More Between Us Chapter 60/? "Doing It For Attention"
More Between Us, Chapter 60/? "Doing It For Attention"
Day 16, December 26, afternoon
“So what'd you do this morning? Did you get any further in the book? That's a lot more involved on strategy than I usually think about for the game. That's pretty cool.” You know, if baseball players can plan out their plays that much, I ought to be able to do a better job managing my life, and abilities and things, where lives depend on me. The stakes are so much higher than a game. Instead, here I am. Stuck. He lifted his eyes from his plate back to Sylar's, which were looking more clear and alert than they had for a week. Those are really nice eyes, Peter thought wistfully and somewhat randomly.
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“I slept; and read.” Sylar had waited for the meal to drink, so he downed several long gulps of water before touching his food. His head was murder and he reached out, snagging the painkillers and taking the amount Peter had been giving him so far. He tilted his head at Peter. “Well, you play baseball. It’s probably a different way of looking at it. Like…being there versus…reading about it.” He caught Peter giving him a strange look. What was that? Sylar stared at him for a moment or two longer than necessary, intending to inspire an explanation. When it didn’t, he slowly refocused on his sandwich in disappointment, but not defeat. Baseball was kind of a dead-end conversation - Sylar didn’t know much about it, Peter knew a lot and Nathan knew all he thought he needed to know about Peter, Petrellis, and baseball. “What do you want to do today?” was his crappy rejoinder. “We still have the…the…” Hadn’t they been doing something in his apartment? “Puzzle. Or…you said maybe a game…? Sometime?”
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Peter was busy keeping his eyes somewhere other than Sylar's now. He didn't know what kind of dreamy expression he might have been wearing before and he felt grateful Sylar wasn't pursuing the matter. He cleared his throat slightly. “Well, I thought we'd get over to your place and then get cleaned up, maybe do laundry. You'll have to show me where the laundry room is. We could take a board game down with us and play while the clothes wash.” He smiled a little, thinking it would be a better diversion than staring at the tumbling garments or getting into another angry argument about whatever. Not like we're short on topics for that. “I think we were almost done with the puzzle. Shouldn't take too long to knock it out, but I'd rather get our clothes clean, first. I was going to hang onto those sweat pants to wear at your place. For sleeping, you know?” Naked wasn't something he wanted to be around Sylar and his norm of boxers wasn't an option for various reasons he didn't want to think about.
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Laundry now? Together. At my place. Sleeping, too. Sylar sent a checking glance towards Peter, who looked normal, delivery calm. Knowing Peter, the whole statement was as innocent as Peter would like him to believe. No ‘you wanna molest my underwear?’ involved, nothing, zip. For Sylar, laundry with anyone other than his mother was downright intimate. It just didn’t mean the same thing at all to Peter and since the nurse was the one dictating things…that meant laundry was just laundry. If it doesn’t mean anything why the hell should I care what you wear to bed on my couch, Peter? Why would you even bring it up? Petrelli’s idea of small talk was not Sylar’s idea of small talk. (I don’t make small talk unless I’m…hunting someone. That’s why).
He was also avoidant of the sandwich, namely its filling. How many times had Virginia forced tuna sandwiches on him? The last of which being…the night she died. He didn’t get to mourn; it was a mere sandwich with disturbing memories. Unfortunately, he couldn’t blame his hesitation on nausea this time.
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Peter applied himself to eating, crunching on chips when his sandwich was done and rubbing at his jaw speculatively. “My jaw's not hurting today. I hope it keeps up that way.” He sighed. “Haven't been able to eat carrots or celery or apples or a whole bunch of things for quite a while now. I've been told that crunch is real important to how satisfied a person is with food. What do you think?”
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“I’ve thought about that. Maybe it’s because soft food is associated with babies, sick or old people, like soup, applesauce, mush. Crunch is usually unhealthy food anyway, like chips,” he gestured, “so maybe it’s a guilty pleasure? But humans are animals and animals get satisfaction from eating when they’ve located a tree-full of nuts or hunted down a zebra. Maybe we get satisfaction from getting to use our teeth in a modern, industrialized setting.” I can think of a few non-food things I’d like to sink my teeth into… “Like you can take a tiger out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the tiger.” Which was something Sylar understood of a certain form of feeding. Once he’d cut his teeth, there was no going back to a hand-fed, mush diet. Idly, he wondered if Peter understood that, or felt the same way.
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Peter blinked at Sylar a few times, startled by an answer he found bizarre to the point of near-unintelligibility, but at least non-threatening. Deciding it was okay and in fact rather quirky and cool, he smiled and nodded. He took his plate to the sink to clean up from the meal. He puttered around, limping just a little, and put things up while Sylar finished. He picked up the painkillers from the table and took a double dose, thinking he should have done that before eating. It occurred to him that Sylar had taken his own medicine without prompting - another great sign, along with the fact that the man had eaten nearly all of his sandwich. Peter carried the bottle over to the wheelchair, putting it inside the top bag. He called back, “Do you want to go right away, or digest some first? I'm going to stop off in the bathroom either way,” he added as a liberal hint that perhaps Sylar should consider doing the same.
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“Now. Or I’ll fall asleep,” Sylar said by way of reason. Good grief! He has no concept of a filter. The notion of blurting out personal information was frightening, dangerous, stupid and useless. Since Peter has gone to the bathroom, he shook his head at the helpless emotionalism, and neatly folded the note Peter had written him, sliding it into his book, which lay on the couch. Then, on a whim, when no one could see him, he leaned over the couch to try to spy how the snow/ice conditions were on the streets. Tall or not, he didn’t have the right angle; he faltered, dizzy, before kneeling on the couch to better look - he wound up with his forehead against the cold glass when Peter entered.
