More Between Us Chapter 59/? "Proximity Alert"
More Between Us, Chapter 59/? "Proximity Alert"
Day 16, December 26, morning
Peter sighed, affected by the tears. He tilted his head away and then back. He tried not to look at Sylar, but his eyes kept sliding to the other man anyway. They burned a little; his chest felt tight. He knew the feelings - sympathetic, empathetic, contagious. “Sylar ...” he said softly, almost a whine or a plea. All he could think of at the moment was the last time he'd had tears in Sylar's presence, when he'd dropped the guy, or Nathan, off the roof of Mercy Heights. Sylar had been laughing on the way down and saluted Peter after. How many times had Sylar seen others in emotional pain and scoffed at them? But I'm not Sylar.
The man hesitated at Peter saying his name, eyeing him.
“I didn't say I was going to take that away from you. I woke up with you in my bed and I'm still here, Sylar. I'm right here.” Peter pointed at the floor. “I haven't left. You did do something. You got in my bed without my permission. And you knew it - we'd already talked about the door. I'd told you I didn't want you in bed with me. I didn't sleep in the chair the other night for no reason, Sylar.” Sylar walked out; Peter let him go.
XXX
Sylar was too worn out to care what Peter thought if he stopped by the bathroom. Doing so, door shut for once, he cleaned his face up, clearing his nose but he didn’t linger. He wasn’t going to hide away and sob (at least not when Peter knew about it). Retrieving his book from the guest room, he returned to the couch to make a point that he, Sylar, was going to do what he pleased and that didn’t include pouting and crying like a heartbroken girl with a crush - which was something Peter might do. He was prepared to ignore Peter if he had to but it sucked to be around the guy and know everything was off limits. No touching, no talking, no looking. Reading quietly was okay, though, as it always had been.
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Peter waited until Sylar was situated on the couch, while he put the finishing tightenings in place on his brace. He leaned forward, clear body language to continue talking. When the guy cracked the book instead, Peter felt a stirring of anger at being deliberately snubbed. It was a juvenile punishment for not … what? Fucking the guy? Getting fucked? Or just sleeping with him? He didn't know. He leaned back, forearms out along the uncomfortably modern arms of the chair.
Peter took a different tack. “I think … that after three years alone, that experience of not having anyone else here, never knowing if there will be, thinking everyone's abandoned you, maybe even not being sure who you are …” He swallowed, mind skittering around the edges of his bad dream, trying to balance the subtext with the reality as he faded the description from one to the other, “not being able to help yourself, not knowing how you can help yourself … I think finding someone after that would leave a person with the urge to grab on, hold on, and not let go. That's how I felt the other night when you woke me up out of that nightmare.” He watched Sylar for a few long moments, letting it sink in that he wasn't without understanding. “But that's me. How would you feel?” He canted it theoretical on purpose - people often had trouble saying how they felt at a given moment, but could address how they might feel in similar circumstances more easily.
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Immediately his attention was suckered in, the content was…so accurate. Sylar frowned and stared between them at the floor, introverted. Oh, God, how does he know that? He…feels that, too? Slowly he closed the book. He could feel Peter watching him but it wasn’t important. His eyes tracked back and forth over invisible points in the carpet. Is he real? Once again he considered the idea that Peter was a hallucination, a self-made image teasing him and telling him what he wanted to hear like when he’d shape-shifted into Mom and made her say things. It would explain how Peter knew to say those things because no one understood that, not that well. Peter…This is Peter. He’s done that before, for…(Nathan). He’s an empath; he knows things. Maybe…Sylar inhaled.
“Lost,” he said simply. Helpless to get what I want. Pain crashed through him with the thought that perhaps Peter was passing judgment on his behavior, demanding strength instead of needy weakness; guiltily he worriedly glanced up at the other man’s open, handsome face, soothed by what he saw there. “I know I should be doing better. I’m doing my best.” (That is such a lie.) I can’t do my best here; I have needs, things I want. Leaving him alone is not an option. “No, I mean-…” He sighed, setting his book aside and shifting so he sat with his feet planted on the floor, hands wrapped around each other. Licking his lips, Sylar addressed what Peter probably wanted him to, “I got into bed with you. But I didn’t molest you, okay? I didn’t.” He looked Peter dead in the eye for that. “I didn’t touch y- I woke up and my hands were on your chest, but I didn’t do it consciously. You were just…really close. I don’t think I do anything weird in my sleep, except for the nightmares.” What a series of corrections that was.
The nurse’s point about staying here despite the incident(s) was a valid one - the man’s bark was worse than his bite unless his family was mentioned - Peter wasn’t outright denying him. Sylar clung to that and the fact that he was being listened to and offered a voice. “It’s been three years and it was difficult before that. It’s complicated and you just make it more complicated,” he pleaded, hoping Peter could interpret that correctly, somehow.
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Peter mulled over Sylar’s last statements. Three years without people and hard to get any human interaction before that, too? I can imagine getting friends wouldn’t be easy while you were a killer. No friends, he’s said. No family. Then there’s whatever happened with his mother. And I make it complicated because … of Nathan (memories, brother, victim?), that I came here to get him out (rescue, doesn’t want to help me but wants out?), he wants to kill me (competitor, antagonist, but he can’t because then he’d be alone). And he’s making passes at me. Where is his mind in regard to me? It’s gotta be all over the place.
“Yeah,” Peter breathed out, leaning forward to match Sylar’s body language better, putting elbows on knees as his hands hung together loosely. “It’s pretty complicated for me, too, right now, trying to figure out how to relate to you - are we … enemies, or friends, or something in between? Sometimes it seems like one, but then it switches. I don’t think things are as complicated now as they were before coming here - at least here, it’s just the two of us. That … simplifies things a lot. It lets us focus. I didn’t have the same problems you did, before, but I spent some time on the run, feeling like anyone and everyone might turn me in, turn on me - family and friends especially. People I should have been able to trust were the worst. It’s not a good feeling.” Very seriously, with an inquisitive tilt to his head, he asked, “How do you deal with that?”
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Thank God. Peter took it seriously; didn’t lash out. It left him almost weak with relief and hope. Petrelli was really throwing the concepts at him: friends, enemies, the option of something in between and Peter’s assumption/belief that he - they - should be able to trust friends and family. That wasn’t universal to Sylar’s understanding. It was kind of shocking to try to see how Peter’s life wasn’t perfectly linear, the guy had everything (besides a father, brother, mate and full-range abilities) so it was difficult to even picture what ‘complications’ might be there. It still sounded a bit far-fetched and false, the typical whiny rich boy complaining his lot. Turning back to himself, at first, Sylar blanked on answering that even to himself. Deal? You don’t deal with it - you can’t; that’s the whole point. If you could deal with it or prevent it, it wouldn’t happen or it would be easier. Do I seem like I ‘deal’ with shit well? Why would he think I deal with anything at all? I don’t know how. Eventually the answer was simple and obvious; his primary solution and cathartic method was: “Killing people, apparently.”
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Peter felt a stab between his eyes, some bit of angry tension about Sylar's murders that Peter didn't want to be feeling at the moment. He reached up and rubbed it away with his thumb, hanging onto the tenuous emotional openness that seemed to be literally warming his skin. Sylar's comment didn't seem to be snark and Peter felt that it wasn't. It was … complicated, just like Sylar had said. “Does it help?” Peter asked that honestly, ignoring his own experiences of shooting his father and trying to strangle Will in Ireland. Just because killing people hadn't helped him didn't mean that in that moment, Peter wasn't open to the idea that maybe it had helped Sylar. He wanted to unsnarl the man's complicated emotions, get at what was underneath it, and make it simple.
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Once more, Sylar had to really stop and consider the question. On one hand, yes, killing people helped. It was a release, a vent, a pressure valve, an outlet, useful and necessary, too, because it made him more special and rid the world of incompetent, fearful freaks. On the other hand…well, his situation and mental state spoke for itself. Killing led to more killing which led to himself getting killed…wash, rinse, repeat. But how to answer? “I don’t know, Peter. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it.” Not right now. He knew how bad that sounded but he didn’t have a clear answer to give, even to explain his actions. Sylar gave the younger man an apologetic, pent-up, yet thankful look.
