More Between Us, Chapter 9/? "Truce"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 9/?
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 8. 404
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
Day 5
Sylar woke from his rather comfortable position on some strange couch, sure as hell’s not my bed, to a noise. He just caught himself from flopping like a fish from shock. Who’s here? What’s….As soon as he’d been about to mentally voice the question, his muscles began to strain and shriek at him and he groaned, rolling slowly to his side. Ugh…fuck. Fighting with Peter. For a brief second he wondered why exactly he’d started so from his loosely-termed ‘nap’ and concluded that he hadn’t heard noise while asleep for three years and a week, give or take.
Sitting up slowly, he looked around the dim room, almost expecting to see Peter in a SWAT uniform. The gun was no longer a concern and that surprised him greatly; both in Peter’s nobility and his own lack of unease regarding it. The door to the hall was shut. It was possible that’s where Peter had gone, but that action’s logic left him confused, not for the first time.
Help me, let me sleep and… Sylar touched his aching face, wary of Sharpie marker there, didn’t do anything to me as near as I can tell, then leaves without a word? He frowned, pushing himself up to stand, taking his time due to his head injury, waiting for the wobble in his balance that didn’t come. His scalp was still pleasantly chilled from the ice and for now, before his blood began to pump through his body at a different atmosphere, it would stay so.
Strange, strange man, Peter Petrelli, he shook his head lightly and began to wander to the kitchen. I mean, where the hell would he be going? His timing is…Doesn’t matter where he goes, I know this place and he doesn’t. I can find him again.
His thoughts were halted in place by the sound of the toilet flushing, followed seconds later by the sink cutting on. Sylar spun around and forced his tensed muscles to relax along with his nerves and instincts. Not only are you not used to hearing that noise unless you yourself made it, you’re not used to noise from other people period. Wonderful combination. Guy had to pee; he’s been drinking all morning.
Briefly his mind tracked back to the last place he’d been that had people in that kind of situation; the Carnival and before that, Parkman’s house, sort of. You know, it’s really a shame everyone’s dead and gone. My ‘karma’ is so damn unbalanced now because of those pricks. Someone somewhere owed me a shot at revenge and Peter Petrelli wasn’t what I had in mind.
He didn’t want to consider why Peter wasn’t…exactly on his hit list, so he didn’t. Instead he shoved it away and banned the thought somewhere far, far away. Two out of four Petrellis, check, check; Bennet, Parkman….possibly Mohinder. That weird Japanese kid for his ability….Samuel….Edgar….Eli….Might get Samson for good….Ugh, but all this is useless. It’s increasingly sad that those are the only people you know. Okay, okay, all I ever really wanted was a decent shot to pound his face in a few times. Guess dreams do come true.
Sylar rolled his eyes, reaching out and flicking up the light to the living room since there was no need for continued darkness and he thought it might look fishy to Peter. He leaned against the wall to the kitchen, rubbing at the clenched shoulder that he’d succeeded in jarring several times now, stretching his neck and waited for Peter to emerge. Suppose I should ask if he’s okay…
XXX
Peter came out of the bathroom, flipping off the light as he did. He was holding his right hand tucked up against his body. The wrist had swollen a lot - as had the hand, but not as badly. So also had the right side of Peter’s face, now puffy and thoroughly reddened. He was sporting the beginnings of a black eye where the skin under his right eye had darkened - no telling how much that would spread.
For a paramedic, who knew better (and he did), he took crap care of himself and he always had. He should have iced his face. He should have compression-wrapped his wrist. But he hadn’t. He had never been anyone’s first priority, not even his own. It wasn’t that he put Sylar ahead of himself, but he hadn’t felt he could leave until he was sure the other man could get up and get around. That, and it hurt to move, so he simply hadn’t.
Speaking of Sylar though, he was up. Peter looked at him intently in the now-lit room, giving him as thorough a once over as he had before the fight, but this time with a completely different expression. This was detached and incisive, without the liberal hint of attraction. Peter examined the man’s posture, how he’d chosen to lean against the wall, the steadiness of his gaze and the small movements he made in the normal process of standing there. Peter nodded once. “You feeling okay? Any dizziness?”
XXX
True enough, Peter emerged from the bathroom as he’d expected, looking worse for wear. Subconsciously he was aware of being a little smug about that factlet; that he’d trumped Peter in (probably for once) a fair fight. “Yeah, everything’s-” He caught the tail end of a similar appraising look over the considerable breadth of his body and he quickly glared at Peter, who didn’t catch it.
Are you just that damn dense or wha- he was halted before his anger could rise to its usually violent head when he saw that it was a ‘nurse’ look. Peter the medico, not Peter the Petrelli. “-Fine,” he concluded calmly, his own glance going only as far as the man’s hand and his face, bruises turning a funny shade of red on the man’s skin.
In reality, his body was screaming sore. His knuckles were uncomfortable, his back felt crimped and his own face throbbing, but his head was worse; painful and distracting, but nothing crippling in anyway (so he hoped). Most importantly his motor, linguistic and mental functions were working properly, near as he could tell.
Wouldn’t that just be funny if Peter helps you this far then kicks back with popcorn to watch you thrash around on the floor in a seizure, drooling and babbling from a concussion? He snorted, amused at himself and partly at the image, shaking his head and beginning to stretch out his neck from side to side. Already did that at Mercy. Been there, done that.
XXX
Sylar had his own semi-untreated injuries marking him. They were just things they were going to have to deal with. Peter was ready to go ‘home’, lie down somewhere that he felt safe, and figure out how to better tend his hurts once he was alone. He felt lousy. Sitting in the chair had been comfortable enough. He’d risen only when his needs had demanded it. A number of muscles had tightened up. He intended to make a lot of use of that tube of ben-gay he had at his apartment, as well as the antibiotic ointment - though the only spot he had that seemed to need the latter was the cut on his cheek. He didn’t have any compression bandages or splints and it was just wasn’t worth it to go the few blocks down to the store to get them.
On the other hand, he’d spent some of his time in the chair mentally cataloguing the supplies he needed to get on hand for future use. When he was able - he’d get on that.
XXX
“How’s the hand?” he asked in return, purposefully not pressing the issue of taping it, even though he was pretty sure you were supposed to as soon as the swelling went down. Peter was politely skittish about his help; not that he would or could expect less any time soon. The offer stood and he wanted to subtly remind Peter of it. The man’s broken watch still annoyed him with its proximity, its silence irritating his mushed brain.
XXX
“The hand sucks,” Peter announced bluntly. He wiggled his thumb and index finger, touching them together a few times to illustrate his next statement, “I can still do a little fine manipulation, but there’s no grip strength.” Not without it hurting a lot. I can still pull a trigger, but I probably couldn’t aim to be worth it. Not that that’s an issue.
XXX
Sylar’s eyebrow quirked briefly at the gesturing digits, wondering briefly at what Peter meant by ‘fine manipulation’ and ‘grip strength’ exactly. His mind going unpleasant and dirty places at once before he could focus himself. He was safe from the gun and already that sort of ‘fear’ hanging over him was beginning to pass. “No heavy lifting for you, man,” he said in a way he hoped came across as good natured.
Suddenly briefly tempted to ask what Peter’s worst injury barring death was, but that was personal and was bound to stir up bad memories for the sensitive man, so he put the question aside. Instead he asked, “What’s your plan of action?” Did that sound as bad as I think it does? Well….guess you hope he knows you’re innocent and helpful and just shooting in the dark worse than he is about how to handle this… situation.
XXX
“My plan?” He raised his brows, one a little more than the other. There was a tiny shift to his eyes that spoke of aggression, as they swept across Sylar’s face and read his features. Peter squared up his shoulders and drew his head back a little. There was the faintest lilt to his voice that anyone who grew up in the Petrelli household would have recognized as an attempt at verbal fencing. “I was thinking we’d do what you suggested - take the rest of the day off, limp home, elevate everything…”
Peter caught himself, recognizing what he was doing and discarding the action before he even finished his first sentence. He shrugged casually like that had been where he’d intended to stop talking, then turned away and headed into the kitchen. As he walked past Sylar, he ducked his head a little and reached up to scratch at his temple on the side closer to the other man. It was a defensive motion, warding him off, putting his hand between his face and the other man, though Peter didn’t think of it that way. He just thought his temple needed to be scratched at that particular moment.
XXX
At his question, Peter homed in on him, quickly, too. Sylar’s head turned fractionally under that intense wave of hazel. Some latent hostility in there, methinks. He narrowed his eyes but shrunk back slightly all the same. In doing so he hoped to avoid another round and not get pushed around, but if Peter pressed it, Sylar would kick his ass again.
Peter increased the tension causing Sylar to hunch his shoulders and shove raw knuckles past the denim of his jeans pockets, unsure how to handle that or what to say. What the hell? He noticed his own words being thrown back at him, but he was totally floundered as to the why. It was an innocent question! Or are those labeled as no-no’s now? Would his further presence be viewed as a threat? An insult?
Peter all but slid by him, hiding his face, totally changing his tune with a shrug to leave Sylar blinking at his back. I thought I was the one who’s supposed to be ‘touched’ sans concussion. He is a Petrelli. He stood still as the man passed, but turned to watch him move about the kitchen, playing with the pills as he went. Didn’t anyone ever tell you you’re going to Hell for that, Peter? He internally mocked sarcastically, mostly at himself, but sighed physically.
XXX
Peter walked over to the counter next to the refrigerator, picking up the bottle of painkillers he’d left there. He read the dosage on it, ostensibly to remind himself of how much he’d taken, but mostly as a nervous fidget. He set the bottle back down and turned partway to address Sylar. “You should get a compression bandage around your wrist, maybe even a splint.” I didn’t look at it. Wonder if I should? I’m not a physical therapist. I’m not sure what I could do other than say, ‘Wow, that looks sprained.’ I’d be pretty surprised if it was broken.