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Peter emerged from the bathroom, underwear in hand, after seeing to his needs. He stuffed the garment down under one of the med bags along with the sweat pants and then gave the apartment a quick sweep, room to room. “Do you want to bring that clock with us?” He hoped the answer was yes. To a pathetic degree, he wanted even that small effort to mean something. He said it was beautiful. He likes that stuff, right? Peter was the sort of person who would loyally read the stock pages to a terminal man who had been unconscious for a week; getting a clock for his brother's murderer represented the same tireless desire to gain approval, no matter what the circumstances. “Other than that, I don't see anything else to bring. Don't forget your book.” He turned to see if Sylar had changed clothes, or if he needed to urge the man on to get into something that covered him more adequately.
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Startled, Sylar quickly snapped back, muttering, “Ow” to himself when the other man spoke. Hopefully, he asked, “Can we?” The clock was in working condition, a lovely piece; it wasn’t perfect; it needed some work, and anyway, he could always care for another clock whether Peter resided here or slept near him or not. It was like getting a Christmas toy. “I’ll need to wrap it up.” Occupied with thinking ahead, ignoring Peter, he walked past to prepare the clock, he considered if he should carry it to protect it from jolts, drops or vibrations. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t or couldn’t fix it if something did happen, he’d just rather nothing did happen. Bringing back a large towel from the bathroom, he gently, carefully covered it with several layers.
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Peter watched the clock-packing for a few moments, pleased and warmed that Sylar was taking it with him. He likes it! I feel like an idiot for thinking that's cool. Oh well … I guess I'm an idiot then. Smiling to himself, he went to the refrigerator and got out the remaining fancy cheese, then found the cheese slicer. He intended to show that to Sylar later on, but for now he just packed them in the plastic bag he'd used for lunch and then stowed them on the wheel chair. He looked back, unable to tell if Sylar was obsessing pathologically or just being ultra careful in taking so long and being so meticulous at what he was doing. Given the number of clocks in his apartment, Peter suspected the former. “Hey, you need to change before we go.”
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Sluggishly his attention was drawn from the clock. He gave Peter a blankly questioning face. Why? Change into what? It was then he looked down to see what Peter considered inappropriate. Sweats and a too-small t-shirt. He’d forgotten. “Oh.” Now the trick was remembering where he’d left his clothes. Sylar meandered to the bathroom, not finding them there, he moved on and found them in the guest room. The t-shirt he was glad to be rid of, it was much too tight and clingy. Is he going to have to hold me up again? He kept only the new socks on, pocketing his own for cleaning later. He appeared before Peter, arms out and an expression of ‘happy now?’ or possibly, ‘how’s this?’
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Jeez. He's taking forever. To forestall his frustration, Peter moved the clock-package from the bed to the chair, noticing that the towel was folded around it in some clever fashion that tucked the corners into itself or something. He wasn't sure, but it wasn't going to come unfolded unless he tugged at it. How'd he do that? Huh. He arranged the bags better so things wouldn't be casually dislodged, looping bag handles and carry straps around the arms and back of the wheelchair. He took a final look around the place, picking up Sylar's book and adding it to the load. He's doing a lot better, but he's absent-minded as can be. Sylar finally came out, holding his arms out for inspection. Peter spied something bulgy in the guy's pants pockets, too lumpy to be the rude suspicion that first leapt to Peter's mind. He didn't ask, just nodding and gesturing at the front door. “Can you get that?” Peter fell in behind the wheelchair out of habit.
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Sylar gave him a continually annoyed expression, mostly for having the audacity to nod an ‘acceptable/okay’ at his wardrobe. Or maybe it was a nod because he was dressed at all. Refusing to think on that, he opened the door and passed through ahead of Peter. He lingered awkwardly, not sure if he was to follow or lead the wheelchair expedition. He hovered until it became clear he was leading - when Peter nearly ran into him with the chair, when Sylar impeded the hallway. Hands in his pockets, he walked at a pace to the elevator, opening it, stepping in and pushing the lobby button to make way for Peter and the chair.
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“You ever pushed a wheelchair?” Peter asked as the elevator started down. “I'm assuming you've been in one at some point?” It wasn't exactly a novel experience that everyone needed to try, but Peter was sideways asking if Sylar had ever had to care for someone who couldn't easily get around on their own.
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“I can’t…remember,” Sylar said after trying to think about it. His childhood was blissfully hazy (what he did remember wasn’t great). “Maybe? Like…on the way to the door once or twice. I’m…I really can’t say.” He couldn’t vouch with any certainty about his time on Level Five; hallucinogenics had really warped his perceptions of that time and place. It was a strange question, possibly a leading one, if Peter was trying to get him into the chair. He eyed it suspiciously. // “My wife was in a wheelchair.”// Sylar felt his face fall. The wheelchair was between him and the controls. Peter was closer to them. I’m going to die in an elevator. Over a wheelchair. Closed quarters with Peter I’ll Beat Your Face In And Play Dirty Petrelli, dropping through the air in a confined metal box of death over a stupid question was so ironic it was almost funny. It was better than dying in a sewer, though. There was no doubt in his mind Peter was going to clobber him; it showed on Sylar’s face, a painful, resigned grimace as he shifted, desperate not to squirm or freak out. He cast a last chance look up at the ceiling to see if the escape hatch was accessible - it wasn’t, painted shut. There was no way he was prying the door open, either; Peter would use his head as a door-knocker long before that could happen. I didn’t mean to.
