sized desk clock, reddish-brown wood with some lighter carved fan-like accents in the corners. The font was unique, the face was round and the hands were beautiful swirl patterns that looked vaguely leafy or maybe like flames. He smiled on getting to know it. “Beautiful,” he commented aloud, stroking it with a thumb. He wondered where Peter had found it.
XXX
Continued...
Day 15, December 25, morning
Peter emerged from the bathroom in a much better mood, feeling much better, too. He was hungry, having been too worn out the day before (and honestly, worried about Sylar) to get himself dinner. Sylar was now at the table, reading and looking well, so Peter left him there undisturbed as he moved over to the stove to see what the deal was with the opened loaf of bread and the butter next to it. “Oh, you found the butter. Good. Not real keen on margarine anyway.”
XXX
Sylar glanced up mostly to see if Peter was dressed - he was; that was too bad. He rolled his eyes about the butter v. margarine affair. As Peter followed his heart (otherwise ignoring him), Sylar went back to his book rather than stare at Peter’s back.
XXX
Peter turned up the heat on the stove. “I'm guessing you want toast?” “What happened, did you get started over here and get distracted or something?” he asked as he wandered over to score one of the glasses of milk, downing half of it in a single, lengthy gulp. The taste was really appealing. Sylar probably wasn't the only one a little dehydrated. With a quick glance to make sure the bread was doing okay in the pan, he got down a bowl and a box of cereal, one of those granola types with bits of nuts and fruit in it. Peter set them both on the table and returned to the stove in time to flip the bread.
XXX
Want toast? Having been buried in his book and forgotten his plans, Sylar was curious why Peter would jump to that assumption. His eyes narrowed when Peter made a crack about his mental state. Getting distracted. Ha! Did you walk out naked and I missed it? Just hit my head? Sudden onset of amnesia? Then no, I didn’t get distracted. Sylar was quite assured his mind was (usually) a steel trap. It was his key to survival and sanity. “No,” he practically growled, “Cold toast sucks so I got it ready and waited for you so you could deal with the stove.” Peter did him one better in passive-aggressively waving his other preferred breakfast in his face before walking off. Sylar stared at the cereal box, wounded despite himself, his gesture being thrown in his face. Does he think I can’t cook? I’m not even doing the cooking. I prepared it. Was I supposed to know he wanted cereal? Did I miss something? I haven’t cooked for him yet - he didn’t want to eat with me. So that’s how its going to be. In a grumpy/hurt tone, he explained because he had to, “Two of those are for you, Petrelli. Like I can eat three pieces of toast.”
XXX
“Three pieces of toast wouldn't even be a full-sized breakfast for you, Sylar. Hey, go get the pills from next to the bed, will you? And if you could get that chair out from next to it, that would help.” It had been difficult enough to maneuver it over there one-handedly.
XXX
Mouth a moue of a pout, Sylar sighed, snapping his book shut, and rising. Menial chores now? Because I didn’t do a good job with the food? He’s the one who stuck his tongue all over my butter! He returned with desired objects, clunking the chair down, snagging some pills.
XXX
“What do you want to do today? I'd rather stay in this building, unless there's something you need really bad from your apartment.” That was Peter's way of saying, 'Sliding around on the ice sucked so badly yesterday that I'm having trouble convincing myself to do something as trivial as merely cross the street to get my toothbrush.' “Oh,” he added with a sudden thought, “I found that clock in one of the other rooms. Thought it might help you sleep.” So maybe I won't have to sleep in the chair next time. He finished up with the bread and brought it to the table, rebelliously putting all three slices on Sylar's plate, while fetching the rest of the milk for his cereal.
XXX
“I’d want to do completely nasty things repeatedly on a mattress. Otherwise I need to do something or I’ll tear you, the apartment or that very nice clock apart just for fun.” He had noticed the gesture and it fit so well with Sylar’s own apartment that he’d been calmed without being particularly aware of the source. Now it was his turn for cabin fever. “I have a book, though. The clock was…It helped a lot. That and hearing you breathe.” In for a penny, while he was being grateful and saying what he wanted he might as well throw that out there for reinforcement, assuming Peter was interested in it. Sylar blankly eyed the pile of toast with confusion.