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Peter gave a small, expressive, and acquiescing shrug, accepting Sylar's answer even if it was a lack of an answer. He didn't push.
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It struck Sylar that he couldn’t remember (or perhaps didn’t know) what Peter’s original intent was for this ‘discussion.’ “You’re leading the witness, counselor,” Sylar smirked a little, as much as he could but it was hollow because of what was going on inside him. Peter had picked up a few things in prelaw; the rest of it from living with a pair of stubborn, power-hungry lawyers. //It always touched him when Peter attacked from the shadows with infallible arguments; of course, it was also equally annoying and troublesome because of that near-infallibility. His baby bleeding heart brother saw injustice everywhere, it was akin to a tainted witness, having blinders on, Ma called it ‘rose-colored glasses’. So help them all, Peter knew enough to sink any ship and the he had timing (usually bad) in spades.// “What do you want?”
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Peter studied Sylar for a long moment, but there was no help there. He was hoping to see something to tip him off as to the sort of answer Sylar wanted. Peter let his eyes fall to the carpet as he considered the question. 'Nathan back' was an answer, but painful given the audience. 'Help' was a better one, but he didn't feel like the thing with Emma involved asking for assistance that shouldn't be willingly given by any person of good heart. “Happiness,” he said with a tone that bordered on morose because he was depressed about how difficult it was to get what he wanted. He couldn't make anyone be happy and sometimes it seemed like the world conspired to have him on the verge of fucking it up all the time. “I want people to be happy,” he said sadly.
He stirred in his chair, uneasy that the attention was on him and his motives. Even if he thought they were good, he expected them to be judged harshly and laughed at. Nathan would have scoffed and snorted, rolling his eyes and looking away because Peter wasn't worth looking at while he was voicing the kind of ideals Nathan would call childish. Arthur … well, Nathan's reaction was kinder. But Angela would have understood - at least, Peter thought she would have.
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Sylar frowned and gifted his companion with an ‘are you serious?’ forward tilt of his head, “Huh?” he asked dumbly, after watching Peter squirm for a moment. It was typical Peter, though, inarguably. Am I…’people’ to him? I told him what I wanted. Doesn’t he know- hasn’t he learned he’s asking a lot? What’s more, that tune sounded familiar to Sylar, not just Nathan. Nathan who knuckled under and followed orders like a good soldier boy because he allowed himself to think there was no other option - and he did want that pat on the head. But Peter doesn’t want to suck up to people - he’s a pain in the ass! A rebel! Sylar blinked at the idealist.
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Peter straightened and sought safety by turning the lens back on Sylar. “You want to hear someone nearby when you sleep, is that it? I remember you fell asleep while I was playing the piano, too. You don't have to be in bed with me … specifically … do you?” Because that might be a deal-breaker.
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Sylar pointed out, “You were playing music on the piano. And you want someone very close when you sleep, too, Petey; your dick told me so; several times.” At that, he shut his mouth and thought through his next answer carefully. If he pushed it, would Peter balk? He knew the safe choice was ‘no’ but… to come so close (literally); Sylar didn’t want to lose ground. It had been wonderful to wake up to another, semi-safe, warm, human body, at least until the bump-and-grind began. So he hadn’t been invited, even stolen the experience was sweet. And strange. The emotional and mental reliefs a bedmate would provide paled a little next to kind of being molested in his sleep - it was a jarring reality Sylar was less fond of. But sleep would not be separated from molestation, unfortunately.
Hoping to avoid replying, Sylar looked up under his brows, pushing past his anxiety to rumble, “I want you in bed with me. I said I don’t mind your sleeping habits.” Then it occurred to him that he was clearly approaching this wrong, “But we don’t have to do anything,” he offered.
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Peter tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at that oh-so-sexy invitation. It was so not where he was at, though (and not where he wanted to be, more importantly). “We're not doing anything,” Peter said, levering himself up out of the chair so he could pace around with an uneven limp. “Whether you mind my habits or not doesn't matter.” Peter pointed at his chest demonstratively, puffing it out a bit. “I don't want you in bed with me. My dick doesn't have a say in this. I don't want you close when I sleep; I don't want you close at all.”
He paused there. His tone had become angry and what he'd said was meaner than he'd intended. It was tumbling out because he felt threatened by the idea Sylar would ignore his wishes and try to cozy up Peter like there wasn't this looming issue of Sylar's past between them, like Peter's feelings about all of that didn't matter. And worse yet, that he'd do it with that voice and those eyes and all the other things Peter might find tempting.
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A delayed blink as his expression shuttered was the only reaction Sylar gave. On the outside. Internally, that didn’t just sting; it hurt. Something so simple and small and it still had that effect. He’d been hoping…well, Peter acted like things might be warming up - marginally, yes - but warming all the same. Now it was disgust and misery, the usual tale; he wanted to simultaneously crawl into a hole and curl up there and beat Peter’s face until it spoke something more pleasant.
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“I am not here for your amusement,” Peter said quietly, his voice laced with threat as he stopped his pacing to glare at the guy.
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Sylar’s face and body language chilled exponentially. His hands were tied (whether to crawl away or beat his companion) but he refused to lay down for this, whatever it was, wherever it came from. “Did I giggle?” Sylar rejoined, matching Peter’s tone and glare. “But I’m here for your amusement, is that it? Are you gonna lie to me again? You said you weren’t going to take this away from me.” Through his anger and helplessness, his voice near the end was a lot more pouty than he wanted it to be.
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Peter's eyes narrowed again. He came closer, returning to his chair to stand next to it with one hand on the back, still angry and tense. “I'm standing right here. What I want to do is walk out that door and do my own thing - whatever that might be - until I calm down, regardless of how long that takes. I'm not saying we're going to stay in different apartments, not even saying we're going to stay in different rooms. I am saying I don't want you in bed with me just like you're saying that's where you want me.” He paused a beat before going on with a less challenging tone, “The more you try to manipulate me on this, the less I feel I can trust you. Whether I trust you, how comfortable I feel about things, is important. You're acting like my feelings don’t matter to you. But if these are things you want - my cooperation, goodwill, being with you when I don't have to be, helping you more than the minimum that's medically required - then my feelings matter.”
Peter turned a little, hiking his hip up on the arm of the chair and letting some of his weight settle on it. “Why would you think I’d be interested in being intimate with you? You killed my brother. Do you think I can just put aside my feelings about that? I’m trying, Sylar. Really.” He felt his eyes water and nose burn, sad and frustrated that Sylar expected Peter to be capable of that much, so soon. He felt like he was already performing a herculean task emotionally, only to be derided for not being even better. Sylar was alive, he was whole, he had even been completely helpless in Peter’s care and suffered not for it. Peter had come here to get him, willing to believe a prophecy that Sylar could do something worthwhile despite dozens of murders and years of preying on the weak and unprepared to attest to how he couldn’t. But none of that was acknowledged, nor good enough - not until Peter prostituted himself, apparently, would it count (and perhaps not even then, if Sylar’s uncaring attitude was any indication).
“I’m trying to treat you like a … like my patient. Like … someone who hasn’t done what you have. Sometimes I can’t … I can’t manage that.” He took a deep breath. His voice was starting to catch, so he looked away and tried to get a hold of himself. He crossed his arms tensely, hugging himself and looking withdrawn, wishing he wasn’t there. How nice it would be to be somewhere else, doing something good, making a difference to someone, instead of being here, where he felt insufficient and like he was pissing Sylar off by simply having opinions about himself and what he should do with himself that weren’t what Sylar wanted them to be. “I’m glad I’ve done a good enough job that you think it would be nice to be in bed with me.” He looked back to Sylar. “That’s … thank you.” He wiped at his eyes, irritated and upset, turning to walk over to the wheelchair and aimlessly look through the contents of the top-most bag. He wasn’t looking for anything other than something else to do besides look at Sylar.