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Peter's mouth gaped for a second before snapping shut in a tight-mouthed scowl. Any possibility Sylar had had a spouse in a wheelchair was wiped away by his expression and lack of explanation. He was talking about Heidi. Peter's chest tightened and he could hear his heart pounding. His hand hurt and he didn't even think he was trying to clench it. He wanted to grab the guy and shake him. Not actually beat him up, but just try to shake some sense into him. He could tell from Sylar's expression and stance and awkwardly looking anywhere but at Peter that he knew what he'd done. It left Peter flummoxed for the moment about how to respond.
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“I wished…my mom would have gotten a walker…?” Sylar mumbled with a kind of white-flag appeasement that was both hopeful, desperate and honest, hail-Mary’ing for a distraction. “I- she…was always frail and small. She was always falling.” At the risk of sounding completely mean and evil, he continued in a depressed tone, “She just did it for the attention.” Since Peter was a paramedic, had taken care of the old and dying, had shared stories of older persons, Sylar added with slight question and a shrug, “Maybe you know something about that.”
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That did it. Peter couldn't hold it in any longer, not that he was all that clear what 'it' was, but Sylar's little slip had just obliterated the happy, numb distance Peter had been able to put between Sylar, his patient, and Sylar, the killer. His voice was cutting, angry, and raised as he lashed out verbally, “What would I know something about? Taking a fall for attention? What the fuck, Sylar?!? Are you trying to say that's me? Huh? Jumping off things just to make people pay attention to me? That sounds a lot like the sort of thing someone other than you would say.”
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Sylar’s head came up nervously. This was probably the angriest he’d seen Peter yet and it was here, injured, in the elevator with deadly weapons, that he’d unintentionally goaded him into blasting off. The insinuation that he’d sounded like Nathan stung bitterly. I’m not even being his brother and I sound like him - shit, shit, shit. Peter had every right to be mad, enraged, actually. Sylar knew (too late) how his words might sound. If he wasn’t going to kill me now, he will for calling him a drama queen and comparing him to Mom. He was miserable and stuck being yelled at because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut or say the right thing.
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Peter continued, “What do you think all of this is, anyway?” He spread his arms threateningly to indicate the entirety of the world, bristling as he did it. Sylar did not look happy about the rant. Peter didn't care. “You are not Nathan. Matt Parkman made you think you were. It was a mental command,” he snarled, pointing at his own temple with his left index finger, pointed like a gun, as his segue brutally abandoned the pretense he'd pandered to for weeks now about the nature of the world. “Just like you being here, just like this whole world that we're fucking trapped in! It's not real. And it's over. You're not Nathan, you're not my brother, and you don't get to act like it just because Parkman and my mom and whoever else hatched some-” His throat choked up and tears came to his eyes. The plan had been so stupid! What if they'd succeeded? More, that is? Breathing raggedly, he tried to get control of himself, baring his teeth in frustrated anger as he stared down, by happenstance at the wheelchair that was mostly between them.
The elevator doors dinged and opened.
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Surprisingly, Peter hadn’t moved the wheelchair nor reached for any drugs. Trapped as he was, he wasn’t going to take that as much of a comfort yet. Sylar bristled at being called crazy or…overly…delusional, whatever Peter was trying to infer. If I’m crazy and making this all up, then how are you here, accepting and living in my world-of-make-believe, Peter, huh? Your hand is broken because you broke it. No one made you do that, not me, Nathan, your mom or Parkman. You definitely don’t get to tell me how to act because you helped them turn me into Nathan. Fuck you. Do you seriously think I’d act like him if I had a choice? (Maybe). That last thought kept him from voicing his own upset reaction by taking some certainty from him.
The door opened and, suicidal or not, Sylar had enough self-preservation left to slide out before Peter could change his mind to enact death by wheelchair. He breathed hard for a moment, recovering from the adrenaline and shock that came from near-death experiences and being yelled at. Peter didn’t emerge and Sylar stayed close, about a yard away, waiting in case Peter…well, he didn’t much know what he was waiting for. Is…he going back up? Is he staying? He’s not gonna help me back to my apartment now, that’s for sure. Just as he was about to call the man’s name, he heard movement from inside the car.
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Peter snapped to as the doors began to close. He jabbed the button to reopen them, pushing the wheelchair out aggressively and giving it a rough shove off to the side out of his way. He glared at Sylar like he was working himself up to round two, but instead he said, “I need to calm down.”
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Sylar met his eyes for all of a second, catching the glare as it was intended before looking away. “I’m sorry. I meant…You’re a nurse. You took care of those…old people, the dying people.” There was a word for that but it wasn’t registering to him, and in his haste, and for fear of losing Peter to wherever he might go, Sylar didn’t stop to think of it. “Like Charles. A-and you were a paramedic- are a paramedic. I thought…you might have to respond to fake calls like the police do…” Explaining himself and neatly dodging answering what he (not unreliable, eye-witness Nathan) thought about Peter’s claims to aerial (suicide) hall of fame. It sure looked liked suicide, that’s what Nathan had decided. Sylar understood maybe a bit more because instead of burying and denying his ability, he’d tested it out on a corpse he’d murdered and tried to kill himself after. “Dealing with…crazy people,” Sylar waved an all-encompassing hand that included himself, the Petrellis, his mother, Peter’s patients…
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Peter's eyes shot to the side as he mentally evaluated his options (Go in the apartment manager's office and flounce on the couch he'd found there earlier? Go play piano? Play something else? Pace?) while Sylar rattled on. Peter was listening, just not looking at him. The nervous, tense, and completely conciliatory tone was taking the edge off his anger, though, turning his rage into sullen resentment. He finally gave Sylar a narrow-eyed glance, tracking the hand-waving. He looked away with an unimpressed eye-roll, stalking to the side to look in the exercise room. Going in there and blowing off some steam sounded okay.