XXX
His companion spoke up about his wrist, leaving Sylar hopeless in the ‘conversation’ such as it was. Positive, negative, positive again. Not that he wasn’t used to the behavior, he just….didn’t react well to it. In the past the flip-flopper usually wound up dead by his hand, intentional or not. “I….yeah, I probably should. I have some back at my place.” But he wasn’t about to leave Peter alone because…well, he wanted to stick around. If that was ‘allowed’ that is.
XXX
His leg hurt. He debated whether he should walk down the couple blocks and back to the store to get compression bandages - not for Sylar, but for himself. Sylar might have some in his apartment, but that was his business. Peter walked the one step across the kitchen to the counter on the other side, where he’d put the brown paper grocery bag that contained his findings, and the bear. He nudged the bag, like he was considering picking it up, maybe leaving, but the motion was abortive. All he did was push it around a little - again, an unconsciously nervous gesture.
Peter turned to face Sylar again and gave the other man a curious, intent look as his mind began to face the reason for his nerves and his previous, almost reflexive, verbal jujitsu. “Do you have any first aid training? Or…medical training, of any kind?” Other than the obvious brain-removal type. It’d be sort of weird to find out he’s a neurosurgeon. Or used to be, I guess. All the medical students said it took a special kind of person to be willing to cut into a live human being in cold blood. They usually didn’t mean ‘special’ in a good way.
He leaned one hip on the counter in a false posture of relaxation. He pondered the memory (dream? thought-leak?) of Sylar as Gabriel, a watchmaker. That rules out neurosurgeon, but not first aid. It would kind of help if I knew what he was capable of tending on his own. He made it as Sylar for a couple years without regen, so he’s got to be pretty good at taking care of himself. No scars, he’s symmetrical and balanced, good movement … just from that fall off the Odessa Stadium alone he should have been messed up for life. Huh. That argues actually that he had something better than first aid. It shouldn’t have helped him that much that he landed on me.
XXX
Idly he saw Peter poke around the kitchen, his actions reading of discomfort and….something else he couldn’t place. He looked almost embarrassed, why he didn’t know; unless it was the medic’s turn to overreact to something harmless, which it appeared to be. “I, um….took a first aid class in high school, but that was a long time ago. I’ve done lots of reading since then. I consider myself to be competent,” he stated simply, without much pride, managing to hold back his wince at how that sounded. He’d had enough experience patching himself over, countless experiences actually. Sylar couldn’t compare to Peter’s training and his innumerable experiences and attempts at healing others.
XXX
To Sylar’s comments about his first aid class, Peter nodded slightly. He looked to the side and considered that, face neutral. Sylar would make a passable aide - he could hold things and probably follow directions. The ‘probably’ part was what worried Peter and it had nothing to do with the man’s competence. Would he? Sylar had never agreed to help, to save Emma, to save anyone. In fact, he’d denied it and said that wasn’t the kind of person he was. What he’d agreed to was letting Peter try to get them out and Peter was very aware of that.
The other man had made a number of somewhat helpful gestures - he’d offered lunch, he’d offered a tour, he was here with Peter exploring although clearly it wasn’t his cup of tea, and he’d offered to help tape Peter’s hand. All but the last were basically self-serving gestures. He was bored and lonely and drawn to Peter as Peter had already found himself drawn to Sylar. When there was nothing moving in a landscape, the sole motion did tend to draw the eye. Maybe in a few days or weeks or months Sylar would get bored with observing Peter and go away. Somehow that prospect was more unsettling to Peter than the idea of frequent surveillance by the man.
There was also the issue of whether Peter would let Sylar help him. He’d refused lunch, and the tour, and he’d made it amply clear he wasn’t wild about Sylar being here with him. He was evading now on the matter at hand. If I want his help with Emma, then pretty soon I’ve got to find out if he’ll help at all, for anything, or if all he’s going to do is make snide comments, goad me and molest stuffed animals. He sighed a little. It was one thing to ask for help on something predestined, where Peter knew for sure the other man would help and so in a way he wasn’t even asking, he was just informing Sylar of what the future would be. It was another thing to ask on something like this, where as far as Peter knew nobody’s life hung in the balance and it seemed pretty likely that admitting some form of weakness would just buy him trouble.
XXX
“Of course I’m more of a self-taught brain doctor with a ninety-nine percent casualty rate,” voicing what Peter was doubtlessly thinking. He paused, inhaling and crossing his hands over his chest now defensively in preparation, “Until now, that is.” It was obvious Peter wasn’t going home any time soon. Sylar stared out the kitchen window before making a decision and padding off into a bedroom, returning moments later with strips of a bed sheet, entering the kitchen slow and cautious. He held out four larger strips towards Peter, waving them a little when the other man made no move for them. “For your wrist. You can wrap it around ice, too.”
Retreating back outside the kitchen, he slowly leaned back to crack his spine and rub at a deep-fleshed bruise there.
XXX
While he was pondering, Sylar said his next piece about being a ‘brain doctor,’ earning him a hard look and narrowed eyes. Peter glanced over Sylar’s crossed arms and then looked away. It wasn’t like there was any point in denying the past, but Peter wondered what the other man meant by ‘until now.’ A long, tense moment passed in silence until Sylar broke it by walking away, further into the apartment. Peter sighed again, more deeply, and turned to lean back against the counter, facing towards the fridge. ‘Until now’ that he’s changed his mind about killing people? He said he’d wanted his life to change - that’s what he’d gone to Parkman about, apparently. Peter smirked. Well, I suppose he’s succeeded. Being walled up in someone’s basement is certainly a change.
Or is it just ‘until now’ that he doesn’t have his powers and wouldn’t get anything by carving my head open? He turned around and fiddled with the sack again, considering whether he should slip away without saying anything, or…what’s that noise? The distinct sound of cloth tearing drifted out from the back room. Peter’s brows drew together as he stood and listened. It was regular, not hurried and accompanied by no other sound, so it wasn’t like Sylar was having a destructive fit - as out of place as that would be at the moment. Peter replayed their last moments in the kitchen, mystified as to why Sylar would be off tearing something up.
When Sylar entered the kitchen with the strips of bed sheet, his slow and cautious approach was a good idea as it gave Peter a moment to stare between him and the fabric, uncertain of what he was being offered, or why. Sylar clarified. Peter took the cloth and blinked at Sylar’s retreating back. He tried to think of how this was self-serving. Nothing came to mind. He smiled a little and looked at the sheet, wrapping it loosely around his right hand, tilting his head and gauging if that would work. Something stretchy or with adhesive would be better, but this would do for now, he supposed. It meant he didn’t have to walk down to the store.
He put the strips on top of the bear in the sack and gathered it up with his left arm. He walked out to see Sylar stretching. Peter glanced away politely until the other man was done. “I’m going to go over to…my place,” Yeah, I guess it is, “and stay there for the rest of the day.” Head aches, face aches, various other things…it’ll be better tomorrow. I’ll go get some proper compression bandages then and a splint. He pondered what else to say. See you tomorrow? Same bat-time, same bat-channel? Peter rolled his shoulders a little, creating a little too long of a conversational pause as he couldn’t find the words to say what he wanted to express. Finally he said, “Thank you,” with a slight jerk of his chin towards the cloth visible at the top of the bag. “I’ll use them.” He turned to go.
XXX
Who knew what went on in Peter’s mind, the brain that coagulated the thoughts….ticked funny, it wasn’t right. Not just the ability part, either, the Petrelli part of his brain was…unfitted. Like his wrist watch. Sylar realized as he walked away that he’d totally exposed himself to death again; Peter in the kitchen with knives and cleavers as he’d turned his back on it. He stood with his profile to the kitchen, should Peter emerge as he must eventually, his eyes closed as he tried to elongate and work the muscles in his back.
Peter’s boot made a slight scuff and he snapped straight again, eyes wide to see Peter looking pointedly away until he regained some composure after his stretch. Sylar tugged down on his pea coat, making sure to cover his midriff, etc. Oh, that was….more awkward than the bear. Huh. Glancing around to relieve his own awkwardness at the situation, he made to move with his left hand and wound up making a face. Fuck, not my hand…. Peter may be a medic, but he has no one to care for; he doesn’t need his hands. I have my clocks….
Sylar turned to blink at him, slightly surprised that Peter would concede what must be seen as ‘defeat’ so easily. He’d been expecting Peter to break out the taser and demand Sylar walk ahead of him for the rest of the exploration. Then again, Peter was probably in more pain, a busted up hand would do that. A kind of…guilty satisfaction surged through him quickly before it died. Goddamnit, why’d it stop? His surprise (at both his feeling and Peter’s words) probably registered on his face.
After a beat, he nodded. He took up a strip of the sheet, pushing up the sleeve of his coat to get at his left wrist under all the fabric. Instantly he realized he couldn’t do it standing and, his eyes still focused on his arm, he did the mindless, intent-on-something-else walk towards the couch. Intending to sit and wrap up his arm, he was interrupted and floored beyond his bruised brain’s capacity to accept by Peter’s gratitude.
Wide brown eyes gazed at him before he ducked his head, nodding to hide his growing grin. “’S no problem, Peter,” he said quietly. Maybe there is hope…Of course it only came after a fight, but….Maybe that wasn’t such a stupid idea….not that I’m gonna do it again. At least I hope not. Sylar opened his mouth and looked towards Peter again, but caught his back, considering for a moment before he closed his lips. ‘I only started it so I could know you weren’t homicidal still.’