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Not minutes ago, Peter was understanding Sylar’s state of being, now…The emotional whiplash from hope and relief to pure helplessness and despair left him speechless, long enough for Peter to…tear up and finish. Obviously the hope, as always, was a joke; and the relief was fleeting. It came and went with the overly-emotional Petrelli’s moods. Sylar was dependent and unable to predict the next ‘swing, nor to barter or plead his way into things because Peter claimed not to want them or Peter wouldn’t stick to the deal - there were way too many ‘or’s’ in this situation. He hated it beyond measure. He could see the fulfillment of his needs slipping away. Who said anything about intimate and ‘nice’? And then he thanks m-? “What are you doing?” Sylar demanded quickly of Peter riffling through his medical bag.
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What am I doing? Sylar's curt tone was not lost on Peter, who looked back to see what was going on. The man's expression of too-sharp attention clued him in. Fear. Afraid of medical stuff. I injected him back in that car, outside the Stanton. Maybe he thinks I'm looking for something to use on him. Peter pushed himself upright and showed his hands. “Not doing anything.” He tried to think of a good excuse or reason, but he couldn't find one. The more he thought about it, the more it struck him as completely valid of Sylar to be concerned - Peter was quite possibly going for a weapon, even if not consciously. Peter walked away, not sure where to go. He went to the end of the bed and sat there, feeling like a kid in a time-out.
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“And you premeditated taking my mind from me. Sacrificing me for your brother; my mind so he can have my body. How is that a fair trade? Like I don’t even have a right to my own mind and body? You didn’t even notice when I was him.” Sylar mostly remembered how hard Peter had clung to that wishful illusion. It had been so flattering and heart-warming, being defended against the world by someone who loved him - even if he didn’t know who he was. For a few weeks, he’d had a real brother who accepted and acknowledged him, who heard out his problems and supported him. Of course that kind of acceptance only came when he was someone else, he knew that was the price he paid for belonging and purpose. He’d run out of words to describe how betraying and violating that was, and Sylar was not the only victim. Peter was active collateral, the kind that dragged brother and killer both through the ordeal, ‘assistance’ unasked for. “You’re an idiot if you think that gets me in the mood,” he croaked finally.
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“Don't want you in the mood. That's my point. What's between us is too fucked up for it.” He sighed, his face made a slow wince, and Peter ran his hand through his hair, fisting it briefly for the sensation of tugging on his scalp in distress over how he'd missed Sylar-as-Nathan. “Nathan and I weren't … we weren't on really good terms after the Stanton … or before it, either.” He let his shoulders slump, hands going to his knees. It was depressing. He felt like a failure, even though he didn't know what he might have done if he'd found out earlier about the identity swap. “After what he did with Homeland Security and me seeing what had happened at Coyote Sands, I could see he was just repeating the same thing all over again. It made the Company look … reasonable. And I couldn't understand that. I couldn't get my mind around how all the bad stuff the Company was responsible for still made them the better choice than trying to be honest with the world about what we could do. So I just left. I checked out. I didn't talk to anyone - there was no one I could talk to, about anything! Got my job back. And just … I quit looking up. I quit dreaming about flying. Just … made my world small. It seemed like it was working.” Peter shook his head ruefully. “But you're right - I didn't even notice.”
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“Goddamnit, Peter, focus!” Sylar burst out. He’d been watching in confused horror as Peter went on some introspective retelling of his life. What’s worse was that it didn’t even sound that bad. But the topper was how Sylar’s accusations went completely unacknowledged. He’s as shameless as I always thought. But he’s too much of a coward to stand up for it. He’s so…Petrelli. He really is going to ignore that, ignore me. Probably the worst assault and trauma of his life, dismissed. Not that he should have expected more, even from his otherwise soulfully understanding caretaker. It was a smooth move, Peter changing the subject; Sylar was effectively silenced. It was like he’d not even spoken or existed. His expression drooped. No rehabilitation, no justice for the damned. Nothing had changed. Taking advantage of Peter’s silence, he took a breath, recovering enough of a stoic face to converse beyond his perceived loss.
“I thought I was the one who had a concussion; at least I can stay on topic,” he snipped now he had the bastard’s attention, keeping himself the voice of reason while making a point, “May I sleep on the couch while you take the master bed, or is that too close for you?” Asking people for things wasn’t really his speed but the situation called for it to be spelled out.
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Peter blinked up at Sylar in silent but obedient surprise. He couldn't, offhand, recall the man using that tone with him before - few did, as it was rude as hell. Those few were limited to his father, and occasionally Nathan when he was particularly irate. I thought I was on topic … Aren’t we talking about the shit between us? “Um,” he hemmed in response to Sylar's question, “yes. I mean no, it's not too close. I just don't want you to get in bed with me, okay?” He didn't like the suddenly apologetic tone he had, but that's what came out when he was snapped at like that. It left him feeling guilty no matter what he'd done or not done.
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Sylar didn’t bother to hide his pout.
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He swallowed and looked away to the side, then down at his brace as he fiddled nervously with it. Maybe that wasn't what we were talking about. Maybe what we were talking about was how he was in bed with me last night and … yeah, that's what we were talking about. In a hesitant voice, Peter brought up, “I was really thinking that maybe sometime today we could go back to your place, or at least consider it.” Christ, get a grip, Peter. All he has to do is snap at you and you sound like you're sniveling in front of Dad. He cleared his throat. “That way you'd have your clocks and your clothes. I could sleep on the couch until we figured something out.” Is this going to be permanent? I'm not sure I'm down with you as a roommate for like … forever. But Peter didn't voice that, waiting for Sylar's response to the idea of a return trip today.
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“Alright,” Sylar agreed shortly because Peter would stay near him no matter the location. It counted for something. He hadn’t even asked for it and that was comforting. I’ll be comfortable, at home, but he won’t be. Maybe he thinks his workload will be lighter that way. He had nothing else to say - Peter had talked about his things, Sylar spoke about his, nothing got decided but he had a passable answer, which he was glad of. The conversation was over, so he disengaged to amuse himself until Peter wished to leave. Sylar faced forward, shifting the pillow to the other side of the couch, before lying against it, feet propped on the cushions. This way he was pointed in Peter’s direction. His book reopened between him and the nurse and he involved himself with reading since reality depressed him. The pit of loneliness opened up for him again and he had a hard time believing that Peter didn’t want even the most basic contact for contact’s sake, especially if his claim of ‘making his world small’ was true. That Sylar could understand, having come from a small world himself.
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Peter felt dismissed. Put on top of being snapped at and verbally jerked around, it stung and left him angry, but there was really nothing to say. What might have been a discussion of what they had between them had been rudely cut off, or perhaps, Peter considered, it was his attempt to broach the larger subject that was rude. In any case, a boundary had been set and Sylar had actually accepted it in a clear manner. Peter decided to take that as a victory for both of them and to make good his escape before something happened to sour things further. “I’m going to go downstairs for a while.” He stood and let himself out.
Several hours later saw his return, clothes changed as he’d braved the melting snow to go across the street to his own apartment. There was still ice underneath, but he’d gone slow and it had been alright. He was happier, having experienced the usual reset of his mood in Sylar’s absence, back to a mostly optimistic baseline even if that was a bit rocky given the things that had happened in his life recently. Peter had with him a plastic bag with a loaf of bread, a couple cans of tuna, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of pickle relish. He raised it briefly after knocking and entering. “Got lunch. Thought we’d eat before we go. How’s your appetite?” Peter looked to Sylar for his reaction, his own expression hopeful and trying to engage.
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Reading, disturbed sleep, in and out of nightmares that had eventually woken him, now he was back to reading, just about to doze again when he heard the knock. Peter’s back. The stress of being alone lifted. Sylar wanted to rush over and…well, touch the guy. It bothered him - that he had this stupid feeling at all, that he couldn’t get rid of it and that he couldn’t do anything to express himself. If he had to worry every time Peter left…His dignity was fast going out the window. But Peter was real and he was here. “Hey,” he said sleepily, blinking a few times to wake himself up, orienting on Peter. Go? The- yeah. “Hungry but…nauseous,” was his shy admission.