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Sylar turned and crossed the lobby, exiting the building. “Ow! Christ!” It was around noon, they’d had lunch and now the sun was out, blazing away into his tender eyes. He quickly raised a hand to look around. It took him a few minutes, but he spotted it; his apartment was only a few blocks to his right, across the street. Undeservedly grumpy and depressed at losing the warm crutch that was Peter, he set off. The view shifted as his foot went out from under him; he flew and impacted hard on his flank and elbow. It drove the breath out of him and jarred his bones, shaking him badly for how unexpected it was. Even Nature, Fate, wasn’t happy with him. Since no one was there to hear him, and he’d gotten into the habit of talking to himself or the world before Peter had appeared, Sylar slammed the side of his fist into the ice, screaming at the pinnacle of frustrated anger to hear it echo, “FUCK!!” For once he wanted to do the right thing - cross the street, walk himself home, have a conversation, or make a friend or keep one.
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Peter had the door to the exercise room open and was starting inside when he heard the lobby door cycle open and shut. He looked back, seeing Sylar going outside on his own. “Hey, um ...” he said into the now-empty lobby as he stepped back in and let the workout room door swing shut. Bad idea. Don't go out there alone, Sylar. What are you doing? Are you just looking? Peter followed, jolting suddenly in sympathetic pain and surprise when Sylar's first step onto the slushy snow-covered ice landed him on his rump. Shit! Is he okay? Didn't hit his head at least. He hurried outside, arriving in time to hear as well as see Sylar's tantrum at things not going his way.
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Sylar heard the door and sat up, mortified. And after the things he’d said about his mother… “What, Peter?! What do you want? I’m crazy and I’m just doing it for the attention!” Pushing himself to his knees, he gingerly rushed the process of standing, both feet sliding some before he got his balance.
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Seeing that Sylar was well enough to rage at things, Peter couldn't stop the laughter that started bubbling up. They had a saying among EMTs that the loudest patients needed the least help. It was the quiet ones you had to worry about. Sylar's anger reassured Peter the guy's worst injury was to his pride, which turned what might have been horrible into hilarity. Peter was chuckling as he tried to help Sylar up, even if Sylar was having none of it. “Aren't we all?” Peter said in answer to Sylar's words. “Come on, buddy. Hang onto me, alright? Get back over here under the eave where you're off the ice.”
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Sylar growled wordlessly; it was all just too much and he couldn’t express himself any better than he’d already done. Then he got hurt and Peter laughed at him. So, yes, he struggled against the nurse, impairing Peter’s help somewhat. Mostly he flopped around like a wet fish, looking still more ridiculous, trying to get his feet while Peter had all the balance and footing in the world on the bare concrete under the eave. The nurse was considerably stronger than he was, though. His face wound up against Peter’s arms and chest a few times and he got a face-full of what Peter smelled like. Sylar wanted to stay there. God, he about melted…He may or may not have made some ambiguous sounds about it as they moved around. His clutching and grabbing at Peter’s coat and buff arms was completely legitimate, as were his sounds. He was needy and he knew it.
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Trying to herd Sylar to safety, Peter said, “That stuff really messed me up yesterday. Or the day before that, I guess. You've got to watch it. Can you still walk okay?” He took a step back and eyed Sylar, trying to judge the man's stance and balance.
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“I’m fine!” Sylar spat quickly, pulling away from Peter, trying to cover up for…well, everything. He bristled at the very thought of needing assistance. Just like Mom. I didn’t do it on purpose! He thinks I did! He wanted to vent, physically, at something soft, powerless, available and responsive, which mostly described Peter here - and he would have laid into Peter if he didn’t think the nurse would kick his ass. He searched for something to blame instead - there had to be something besides his rather ‘human’ error. The indignity was a weakness he couldn’t afford. Relief came when Peter didn’t rub it in, but it left him just as confused what to do. There just wasn’t anything to blame. “I used to be able to make ice; melt it, cut it up into tiny pieces, disintegrate it; fly over it!” But Peter ignored him once more. Sylar didn’t know what to do with that, either.
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“Let me go get the wheelchair. We'll both hang onto it. It's a big help.” In a much better humor (seeing Sylar fall on his ass was a great tension-defuser), Peter went back inside and retrieved the ambulatory appliance. As he got it outside, he said, “I'll take the right. You take the left. Let's just go real slow.” He took hold of the right handle of the wheelchair with his left hand, leaving Sylar to take the left handle with his right hand. It put them each on opposite sides of the thing, jointly pushing it forward along the sidewalk.
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Sylar grumbled dissentingly, but slowly followed the example after thinking ahead some. If he fell twice he’d look stupid on purpose, instead of on accident like the first fall looked (or so he hoped). “I didn’t fall on purpose,” he informed Peter to cover how retarded he felt co-driving a goddamn wheelchair filled with drugs, which didn’t seem to bother Peter, then again, little aside from Sylar seemed to. His protest was important because he needed Peter to think every ailment or injury was real, even if it wasn’t. And he hadn’t fallen on purpose, this time - he needed to make that clear. When I fall on purpose…I use rope for effect. Sylar was wound tighter than the bundled clock, fussy, twitchy, paranoid, defensive. He’d come close to getting his lights knocked out several times now. He wanted some kind of emotional outlet that would be acknowledged and addressed with kindness and help; he wanted his own bed and rest without the roaming, all-encompassing gaze of the sun or Peter’s judgmental, triggery scrutiny. He wanted some of that wonderful smell and human flesh Peter possessed. And when he was done resting, he wanted some safe interaction, damnit. I want, I want, I want. I know.