Biting his lip for a second, he thought of another thing that was within his power to do that Peter seemed to like and appreciate. He darted into the kitchen again and snatched up the painkillers Peter had neglected on purpose or with intent, it didn’t matter. Sylar then padded behind him, sure to make some noise to indicate his presence. Peter opened the door and proceeded down the hall with Sylar in tow, quiet, musing. Really makes you wonder how much he likes this girl if he’s willing to let you live.
XXX
That grin. It made Peter feel warm inside to have said something to put that expression on another’s face. Sylar’s smile was open and happy, with a sort of embarrassed delight, like no one had ever told him thanks in his life, or at least that he’d never expected to hear it. Peter turned and headed out, concealing his own expression of a gentle smile complete with crinkled corners of his eyes. Yeah, maybe Sylar didn’t expect to hear even a simple thanks coming from Peter, about as much as Peter didn’t expect Sylar to do anything worthy of the words.
He heard Sylar scurry hastily in the apartment behind him and he wondered what he was rushing to get. The only item of note Peter had seen in there was the baseball bat and going for that now was so incongruous as to garner a snort from the empath. He hobbled slowly down the hall, in no great hurry. He heard Sylar come up behind him shortly and Peter glanced back. It wasn’t so much wary this time, just looking, still checking, but Sylar had moved up to a comfortable distance, not crowding him, and then matched Peter’s slow pace.
XXX
Sylar took up his…position, he supposed it was by now, next to Peter, this time unworried about being struck (and not just because of the broken hand). He managed to pocket the container of painkillers, not for himself, but for Peter. Peter took the hall slowly and he found himself grateful for the pace; every move, hell, being upright made his head throb with red pain, so the slower he moved, the less his heart had to work.
Sylar noticed the glances back at him, but pretended he didn’t see them. It took a few moments for him to catch up to what he was so contagiously grinning about. Peter said ‘Thank you’. What made him say that? He didn’t have to, I barely did anything. A brief spiral of unease, he’d dub the emotional reaction, went through him. Or what if he’s manipulating me? No, he’s not that quick, I haven’t been that obv- Okay, I guess I have been in the past, but…What does it gain him? A personalized revenge slave?
XXX
Peter continued on to the elevator, seeing no reason to take the stairs in his state. He reached out immediately and without thinking, pressing the button with his right thumb. He grunted in pain, but the button lit up. Ow. He frowned at his hand. It had hurt. The slight pressure of pushing the button had resulted in a compression across the complicated structure of his hand, hurting where the bone was broken and where his wrist was twisted. I really need to immobilize this. I can’t keep looking around here, going through apartments, with my hand like this. I’ll mess it up doing casual things like pushing buttons.
XXX
Peter approached the elevator doors, pushing on the button with what Sylar saw as a bare application of the force he knew those hands possessed. But that small motion triggered a noise of pain from him and that got Sylar’s attention. Peter took it like a champ, stepping into the elevator car quite fearlessly, even though Sylar knew from long readings about arthritis and hand cramps from being a watchmaker full time that the motion hurt his broken finger like hell.
XXX
The doors opened and he walked inside with a glance at his companion. They were going to be trapped together in a small room, an awareness that wandered through Peter’s mind without settling or setting off any action as a result of the thought. Peter moved politely to one side and Sylar did the same opposite him. Both were silent. Neither looked at the other. As the doors shut, Peter cleared his throat and said very quietly, “Can you push the button for the ground floor for me?” He had the paper bag held in his left arm and he’d already discovered that using his right for this wasn’t a good idea. He could have put the bag down and used his left but…Would Sylar help him?
Peter wasn’t real sure what he was doing - being manipulative? Looking for opportunities to give positive strokes? Trying to be friendly? Sylar’s earlier grin had surprised the empath. It wasn’t superior or snide or sarcastic. It wasn’t bitter or sneering or smug. It was a simple joy at being appreciated and Peter wanted to see if that was still there, or if it had been some kind of a fluke. Because yeah, Peter needed the help - with his hand, with Emma, with being stuck here for what looked to be years. As much as Sylar would never make Peter’s ‘interesting people to be trapped with on a desert island’ list, Sylar was here, things were as they were, and Peter knew that sooner or later he was going to have to accept his companion’s presence and quit acting like Sylar’s mere existence was offensive. Even if it was. Yeah, I’m going to have to give that up eventually.
XXX
Sylar slowly stepped in beside him, keeping the usual distance between ‘strangers’ at this point. Since Peter was the first one in, Sylar assumed he would be the one to press the correct button. Sylar stood for a beat until he recognized that the ‘normal’ proceedings weren’t going as was socially planned.
Peter spoke up quietly and he turned his head to look at him out of the corner of his eye. Sylar found himself responding instantly to Peter’s question, taking a step and a half to lean forward and past the medic to push the button to get the car started.
“Sure thing, man,” His reply was unnecessary and unnecessarily long at that, but it just slipped out. Excuse me? He asked of himself. Are we really his freaking pet now? Jump when he says? You practically signed yourself off on a silver platter with ‘sure thing, man’ as if it’s a contract for ‘anytime you need any heavy lifting’ or ‘a cup of su-’ Sylar bit briefly into his lower lip, but stopped before Peter could notice as he thought on how he could have blundered.
Hadn’t Angela said something similar? /”You had a skill that I needed.”/ Why had he never been afraid of manipulation from Peter? Aside from the odd fist fight that may or may not have led to some outright torture with a nail gun… Maybe that’s why: the only thing he’s got in his arsenal is busted empathy, big puppy dog eyes and a real insight on how to convince people.
XXX
He did it. Sylar responded, pressed the button, and did what Peter asked. It was kind of amazing, really, even though it was such a minor thing. “Thanks,” Peter murmured, briefly, and casually. He kept his eyes to himself and acted disinterested, which was far from the truth. He hadn’t earned another grin and that was disappointing, but at least he’d gotten cooperation. Had Sylar declined, or smirked, or otherwise gone back to being an ass, Peter would have just put down the bag and pushed the button himself, or gotten off the elevator and taken the stairs. It wasn’t like he didn’t have options, which was a big part of why Peter was willing to ask - he was risking little here.
Sylar wasn’t the only one ‘testing’ his companion.
XXX
The car lowered down to the first floor and the doors parted. Somehow Sylar felt the need that Peter, the more injured and smaller of the two should exit first, so he waited to allow that. Peter’s hip clearly bothered him and Sylar’s back ached and twinged at every step; what a pair they made.
XXX
The doors opened and Peter hesitated for a moment, noting Sylar’s indirect indication that Peter should precede him. The paramedic remained very aware that Sylar was at his back, but he walked out first anyway. He walked towards the double doors, going slowly as he had before. The muscle of his right thigh kept trying to cramp. He was pretty sure it was the sartorius muscle. It affected how he moved his knee and his ability to keep a straight line without adjustment. It would affect him even more if he tried to do something that involved rotating the leg. The spot where Sylar had kicked him had swollen into something of a knot. It would stay that way for a day or two and really, he should stay off his feet during that time. He intended to try.
XXX
The men headed for the door and Sylar lengthened his stride to hit it before Peter, casually pushing it open, holding it a bare second or so too long so Peter could get out without hurrying/hurting himself or using his hand. He stayed in front of Peter a moment to keep up the act, but he soon fell beside him once more.
XXX
In the lobby now, it seemed Sylar had less patience to follow his slow pace. Perhaps, Peter thought, he’d misjudged the cooperation in the elevator and instead of being helpful, Sylar had just been speeding their journey. Maybe he was in more of a hurry to get back to his own ‘territory’ and alone than Peter was. Then the other man surprising him by holding the door open for him, hanging onto it with his fingertips after he’d had gone through, leaving it open enough so Peter didn’t have to shoulder his way through it. Peter’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second at that before he dampened his response to something more normal. He availed himself of the courtesy.
Repeating his thanks seemed awkward, and perhaps overusing the grateful phrasing (twice was enough, especially as he hadn’t managed to work himself up to saying much else), so Peter gave an appreciative nod and looked Sylar in the face for a moment, giving him a quick half-smile of acknowledgement. Sylar fell into step next to him once they were outside. He no longer trailed behind, Peter noticed with a sidelong glance. Of course in the hallway of the apartment building, Sylar hadn’t had a lot of room to walk next to him, but the day before, when they’d gone to the store, and before that, as Peter had sought to escape him - Sylar had always followed.
XXX
Sylar glanced around, secretly observing if Peter cleared the door, which he had. He turned back as they drew level and caught the man’s nod, his face loosening at the smile, such as it was, but it was more than enough. His own lips quirked up as he turned away and looked down, amused and proud to have garnered the expression from this increasingly stoic man. No idea why he’s smiling, but I’ll take it.
XXX
Peter hesitated at the edge of the sidewalk, whereas Sylar did not, taking a step or two into the street before noticing his companion had stopped. When Sylar glanced back at him, Peter said, “It’s kind of creepy out here - all open…and empty. It didn’t feel that empty, really, in the apartments.” He started moving again, walking across the street.
XXX
Sylar started out walking, slowly down over the curb due to his back and the altitude changes to his skull. He began to head towards Peter’s place. About three steps in he noticed that Peter no longer walked beside him; he pulled up short and turned to look. The medic seemed deep in thought. Maybe he’s drugged or high on pain, he initially thought before Peter spoke up.
Sylar studied him closely and he found the topic odd, but that was Peter. “Yeah,” he whispered, eyeing their surroundings without seeing it too well. “Seems like it’s not really New York without people, huh,” he said, not entirely a question, but not a statement either. Really the whole thing made him kind of bitter, but he did feel better knowing that Peter would be going through the worse part--the transition, the loss.
Creepy he could deal with, loneliness he’d dealt with, no people whatever…. It hit harder, so much harder than he’d thought. The same was almost true for Peter, minus the creepiness which he’d just stated bothered him. Peter began walking again, past Sylar who started up beside him, keeping pace.