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Peter had a half-second of pause there, accompanied by a pleased smile and the realization that Sylar had just given him honesty - real, actual honesty about his symptoms. And he liked the expression on the guy's face, probably more than was polite. Thinking it might help Sylar to understand Peter’s medical choices, he explained, “Zofran lasts four or five hours and it’s safe to take more doses as long as it’s not closer together than that. The usual process is that whatever was making a person sick - reaction to anesthesia or chemo - will have worn off during that time. But for a concussion, we just have to go by how you feel. Let me know if you need more. I don’t want to be on your case all the time, but I’m still pretty worried that you’re not getting enough.” He turned to the kitchen counter to unload his bag, glancing around for any evidence that Sylar had snacked or eaten without him. He didn’t see any. He headed for the butter dish, asking, “I’ve got tuna here for sandwiches. Do you like it like you had the salmon? Just meat and butter? I thought I’d try some pickle relish on mine.” I’ll do his first so he can’t complain about the knife, but before the food I should probably get the medicine in him.
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Sylar sat up, relieved and wide-eyed. Like a moth to flame, he was there hovering a few feet from Peter as he spoke. “Okay.” The drugs had helped him, not hurt him - they’d worked. “Can-can you get hooked on that stuff? The Zolfran?” All he knew was that it was an injective drug, drugs led to addictions, and Peter knew about and had done drugs and Sylar had something of a problem with temptation. And he had a considerably happier bundle of five-foot-ten Italian as his current fixation.
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“No, you can't,” Peter said, leaving the half-started food prep to go wash his hands (or at least his left hand). Sylar was crowding him a little, too. “It's a really commonly used medication. You're not going to develop a tolerance for it either. The technical name for it is ondansetron. Zofran's the brand name,” he concluded, enunciating the word just a little because Sylar had added an L to it. He finished up with washing, realizing strict hygiene probably wasn't that important here. If the food wasn't decaying, then infection risk was out. Isn't it? I think it is. He turned to face Sylar, drying himself on a fresh paper towel rather than the dishtowel because even though he 'knew' better, the habit was still there.
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Sylar nodded, still thinking a moment before agreeing, nodding again more definitively, “Alright.” The mention of the nurse being worried and the easy, open offer for more medical (drug) assistance went a long way. “I’m sorry, what else did you ask?”
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It took Peter a moment to place what Sylar was asking about, as his mind was already moving ahead with calculating dosage and time since this morning's injection, and wondering if Sylar wanted him to take some as well again. “Oh. I was asking what you wanted on your sandwich.” He gestured at the food on the counter. “So if you wanted something else, I could go get it before we started.”
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“Butter and tuna?” Sylar made a face. “Relish is fine. Is there mayonnaise? That’s what my mom used to put in tuna sandwiches,” he mumbled distractedly, looking around for the stuff to see if Peter had it. A second later, he realized what he’d just said, sounding like he still lived at home at the least. Crap. He cleared his throat awkwardly, turning to the fridge to get drinks of some kind. “We’re pretty much out of milk,” he declared, “There’s…sports drinks, pop, water and beer.”
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Peter nodded at Sylar's somewhat ambiguous statement of preference, deciding to leave the assembly of vital ingredients to him. “I think there's some mayo in the fridge. I remember there was a bunch of condiments in there. Water's fine to drink.” Peter walked over to the medical bag, getting out a new syringe, alcohol wipe, and bottle of medicine, drawing up the dosage while Sylar handled getting out cups for their meal.
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Sylar took the indicated beverage, gathering a pair of bottles. “Did you sleep or…play the piano?” Peter could be easily engaged sometimes, and Sylar was curious and wanted to see if Peter was chatty.
XXX
“I played the piano some. Wanted to take a nap, but I never settled down for it.” Peter picked up the rubber tourniquet and gestured for Sylar to stay at the table for the moment. “If you'll sit, I'll give the shot to you now. Onset time for an intravenous injection is almost immediate, but it will still help to have it more minutes than fewer before you eat.” He waited for Sylar to settle before going forward with the process, taking in Sylar's expression a few times to stay up with any possible sudden mood changes, like if Sylar realized and was offended that Peter was breezing by the part where he injected himself. “I explored the first floor a little more. There's a lot of maintenance space and stuff. And there's a basement with equipment in it. I didn't go through it very far though.” He gave a short laugh and started, “It reminded me of … um.” His brows drew together briefly and he looked down to slide the needle into his patient's arm. He tried to remember if Sylar had any context for the reference he'd almost made.
XXX
As Peter went about the business of prepping the meds, Sylar snagged the bottle of Zofran with his right hand, crossing over himself not to disturb the medic. Briefly, he segregated his attention to try to read the label, seeing nothing but useless medical terms that made no sense to him.
XXX
A quick glance at Sylar's face made clear the man was waiting for him to continue. More soberly, he said, “Well, I didn't have any abilities …” Injection complete, Peter released the tourniquet and collected his supplies, watching for any bleeding and seeing none. “It was after you'd thrown me out the window at Pinehearst. Claire and I were trying to get away from a couple guys my father sent after us and they followed us into some steam tunnels. One of them could create fire. I managed to lever out a gas pipe and when he tried to roast us, it blew up in his face.” Peter shrugged briefly as he disposed of the trash, glancing back at Sylar. “We got away.”
Peter moved on to the kitchen counter, pushing the tuna can to the side with the can opener next to it. “Could you get that open for me?” He went about getting the bread out and opening containers while Sylar helped, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the man.
XXX
Sylar listened, then considered it pensively. Every once in a while Peter has a real, sideways gem that no one expects because it’s not…brute force and in-your-face, he thought of the gas pipe maneuver. It threw off Nathan, who was strategic and prepared, army-trained; Arthur who never bothered and had an uncanny foresight, rarely being ambushed; and Sylar whose preferred method was disguise and manipulation, enemies close until he struck with whatever was handy - knives, bricks, coffee mugs. In the middle of thinking and can-opening, Peter asked for a knife which Sylar went about getting from the drawer closer to himself before it connected. A warning, parental look was given to the nurse, clearly hinting, ‘you’re not going to do that again…Right? You know better.’ Then he handed it over, sparing an eye for the butter/mouth/contaminants while finishing with the tuna. After that, he passed over the mayonnaise.
XXX
Peter saw the look. He ducked his head and frowned, but otherwise went on. “I went outside, too. There's still ice, so we're going to have to go slow, and there's still snow, but it's melting. It's that mushy, heavy snow now and there's just a couple inches of it. You should probably change back into your old clothes so you're covered.” The peek-a-boo band of Sylar's belly was not as distracting as it had been the first time Peter had seen it this morning, but it was still something he was aware of trying to keep his eyes off. It was kind of ridiculous given that he'd seen much more of the man, but somehow the sometimes-there, sometimes-not band of exposed flesh drew his eye more than if Sylar had been entirely shirtless. “I was thinking we'd put our stuff on the wheelchair and roll it along with us. I used it like a walker coming back from the hospital. It was a big help.”
XXX
You went outside? Sylar paused from handling his own sandwich ingredients. For some reason that was a little shocking. He’d let Peter out of his sight and the kid had immediately dashed towards his escape - his companion being near an exit was worrisome because how easy would it be for Peter to just walk away? It was scary to think how close he’d come - every day, every time he slept - to being abandoned. By then Peter was done and Sylar followed him to the table. Covered? Like…my jacket? Wearing jeans so I don’t…get cold or scraped? When that made little sense, he moved on. He wanted to say how he wouldn’t be pushing Peter’s ass around in a wheelchair, not for a mere broken hand, because any of that was pathetic, but on further inspection Sylar realized Peter couldn’t operate the chair himself for that very reason. Guess I would be ‘pushing him around’. He twitched a grin to himself, wiping it off quickly when Peter spoke.
XXX
Continued...