XXX
Peter laughed. “Completely nasty things, huh? You go find your own bed to do that in,” he said lightly, leaning some of his weight on the table as he settled into his chair. He read Sylar's other comments as a 'thank you' of sorts for the clock and staying in the room with him. That was nice and cheered Peter up enough to banter. “But something I'd like to do is repeat that mini-mental exam on you so I can see how much the IV fluids improved things. Something's sure made you perky this morning,” Peter said, chuckling at Sylar's second (or was it third?) sexual innuendo/invitation of the morning. Most of Peter's apprehension about the threat Sylar might pose to him was gone. He poured cereal and then milk into his bowl. In a more sober tone, but his eyes still smiling, Peter said very genuinely, “I'm really glad to hear you're feeling good.”
XXX
The lot of that caught Sylar’s attention, his eyes locked onto Peter. As opposed to ’our’ bed? ‘Your’ bed? Not that I need a bed at all…When his thoughts, questions, whatever they were went unanswered, he let it drop. “Perky’s a word for it,” he murmured. It wasn’t the ideal word to describe his mood. Peter probably just liked that he was less needy. Yeah right. “You can make me feel even better, Petrelli. Doing completely nasty things and eating toast,” Sylar intoned but he was too late on the breakfast front.
XXX
Peter snorted, not giving the invitation any more of a response than that, then took a few bites of cereal. He would have preferred it with sugar, but not enough to go look for it. He definitely preferred it softer, so he stirred it into the milk and said, “Maybe we could find an electric razor or two? Or I could probably use a blade now, or even a safety razor if I had to.” Peter wiggled the free fingers on his right hand, miming the act of shaving for a few strokes. He'd latched onto the electric razor before because he hadn't been sure he could manipulate anything else reliably with his right hand. Now he felt more confident he could handle it. He eye-balled Sylar's vigorously growing scruff. “Get one for you, too, unless you're going for the mountain man look.”
XXX
Embarrassment flashed through him when Peter struck one of his more obvious, long-held insecurities. Dressing nicely (like a nerd, even in the middle of a New York summer) came in handy sometimes, covering him from neck to toes. That way no one but he and mom knew he was hairier than a fur rug, and not an attractive, expensive one, either. There was no other way to tame it so he let it be. Only after he’d bloodied his hands had he allowed his beard some leeway. That served a purpose, too. The stubble, his attire and his body language of assumed power gained him notice. It worked wonders for sex appeal, go figure - he’d been clean-shaven his whole life. /’Your skin is so soft; like a baby.’/
‘Mountain man’ didn’t sound complimentary and that wasn’t a look he was going for. Voice short, Sylar snapped in the ‘what’s it to you?’ tone, “Yes, I’d like one.” After a brief glaring look to make sure Peter wasn’t trying to make that a punch line, he bit into some of his own dry, grilled toast. That’s crappy toast. The butter had been made into a crust but it offered little flavor - it was basically cooked plain bread. No wonder he wants cereal. Sylar went to the kitchen to retrieve the butter and knife mostly because he refused to allow his breakfast to suck more than it had to, not when he could fix it. Applying the butter, he tested it. Much better. The grilling was a different texture but toast was still toast. Then Sylar wondered if his ‘mountain man’ look was keeping him from getting laid; he sent a sideways, curious glance over towards Peter. What the hell, “The beard not doing it for you?”
XXX
Peter did a double-take - first at Sylar, then at his 'beard', then at Sylar again. On a lark, he humored the man. More thoughtfully, he gave serious consideration to how facial hair contributed to Sylar's appearance. His eyes scanned over Sylar's various rather handsome and attractive features, considering his beautiful eyes, shapely bone structure, perfect lips, and intimidating brows. It seemed a crime that such an angelic face had been granted to such a demonic man. Peter looked at his hair, in a bit of disarray and frizzed, probably due to bad hair product. Even so, it framed his face nicely. The picture Sylar made was a lot dark despite his pale skin, with a well-defined face that didn't benefit from being obscured by facial hair. Even clean-shaven, Sylar virtually exuded menace most of the time. More hair did not reduce the perception of threat. Peter made up his mind. “No, doesn't do it for me.” He took another bite, looking Sylar over again while thinking about the man's repeated overtures to him this morning.