XXX
He stopped outside the door to his apartment. Sylar was still beside him, moving along with him just like they had merely decided to go explore a different building, rather than Peter going up to his own room. Peter paused. He was aware that he had something fragile here, a tenuous sort-of trust, a truce of sorts - ‘you won’t kill me, I won’t kill you’ and maybe even a ‘you help me, I’ll help you.’ Telling Sylar to fuck off and Peter wanted to be alone didn’t seem right, even if it was exactly what Peter wanted to do, and the rational part of his brain was reminding him that they’d only been together for a few hours and already had a serious fistfight. Further association was ill-advised. Plus he couldn’t defend himself much, if it came to that.
Peter had never listened much to the rational part of his brain. It told him things like not to jump off high buildings and to question the existence of abilities, or perhaps even his own sanity. He was well-accustomed to ignoring it and he did so now, looking down at Sylar’s swollen left wrist and asking, “Are you going to need help wrapping that?”
XXX
Not a minute later the pair reached the entrance of Peter’s designated building. Sylar paused after Peter did at the doors. Oh. He had assumed-- what had he assumed? Peter had stated clearly what he was doing and where he was going. He hadn’t been included he noticed. Sylar took a few steps backwards, placing his hands in his pockets as he felt embarrassment. Alone time. Duh. To save him…almost, the irony, Peter asked about taping his wrist up. His embarrassment continued when Peter glanced at the limb, partly buried in his jeans pocket.
Fair was fair. He’d done the same or similar to Peter earlier when he’d had…something in his jeans pocket, something with an electric cord. Sylar swallowed; his imagination running untamed for a moment as to what that object might be before he stamped ruthlessly down on the runaway thought. (Nathan’s memories did not help the process). Even if Peter told him to fuck off right then, he’d be pretty content. He could have lost the fight so long as things had gone the same way after it.
“Don’t think so. I’ve wrapped my own wrist before; I’m ambidextrous. It’s not a big deal. Different from a hand, fingers.” Sylar nodded towards Peter’s own coloring hand. ‘Thanks’ was…truly a barbed word if it were to slip from his throat and he realized how much it must be costing Peter’s pride to say it twice to his brother’s murderer.
XXX
Peter felt a tension build inside as Sylar glanced up at the building, the other man’s eyes widening just slightly as he comprehended where they were. The steps back he took made it clearer that he understood his lack of welcome. His embarrassed posture did nothing to dispel Peter’s tension - it just changed the tenor of it from apprehension that Sylar might insist on not leaving him alone (and cause Peter to be explicit in seeking solitude), to discomfort that the other man might deal really badly with such rejection.
Sylar still struck Peter as highly unstable. His overly shamed response at the moment was a perfect example. Saying good-bye to someone shouldn’t engender the reaction he was getting and so Peter stood there uncomfortably, not quite sure what to do because he didn’t know Sylar well enough to know what he’d do in response to any given action on Peter’s part. The empath made his inquiry about Sylar’s hand and thankfully Sylar didn’t take him up on the implied offer of assistance, just as Peter was not taking Sylar up on his somewhat more overt offer from previous.
XXX
Sylar took a step further back, turning in the direction of his own apartment. He had his…way around saying thanks, something that said the same thing. Sylar had always been better at gestures than words anyway, apparently neither really ever really worked well for him. Words made him a lying psychopath and gestures, actions made him….Sylar so it would seem, the psychopath part.
“Peter, uh…” he began, turning back, tugging the bottle of painkillers out from his pocket with stiffening, scraped fingers to place it in Peter’s bag. He couldn’t hold it; couldn’t catch it or else he would have thrown it, the memory of Nathan teaching Peter how to catch at the age of six coming to mind. “You’re a medical man, I trust you to be more responsible with those than Mohinder was,” Sylar said by way of a joke (Mohinder was a geneticist as he never failed to tire of telling everyone and Sylar’s way of asking Peter to be careful about his consumption) as he walked away with a brief, tight, awkward sort of grin.
God, just let this not make me look like a mother hen with a crush or something, anything but that. Let him not find me to care, were his parting thoughts.
XXX
Peter turned to eye the door to the building when Sylar changed direction and came back, addressing him and holding something out. The erstwhile killer put the bottle in the sack where it rested on top of the cloth strips, themselves on top of the bear’s hat. Peter recognized the pill bottle from the apartment, complete with annoying childproof cap. Peter hoped the cap was only on loosely, as he’d set it before. If not…it didn’t matter too much. He’d gotten a bottle of painkillers from the store the day before. They were in his apartment. But Sylar might not know that and the gesture he was making was clear.
“Sure,” Peter said with a short nod. He stepped over next to the doors and shrugged his left shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Not that I think I’ll have much choice in that, other than maybe hiding in my apartment all day. I’m not going to hide from him - especially not after the fight. He wouldn’t be intimidated, though he was clear that he’d lost. Something his father told him once came back to him: ‘The winner is the one who gets to say when the fight ends.’ Last time I noticed, that was the guy holding the bat - not me. He shifted the bag carefully and managed the door himself. He propped it open with his foot and watched for a moment as Sylar walked away. Peter shook his head briefly and went inside.
Once within the apartment he’d at least temporarily claimed as his own, Peter leaned against the door and groaned…in pain, in frustration, in tension. Screaming was not out of the question, but his face hurt a bit much for that. He set down the sack on the nearest horizontal surface, which was the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He touched his forehead and went back to the door, locking it. He looked at the stack of soup cans next to it, ready to be assembled as a warning system in case someone had a key and bypassed the locks with it. Peter stared at them blankly, then picked up the top two with his left hand and moved them into the pantry. Leaning over made his face throb, so he didn’t put away more than those two - but he’d get the rest later. He didn’t think he needed them.
He turned on all the lights, gathered up his supplies, and settled on the couch. To his annoyance, he did not actually have a tube of antibiotic ointment. He cleaned his face and knuckles with the peroxide and cotton swabs that had been in this apartment from the start. The place also had a single box of bandages which he made use of. He applied ben-gay to anywhere that the muscles were sore. Finally he tackled wrapping his hand. He didn’t do a good job of it, but it was better than it looked, it didn’t cut off his circulation and it seemed snug enough to work. After that came ice packs, arranging pillows to keep all the right parts elevated, and way too much time to do nothing more than think.
XXX
Sylar grinned to himself as he walked stiffly down the abandoned road in an abandoned city towards his apartment. ‘See you tomorrow’. It rung in his ears. Peter had taken almost all of that exceptionally well. While he wasn’t sorry per se that Peter had taken the trouble to break his hand using Sylar’s head, he was….interested. That was about the best word he could tack onto it; interest without being concerned or apologetic or even guilty. Peter was the one who’d swung first to begin the fight and he’d made the choice to take a stab at Sylar’s head so he himself was blameless to his logic.
I’m not convincing myself out of guilt; there is none except for premeditated aggravation which I’m not guilty for. The several blocks to ‘home’ seemed to take longer than normal; he figured that was because Peter wasn’t there. He could tell his hormones were haywire; his frame, aching and sore thought it was, flooded with testosterone and epinephrine, endorphins from life. The half a day he’d just experienced had been the most life he’d had in three years.
It was hard not to get swept under the current. A fight, winning it, companionship, getting said companion to smile a little…He sighed, quite pleased with himself. He hadn’t even toyed with Peter….much and the medic walked away with superficial injuries. What is it about him that makes me think I have my powers back and I’m being merciful to him? He glanced back behind himself now several blocks away, swerving out of his formerly straight walking path to gaze a second at Peter’s building which may well have been Peter himself.
He faced straight ahead; hurrying to his apartment as temptation suddenly struck him and struck him hard. I could do anything to him….No one would ever know. I don’t need his permission. Those thoughts sucked oxygen from his brain and made him heady on top of his throbbing headache as he opened the door to his building. He found himself in his apartment, a little shell-shocked.
Tapping the door closed, he wandered into the bathroom, discarding his coat on the bed as he passed, crouching slowly to get into the cabinet under the sink for his Neosporin, ben-gay and tiger-balm. To say he owned a brace was relative; he had a wrist brace, but he was fairly sure compression bandages would work better.
More comfortable at any rate, so he grabbed those out and set them on the counter. Sylar checked his face in the mirror for cuts and bruises. He purposefully never lingered at the mirror these days, so he moved on when he found nothing but swelling, coloring bruises; something that couldn’t be helped other than to ice them and he didn’t bother to. Hell, maybe Peter will get his kicks off it.
He turned to the side, trying to use the pair of mirrors that reflected into each other at an angle on the walls to see the area Peter had hit. Peter had hit him behind the ears before; he’d had regeneration one of those times. Peter plays dirty. Prying into his hair, he tentatively prodded the bruised skin, but felt no wetness of blood, even if the slightest touch drew a hiss of pain from him unbidden. I’ll live.
He removed his shirt first so he didn’t get the ointments on it and took up the ben-gay and tiger-balm and rubbed them into his back and wrist, washing his hands of the smelly stuff as soon as he was done. I haven’t had someone on my hands in three years, he thought idly. The ointment was next and he leaned against the sink, dabbing it on his knuckles.
Padding out into the kitchen, bandages in hand, he got out the ice packets he’d found years ago; he’d kept it around for the odd headache and migraine he suffered from leaning over his clocks or books for too long and for him that could be a long time. Bringing them back, Sylar sat wearily on his cot, wrapping his wrist gently and securing it with the metal tabs, placing an ice pack on it as he slowly lay back.
The second ice packet went behind his head on the pillow. At first he intended to think, plan something out, pick a stratagem in regards to his new companion, but his eyelids grew heavy despite his earlier nap. With the ben-gay at work on his back, he drifted off relatively pain free.