Day 16, December 26, morning
Peter sighed, affected by the tears. He tilted his head away and then back. He tried not to look at Sylar, but his eyes kept sliding to the other man anyway. They burned a little; his chest felt tight. He knew the feelings - sympathetic, empathetic, contagious. “Sylar ...” he said softly, almost a whine or a plea. All he could think of at the moment was the last time he'd had tears in Sylar's presence, when he'd dropped the guy, or Nathan, off the roof of Mercy Heights. Sylar had been laughing on the way down and saluted Peter after. How many times had Sylar seen others in emotional pain and scoffed at them? But I'm not Sylar.
The man hesitated at Peter saying his name, eyeing him.
“I didn't say I was going to take that away from you. I woke up with you in my bed and I'm still here, Sylar. I'm right here.” Peter pointed at the floor. “I haven't left. You did do something. You got in my bed without my permission. And you knew it - we'd already talked about the door. I'd told you I didn't want you in bed with me. I didn't sleep in the chair the other night for no reason, Sylar.” Sylar walked out; Peter let him go.
XXX
Sylar was too worn out to care what Peter thought if he stopped by the bathroom. Doing so, door shut for once, he cleaned his face up, clearing his nose but he didn’t linger. He wasn’t going to hide away and sob (at least not when Peter knew about it). Retrieving his book from the guest room, he returned to the couch to make a point that he, Sylar, was going to do what he pleased and that didn’t include pouting and crying like a heartbroken girl with a crush - which was something Peter might do. He was prepared to ignore Peter if he had to but it sucked to be around the guy and know everything was off limits. No touching, no talking, no looking. Reading quietly was okay, though, as it always had been.
XXX
Peter waited until Sylar was situated on the couch, while he put the finishing tightenings in place on his brace. He leaned forward, clear body language to continue talking. When the guy cracked the book instead, Peter felt a stirring of anger at being deliberately snubbed. It was a juvenile punishment for not … what? Fucking the guy? Getting fucked? Or just sleeping with him? He didn't know. He leaned back, forearms out along the uncomfortably modern arms of the chair.
Peter took a different tack. “I think … that after three years alone, that experience of not having anyone else here, never knowing if there will be, thinking everyone's abandoned you, maybe even not being sure who you are …” He swallowed, mind skittering around the edges of his bad dream, trying to balance the subtext with the reality as he faded the description from one to the other, “not being able to help yourself, not knowing how you can help yourself … I think finding someone after that would leave a person with the urge to grab on, hold on, and not let go. That's how I felt the other night when you woke me up out of that nightmare.” He watched Sylar for a few long moments, letting it sink in that he wasn't without understanding. “But that's me. How would you feel?” He canted it theoretical on purpose - people often had trouble saying how they felt at a given moment, but could address how they might feel in similar circumstances more easily.
XXX
Immediately his attention was suckered in, the content was…so accurate. Sylar frowned and stared between them at the floor, introverted. Oh, God, how does he know that? He…feels that, too? Slowly he closed the book. He could feel Peter watching him but it wasn’t important. His eyes tracked back and forth over invisible points in the carpet. Is he real? Once again he considered the idea that Peter was a hallucination, a self-made image teasing him and telling him what he wanted to hear like when he’d shape-shifted into Mom and made her say things. It would explain how Peter knew to say those things because no one understood that, not that well. Peter…This is Peter. He’s done that before, for…(Nathan). He’s an empath; he knows things. Maybe…Sylar inhaled.
“Lost,” he said simply. Helpless to get what I want. Pain crashed through him with the thought that perhaps Peter was passing judgment on his behavior, demanding strength instead of needy weakness; guiltily he worriedly glanced up at the other man’s open, handsome face, soothed by what he saw there. “I know I should be doing better. I’m doing my best.” (That is such a lie.) I can’t do my best here; I have needs, things I want. Leaving him alone is not an option. “No, I mean-…” He sighed, setting his book aside and shifting so he sat with his feet planted on the floor, hands wrapped around each other. Licking his lips, Sylar addressed what Peter probably wanted him to, “I got into bed with you. But I didn’t molest you, okay? I didn’t.” He looked Peter dead in the eye for that. “I didn’t touch y- I woke up and my hands were on your chest, but I didn’t do it consciously. You were just…really close. I don’t think I do anything weird in my sleep, except for the nightmares.” What a series of corrections that was.
The nurse’s point about staying here despite the incident(s) was a valid one - the man’s bark was worse than his bite unless his family was mentioned - Peter wasn’t outright denying him. Sylar clung to that and the fact that he was being listened to and offered a voice. “It’s been three years and it was difficult before that. It’s complicated and you just make it more complicated,” he pleaded, hoping Peter could interpret that correctly, somehow.
XXX
Peter mulled over Sylar’s last statements. Three years without people and hard to get any human interaction before that, too? I can imagine getting friends wouldn’t be easy while you were a killer. No friends, he’s said. No family. Then there’s whatever happened with his mother. And I make it complicated because … of Nathan (memories, brother, victim?), that I came here to get him out (rescue, doesn’t want to help me but wants out?), he wants to kill me (competitor, antagonist, but he can’t because then he’d be alone). And he’s making passes at me. Where is his mind in regard to me? It’s gotta be all over the place.
“Yeah,” Peter breathed out, leaning forward to match Sylar’s body language better, putting elbows on knees as his hands hung together loosely. “It’s pretty complicated for me, too, right now, trying to figure out how to relate to you - are we … enemies, or friends, or something in between? Sometimes it seems like one, but then it switches. I don’t think things are as complicated now as they were before coming here - at least here, it’s just the two of us. That … simplifies things a lot. It lets us focus. I didn’t have the same problems you did, before, but I spent some time on the run, feeling like anyone and everyone might turn me in, turn on me - family and friends especially. People I should have been able to trust were the worst. It’s not a good feeling.” Very seriously, with an inquisitive tilt to his head, he asked, “How do you deal with that?”
XXX
Thank God. Peter took it seriously; didn’t lash out. It left him almost weak with relief and hope. Petrelli was really throwing the concepts at him: friends, enemies, the option of something in between and Peter’s assumption/belief that he - they - should be able to trust friends and family. That wasn’t universal to Sylar’s understanding. It was kind of shocking to try to see how Peter’s life wasn’t perfectly linear, the guy had everything (besides a father, brother, mate and full-range abilities) so it was difficult to even picture what ‘complications’ might be there. It still sounded a bit far-fetched and false, the typical whiny rich boy complaining his lot. Turning back to himself, at first, Sylar blanked on answering that even to himself. Deal? You don’t deal with it - you can’t; that’s the whole point. If you could deal with it or prevent it, it wouldn’t happen or it would be easier. Do I seem like I ‘deal’ with shit well? Why would he think I deal with anything at all? I don’t know how. Eventually the answer was simple and obvious; his primary solution and cathartic method was: “Killing people, apparently.”
XXX
Peter felt a stab between his eyes, some bit of angry tension about Sylar's murders that Peter didn't want to be feeling at the moment. He reached up and rubbed it away with his thumb, hanging onto the tenuous emotional openness that seemed to be literally warming his skin. Sylar's comment didn't seem to be snark and Peter felt that it wasn't. It was … complicated, just like Sylar had said. “Does it help?” Peter asked that honestly, ignoring his own experiences of shooting his father and trying to strangle Will in Ireland. Just because killing people hadn't helped him didn't mean that in that moment, Peter wasn't open to the idea that maybe it had helped Sylar. He wanted to unsnarl the man's complicated emotions, get at what was underneath it, and make it simple.
XXX
Once more, Sylar had to really stop and consider the question. On one hand, yes, killing people helped. It was a release, a vent, a pressure valve, an outlet, useful and necessary, too, because it made him more special and rid the world of incompetent, fearful freaks. On the other hand…well, his situation and mental state spoke for itself. Killing led to more killing which led to himself getting killed…wash, rinse, repeat. But how to answer? “I don’t know, Peter. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it.” Not right now. He knew how bad that sounded but he didn’t have a clear answer to give, even to explain his actions. Sylar gave the younger man an apologetic, pent-up, yet thankful look.