XXX
Sylar tilted his head to the side at being inspected. That he had not been expecting. Then Peter continued looking him over, several times…Sylar stared back after it reached (and passed) the point of awkwardness and discomfort. The longer it went on, the more uncertain he became because after that much time, the answer was sure to be a negative one. Finally Peter answered but it seemed a simple answer to the stated question; the nurse didn’t expand to include the face. So something else does do it for you. Sylar smirked; he was allowed to.
XXX
“Your beard or lack of a beard isn't why you aren't getting laid. There's two big reasons,” Peter said, waving the hand without the spoon in a general way, “one is everything you are, or at least that I think you are. You seem mean and you're difficult for me to predict, along with everything that's happened,” Peter swallowed and his voice roughened, his face tilting down a little as he continued, “before.” His lips thinned and he looked to the side, biting his lip briefly before looking back, trying to push aside his anger. He was trying to explain himself so Sylar would stop it with the passes, so the man would understand why he wasn't getting anywhere.
XXX
There was a barely-noticeable hitch in Sylar’s breakfast motions at that. There goes that theory. Stupidly, he was surprised his motive had been sussed out (at all and so quickly, too), but it had been an obvious one. How many times has he figured it out? He’s not dumb; smarter than he looks; smarter than he lets on. Not just another pretty face. Once that was dealt with, he focused on Peter. I seem ‘mean’? (That’s so schoolyard! ‘Mean’) I seem mean? Gee, I can’t imagine why...Was no one ever mean to you, pretty Peter, is that it? More like he thinks no one should be mean to him - ha! He’s a hero, a good guy, martyr on a mission, handle with care. Sylar held back (though it was a near thing) from rolling his eyes.
XXX
“The other reason is that you're sick, you're injured. I don't do my patients. At all. Especially ones that are mentally … compromised.” He gave Sylar a look like he must think the worst of Peter to think he'd take advantage of the situation. “You want to have more of a chance with me? Eat.” He gestured at the toast. “Drink. Get better. Focus on that.”
Peter shook his head, feeling around the edges of his rage about the other reason - Sylar struck him as an asshole and that was on top of him being a murderer. He pressed his lips together so firmly it was a grimace before serving himself another bite of cereal and forcing himself to eat it. With a huffy breath, he reached over for the painkillers, getting out the usual number he gave Sylar and taking them.
XXX
Didn’t stop you from sleeping with me, Sylar plotted a response, thinking Peter was finished. He wasn’t finished: ‘you’re insane but something might happen when you get better?’ And less important, ‘quit bugging me.’ “You’re a moron. You can’t even stick to your own rules. Why would you expect me to?” Sylar threw out bluntly, boiling inside yet calmly taking a bite of toast. ‘Setting the example’ I believe its called. Ask my parents; they did a fantastic job as you can see. Results: the insanity everyone likes so much. They think I like being that way.
XXX
“A moron?” Peter sputtered a little at how absurd that was. Don't ask a question you don't already know the answer to, ran through his mind from Petrelli Verbal Defense Training 101, but he ignored it. “What rule are you talking about?”
XXX
“Rule Number One was not calling me crazy. What do you think ‘mentally compromised’ means? I’m not stupid, I have a huge headache because my brain was bashed around. And I asked about fucking before we fought,” Sylar was marginally sure about that last point. “Do you think I can’t make decisions or have an opinion like this?” He was insulted which made him angry and the insults only grew the more he spoke, the more he thought. “If I’m not much of a patient then you aren’t much of a nurse, Dr. Petrelli.” One of the last things Sylar remembered was Matt telling him to abandon all hope; ‘that ship sailed…You really are insane.’ It was a touchy subject coming from a household where his thoughts and emotions were called into question just for existing. It was a label he’d had to endure without knowing if it was true; /‘The man is a deranged sociopath.’ ‘You’re a psychopath.’ ‘Unrestrained lunatic.’ ‘Serial killer.’ ‘You’re a monster…like me.’ ‘You’re damned.’/
XXX
Peter snorted in disdain and answered hotly, “I think 'mentally compromised' means you have a fucking concussion bad enough that you can't look out for your own best interests. It doesn't matter when you asked. We're right now, right here,” he stabbed a finger down at the tabletop in emphasis, “and you were unconscious yesterday afternoon. It doesn't matter how bad you want to do it, I'm not interested until you're well!” Peter glared at him, steaming a bit. “And ...” he faltered, realizing what he'd said sounded like he'd be all over Sylar once the guy recovered, which was far from the truth, “and probably not even then. No, not even then. At all. Definitely.” Shaking his head in exasperation, he dug into his cereal, muttering, “Fuck it.” Just shut up and stop arguing with him, Peter!