XXX
Continued...
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 8. 404
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
Day 5
Sylar woke from his rather comfortable position on some strange couch, sure as hell’s not my bed, to a noise. He just caught himself from flopping like a fish from shock. Who’s here? What’s….As soon as he’d been about to mentally voice the question, his muscles began to strain and shriek at him and he groaned, rolling slowly to his side. Ugh…fuck. Fighting with Peter. For a brief second he wondered why exactly he’d started so from his loosely-termed ‘nap’ and concluded that he hadn’t heard noise while asleep for three years and a week, give or take.
Sitting up slowly, he looked around the dim room, almost expecting to see Peter in a SWAT uniform. The gun was no longer a concern and that surprised him greatly; both in Peter’s nobility and his own lack of unease regarding it. The door to the hall was shut. It was possible that’s where Peter had gone, but that action’s logic left him confused, not for the first time.
Help me, let me sleep and… Sylar touched his aching face, wary of Sharpie marker there, didn’t do anything to me as near as I can tell, then leaves without a word? He frowned, pushing himself up to stand, taking his time due to his head injury, waiting for the wobble in his balance that didn’t come. His scalp was still pleasantly chilled from the ice and for now, before his blood began to pump through his body at a different atmosphere, it would stay so.
Strange, strange man, Peter Petrelli, he shook his head lightly and began to wander to the kitchen. I mean, where the hell would he be going? His timing is…Doesn’t matter where he goes, I know this place and he doesn’t. I can find him again.
His thoughts were halted in place by the sound of the toilet flushing, followed seconds later by the sink cutting on. Sylar spun around and forced his tensed muscles to relax along with his nerves and instincts. Not only are you not used to hearing that noise unless you yourself made it, you’re not used to noise from other people period. Wonderful combination. Guy had to pee; he’s been drinking all morning.
Briefly his mind tracked back to the last place he’d been that had people in that kind of situation; the Carnival and before that, Parkman’s house, sort of. You know, it’s really a shame everyone’s dead and gone. My ‘karma’ is so damn unbalanced now because of those pricks. Someone somewhere owed me a shot at revenge and Peter Petrelli wasn’t what I had in mind.
He didn’t want to consider why Peter wasn’t…exactly on his hit list, so he didn’t. Instead he shoved it away and banned the thought somewhere far, far away. Two out of four Petrellis, check, check; Bennet, Parkman….possibly Mohinder. That weird Japanese kid for his ability….Samuel….Edgar….Eli….Might get Samson for good….Ugh, but all this is useless. It’s increasingly sad that those are the only people you know. Okay, okay, all I ever really wanted was a decent shot to pound his face in a few times. Guess dreams do come true.
Sylar rolled his eyes, reaching out and flicking up the light to the living room since there was no need for continued darkness and he thought it might look fishy to Peter. He leaned against the wall to the kitchen, rubbing at the clenched shoulder that he’d succeeded in jarring several times now, stretching his neck and waited for Peter to emerge. Suppose I should ask if he’s okay…
XXX
Peter came out of the bathroom, flipping off the light as he did. He was holding his right hand tucked up against his body. The wrist had swollen a lot - as had the hand, but not as badly. So also had the right side of Peter’s face, now puffy and thoroughly reddened. He was sporting the beginnings of a black eye where the skin under his right eye had darkened - no telling how much that would spread.
For a paramedic, who knew better (and he did), he took crap care of himself and he always had. He should have iced his face. He should have compression-wrapped his wrist. But he hadn’t. He had never been anyone’s first priority, not even his own. It wasn’t that he put Sylar ahead of himself, but he hadn’t felt he could leave until he was sure the other man could get up and get around. That, and it hurt to move, so he simply hadn’t.
Speaking of Sylar though, he was up. Peter looked at him intently in the now-lit room, giving him as thorough a once over as he had before the fight, but this time with a completely different expression. This was detached and incisive, without the liberal hint of attraction. Peter examined the man’s posture, how he’d chosen to lean against the wall, the steadiness of his gaze and the small movements he made in the normal process of standing there. Peter nodded once. “You feeling okay? Any dizziness?”
XXX
True enough, Peter emerged from the bathroom as he’d expected, looking worse for wear. Subconsciously he was aware of being a little smug about that factlet; that he’d trumped Peter in (probably for once) a fair fight. “Yeah, everything’s-” He caught the tail end of a similar appraising look over the considerable breadth of his body and he quickly glared at Peter, who didn’t catch it.
Are you just that damn dense or wha- he was halted before his anger could rise to its usually violent head when he saw that it was a ‘nurse’ look. Peter the medico, not Peter the Petrelli. “-Fine,” he concluded calmly, his own glance going only as far as the man’s hand and his face, bruises turning a funny shade of red on the man’s skin.
In reality, his body was screaming sore. His knuckles were uncomfortable, his back felt crimped and his own face throbbing, but his head was worse; painful and distracting, but nothing crippling in anyway (so he hoped). Most importantly his motor, linguistic and mental functions were working properly, near as he could tell.
Wouldn’t that just be funny if Peter helps you this far then kicks back with popcorn to watch you thrash around on the floor in a seizure, drooling and babbling from a concussion? He snorted, amused at himself and partly at the image, shaking his head and beginning to stretch out his neck from side to side. Already did that at Mercy. Been there, done that.
XXX
Sylar had his own semi-untreated injuries marking him. They were just things they were going to have to deal with. Peter was ready to go ‘home’, lie down somewhere that he felt safe, and figure out how to better tend his hurts once he was alone. He felt lousy. Sitting in the chair had been comfortable enough. He’d risen only when his needs had demanded it. A number of muscles had tightened up. He intended to make a lot of use of that tube of ben-gay he had at his apartment, as well as the antibiotic ointment - though the only spot he had that seemed to need the latter was the cut on his cheek. He didn’t have any compression bandages or splints and it was just wasn’t worth it to go the few blocks down to the store to get them.
On the other hand, he’d spent some of his time in the chair mentally cataloguing the supplies he needed to get on hand for future use. When he was able - he’d get on that.
XXX
“How’s the hand?” he asked in return, purposefully not pressing the issue of taping it, even though he was pretty sure you were supposed to as soon as the swelling went down. Peter was politely skittish about his help; not that he would or could expect less any time soon. The offer stood and he wanted to subtly remind Peter of it. The man’s broken watch still annoyed him with its proximity, its silence irritating his mushed brain.
XXX
“The hand sucks,” Peter announced bluntly. He wiggled his thumb and index finger, touching them together a few times to illustrate his next statement, “I can still do a little fine manipulation, but there’s no grip strength.” Not without it hurting a lot. I can still pull a trigger, but I probably couldn’t aim to be worth it. Not that that’s an issue.
XXX
Sylar’s eyebrow quirked briefly at the gesturing digits, wondering briefly at what Peter meant by ‘fine manipulation’ and ‘grip strength’ exactly. His mind going unpleasant and dirty places at once before he could focus himself. He was safe from the gun and already that sort of ‘fear’ hanging over him was beginning to pass. “No heavy lifting for you, man,” he said in a way he hoped came across as good natured.
Suddenly briefly tempted to ask what Peter’s worst injury barring death was, but that was personal and was bound to stir up bad memories for the sensitive man, so he put the question aside. Instead he asked, “What’s your plan of action?” Did that sound as bad as I think it does? Well….guess you hope he knows you’re innocent and helpful and just shooting in the dark worse than he is about how to handle this… situation.
XXX
“My plan?” He raised his brows, one a little more than the other. There was a tiny shift to his eyes that spoke of aggression, as they swept across Sylar’s face and read his features. Peter squared up his shoulders and drew his head back a little. There was the faintest lilt to his voice that anyone who grew up in the Petrelli household would have recognized as an attempt at verbal fencing. “I was thinking we’d do what you suggested - take the rest of the day off, limp home, elevate everything…”
Peter caught himself, recognizing what he was doing and discarding the action before he even finished his first sentence. He shrugged casually like that had been where he’d intended to stop talking, then turned away and headed into the kitchen. As he walked past Sylar, he ducked his head a little and reached up to scratch at his temple on the side closer to the other man. It was a defensive motion, warding him off, putting his hand between his face and the other man, though Peter didn’t think of it that way. He just thought his temple needed to be scratched at that particular moment.
XXX
At his question, Peter homed in on him, quickly, too. Sylar’s head turned fractionally under that intense wave of hazel. Some latent hostility in there, methinks. He narrowed his eyes but shrunk back slightly all the same. In doing so he hoped to avoid another round and not get pushed around, but if Peter pressed it, Sylar would kick his ass again.
Peter increased the tension causing Sylar to hunch his shoulders and shove raw knuckles past the denim of his jeans pockets, unsure how to handle that or what to say. What the hell? He noticed his own words being thrown back at him, but he was totally floundered as to the why. It was an innocent question! Or are those labeled as no-no’s now? Would his further presence be viewed as a threat? An insult?
Peter all but slid by him, hiding his face, totally changing his tune with a shrug to leave Sylar blinking at his back. I thought I was the one who’s supposed to be ‘touched’ sans concussion. He is a Petrelli. He stood still as the man passed, but turned to watch him move about the kitchen, playing with the pills as he went. Didn’t anyone ever tell you you’re going to Hell for that, Peter? He internally mocked sarcastically, mostly at himself, but sighed physically.
XXX
Peter walked over to the counter next to the refrigerator, picking up the bottle of painkillers he’d left there. He read the dosage on it, ostensibly to remind himself of how much he’d taken, but mostly as a nervous fidget. He set the bottle back down and turned partway to address Sylar. “You should get a compression bandage around your wrist, maybe even a splint.” I didn’t look at it. Wonder if I should? I’m not a physical therapist. I’m not sure what I could do other than say, ‘Wow, that looks sprained.’ I’d be pretty surprised if it was broken.