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“Yeah, I know. Stuff's slicker than snot.” Sylar seemed really stressed to Peter - voice tense, body language wound up and a little jerky, eyes darting around like he expected the ice (or Peter) to come after him. It was enough to make Peter wonder if he was uncovering another weird phobia. Wasn't he afraid of thunder, too? He made sure to move slowly and deliberately, keeping an eye on his companion and trying to do nothing that might agitate him further. I wonder if he's just afraid of things he can't control with his abilities? Well … that's kind of broad. That's … everything now. But if someone had been really powerful and then lost it all, then maybe he feels like he's at the world's mercy?
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Peter wasn’t giving him much and that made him nervous. He could neither cut into the man’s head nor read his mind to see what was going on inside. Other people’s thoughts were dangerous, threatening, and untouchable. It was like they could see everything in him, everything about him and he couldn’t retaliate, explain or fix whatever they saw that they inevitably didn’t like. They reached his apartment building with little incident (a few slips in the slush on his part). “You’re-you’re coming up, right?”
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“Sure. That was the plan.” Peter took over driving the wheelchair alone now that they were off the ice, which left Sylar both hands free to manage doors, the elevator buttons, and to keep his own balance.
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Sylar relaxed then, which struck him as an odd reaction. Stockholm Syndrome. That’s all. He’s…not my brother; not my friend. He’s not anything but dangerous. But he’s going to play a game with me. He mentally scoffed at that. A board game or the world-domination game? Do I care which? (Do I care who wins?) They rode the elevator with much less tension this time - Sylar making a point to avoid looking anywhere near Peter’s person the whole way in case any warning glares were being lasered at him. For such a usually gentle man, Peter could really make someone uncomfortable - although, for such a usually gentle man, Peter could kick ass, make trouble and glare like few others with much less effort than Sylar thought fair. He hobbled a little faster to his door, where he saw that the wheelchair would be a tight fit in his crowded apartment.
Partly blocking the door, he suggested, “Um…you should…leave it in the hall.” Hinting still further (but he would put his foot down and fight over it if need be, his phrasing, tone, and body language were a red herring of politeness, for now), “You can come out and get the stuff if you need it.” Which was his way of being safe and in charge - the meds, and Peter’s possessions, weren’t welcome. With that, he scooped up the clock and his book, making sure Peter didn’t sneak anything in, before letting himself in.
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“Okay,” Peter said agreeably, parking the chair next to the grocery cart full of books in the hallway. It fits right in. Ha. My stuff; his stuff. He watched as Sylar gathered up the clock and book, noticing what seemed like a furtive manner in the other man. Is he going to try to lock me out or something? He's acting really paranoid. Again. Didn't he ask me up? Or was that him being afraid that I would come up and hoping I didn't? Peter lingered over the wheelchair, giving Sylar plenty of opportunity to retreat inside without him. He pulled out the bag of cheeses and the slicer, trying to see if there was anything else that needed to be brought in. No slam of door sounded, so he glanced to the side to see that Sylar was observing him closely enough to telegraph continuing suspicion. But he's not trying to lock me out. Maybe it's the meds that's concerning him? I don't know. Doesn't matter. I need to defuse him. He held up his items, showing them off for inspection. Sylar seemed satisfied; they both went inside. Probably not a good time to make a big deal about having found a cheese slicer.
Peter wandered into the kitchen to stow the cheese, still trying to work out what was up with his jittery companion. Is he still thinking I'm mad about the Heidi-in-a-wheelchair comment or the part about me jumping off buildings for attention? He turned around from putting stuff away to find Sylar virtually in his pocket, having put down his own things and then followed Peter into the kitchen with disturbing stealth. But the guy didn't appear to be up to anything malign. He was just … there. And continuing to eye-ball Peter like he expected Peter to try something at any moment. He's really afraid. Of me leaving? That's what he's been most afraid of since I got here.
Peter pulled in a deep breath, putting on a smile that wasn't the same as his usual nurse-face. It was different because it was more genuine, more gentle, and showing a momentary affectionate amusement. “Come on, Sylar,” he said, gesturing back towards the living room. “Have a seat on the couch for me. You need to get out of your wet shoes. Socks, too, probably.”
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Having been given enough of a cue, Sylar led the way to the living room, sitting first. He waited moment, unsure what he was waiting for - most likely waiting for Peter to park it somewhere. When that didn’t happen, he got to work. He’d laced his shoes snug enough, it wasn’t his usual, thorough job because of his headache. His shoes were in better shape than his socks, which had soaked up the slush; they were the more difficult, too, sticking to his skin. The process was mildly frustrating because he wanted to hurry for several reasons, the pain in his head affecting everything it was so strong. Did I take any pills? I thought I did…His jacket was the next thing removed.
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Peter watched the removal. Is he well enough to assess frostbite on his own? We weren't out long. He's otherwise healthy, so he's not in much danger of anything, is he? How wet did his feet get? Didn't he already have something wrong with his toes? Kicked a file cabinet. I should look at that again. He started to squat or bend - whichever didn't matter, as Peter straightened quickly and with a grunt of pain. “Nope, that won't work for me. If I get down there, I won't be able to get back up.” At least, not easily, not without hurting. Between all his various pulled muscles around his groin and hips, getting up and down wasn't a simple matter.