XXX
Uh, apparently it does matter when I asked. Sylar inhaled for a sigh. He mentioned that before, being unconscious. I was just sleeping. Then he blinked when Peter slipped up - he knew it would happen eventually. The whole ‘keep asking the same question’ routine worked for a reason (even though it was kind of an interrogation-slash-torture tactic). His eyebrows went up in glee as he smiled broadly. As expected, Peter tried to back out and deny; that had him chuckling, leaning forward and smirking next, “You wanna try that again, Peter? I didn’t really feel the conviction there.” Sylar felt validated, being right and somewhat desired was an incredible, rare feeling. It was kind of…fluttery. Someone would care if he died, would do things to prevent it; someone had a preference about his looks and gave a damn about his health; someone might want to touch him. That was a big deal and it was serious motivation to get better. In fact, he resolved to make a miraculously quick recovery.
He snorted openly in amusement when Peter swore, taking a drink before sarcastically mollifying, “Whatever you need to tell yourself.” The denial stung but it wasn’t lethal, it came with the package. “Too bad Hiro isn’t around to see this,” he said in a low tone, focused on not looking too eager while his insides were jumping, and forcing down the toast.
XXX
“What's that about Hiro?” Peter asked suspiciously, still scowling and trying mightily to ignore Sylar's idiotic gloating about a simple slip of the tongue. He hunched around his bowl of cereal like he was trying to defend it.
XXX
Sylar went still. “He…said something that…it’s been a thorn in my side for some years now. You’d be proving him wrong.” Another pause before he decided to admit, quietly, “For me, that’s a good thing.” Just maybe that type of thing mattered to Peter but it was a long shot. Sylar was always wondering if he’d survived the ‘die alone’ part since nearly every one of his deaths was without friend or companion except the person killing him (which he didn’t think counted). It was the not-knowing that spiked his anxiety.
XXX
Peter didn't know what Sylar was talking about, but at least the smirking had ended quickly. Too quickly, Peter suspected. He shot Sylar several suspicious glances, but the man seemed to be applying himself to his breakfast. Peter did the same, slowly relaxing his posture. Sylar wasn't going to take his cereal, so there was no point in circling his arms around it like a barrier. No, Sylar was the one who tended to eat his food like that, and although he wasn't as hyper-vigilant about it as he'd been at first, he still ate like a prisoner.
“Just as long as you eat, drink, and get better,” he said in a low voice. And if it served to motivate Sylar in taking care of himself - whatever - Peter added, “Nobody's going to be getting any action if you're dead.”
Peter felt around his feelings again, but this time different ones than the rage. He had no love for Sylar and barely anything that qualified as friendly. What he had was an admission that Sylar was here, he was human, and he had some traits that Peter could see could be likeable, if the jerk decided to play them that way. The deal-killers were Sylar's past, Nathan (a separate deal-killer from all the other murders), his unwillingness to help Emma, lack of understanding about the world they were trapped in, and that he took too much joy and pride in hurting, scaring, and being superior to Peter. Peter relaxed a little further because put that way, he didn't think Sylar had a snowball's chance in hell of making it with him. Some of them were issues the man couldn't change and the rest seemed so core to his personality that it seemed unlikely he would change them, assuming he was capable of it.
Cereal finished, Peter leaned back in the chair and stretched a little, the chair back being just the right height for him to pop his spine in a place or two. He made a tiny, happy noise and settled back.
“Let's get started on the MME. What's the date today?” That was the first time it had occurred to Peter that it was Christmas Day by Sylar's reckoning in here. He tried not to think about what the holiday would be like the next time he had to deal with it for real. Spending it snowed in with Sylar was actually better than the alternative of merely being alone.