XXX
His companion spoke up about his wrist, leaving Sylar hopeless in the ‘conversation’ such as it was. Positive, negative, positive again. Not that he wasn’t used to the behavior, he just….didn’t react well to it. In the past the flip-flopper usually wound up dead by his hand, intentional or not. “I….yeah, I probably should. I have some back at my place.” But he wasn’t about to leave Peter alone because…well, he wanted to stick around. If that was ‘allowed’ that is.
XXX
His leg hurt. He debated whether he should walk down the couple blocks and back to the store to get compression bandages - not for Sylar, but for himself. Sylar might have some in his apartment, but that was his business. Peter walked the one step across the kitchen to the counter on the other side, where he’d put the brown paper grocery bag that contained his findings, and the bear. He nudged the bag, like he was considering picking it up, maybe leaving, but the motion was abortive. All he did was push it around a little - again, an unconsciously nervous gesture.
Peter turned to face Sylar again and gave the other man a curious, intent look as his mind began to face the reason for his nerves and his previous, almost reflexive, verbal jujitsu. “Do you have any first aid training? Or…medical training, of any kind?” Other than the obvious brain-removal type. It’d be sort of weird to find out he’s a neurosurgeon. Or used to be, I guess. All the medical students said it took a special kind of person to be willing to cut into a live human being in cold blood. They usually didn’t mean ‘special’ in a good way.
He leaned one hip on the counter in a false posture of relaxation. He pondered the memory (dream? thought-leak?) of Sylar as Gabriel, a watchmaker. That rules out neurosurgeon, but not first aid. It would kind of help if I knew what he was capable of tending on his own. He made it as Sylar for a couple years without regen, so he’s got to be pretty good at taking care of himself. No scars, he’s symmetrical and balanced, good movement … just from that fall off the Odessa Stadium alone he should have been messed up for life. Huh. That argues actually that he had something better than first aid. It shouldn’t have helped him that much that he landed on me.
XXX
Idly he saw Peter poke around the kitchen, his actions reading of discomfort and….something else he couldn’t place. He looked almost embarrassed, why he didn’t know; unless it was the medic’s turn to overreact to something harmless, which it appeared to be. “I, um….took a first aid class in high school, but that was a long time ago. I’ve done lots of reading since then. I consider myself to be competent,” he stated simply, without much pride, managing to hold back his wince at how that sounded. He’d had enough experience patching himself over, countless experiences actually. Sylar couldn’t compare to Peter’s training and his innumerable experiences and attempts at healing others.
XXX
To Sylar’s comments about his first aid class, Peter nodded slightly. He looked to the side and considered that, face neutral. Sylar would make a passable aide - he could hold things and probably follow directions. The ‘probably’ part was what worried Peter and it had nothing to do with the man’s competence. Would he? Sylar had never agreed to help, to save Emma, to save anyone. In fact, he’d denied it and said that wasn’t the kind of person he was. What he’d agreed to was letting Peter try to get them out and Peter was very aware of that.
The other man had made a number of somewhat helpful gestures - he’d offered lunch, he’d offered a tour, he was here with Peter exploring although clearly it wasn’t his cup of tea, and he’d offered to help tape Peter’s hand. All but the last were basically self-serving gestures. He was bored and lonely and drawn to Peter as Peter had already found himself drawn to Sylar. When there was nothing moving in a landscape, the sole motion did tend to draw the eye. Maybe in a few days or weeks or months Sylar would get bored with observing Peter and go away. Somehow that prospect was more unsettling to Peter than the idea of frequent surveillance by the man.
There was also the issue of whether Peter would let Sylar help him. He’d refused lunch, and the tour, and he’d made it amply clear he wasn’t wild about Sylar being here with him. He was evading now on the matter at hand. If I want his help with Emma, then pretty soon I’ve got to find out if he’ll help at all, for anything, or if all he’s going to do is make snide comments, goad me and molest stuffed animals. He sighed a little. It was one thing to ask for help on something predestined, where Peter knew for sure the other man would help and so in a way he wasn’t even asking, he was just informing Sylar of what the future would be. It was another thing to ask on something like this, where as far as Peter knew nobody’s life hung in the balance and it seemed pretty likely that admitting some form of weakness would just buy him trouble.
XXX
“Of course I’m more of a self-taught brain doctor with a ninety-nine percent casualty rate,” voicing what Peter was doubtlessly thinking. He paused, inhaling and crossing his hands over his chest now defensively in preparation, “Until now, that is.” It was obvious Peter wasn’t going home any time soon. Sylar stared out the kitchen window before making a decision and padding off into a bedroom, returning moments later with strips of a bed sheet, entering the kitchen slow and cautious. He held out four larger strips towards Peter, waving them a little when the other man made no move for them. “For your wrist. You can wrap it around ice, too.”
Retreating back outside the kitchen, he slowly leaned back to crack his spine and rub at a deep-fleshed bruise there.
XXX
While he was pondering, Sylar said his next piece about being a ‘brain doctor,’ earning him a hard look and narrowed eyes. Peter glanced over Sylar’s crossed arms and then looked away. It wasn’t like there was any point in denying the past, but Peter wondered what the other man meant by ‘until now.’ A long, tense moment passed in silence until Sylar broke it by walking away, further into the apartment. Peter sighed again, more deeply, and turned to lean back against the counter, facing towards the fridge. ‘Until now’ that he’s changed his mind about killing people? He said he’d wanted his life to change - that’s what he’d gone to Parkman about, apparently. Peter smirked. Well, I suppose he’s succeeded. Being walled up in someone’s basement is certainly a change.
Or is it just ‘until now’ that he doesn’t have his powers and wouldn’t get anything by carving my head open? He turned around and fiddled with the sack again, considering whether he should slip away without saying anything, or…what’s that noise? The distinct sound of cloth tearing drifted out from the back room. Peter’s brows drew together as he stood and listened. It was regular, not hurried and accompanied by no other sound, so it wasn’t like Sylar was having a destructive fit - as out of place as that would be at the moment. Peter replayed their last moments in the kitchen, mystified as to why Sylar would be off tearing something up.
When Sylar entered the kitchen with the strips of bed sheet, his slow and cautious approach was a good idea as it gave Peter a moment to stare between him and the fabric, uncertain of what he was being offered, or why. Sylar clarified. Peter took the cloth and blinked at Sylar’s retreating back. He tried to think of how this was self-serving. Nothing came to mind. He smiled a little and looked at the sheet, wrapping it loosely around his right hand, tilting his head and gauging if that would work. Something stretchy or with adhesive would be better, but this would do for now, he supposed. It meant he didn’t have to walk down to the store.
He put the strips on top of the bear in the sack and gathered it up with his left arm. He walked out to see Sylar stretching. Peter glanced away politely until the other man was done. “I’m going to go over to…my place,” Yeah, I guess it is, “and stay there for the rest of the day.” Head aches, face aches, various other things…it’ll be better tomorrow. I’ll go get some proper compression bandages then and a splint. He pondered what else to say. See you tomorrow? Same bat-time, same bat-channel? Peter rolled his shoulders a little, creating a little too long of a conversational pause as he couldn’t find the words to say what he wanted to express. Finally he said, “Thank you,” with a slight jerk of his chin towards the cloth visible at the top of the bag. “I’ll use them.” He turned to go.
XXX
Who knew what went on in Peter’s mind, the brain that coagulated the thoughts….ticked funny, it wasn’t right. Not just the ability part, either, the Petrelli part of his brain was…unfitted. Like his wrist watch. Sylar realized as he walked away that he’d totally exposed himself to death again; Peter in the kitchen with knives and cleavers as he’d turned his back on it. He stood with his profile to the kitchen, should Peter emerge as he must eventually, his eyes closed as he tried to elongate and work the muscles in his back.
Peter’s boot made a slight scuff and he snapped straight again, eyes wide to see Peter looking pointedly away until he regained some composure after his stretch. Sylar tugged down on his pea coat, making sure to cover his midriff, etc. Oh, that was….more awkward than the bear. Huh. Glancing around to relieve his own awkwardness at the situation, he made to move with his left hand and wound up making a face. Fuck, not my hand…. Peter may be a medic, but he has no one to care for; he doesn’t need his hands. I have my clocks….
Sylar turned to blink at him, slightly surprised that Peter would concede what must be seen as ‘defeat’ so easily. He’d been expecting Peter to break out the taser and demand Sylar walk ahead of him for the rest of the exploration. Then again, Peter was probably in more pain, a busted up hand would do that. A kind of…guilty satisfaction surged through him quickly before it died. Goddamnit, why’d it stop? His surprise (at both his feeling and Peter’s words) probably registered on his face.
After a beat, he nodded. He took up a strip of the sheet, pushing up the sleeve of his coat to get at his left wrist under all the fabric. Instantly he realized he couldn’t do it standing and, his eyes still focused on his arm, he did the mindless, intent-on-something-else walk towards the couch. Intending to sit and wrap up his arm, he was interrupted and floored beyond his bruised brain’s capacity to accept by Peter’s gratitude.
Wide brown eyes gazed at him before he ducked his head, nodding to hide his growing grin. “’S no problem, Peter,” he said quietly. Maybe there is hope…Of course it only came after a fight, but….Maybe that wasn’t such a stupid idea….not that I’m gonna do it again. At least I hope not. Sylar opened his mouth and looked towards Peter again, but caught his back, considering for a moment before he closed his lips. ‘I only started it so I could know you weren’t homicidal still.’