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Sylar stopped and looked up immediately. “Huh?” Then Peter clarified it. “Oh.”
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Peter dipped into the bathroom to emerge with a towel and took up a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Sylar. “When you're done there, turn and give me your feet. I want to look at them.” He said it perfectly matter-of-factly.
XXX
Finished with the second sock, Sylar set them and the shoes aside. He looked up to see Peter not in the room, but returning to it. I must be really out of it. Falling, running my mouth. I’m a pain in the ass and I don’t mean to be. I wouldn’t care for me, not like Peter’s doing. Is that stubbornness or patience? Virginia has been one to emphasize ‘virtues’ (and ‘sins’). She’d cropped up enough, too much, already today. Sylar raised a long eyebrow. Peter looked very serious and un-fucking-bothered by his own request for the gift of feet. O-kay…
Sylar did as requested, shifting to proffer his limbs, trying and failing to hold them above Peter’s lap but the angle of back and knees overcame him. The towel was a good idea, keeping clammy, otherwise smelly (dirty?) feet off Peter. Wait, isn’t this a custom to other cultures? Foot baths? Foot…worship? What the hell’s it called? His eyes were tracking between Peter and his feet in the man’s lap.
XXX
“Set them down,” Peter murmured, pushing Sylar's feet so the heels rested on his thigh. He immediately moved one over a few inches, off the still-somewhat-tender spot where Sylar had kicked him a little more than a week before. They were long, angular feet, appropriate to Sylar's height and size. Pale, too-white skin was cool to the touch as he rested his left hand briefly on the sole and then the fingers of his right (where they weren't restrained by the brace) against the top. The skin on the bottom was dry enough; that on the top was damp. He scrubbed with the towel at the wetter portions of skin. It was mainly on the top of foot (under laces and tongue of the shoe) and around the ankles. On the plus side, he didn’t see any signs of frostbite. He set aside the towel to look at Sylar's toes with more interest.
XXX
The nurse plucked and tugged his toes aside, palming them just to…feel the skin. Is this a test? Sylar’s expression turned amused, The ‘let me massage your feet’ line, routine…custom thing. But that was all. He snapped his face back to neutral as Peter patted him dry, kindly covering him with the towel when done. “Do you…enjoy giving physicals? I mean…Is this a standard thing? Do my feet really need…this?” He tilted his head and gestured, curious and probing.
XXX
He tensed at the man's first question, shooting Sylar a wary look like Peter had just been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. He’d been accused too often of manufacturing situations to save people from (even if only once) and he felt on shaky ground helping Sylar at all. The follow-up questions let Peter relax a little. He watched Sylar's face for a few more moments as he double-checked intent. Then he looked at the towel-covered feet, resting his hands against them.
XXX
Sylar hadn’t been fidgeting before, but he went still now, seeing and feeling Peter tense, stare and check out his feet. Don’t break my toes. I didn’t mean anything (much) by it. He debated pulling his feet away as a precautionary measure.
XXX
Thus settled, Peter answered what he perceived as a challenge to his ethics directly and straightforwardly. “Yes, I enjoy it. I like being with people, seeing them. You can't treat a patient without looking at them, getting information about them, and some of that information you have to get by touch. It's standard.” He shrugged. “I think your feet need it. What if they had frostbite and I didn't bother to check? What if, since the last time I looked, those stubbed toes had infected or something? How would I know if I didn't look?” And I can’t trust you to take care of yourself yet.
Peter smoothed down the towel and tucked it in a little. It was an unnecessary, habitual care-taking gesture. His eyes followed what he was doing now rather than Sylar's face. More slowly and softly, he added, “We're taught, as nurses and paramedics, to touch our patients. It makes them happy; they feel recognized. There's a lot of studies about the benefits of positive touch.” He reached up to scratch at his nose self-consciously, still looking down instead of at Sylar. “People don't get enough of it.” He was trying not to admit that he knew he’d picked a profession that allowed him to connect with people, literally and frequently. It looked selfish (and possibly inappropriate) and he wanted to be the opposite of that. He wanted his career choice to be about his heroism, not about self-indulgence at the expense of others.
XXX
Continued...
Day 16, December 26, afternoon
“So what'd you do this morning? Did you get any further in the book? That's a lot more involved on strategy than I usually think about for the game. That's pretty cool.” You know, if baseball players can plan out their plays that much, I ought to be able to do a better job managing my life, and abilities and things, where lives depend on me. The stakes are so much higher than a game. Instead, here I am. Stuck. He lifted his eyes from his plate back to Sylar's, which were looking more clear and alert than they had for a week. Those are really nice eyes, Peter thought wistfully and somewhat randomly.
XXX
“I slept; and read.” Sylar had waited for the meal to drink, so he downed several long gulps of water before touching his food. His head was murder and he reached out, snagging the painkillers and taking the amount Peter had been giving him so far. He tilted his head at Peter. “Well, you play baseball. It’s probably a different way of looking at it. Like…being there versus…reading about it.” He caught Peter giving him a strange look. What was that? Sylar stared at him for a moment or two longer than necessary, intending to inspire an explanation. When it didn’t, he slowly refocused on his sandwich in disappointment, but not defeat. Baseball was kind of a dead-end conversation - Sylar didn’t know much about it, Peter knew a lot and Nathan knew all he thought he needed to know about Peter, Petrellis, and baseball. “What do you want to do today?” was his crappy rejoinder. “We still have the…the…” Hadn’t they been doing something in his apartment? “Puzzle. Or…you said maybe a game…? Sometime?”