XXX
Sylar had since been playing with his food to fool Peter into thinking he was still eating. He’d consumed a piece and a half of toast (he thought that was significant). The what? “The…twenty-fourth?” I didn’t do anything special for his birthday and now Christmas is going to go by. This had not been a shining example of his…hosting skills. It worried him because he could do much better and he didn’t want Peter thinking he didn’t care about the man’s birthday or holidays. Sylar himself didn’t much care for his own birthday or the holiday but it was an excuse to do things in a boring, eventless world and he wanted to make use of it. A crappy welcome he was giving his companion; here he was housebound, sickly and holding Peter back. It was like performance evaluation was coming around and he was asleep on the job.
XXX
Peter asked, “What's the full date, month and year?”
XXX
A frown rose to his face unbidden as he fretted over his near failures. Oh, who cares about that, Peter? He looked at his nurse with some confusion, hastily trying to answer the question so he could get back to his plans, “Um…the twenty-fourth of December…2,000…12.”
XXX
“What's the season?” He smiled wanly at this one, because the snowstorm made that pretty obvious.
XXX
The smile halted him. His head inched to the side. Sylar glanced straight ahead, out the window to double check; his lips twitching at a grin, “Winter, obviously.” Christmas - winter, that’s really easy, Peter.
XXX
“What day of the week is it?”
XXX
Sylar shrugged from his sudden slouch, muttering, “I don’t know,” as he fiddled with his cup.
XXX
Peter wondered if Sylar was throwing the test deliberately, although he couldn't fathom why. Sylar had been seeming pretty well put together earlier, but asking someone to focus on something outside their usual train of thought was an effort - an effort the test was designed to evaluate. “What town, county, and state are we in, to the best of your knowledge?”
XXX
“New York. Queens, Brooklyn…Manhattan? New York.” Now he gave Peter an expression that questioned the empath’s sanity.
XXX
Okay, so that one's easy for him - location good, time bad. I wouldn't have guessed that. “What's the address of the building we're in?”
XXX
This was a more honest non-answer. Living for three years in the same place had blinded him to those details - he had no need for addresses. “I really don’t know. It’s…the one across the street, to the right. P-something. Nice building.”
XXX
Well, I don't know where we are either, so there's that. “What floor are we on?”
XXX
“The top.” That was a pure educated guess.
XXX
Peter didn't know whether to count that as correct or not, but decided to go with it as such. “I'm going to list three objects. You're supposed to remember them and recite them back to me later in the test, when I ask you to. They are orange, chair, nickel.” Peter made sure he had Sylar's attention for that part. “Can you repeat them to me right now?”
XXX
Another look told Peter he was wasting his time, but he parroted it back to make the man happy.
XXX
“I'm going to spell a word forwards and I want you to spell it back to me backwards. The word is 'world'. W-O-R-L-D. Spell it back to me in reverse order.”
XXX
Sylar focused on ‘seeing’ the word in his head, to see the letters. Maybe sounding it out or something. “D, L, R,” ‘World’ like ‘word.’ “O, W.”
XXX
Peter pointed at the table they were sitting at. “What's this called?” Then he tugged at his shirt. “And what's this?”
XXX
“Table.” He smirked, looking over the clothing. That’s the thing you’ll take off for me later. “Shirt.” Bye-bye, shirt.
XXX
Peter didn't care for that smirk, but he didn't comment on it. “Can you repeat the three words I told you to memorize earlier?”
XXX
He started with the easiest, “Chair, nickel….” Sylar cast around the room, looking for the last word. It was fruity and colorful…He spotted it on the couch’s pillow, “Lime.”
XXX
“I need you to repeat the following, exactly: 'No ifs, ands, or buts.'
XXX
An eyebrow arched at that. It seemed random or maybe Peter was just having a laugh. Or worse, laying out conditions for something, getting him to ‘agree’…His eyes narrowed and he leaned back, straightening. “I can, but I’m not going to. Sally sells seashells by the seashore. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood,” he rattled off. Social skills and communication - crap; linguistics and verbal retention - excellent. Tongue twisters posed little difficulty. “There’s another one about Peter but I don’t know that one.” Nathan did, though. No way a nursery rhyme about his little brother was going to get by him. “//Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; a peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked. If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?//” Guess I do know it. He was already leaned away from Peter so he settled for inspecting the tabletop to avoid eye contact.