Biting his lip for a second, he thought of another thing that was within his power to do that Peter seemed to like and appreciate. He darted into the kitchen again and snatched up the painkillers Peter had neglected on purpose or with intent, it didn’t matter. Sylar then padded behind him, sure to make some noise to indicate his presence. Peter opened the door and proceeded down the hall with Sylar in tow, quiet, musing. Really makes you wonder how much he likes this girl if he’s willing to let you live.
XXX
That grin. It made Peter feel warm inside to have said something to put that expression on another’s face. Sylar’s smile was open and happy, with a sort of embarrassed delight, like no one had ever told him thanks in his life, or at least that he’d never expected to hear it. Peter turned and headed out, concealing his own expression of a gentle smile complete with crinkled corners of his eyes. Yeah, maybe Sylar didn’t expect to hear even a simple thanks coming from Peter, about as much as Peter didn’t expect Sylar to do anything worthy of the words.
He heard Sylar scurry hastily in the apartment behind him and he wondered what he was rushing to get. The only item of note Peter had seen in there was the baseball bat and going for that now was so incongruous as to garner a snort from the empath. He hobbled slowly down the hall, in no great hurry. He heard Sylar come up behind him shortly and Peter glanced back. It wasn’t so much wary this time, just looking, still checking, but Sylar had moved up to a comfortable distance, not crowding him, and then matched Peter’s slow pace.
XXX
Sylar took up his…position, he supposed it was by now, next to Peter, this time unworried about being struck (and not just because of the broken hand). He managed to pocket the container of painkillers, not for himself, but for Peter. Peter took the hall slowly and he found himself grateful for the pace; every move, hell, being upright made his head throb with red pain, so the slower he moved, the less his heart had to work.
Sylar noticed the glances back at him, but pretended he didn’t see them. It took a few moments for him to catch up to what he was so contagiously grinning about. Peter said ‘Thank you’. What made him say that? He didn’t have to, I barely did anything. A brief spiral of unease, he’d dub the emotional reaction, went through him. Or what if he’s manipulating me? No, he’s not that quick, I haven’t been that obv- Okay, I guess I have been in the past, but…What does it gain him? A personalized revenge slave?
XXX
Peter continued on to the elevator, seeing no reason to take the stairs in his state. He reached out immediately and without thinking, pressing the button with his right thumb. He grunted in pain, but the button lit up. Ow. He frowned at his hand. It had hurt. The slight pressure of pushing the button had resulted in a compression across the complicated structure of his hand, hurting where the bone was broken and where his wrist was twisted. I really need to immobilize this. I can’t keep looking around here, going through apartments, with my hand like this. I’ll mess it up doing casual things like pushing buttons.
XXX
Peter approached the elevator doors, pushing on the button with what Sylar saw as a bare application of the force he knew those hands possessed. But that small motion triggered a noise of pain from him and that got Sylar’s attention. Peter took it like a champ, stepping into the elevator car quite fearlessly, even though Sylar knew from long readings about arthritis and hand cramps from being a watchmaker full time that the motion hurt his broken finger like hell.
XXX
The doors opened and he walked inside with a glance at his companion. They were going to be trapped together in a small room, an awareness that wandered through Peter’s mind without settling or setting off any action as a result of the thought. Peter moved politely to one side and Sylar did the same opposite him. Both were silent. Neither looked at the other. As the doors shut, Peter cleared his throat and said very quietly, “Can you push the button for the ground floor for me?” He had the paper bag held in his left arm and he’d already discovered that using his right for this wasn’t a good idea. He could have put the bag down and used his left but…Would Sylar help him?
Peter wasn’t real sure what he was doing - being manipulative? Looking for opportunities to give positive strokes? Trying to be friendly? Sylar’s earlier grin had surprised the empath. It wasn’t superior or snide or sarcastic. It wasn’t bitter or sneering or smug. It was a simple joy at being appreciated and Peter wanted to see if that was still there, or if it had been some kind of a fluke. Because yeah, Peter needed the help - with his hand, with Emma, with being stuck here for what looked to be years. As much as Sylar would never make Peter’s ‘interesting people to be trapped with on a desert island’ list, Sylar was here, things were as they were, and Peter knew that sooner or later he was going to have to accept his companion’s presence and quit acting like Sylar’s mere existence was offensive. Even if it was. Yeah, I’m going to have to give that up eventually.
XXX
Sylar slowly stepped in beside him, keeping the usual distance between ‘strangers’ at this point. Since Peter was the first one in, Sylar assumed he would be the one to press the correct button. Sylar stood for a beat until he recognized that the ‘normal’ proceedings weren’t going as was socially planned.
Peter spoke up quietly and he turned his head to look at him out of the corner of his eye. Sylar found himself responding instantly to Peter’s question, taking a step and a half to lean forward and past the medic to push the button to get the car started.
“Sure thing, man,” His reply was unnecessary and unnecessarily long at that, but it just slipped out. Excuse me? He asked of himself. Are we really his freaking pet now? Jump when he says? You practically signed yourself off on a silver platter with ‘sure thing, man’ as if it’s a contract for ‘anytime you need any heavy lifting’ or ‘a cup of su-’ Sylar bit briefly into his lower lip, but stopped before Peter could notice as he thought on how he could have blundered.
Hadn’t Angela said something similar? /”You had a skill that I needed.”/ Why had he never been afraid of manipulation from Peter? Aside from the odd fist fight that may or may not have led to some outright torture with a nail gun… Maybe that’s why: the only thing he’s got in his arsenal is busted empathy, big puppy dog eyes and a real insight on how to convince people.
XXX
He did it. Sylar responded, pressed the button, and did what Peter asked. It was kind of amazing, really, even though it was such a minor thing. “Thanks,” Peter murmured, briefly, and casually. He kept his eyes to himself and acted disinterested, which was far from the truth. He hadn’t earned another grin and that was disappointing, but at least he’d gotten cooperation. Had Sylar declined, or smirked, or otherwise gone back to being an ass, Peter would have just put down the bag and pushed the button himself, or gotten off the elevator and taken the stairs. It wasn’t like he didn’t have options, which was a big part of why Peter was willing to ask - he was risking little here.
Sylar wasn’t the only one ‘testing’ his companion.
XXX
The car lowered down to the first floor and the doors parted. Somehow Sylar felt the need that Peter, the more injured and smaller of the two should exit first, so he waited to allow that. Peter’s hip clearly bothered him and Sylar’s back ached and twinged at every step; what a pair they made.
XXX
The doors opened and Peter hesitated for a moment, noting Sylar’s indirect indication that Peter should precede him. The paramedic remained very aware that Sylar was at his back, but he walked out first anyway. He walked towards the double doors, going slowly as he had before. The muscle of his right thigh kept trying to cramp. He was pretty sure it was the sartorius muscle. It affected how he moved his knee and his ability to keep a straight line without adjustment. It would affect him even more if he tried to do something that involved rotating the leg. The spot where Sylar had kicked him had swollen into something of a knot. It would stay that way for a day or two and really, he should stay off his feet during that time. He intended to try.
XXX
The men headed for the door and Sylar lengthened his stride to hit it before Peter, casually pushing it open, holding it a bare second or so too long so Peter could get out without hurrying/hurting himself or using his hand. He stayed in front of Peter a moment to keep up the act, but he soon fell beside him once more.
XXX
In the lobby now, it seemed Sylar had less patience to follow his slow pace. Perhaps, Peter thought, he’d misjudged the cooperation in the elevator and instead of being helpful, Sylar had just been speeding their journey. Maybe he was in more of a hurry to get back to his own ‘territory’ and alone than Peter was. Then the other man surprising him by holding the door open for him, hanging onto it with his fingertips after he’d had gone through, leaving it open enough so Peter didn’t have to shoulder his way through it. Peter’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second at that before he dampened his response to something more normal. He availed himself of the courtesy.
Repeating his thanks seemed awkward, and perhaps overusing the grateful phrasing (twice was enough, especially as he hadn’t managed to work himself up to saying much else), so Peter gave an appreciative nod and looked Sylar in the face for a moment, giving him a quick half-smile of acknowledgement. Sylar fell into step next to him once they were outside. He no longer trailed behind, Peter noticed with a sidelong glance. Of course in the hallway of the apartment building, Sylar hadn’t had a lot of room to walk next to him, but the day before, when they’d gone to the store, and before that, as Peter had sought to escape him - Sylar had always followed.
XXX
Sylar glanced around, secretly observing if Peter cleared the door, which he had. He turned back as they drew level and caught the man’s nod, his face loosening at the smile, such as it was, but it was more than enough. His own lips quirked up as he turned away and looked down, amused and proud to have garnered the expression from this increasingly stoic man. No idea why he’s smiling, but I’ll take it.
XXX
Peter hesitated at the edge of the sidewalk, whereas Sylar did not, taking a step or two into the street before noticing his companion had stopped. When Sylar glanced back at him, Peter said, “It’s kind of creepy out here - all open…and empty. It didn’t feel that empty, really, in the apartments.” He started moving again, walking across the street.
XXX
Sylar started out walking, slowly down over the curb due to his back and the altitude changes to his skull. He began to head towards Peter’s place. About three steps in he noticed that Peter no longer walked beside him; he pulled up short and turned to look. The medic seemed deep in thought. Maybe he’s drugged or high on pain, he initially thought before Peter spoke up.
Sylar studied him closely and he found the topic odd, but that was Peter. “Yeah,” he whispered, eyeing their surroundings without seeing it too well. “Seems like it’s not really New York without people, huh,” he said, not entirely a question, but not a statement either. Really the whole thing made him kind of bitter, but he did feel better knowing that Peter would be going through the worse part--the transition, the loss.
Creepy he could deal with, loneliness he’d dealt with, no people whatever…. It hit harder, so much harder than he’d thought. The same was almost true for Peter, minus the creepiness which he’d just stated bothered him. Peter began walking again, past Sylar who started up beside him, keeping pace.