XXX
Peter was busy keeping his eyes somewhere other than Sylar's now. He didn't know what kind of dreamy expression he might have been wearing before and he felt grateful Sylar wasn't pursuing the matter. He cleared his throat slightly. “Well, I thought we'd get over to your place and then get cleaned up, maybe do laundry. You'll have to show me where the laundry room is. We could take a board game down with us and play while the clothes wash.” He smiled a little, thinking it would be a better diversion than staring at the tumbling garments or getting into another angry argument about whatever. Not like we're short on topics for that. “I think we were almost done with the puzzle. Shouldn't take too long to knock it out, but I'd rather get our clothes clean, first. I was going to hang onto those sweat pants to wear at your place. For sleeping, you know?” Naked wasn't something he wanted to be around Sylar and his norm of boxers wasn't an option for various reasons he didn't want to think about.
XXX
Laundry now? Together. At my place. Sleeping, too. Sylar sent a checking glance towards Peter, who looked normal, delivery calm. Knowing Peter, the whole statement was as innocent as Peter would like him to believe. No ‘you wanna molest my underwear?’ involved, nothing, zip. For Sylar, laundry with anyone other than his mother was downright intimate. It just didn’t mean the same thing at all to Peter and since the nurse was the one dictating things…that meant laundry was just laundry. If it doesn’t mean anything why the hell should I care what you wear to bed on my couch, Peter? Why would you even bring it up? Petrelli’s idea of small talk was not Sylar’s idea of small talk. (I don’t make small talk unless I’m…hunting someone. That’s why).
He was also avoidant of the sandwich, namely its filling. How many times had Virginia forced tuna sandwiches on him? The last of which being…the night she died. He didn’t get to mourn; it was a mere sandwich with disturbing memories. Unfortunately, he couldn’t blame his hesitation on nausea this time.
XXX
Peter applied himself to eating, crunching on chips when his sandwich was done and rubbing at his jaw speculatively. “My jaw's not hurting today. I hope it keeps up that way.” He sighed. “Haven't been able to eat carrots or celery or apples or a whole bunch of things for quite a while now. I've been told that crunch is real important to how satisfied a person is with food. What do you think?”
XXX
“I’ve thought about that. Maybe it’s because soft food is associated with babies, sick or old people, like soup, applesauce, mush. Crunch is usually unhealthy food anyway, like chips,” he gestured, “so maybe it’s a guilty pleasure? But humans are animals and animals get satisfaction from eating when they’ve located a tree-full of nuts or hunted down a zebra. Maybe we get satisfaction from getting to use our teeth in a modern, industrialized setting.” I can think of a few non-food things I’d like to sink my teeth into… “Like you can take a tiger out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the tiger.” Which was something Sylar understood of a certain form of feeding. Once he’d cut his teeth, there was no going back to a hand-fed, mush diet. Idly, he wondered if Peter understood that, or felt the same way.
XXX
Peter blinked at Sylar a few times, startled by an answer he found bizarre to the point of near-unintelligibility, but at least non-threatening. Deciding it was okay and in fact rather quirky and cool, he smiled and nodded. He took his plate to the sink to clean up from the meal. He puttered around, limping just a little, and put things up while Sylar finished. He picked up the painkillers from the table and took a double dose, thinking he should have done that before eating. It occurred to him that Sylar had taken his own medicine without prompting - another great sign, along with the fact that the man had eaten nearly all of his sandwich. Peter carried the bottle over to the wheelchair, putting it inside the top bag. He called back, “Do you want to go right away, or digest some first? I'm going to stop off in the bathroom either way,” he added as a liberal hint that perhaps Sylar should consider doing the same.
XXX
“Now. Or I’ll fall asleep,” Sylar said by way of reason. Good grief! He has no concept of a filter. The notion of blurting out personal information was frightening, dangerous, stupid and useless. Since Peter has gone to the bathroom, he shook his head at the helpless emotionalism, and neatly folded the note Peter had written him, sliding it into his book, which lay on the couch. Then, on a whim, when no one could see him, he leaned over the couch to try to spy how the snow/ice conditions were on the streets. Tall or not, he didn’t have the right angle; he faltered, dizzy, before kneeling on the couch to better look - he wound up with his forehead against the cold glass when Peter entered.
XXX
Peter emerged from the bathroom, underwear in hand, after seeing to his needs. He stuffed the garment down under one of the med bags along with the sweat pants and then gave the apartment a quick sweep, room to room. “Do you want to bring that clock with us?” He hoped the answer was yes. To a pathetic degree, he wanted even that small effort to mean something. He said it was beautiful. He likes that stuff, right? Peter was the sort of person who would loyally read the stock pages to a terminal man who had been unconscious for a week; getting a clock for his brother's murderer represented the same tireless desire to gain approval, no matter what the circumstances. “Other than that, I don't see anything else to bring. Don't forget your book.” He turned to see if Sylar had changed clothes, or if he needed to urge the man on to get into something that covered him more adequately.
XXX
Startled, Sylar quickly snapped back, muttering, “Ow” to himself when the other man spoke. Hopefully, he asked, “Can we?” The clock was in working condition, a lovely piece; it wasn’t perfect; it needed some work, and anyway, he could always care for another clock whether Peter resided here or slept near him or not. It was like getting a Christmas toy. “I’ll need to wrap it up.” Occupied with thinking ahead, ignoring Peter, he walked past to prepare the clock, he considered if he should carry it to protect it from jolts, drops or vibrations. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t or couldn’t fix it if something did happen, he’d just rather nothing did happen. Bringing back a large towel from the bathroom, he gently, carefully covered it with several layers.