XXX
Peter gave a small, expressive, and acquiescing shrug, accepting Sylar's answer even if it was a lack of an answer. He didn't push.
XXX
It struck Sylar that he couldn’t remember (or perhaps didn’t know) what Peter’s original intent was for this ‘discussion.’ “You’re leading the witness, counselor,” Sylar smirked a little, as much as he could but it was hollow because of what was going on inside him. Peter had picked up a few things in prelaw; the rest of it from living with a pair of stubborn, power-hungry lawyers. //It always touched him when Peter attacked from the shadows with infallible arguments; of course, it was also equally annoying and troublesome because of that near-infallibility. His baby bleeding heart brother saw injustice everywhere, it was akin to a tainted witness, having blinders on, Ma called it ‘rose-colored glasses’. So help them all, Peter knew enough to sink any ship and the he had timing (usually bad) in spades.// “What do you want?”
XXX
Peter studied Sylar for a long moment, but there was no help there. He was hoping to see something to tip him off as to the sort of answer Sylar wanted. Peter let his eyes fall to the carpet as he considered the question. 'Nathan back' was an answer, but painful given the audience. 'Help' was a better one, but he didn't feel like the thing with Emma involved asking for assistance that shouldn't be willingly given by any person of good heart. “Happiness,” he said with a tone that bordered on morose because he was depressed about how difficult it was to get what he wanted. He couldn't make anyone be happy and sometimes it seemed like the world conspired to have him on the verge of fucking it up all the time. “I want people to be happy,” he said sadly.
He stirred in his chair, uneasy that the attention was on him and his motives. Even if he thought they were good, he expected them to be judged harshly and laughed at. Nathan would have scoffed and snorted, rolling his eyes and looking away because Peter wasn't worth looking at while he was voicing the kind of ideals Nathan would call childish. Arthur … well, Nathan's reaction was kinder. But Angela would have understood - at least, Peter thought she would have.
XXX
Sylar frowned and gifted his companion with an ‘are you serious?’ forward tilt of his head, “Huh?” he asked dumbly, after watching Peter squirm for a moment. It was typical Peter, though, inarguably. Am I…’people’ to him? I told him what I wanted. Doesn’t he know- hasn’t he learned he’s asking a lot? What’s more, that tune sounded familiar to Sylar, not just Nathan. Nathan who knuckled under and followed orders like a good soldier boy because he allowed himself to think there was no other option - and he did want that pat on the head. But Peter doesn’t want to suck up to people - he’s a pain in the ass! A rebel! Sylar blinked at the idealist.
XXX
Peter straightened and sought safety by turning the lens back on Sylar. “You want to hear someone nearby when you sleep, is that it? I remember you fell asleep while I was playing the piano, too. You don't have to be in bed with me … specifically … do you?” Because that might be a deal-breaker.
XXX
Sylar pointed out, “You were playing music on the piano. And you want someone very close when you sleep, too, Petey; your dick told me so; several times.” At that, he shut his mouth and thought through his next answer carefully. If he pushed it, would Peter balk? He knew the safe choice was ‘no’ but… to come so close (literally); Sylar didn’t want to lose ground. It had been wonderful to wake up to another, semi-safe, warm, human body, at least until the bump-and-grind began. So he hadn’t been invited, even stolen the experience was sweet. And strange. The emotional and mental reliefs a bedmate would provide paled a little next to kind of being molested in his sleep - it was a jarring reality Sylar was less fond of. But sleep would not be separated from molestation, unfortunately.
Hoping to avoid replying, Sylar looked up under his brows, pushing past his anxiety to rumble, “I want you in bed with me. I said I don’t mind your sleeping habits.” Then it occurred to him that he was clearly approaching this wrong, “But we don’t have to do anything,” he offered.
XXX
Peter tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at that oh-so-sexy invitation. It was so not where he was at, though (and not where he wanted to be, more importantly). “We're not doing anything,” Peter said, levering himself up out of the chair so he could pace around with an uneven limp. “Whether you mind my habits or not doesn't matter.” Peter pointed at his chest demonstratively, puffing it out a bit. “I don't want you in bed with me. My dick doesn't have a say in this. I don't want you close when I sleep; I don't want you close at all.”
He paused there. His tone had become angry and what he'd said was meaner than he'd intended. It was tumbling out because he felt threatened by the idea Sylar would ignore his wishes and try to cozy up Peter like there wasn't this looming issue of Sylar's past between them, like Peter's feelings about all of that didn't matter. And worse yet, that he'd do it with that voice and those eyes and all the other things Peter might find tempting.
XXX
A delayed blink as his expression shuttered was the only reaction Sylar gave. On the outside. Internally, that didn’t just sting; it hurt. Something so simple and small and it still had that effect. He’d been hoping…well, Peter acted like things might be warming up - marginally, yes - but warming all the same. Now it was disgust and misery, the usual tale; he wanted to simultaneously crawl into a hole and curl up there and beat Peter’s face until it spoke something more pleasant.
XXX
“I am not here for your amusement,” Peter said quietly, his voice laced with threat as he stopped his pacing to glare at the guy.
XXX
Sylar’s face and body language chilled exponentially. His hands were tied (whether to crawl away or beat his companion) but he refused to lay down for this, whatever it was, wherever it came from. “Did I giggle?” Sylar rejoined, matching Peter’s tone and glare. “But I’m here for your amusement, is that it? Are you gonna lie to me again? You said you weren’t going to take this away from me.” Through his anger and helplessness, his voice near the end was a lot more pouty than he wanted it to be.
XXX
Peter's eyes narrowed again. He came closer, returning to his chair to stand next to it with one hand on the back, still angry and tense. “I'm standing right here. What I want to do is walk out that door and do my own thing - whatever that might be - until I calm down, regardless of how long that takes. I'm not saying we're going to stay in different apartments, not even saying we're going to stay in different rooms. I am saying I don't want you in bed with me just like you're saying that's where you want me.” He paused a beat before going on with a less challenging tone, “The more you try to manipulate me on this, the less I feel I can trust you. Whether I trust you, how comfortable I feel about things, is important. You're acting like my feelings don’t matter to you. But if these are things you want - my cooperation, goodwill, being with you when I don't have to be, helping you more than the minimum that's medically required - then my feelings matter.”
Peter turned a little, hiking his hip up on the arm of the chair and letting some of his weight settle on it. “Why would you think I’d be interested in being intimate with you? You killed my brother. Do you think I can just put aside my feelings about that? I’m trying, Sylar. Really.” He felt his eyes water and nose burn, sad and frustrated that Sylar expected Peter to be capable of that much, so soon. He felt like he was already performing a herculean task emotionally, only to be derided for not being even better. Sylar was alive, he was whole, he had even been completely helpless in Peter’s care and suffered not for it. Peter had come here to get him, willing to believe a prophecy that Sylar could do something worthwhile despite dozens of murders and years of preying on the weak and unprepared to attest to how he couldn’t. But none of that was acknowledged, nor good enough - not until Peter prostituted himself, apparently, would it count (and perhaps not even then, if Sylar’s uncaring attitude was any indication).
“I’m trying to treat you like a … like my patient. Like … someone who hasn’t done what you have. Sometimes I can’t … I can’t manage that.” He took a deep breath. His voice was starting to catch, so he looked away and tried to get a hold of himself. He crossed his arms tensely, hugging himself and looking withdrawn, wishing he wasn’t there. How nice it would be to be somewhere else, doing something good, making a difference to someone, instead of being here, where he felt insufficient and like he was pissing Sylar off by simply having opinions about himself and what he should do with himself that weren’t what Sylar wanted them to be. “I’m glad I’ve done a good enough job that you think it would be nice to be in bed with me.” He looked back to Sylar. “That’s … thank you.” He wiped at his eyes, irritated and upset, turning to walk over to the wheelchair and aimlessly look through the contents of the top-most bag. He wasn’t looking for anything other than something else to do besides look at Sylar.