XXX
Peter raised his brows slightly. He doesn't know it, so he recites it to me? He waited a beat for an explanation, but Sylar studied the surface of the table instead, looking guilty and insecure. Peter exhaled and looked over in the direction of the bed, thinking about the next part of the test. It required a pad of paper, which was conveniently in the room, inconveniently far from where he was sitting. Oh well, part of it is the ability to follow directions. “Could you go get that pad of paper for me? It's on the night stand, under the clock. There's a pen next to it.”
XXX
Sylar waited for a moment, watching his partner. Why does he need paper? Paper airplane? No, he wants a pen. Can’t he get- He got an IV in a snowstorm and nearly broke his hips. That decided him and he stood without hurry. When he got there and picked up the pad, he saw there was something already written on it which shocked him. No people here; there were no left-over notes, no farewell, no notice from previous occupants. Sylar stood there to read it, personal, unimportant or whatever, it was of interest. Peter must have…Yeah, that’s his handwriting: ‘Sylar - I've gone to the hospital to get stuff for you. I will come back. I'm not leaving you. -Peter.’ The sick part was that he wanted to keep the note. He could feel his masculinity slipping away. The note was…so help him, sweet. Working that over in his head, he trudged back, more focused on the pad then on where he was going. He had to course-correct when he nearly ran into the back of Peter’s chair. He took the liberty of stripping the top note before handing the pad to the other man as he sat.
XXX
“Thank you,” Peter said, accepting the pad. He hesitated before writing the standard direction, 'Close your eyes.' Under normal circumstances, an EMT or nurse was administering the test, a trusted individual who was being voluntarily allowed to provide medical services. One had nothing to fear in closing one's eyes in front of them. Sylar … might not feel that way about Peter. I could ask him to lift his plate or count him going to get the pad as following an order. But … I'd also like to know if he trusts me that much. He wrote the standard command and passed the pad to Sylar.
XXX
He took it and read it. A blink at the page, then a glance at Peter. This is his idea of a kinky game? I suppose I’ll hear him get up and he can’t reach me…Sylar settled back in his own chair and shut his eyes. Only then did he wonder what the point of that action was. God, he was whipped and he wasn’t even getting any. Yet.
XXX
Peter waited a beat, sitting perfectly still and smiling a little, relieved and pleased. “You can open your eyes.”
XXX
Eyes open, Sylar quirked an eyebrow to express his question. It went unanswered as Peter was moving on.
XXX
He passed over the pen. “Please write any complete sentence. Doesn't matter what it is.” This one shouldn't be hard, as Sylar had been able to read fine the night before.
XXX
Well, now, that sounded like a trick question. What is that, Freud? What’s that called; it has a name…”Um…” The only problem was what to write. ‘A tourbillion is not a complication,’ he wrote as neatly as he could.
XXX
Peter reclaimed the pad and took a glance at the sentence. All he cared about was that it was an intelligible, complete sentence. He did a double-take. What the hell is a tourbillion? With a small shake of his head, he moved on. The test was supposed to be administered without interruptions or distractions, so he'd have to ask about it later. He and drew an interlocking pair of pentagrams, focusing carefully to get them regularly shaped. He pushed the paper back over with the pen. “Now copy that picture as you see it, on the same piece of paper.”
XXX
He sighed at that one. A couple of house-shaped (or was that home-plate-shaped?) figures, really? Sylar cast him a thanks-so-much look but took the implements. I should draw something shocking. I would if I could draw better. Instead he set about copying the picture a little too literally but he assumed Peter wanted perfection. As such, it took him longer than it should have mostly because of that.
XXX
“Thanks.” Peter looked at the rendering. It was a little skewed, but it met the basics. He and tore out an extra page from the notepad. “Take this piece of paper in your right hand, fold it with both hands, and put it in your lap.” Only after he was done did he lift the sheet and extend it for Sylar to take.
XXX
Now Sylar’s look was bland disbelief at this latest absurdity. He snatched the paper, matched the ends (with both hands) and pressed the crease, setting it in his lap for all of two seconds before he crumpled it (with both hands) and tossed it against Peter’s shoulder where it bounced off. “Ha,” he chuckled. That was his idea of a subtle clue that he was through with the test. “It’s going to take more than that to keep me entertained. And origami comes with directions. I saw a cool dragon once.” There was table football and those strange number-triangle-flap options the girls in high school used to annoy with, too, if they were really that desperate.