XXX
He stopped outside the door to his apartment. Sylar was still beside him, moving along with him just like they had merely decided to go explore a different building, rather than Peter going up to his own room. Peter paused. He was aware that he had something fragile here, a tenuous sort-of trust, a truce of sorts - ‘you won’t kill me, I won’t kill you’ and maybe even a ‘you help me, I’ll help you.’ Telling Sylar to fuck off and Peter wanted to be alone didn’t seem right, even if it was exactly what Peter wanted to do, and the rational part of his brain was reminding him that they’d only been together for a few hours and already had a serious fistfight. Further association was ill-advised. Plus he couldn’t defend himself much, if it came to that.
Peter had never listened much to the rational part of his brain. It told him things like not to jump off high buildings and to question the existence of abilities, or perhaps even his own sanity. He was well-accustomed to ignoring it and he did so now, looking down at Sylar’s swollen left wrist and asking, “Are you going to need help wrapping that?”
XXX
Not a minute later the pair reached the entrance of Peter’s designated building. Sylar paused after Peter did at the doors. Oh. He had assumed-- what had he assumed? Peter had stated clearly what he was doing and where he was going. He hadn’t been included he noticed. Sylar took a few steps backwards, placing his hands in his pockets as he felt embarrassment. Alone time. Duh. To save him…almost, the irony, Peter asked about taping his wrist up. His embarrassment continued when Peter glanced at the limb, partly buried in his jeans pocket.
Fair was fair. He’d done the same or similar to Peter earlier when he’d had…something in his jeans pocket, something with an electric cord. Sylar swallowed; his imagination running untamed for a moment as to what that object might be before he stamped ruthlessly down on the runaway thought. (Nathan’s memories did not help the process). Even if Peter told him to fuck off right then, he’d be pretty content. He could have lost the fight so long as things had gone the same way after it.
“Don’t think so. I’ve wrapped my own wrist before; I’m ambidextrous. It’s not a big deal. Different from a hand, fingers.” Sylar nodded towards Peter’s own coloring hand. ‘Thanks’ was…truly a barbed word if it were to slip from his throat and he realized how much it must be costing Peter’s pride to say it twice to his brother’s murderer.
XXX
Peter felt a tension build inside as Sylar glanced up at the building, the other man’s eyes widening just slightly as he comprehended where they were. The steps back he took made it clearer that he understood his lack of welcome. His embarrassed posture did nothing to dispel Peter’s tension - it just changed the tenor of it from apprehension that Sylar might insist on not leaving him alone (and cause Peter to be explicit in seeking solitude), to discomfort that the other man might deal really badly with such rejection.
Sylar still struck Peter as highly unstable. His overly shamed response at the moment was a perfect example. Saying good-bye to someone shouldn’t engender the reaction he was getting and so Peter stood there uncomfortably, not quite sure what to do because he didn’t know Sylar well enough to know what he’d do in response to any given action on Peter’s part. The empath made his inquiry about Sylar’s hand and thankfully Sylar didn’t take him up on the implied offer of assistance, just as Peter was not taking Sylar up on his somewhat more overt offer from previous.
XXX
Sylar took a step further back, turning in the direction of his own apartment. He had his…way around saying thanks, something that said the same thing. Sylar had always been better at gestures than words anyway, apparently neither really ever really worked well for him. Words made him a lying psychopath and gestures, actions made him….Sylar so it would seem, the psychopath part.
“Peter, uh…” he began, turning back, tugging the bottle of painkillers out from his pocket with stiffening, scraped fingers to place it in Peter’s bag. He couldn’t hold it; couldn’t catch it or else he would have thrown it, the memory of Nathan teaching Peter how to catch at the age of six coming to mind. “You’re a medical man, I trust you to be more responsible with those than Mohinder was,” Sylar said by way of a joke (Mohinder was a geneticist as he never failed to tire of telling everyone and Sylar’s way of asking Peter to be careful about his consumption) as he walked away with a brief, tight, awkward sort of grin.
God, just let this not make me look like a mother hen with a crush or something, anything but that. Let him not find me to care, were his parting thoughts.
XXX
Peter turned to eye the door to the building when Sylar changed direction and came back, addressing him and holding something out. The erstwhile killer put the bottle in the sack where it rested on top of the cloth strips, themselves on top of the bear’s hat. Peter recognized the pill bottle from the apartment, complete with annoying childproof cap. Peter hoped the cap was only on loosely, as he’d set it before. If not…it didn’t matter too much. He’d gotten a bottle of painkillers from the store the day before. They were in his apartment. But Sylar might not know that and the gesture he was making was clear.
“Sure,” Peter said with a short nod. He stepped over next to the doors and shrugged his left shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Not that I think I’ll have much choice in that, other than maybe hiding in my apartment all day. I’m not going to hide from him - especially not after the fight. He wouldn’t be intimidated, though he was clear that he’d lost. Something his father told him once came back to him: ‘The winner is the one who gets to say when the fight ends.’ Last time I noticed, that was the guy holding the bat - not me. He shifted the bag carefully and managed the door himself. He propped it open with his foot and watched for a moment as Sylar walked away. Peter shook his head briefly and went inside.
Once within the apartment he’d at least temporarily claimed as his own, Peter leaned against the door and groaned…in pain, in frustration, in tension. Screaming was not out of the question, but his face hurt a bit much for that. He set down the sack on the nearest horizontal surface, which was the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He touched his forehead and went back to the door, locking it. He looked at the stack of soup cans next to it, ready to be assembled as a warning system in case someone had a key and bypassed the locks with it. Peter stared at them blankly, then picked up the top two with his left hand and moved them into the pantry. Leaning over made his face throb, so he didn’t put away more than those two - but he’d get the rest later. He didn’t think he needed them.
He turned on all the lights, gathered up his supplies, and settled on the couch. To his annoyance, he did not actually have a tube of antibiotic ointment. He cleaned his face and knuckles with the peroxide and cotton swabs that had been in this apartment from the start. The place also had a single box of bandages which he made use of. He applied ben-gay to anywhere that the muscles were sore. Finally he tackled wrapping his hand. He didn’t do a good job of it, but it was better than it looked, it didn’t cut off his circulation and it seemed snug enough to work. After that came ice packs, arranging pillows to keep all the right parts elevated, and way too much time to do nothing more than think.
XXX
Sylar grinned to himself as he walked stiffly down the abandoned road in an abandoned city towards his apartment. ‘See you tomorrow’. It rung in his ears. Peter had taken almost all of that exceptionally well. While he wasn’t sorry per se that Peter had taken the trouble to break his hand using Sylar’s head, he was….interested. That was about the best word he could tack onto it; interest without being concerned or apologetic or even guilty. Peter was the one who’d swung first to begin the fight and he’d made the choice to take a stab at Sylar’s head so he himself was blameless to his logic.
I’m not convincing myself out of guilt; there is none except for premeditated aggravation which I’m not guilty for. The several blocks to ‘home’ seemed to take longer than normal; he figured that was because Peter wasn’t there. He could tell his hormones were haywire; his frame, aching and sore thought it was, flooded with testosterone and epinephrine, endorphins from life. The half a day he’d just experienced had been the most life he’d had in three years.
It was hard not to get swept under the current. A fight, winning it, companionship, getting said companion to smile a little…He sighed, quite pleased with himself. He hadn’t even toyed with Peter….much and the medic walked away with superficial injuries. What is it about him that makes me think I have my powers back and I’m being merciful to him? He glanced back behind himself now several blocks away, swerving out of his formerly straight walking path to gaze a second at Peter’s building which may well have been Peter himself.
He faced straight ahead; hurrying to his apartment as temptation suddenly struck him and struck him hard. I could do anything to him….No one would ever know. I don’t need his permission. Those thoughts sucked oxygen from his brain and made him heady on top of his throbbing headache as he opened the door to his building. He found himself in his apartment, a little shell-shocked.
Tapping the door closed, he wandered into the bathroom, discarding his coat on the bed as he passed, crouching slowly to get into the cabinet under the sink for his Neosporin, ben-gay and tiger-balm. To say he owned a brace was relative; he had a wrist brace, but he was fairly sure compression bandages would work better.
More comfortable at any rate, so he grabbed those out and set them on the counter. Sylar checked his face in the mirror for cuts and bruises. He purposefully never lingered at the mirror these days, so he moved on when he found nothing but swelling, coloring bruises; something that couldn’t be helped other than to ice them and he didn’t bother to. Hell, maybe Peter will get his kicks off it.
He turned to the side, trying to use the pair of mirrors that reflected into each other at an angle on the walls to see the area Peter had hit. Peter had hit him behind the ears before; he’d had regeneration one of those times. Peter plays dirty. Prying into his hair, he tentatively prodded the bruised skin, but felt no wetness of blood, even if the slightest touch drew a hiss of pain from him unbidden. I’ll live.
He removed his shirt first so he didn’t get the ointments on it and took up the ben-gay and tiger-balm and rubbed them into his back and wrist, washing his hands of the smelly stuff as soon as he was done. I haven’t had someone on my hands in three years, he thought idly. The ointment was next and he leaned against the sink, dabbing it on his knuckles.
Padding out into the kitchen, bandages in hand, he got out the ice packets he’d found years ago; he’d kept it around for the odd headache and migraine he suffered from leaning over his clocks or books for too long and for him that could be a long time. Bringing them back, Sylar sat wearily on his cot, wrapping his wrist gently and securing it with the metal tabs, placing an ice pack on it as he slowly lay back.
The second ice packet went behind his head on the pillow. At first he intended to think, plan something out, pick a stratagem in regards to his new companion, but his eyelids grew heavy despite his earlier nap. With the ben-gay at work on his back, he drifted off relatively pain free.
XXX
Continued...