XXX
Not minutes ago, Peter was understanding Sylar’s state of being, now…The emotional whiplash from hope and relief to pure helplessness and despair left him speechless, long enough for Peter to…tear up and finish. Obviously the hope, as always, was a joke; and the relief was fleeting. It came and went with the overly-emotional Petrelli’s moods. Sylar was dependent and unable to predict the next ‘swing, nor to barter or plead his way into things because Peter claimed not to want them or Peter wouldn’t stick to the deal - there were way too many ‘or’s’ in this situation. He hated it beyond measure. He could see the fulfillment of his needs slipping away. Who said anything about intimate and ‘nice’? And then he thanks m-? “What are you doing?” Sylar demanded quickly of Peter riffling through his medical bag.
XXX
What am I doing? Sylar's curt tone was not lost on Peter, who looked back to see what was going on. The man's expression of too-sharp attention clued him in. Fear. Afraid of medical stuff. I injected him back in that car, outside the Stanton. Maybe he thinks I'm looking for something to use on him. Peter pushed himself upright and showed his hands. “Not doing anything.” He tried to think of a good excuse or reason, but he couldn't find one. The more he thought about it, the more it struck him as completely valid of Sylar to be concerned - Peter was quite possibly going for a weapon, even if not consciously. Peter walked away, not sure where to go. He went to the end of the bed and sat there, feeling like a kid in a time-out.
XXX
“And you premeditated taking my mind from me. Sacrificing me for your brother; my mind so he can have my body. How is that a fair trade? Like I don’t even have a right to my own mind and body? You didn’t even notice when I was him.” Sylar mostly remembered how hard Peter had clung to that wishful illusion. It had been so flattering and heart-warming, being defended against the world by someone who loved him - even if he didn’t know who he was. For a few weeks, he’d had a real brother who accepted and acknowledged him, who heard out his problems and supported him. Of course that kind of acceptance only came when he was someone else, he knew that was the price he paid for belonging and purpose. He’d run out of words to describe how betraying and violating that was, and Sylar was not the only victim. Peter was active collateral, the kind that dragged brother and killer both through the ordeal, ‘assistance’ unasked for. “You’re an idiot if you think that gets me in the mood,” he croaked finally.
XXX
“Don't want you in the mood. That's my point. What's between us is too fucked up for it.” He sighed, his face made a slow wince, and Peter ran his hand through his hair, fisting it briefly for the sensation of tugging on his scalp in distress over how he'd missed Sylar-as-Nathan. “Nathan and I weren't … we weren't on really good terms after the Stanton … or before it, either.” He let his shoulders slump, hands going to his knees. It was depressing. He felt like a failure, even though he didn't know what he might have done if he'd found out earlier about the identity swap. “After what he did with Homeland Security and me seeing what had happened at Coyote Sands, I could see he was just repeating the same thing all over again. It made the Company look … reasonable. And I couldn't understand that. I couldn't get my mind around how all the bad stuff the Company was responsible for still made them the better choice than trying to be honest with the world about what we could do. So I just left. I checked out. I didn't talk to anyone - there was no one I could talk to, about anything! Got my job back. And just … I quit looking up. I quit dreaming about flying. Just … made my world small. It seemed like it was working.” Peter shook his head ruefully. “But you're right - I didn't even notice.”
XXX
“Goddamnit, Peter, focus!” Sylar burst out. He’d been watching in confused horror as Peter went on some introspective retelling of his life. What’s worse was that it didn’t even sound that bad. But the topper was how Sylar’s accusations went completely unacknowledged. He’s as shameless as I always thought. But he’s too much of a coward to stand up for it. He’s so…Petrelli. He really is going to ignore that, ignore me. Probably the worst assault and trauma of his life, dismissed. Not that he should have expected more, even from his otherwise soulfully understanding caretaker. It was a smooth move, Peter changing the subject; Sylar was effectively silenced. It was like he’d not even spoken or existed. His expression drooped. No rehabilitation, no justice for the damned. Nothing had changed. Taking advantage of Peter’s silence, he took a breath, recovering enough of a stoic face to converse beyond his perceived loss.
“I thought I was the one who had a concussion; at least I can stay on topic,” he snipped now he had the bastard’s attention, keeping himself the voice of reason while making a point, “May I sleep on the couch while you take the master bed, or is that too close for you?” Asking people for things wasn’t really his speed but the situation called for it to be spelled out.
XXX
Peter blinked up at Sylar in silent but obedient surprise. He couldn't, offhand, recall the man using that tone with him before - few did, as it was rude as hell. Those few were limited to his father, and occasionally Nathan when he was particularly irate. I thought I was on topic … Aren’t we talking about the shit between us? “Um,” he hemmed in response to Sylar's question, “yes. I mean no, it's not too close. I just don't want you to get in bed with me, okay?” He didn't like the suddenly apologetic tone he had, but that's what came out when he was snapped at like that. It left him feeling guilty no matter what he'd done or not done.
XXX
Sylar didn’t bother to hide his pout.
XXX
He swallowed and looked away to the side, then down at his brace as he fiddled nervously with it. Maybe that wasn't what we were talking about. Maybe what we were talking about was how he was in bed with me last night and … yeah, that's what we were talking about. In a hesitant voice, Peter brought up, “I was really thinking that maybe sometime today we could go back to your place, or at least consider it.” Christ, get a grip, Peter. All he has to do is snap at you and you sound like you're sniveling in front of Dad. He cleared his throat. “That way you'd have your clocks and your clothes. I could sleep on the couch until we figured something out.” Is this going to be permanent? I'm not sure I'm down with you as a roommate for like … forever. But Peter didn't voice that, waiting for Sylar's response to the idea of a return trip today.
XXX
“Alright,” Sylar agreed shortly because Peter would stay near him no matter the location. It counted for something. He hadn’t even asked for it and that was comforting. I’ll be comfortable, at home, but he won’t be. Maybe he thinks his workload will be lighter that way. He had nothing else to say - Peter had talked about his things, Sylar spoke about his, nothing got decided but he had a passable answer, which he was glad of. The conversation was over, so he disengaged to amuse himself until Peter wished to leave. Sylar faced forward, shifting the pillow to the other side of the couch, before lying against it, feet propped on the cushions. This way he was pointed in Peter’s direction. His book reopened between him and the nurse and he involved himself with reading since reality depressed him. The pit of loneliness opened up for him again and he had a hard time believing that Peter didn’t want even the most basic contact for contact’s sake, especially if his claim of ‘making his world small’ was true. That Sylar could understand, having come from a small world himself.
XXX
Peter felt dismissed. Put on top of being snapped at and verbally jerked around, it stung and left him angry, but there was really nothing to say. What might have been a discussion of what they had between them had been rudely cut off, or perhaps, Peter considered, it was his attempt to broach the larger subject that was rude. In any case, a boundary had been set and Sylar had actually accepted it in a clear manner. Peter decided to take that as a victory for both of them and to make good his escape before something happened to sour things further. “I’m going to go downstairs for a while.” He stood and let himself out.
Several hours later saw his return, clothes changed as he’d braved the melting snow to go across the street to his own apartment. There was still ice underneath, but he’d gone slow and it had been alright. He was happier, having experienced the usual reset of his mood in Sylar’s absence, back to a mostly optimistic baseline even if that was a bit rocky given the things that had happened in his life recently. Peter had with him a plastic bag with a loaf of bread, a couple cans of tuna, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of pickle relish. He raised it briefly after knocking and entering. “Got lunch. Thought we’d eat before we go. How’s your appetite?” Peter looked to Sylar for his reaction, his own expression hopeful and trying to engage.
XXX
Reading, disturbed sleep, in and out of nightmares that had eventually woken him, now he was back to reading, just about to doze again when he heard the knock. Peter’s back. The stress of being alone lifted. Sylar wanted to rush over and…well, touch the guy. It bothered him - that he had this stupid feeling at all, that he couldn’t get rid of it and that he couldn’t do anything to express himself. If he had to worry every time Peter left…His dignity was fast going out the window. But Peter was real and he was here. “Hey,” he said sleepily, blinking a few times to wake himself up, orienting on Peter. Go? The- yeah. “Hungry but…nauseous,” was his shy admission.