“What would entertain me is hearing about what does it for you,” Sylar suggested liltingly, canting his head.
XXX
Peter jerked a little about the thrown paper, but didn't overreact. “In a sec,” he said to Sylar's suggestion. Peter took up the pen and made a few marks on the paper, running through the questions in his head and tallying. He didn't know how to count some of them, like the building neither he nor Sylar knew the address of, or Sylar's refusal to repeat 'ifs, ands, or buts' but then supplying several tongue twisters in its place. He wrote '24' on the paper and looked up at Sylar.
“What it does for me is give me an idea of how much, if at all, getting the IV helped you. The first time I had you do the MMSE, the day after the fight, you scored just a little better than severely impaired. The second a couple days later, you were a little better still. Now you're at the top end of lightly impaired, which is a pretty big jump. It's just a snapshot diagnostic, but it ...” Peter leaned back and looked upwards for a moment, “it helps me get some of my bias out of evaluating how you're doing, and more importantly, it helps me stay focused on what you need. Like, help and stuff. Instead of me ...” he shrugged, making a little head wiggle of ambivalence, “focusing on things that aren't helpful.” Like beating you up some more, for example.
XXX
I never would have guessed you’re biased. I’ve been saying that all along.
XXX
“You need to eat some more of your toast. You've got more than a piece left there.” Peter leaned forward again, pointing at the incriminating evidence still on Sylar's plate. “Come on and help me out here,” he tried to cajole. “A piece and a half of toasted bread is not a meal, Sylar. You need to eat.”
XXX
“I am eating!” Sylar immediately defended. “I know that. I can’t eat when you’re asking me questions and giving me stupid tests.” There was no way he was taking all the blame for this. He’d been good - was being good still - and he’d assisted in making his own admittedly bad breakfast. Peter was glass half-emptying him while Sylar felt that a piece and a half was an accomplishment, even in baby steps. They always demand change in more volume that you can accommodate. It’s not reasonable. It was little wonder he couldn’t meet the necessary quotas.
XXX
Unimpressed by the excuses, Peter pushed. “Come on, man. At least finish your milk.” He waited patiently, showing not the least inclination to get up, hurry, or go do anything else. He had nothing more important on his schedule for the day than making sure Sylar got enough food and liquids in him to avoid needing the IV again.
XXX
In a sassy tone, Sylar retorted, “Al-right.” Peter didn’t so much as blink for movement. Realization dawned at that. “You’d better not stare me through it, because that’s not going to help get it done,” he warned with surety. It was unnerving now the focus was on his eating capacity. Some of his earliest memories were being stared at while he tried to eat at the Gray’s dinner table. Adjusting to what he now knew was his ‘new family’s’ way of doing things had been a rough transition, amnesia included. He glared until he was sure his message took before hefting the glass.
XXX
In mild exasperation, Peter asked, “Then what do I have to do here? Tell me. Because I am not looking forward to trying to rig a feeding tube.”
XXX
Sylar stopped drinking to lick away whatever milk mustache he undoubtedly had, given that he already had a dark mustache of his own. “Are you threatening me?” He didn’t know what a feeding tube was, but it sounded like medical equipment penetrated him somehow, somewhere and he didn’t like the sound of that. It sounded completely uncalled for. Panic began and he started planning a quick exit strategy. His whole body’s hurt; I only have to watch out for my head. “I thought you wanted to play nice.”
XXX
“Playing nice only counts if you're alive,” Peter snapped. When the threat didn't get the desired result, he switched gears to a different sort of threat. “I got some Zofran while I was out. It helps with nausea, but most of what I picked up was injective. On the plus side, it should help the queasiness right away. Do you want me to go get it?” Peter hooked his thumb in the direction of the wheelchair and the bags of medical supplies on it.
XXX
What annoyed him was that his first question was ‘Do you think I need it?’ After that came ‘Why didn’t you offer it before?’ That was suspicious. Of course it’s injective. I can’t trust that. Is that really a question if I want it or not? Sylar pointed a finger in Peter’s face, “You do that and I’m leaving. If you want me to eat, shut the fuck up and go play with something. Take a nap if you’re cranky, I don’t care. Keep this up and I’ll starve out of spite. Jesus, do you bully all your patients like this? I can see why you got sued.”
XXX
Peter's lips pressed together in a thin line as his face fell, along with his gaze. Equal parts angry, stricken, and shamed (no, probably not equal - he felt angry more than anything else), he pushed himself up from the table silently and took the milk and cereal box back to their places in fridge and cabinet, returning just as quietly and impassively to take the bowl and spoon to the sink. As he came back by the table, he swiped the pen and pad of paper, taking them with him as he went to the bed and straightened the covers a little so he could lie on top of them. He stole the pillows from the side Sylar had slept on, making enough of a mound to prop him up a little. He helped himself into bed by scooting and tugging at his pant leg to help swing his left leg onto the mattress. At no time did he look at Sylar; the apartment could have been empty other than Peter.
XXX
Finally. Sylar breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t wanted to leave or fight. Now he could breathe without his every move being watched. He initially thought Peter wouldn’t get annoying. Boy, was that a stupid idea; failure to think through the younger man’s history. I guess I’m just surprised he threatened me that way, medically; all that trust me, you have my word crap. Make up your mind. Peter was miffed big time, he knew, but didn’t care. He’d deal with it later, assuming he had to at all. Finally, his mind was able to blank and focus on his food, the little self-care he could manage on his own.
XXX
With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he looked at the scribbles on the pad and tried not to think about what Sylar had said - any of it. What the hell is a tour-billion and why isn't it complicated? He looked at where he'd written '24' and drew the face of a clock around it, putting tiny numbers from one to twenty-four on it like the military clock Nathan used to have in his office. Wonder where that thing went? I haven't seen it in years. By convenience and intention, the notepad he held in front of him was directly between him and Sylar, blocking line of sight.
Depending on how one looked at it, Peter was either sulking, coping, or copping out. Sylar had managed to hit enough buttons in that one outburst that Peter completely disengaged - there was the implication he was a kid (needing to play with something), he was unfriendly (cranky), that his pushy attempts to help had Sylar threatening to self-harm (not that Peter took that seriously, but it was still there), and of course the capper being a general slur to his ability to help people. If his leg and lower back hadn't hurt so bad, Peter would have left the apartment entirely. Instead, he lay on the bed and tried not to be depressed over how sometimes people didn't want his help, or to be saved, or for him to make a difference. They just didn't want him and they had a right to that. He tried very hard to lose himself in drawing fire consuming the bottom of the page and think of nothing at all.
XXX
Sylar refused himself the right to miss Peter’s proximity and attention. He worked on his bland breakfast, eventually downing another piece of cold toast (his total now two and a half). It went down a lot easier with milk and a book. There was definitely something to be said for reading during a meal. When he was alone, he hadn’t ever really had a reason to stop reading to eat so it was something of a habit. Butter. It has nutritional value. So does bread, carbs. Toast is so a meal. From the guy who thinks cheese and crackers is a meal. Toast just wasn’t very filling. Sylar attempted a few bites of the last half of toast but didn’t get very far. That avenue exhausted, he turned to Peter who was dutifully doing something and resting (hopefully he’d gotten his threatening mood under control). “We should get more food if we’re going to stay here,” he addressed his companion. That should make him happy. Exercise, adventure, following his idea. He supposed they could move to another suite but aside from new scenery, that would be pointless.
XXX
Peter made no response to the statement other that to think nastily to himself, For someone who doesn't like being alone, he sure doesn't do much to make people want to be around him.
XXX
Perhaps he was antsy. Sylar’s attention lit on the clock Peter had provided - he hadn’t gotten a chance to look at the antique properly. He walked there and picked it up for examination. Even at arm’s length, he could hear it ticking warmly. It had a voice, even if it was ‘out of tune’. It was a normal sized desk clock, reddish-brown wood with some lighter carved fan-like accents in the corners. The font was unique, the face was round and the hands were beautiful swirl patterns that looked vaguely leafy or maybe like flames. He smiled on getting to know it. “Beautiful,” he commented aloud, stroking it with a thumb. He wondered where Peter had found it.
XXX
Continued...