XXX
Peter had a half-second of pause there, accompanied by a pleased smile and the realization that Sylar had just given him honesty - real, actual honesty about his symptoms. And he liked the expression on the guy's face, probably more than was polite. Thinking it might help Sylar to understand Peter’s medical choices, he explained, “Zofran lasts four or five hours and it’s safe to take more doses as long as it’s not closer together than that. The usual process is that whatever was making a person sick - reaction to anesthesia or chemo - will have worn off during that time. But for a concussion, we just have to go by how you feel. Let me know if you need more. I don’t want to be on your case all the time, but I’m still pretty worried that you’re not getting enough.” He turned to the kitchen counter to unload his bag, glancing around for any evidence that Sylar had snacked or eaten without him. He didn’t see any. He headed for the butter dish, asking, “I’ve got tuna here for sandwiches. Do you like it like you had the salmon? Just meat and butter? I thought I’d try some pickle relish on mine.” I’ll do his first so he can’t complain about the knife, but before the food I should probably get the medicine in him.
XXX
Sylar sat up, relieved and wide-eyed. Like a moth to flame, he was there hovering a few feet from Peter as he spoke. “Okay.” The drugs had helped him, not hurt him - they’d worked. “Can-can you get hooked on that stuff? The Zolfran?” All he knew was that it was an injective drug, drugs led to addictions, and Peter knew about and had done drugs and Sylar had something of a problem with temptation. And he had a considerably happier bundle of five-foot-ten Italian as his current fixation.
XXX
“No, you can't,” Peter said, leaving the half-started food prep to go wash his hands (or at least his left hand). Sylar was crowding him a little, too. “It's a really commonly used medication. You're not going to develop a tolerance for it either. The technical name for it is ondansetron. Zofran's the brand name,” he concluded, enunciating the word just a little because Sylar had added an L to it. He finished up with washing, realizing strict hygiene probably wasn't that important here. If the food wasn't decaying, then infection risk was out. Isn't it? I think it is. He turned to face Sylar, drying himself on a fresh paper towel rather than the dishtowel because even though he 'knew' better, the habit was still there.
XXX
Sylar nodded, still thinking a moment before agreeing, nodding again more definitively, “Alright.” The mention of the nurse being worried and the easy, open offer for more medical (drug) assistance went a long way. “I’m sorry, what else did you ask?”
XXX
It took Peter a moment to place what Sylar was asking about, as his mind was already moving ahead with calculating dosage and time since this morning's injection, and wondering if Sylar wanted him to take some as well again. “Oh. I was asking what you wanted on your sandwich.” He gestured at the food on the counter. “So if you wanted something else, I could go get it before we started.”
XXX
“Butter and tuna?” Sylar made a face. “Relish is fine. Is there mayonnaise? That’s what my mom used to put in tuna sandwiches,” he mumbled distractedly, looking around for the stuff to see if Peter had it. A second later, he realized what he’d just said, sounding like he still lived at home at the least. Crap. He cleared his throat awkwardly, turning to the fridge to get drinks of some kind. “We’re pretty much out of milk,” he declared, “There’s…sports drinks, pop, water and beer.”
XXX
Peter nodded at Sylar's somewhat ambiguous statement of preference, deciding to leave the assembly of vital ingredients to him. “I think there's some mayo in the fridge. I remember there was a bunch of condiments in there. Water's fine to drink.” Peter walked over to the medical bag, getting out a new syringe, alcohol wipe, and bottle of medicine, drawing up the dosage while Sylar handled getting out cups for their meal.
XXX
Sylar took the indicated beverage, gathering a pair of bottles. “Did you sleep or…play the piano?” Peter could be easily engaged sometimes, and Sylar was curious and wanted to see if Peter was chatty.
XXX
“I played the piano some. Wanted to take a nap, but I never settled down for it.” Peter picked up the rubber tourniquet and gestured for Sylar to stay at the table for the moment. “If you'll sit, I'll give the shot to you now. Onset time for an intravenous injection is almost immediate, but it will still help to have it more minutes than fewer before you eat.” He waited for Sylar to settle before going forward with the process, taking in Sylar's expression a few times to stay up with any possible sudden mood changes, like if Sylar realized and was offended that Peter was breezing by the part where he injected himself. “I explored the first floor a little more. There's a lot of maintenance space and stuff. And there's a basement with equipment in it. I didn't go through it very far though.” He gave a short laugh and started, “It reminded me of … um.” His brows drew together briefly and he looked down to slide the needle into his patient's arm. He tried to remember if Sylar had any context for the reference he'd almost made.
XXX
As Peter went about the business of prepping the meds, Sylar snagged the bottle of Zofran with his right hand, crossing over himself not to disturb the medic. Briefly, he segregated his attention to try to read the label, seeing nothing but useless medical terms that made no sense to him.
XXX
A quick glance at Sylar's face made clear the man was waiting for him to continue. More soberly, he said, “Well, I didn't have any abilities …” Injection complete, Peter released the tourniquet and collected his supplies, watching for any bleeding and seeing none. “It was after you'd thrown me out the window at Pinehearst. Claire and I were trying to get away from a couple guys my father sent after us and they followed us into some steam tunnels. One of them could create fire. I managed to lever out a gas pipe and when he tried to roast us, it blew up in his face.” Peter shrugged briefly as he disposed of the trash, glancing back at Sylar. “We got away.”
Peter moved on to the kitchen counter, pushing the tuna can to the side with the can opener next to it. “Could you get that open for me?” He went about getting the bread out and opening containers while Sylar helped, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the man.
XXX
Sylar listened, then considered it pensively. Every once in a while Peter has a real, sideways gem that no one expects because it’s not…brute force and in-your-face, he thought of the gas pipe maneuver. It threw off Nathan, who was strategic and prepared, army-trained; Arthur who never bothered and had an uncanny foresight, rarely being ambushed; and Sylar whose preferred method was disguise and manipulation, enemies close until he struck with whatever was handy - knives, bricks, coffee mugs. In the middle of thinking and can-opening, Peter asked for a knife which Sylar went about getting from the drawer closer to himself before it connected. A warning, parental look was given to the nurse, clearly hinting, ‘you’re not going to do that again…Right? You know better.’ Then he handed it over, sparing an eye for the butter/mouth/contaminants while finishing with the tuna. After that, he passed over the mayonnaise.
XXX
Peter saw the look. He ducked his head and frowned, but otherwise went on. “I went outside, too. There's still ice, so we're going to have to go slow, and there's still snow, but it's melting. It's that mushy, heavy snow now and there's just a couple inches of it. You should probably change back into your old clothes so you're covered.” The peek-a-boo band of Sylar's belly was not as distracting as it had been the first time Peter had seen it this morning, but it was still something he was aware of trying to keep his eyes off. It was kind of ridiculous given that he'd seen much more of the man, but somehow the sometimes-there, sometimes-not band of exposed flesh drew his eye more than if Sylar had been entirely shirtless. “I was thinking we'd put our stuff on the wheelchair and roll it along with us. I used it like a walker coming back from the hospital. It was a big help.”
XXX
You went outside? Sylar paused from handling his own sandwich ingredients. For some reason that was a little shocking. He’d let Peter out of his sight and the kid had immediately dashed towards his escape - his companion being near an exit was worrisome because how easy would it be for Peter to just walk away? It was scary to think how close he’d come - every day, every time he slept - to being abandoned. By then Peter was done and Sylar followed him to the table. Covered? Like…my jacket? Wearing jeans so I don’t…get cold or scraped? When that made little sense, he moved on. He wanted to say how he wouldn’t be pushing Peter’s ass around in a wheelchair, not for a mere broken hand, because any of that was pathetic, but on further inspection Sylar realized Peter couldn’t operate the chair himself for that very reason. Guess I would be ‘pushing him around’. He twitched a grin to himself, wiping it off quickly when Peter spoke.
XXX
Continued...