XXX
Peter watched the clock-packing for a few moments, pleased and warmed that Sylar was taking it with him. He likes it! I feel like an idiot for thinking that's cool. Oh well … I guess I'm an idiot then. Smiling to himself, he went to the refrigerator and got out the remaining fancy cheese, then found the cheese slicer. He intended to show that to Sylar later on, but for now he just packed them in the plastic bag he'd used for lunch and then stowed them on the wheel chair. He looked back, unable to tell if Sylar was obsessing pathologically or just being ultra careful in taking so long and being so meticulous at what he was doing. Given the number of clocks in his apartment, Peter suspected the former. “Hey, you need to change before we go.”
XXX
Sluggishly his attention was drawn from the clock. He gave Peter a blankly questioning face. Why? Change into what? It was then he looked down to see what Peter considered inappropriate. Sweats and a too-small t-shirt. He’d forgotten. “Oh.” Now the trick was remembering where he’d left his clothes. Sylar meandered to the bathroom, not finding them there, he moved on and found them in the guest room. The t-shirt he was glad to be rid of, it was much too tight and clingy. Is he going to have to hold me up again? He kept only the new socks on, pocketing his own for cleaning later. He appeared before Peter, arms out and an expression of ‘happy now?’ or possibly, ‘how’s this?’
XXX
Jeez. He's taking forever. To forestall his frustration, Peter moved the clock-package from the bed to the chair, noticing that the towel was folded around it in some clever fashion that tucked the corners into itself or something. He wasn't sure, but it wasn't going to come unfolded unless he tugged at it. How'd he do that? Huh. He arranged the bags better so things wouldn't be casually dislodged, looping bag handles and carry straps around the arms and back of the wheelchair. He took a final look around the place, picking up Sylar's book and adding it to the load. He's doing a lot better, but he's absent-minded as can be. Sylar finally came out, holding his arms out for inspection. Peter spied something bulgy in the guy's pants pockets, too lumpy to be the rude suspicion that first leapt to Peter's mind. He didn't ask, just nodding and gesturing at the front door. “Can you get that?” Peter fell in behind the wheelchair out of habit.
XXX
Sylar gave him a continually annoyed expression, mostly for having the audacity to nod an ‘acceptable/okay’ at his wardrobe. Or maybe it was a nod because he was dressed at all. Refusing to think on that, he opened the door and passed through ahead of Peter. He lingered awkwardly, not sure if he was to follow or lead the wheelchair expedition. He hovered until it became clear he was leading - when Peter nearly ran into him with the chair, when Sylar impeded the hallway. Hands in his pockets, he walked at a pace to the elevator, opening it, stepping in and pushing the lobby button to make way for Peter and the chair.
XXX
“You ever pushed a wheelchair?” Peter asked as the elevator started down. “I'm assuming you've been in one at some point?” It wasn't exactly a novel experience that everyone needed to try, but Peter was sideways asking if Sylar had ever had to care for someone who couldn't easily get around on their own.
XXX
“I can’t…remember,” Sylar said after trying to think about it. His childhood was blissfully hazy (what he did remember wasn’t great). “Maybe? Like…on the way to the door once or twice. I’m…I really can’t say.” He couldn’t vouch with any certainty about his time on Level Five; hallucinogenics had really warped his perceptions of that time and place. It was a strange question, possibly a leading one, if Peter was trying to get him into the chair. He eyed it suspiciously. // “My wife was in a wheelchair.”// Sylar felt his face fall. The wheelchair was between him and the controls. Peter was closer to them. I’m going to die in an elevator. Over a wheelchair. Closed quarters with Peter I’ll Beat Your Face In And Play Dirty Petrelli, dropping through the air in a confined metal box of death over a stupid question was so ironic it was almost funny. It was better than dying in a sewer, though. There was no doubt in his mind Peter was going to clobber him; it showed on Sylar’s face, a painful, resigned grimace as he shifted, desperate not to squirm or freak out. He cast a last chance look up at the ceiling to see if the escape hatch was accessible - it wasn’t, painted shut. There was no way he was prying the door open, either; Peter would use his head as a door-knocker long before that could happen. I didn’t mean to.
XXX
Peter's mouth gaped for a second before snapping shut in a tight-mouthed scowl. Any possibility Sylar had had a spouse in a wheelchair was wiped away by his expression and lack of explanation. He was talking about Heidi. Peter's chest tightened and he could hear his heart pounding. His hand hurt and he didn't even think he was trying to clench it. He wanted to grab the guy and shake him. Not actually beat him up, but just try to shake some sense into him. He could tell from Sylar's expression and stance and awkwardly looking anywhere but at Peter that he knew what he'd done. It left Peter flummoxed for the moment about how to respond.
XXX
“I wished…my mom would have gotten a walker…?” Sylar mumbled with a kind of white-flag appeasement that was both hopeful, desperate and honest, hail-Mary’ing for a distraction. “I- she…was always frail and small. She was always falling.” At the risk of sounding completely mean and evil, he continued in a depressed tone, “She just did it for the attention.” Since Peter was a paramedic, had taken care of the old and dying, had shared stories of older persons, Sylar added with slight question and a shrug, “Maybe you know something about that.”
XXX
That did it. Peter couldn't hold it in any longer, not that he was all that clear what 'it' was, but Sylar's little slip had just obliterated the happy, numb distance Peter had been able to put between Sylar, his patient, and Sylar, the killer. His voice was cutting, angry, and raised as he lashed out verbally, “What would I know something about? Taking a fall for attention? What the fuck, Sylar?!? Are you trying to say that's me? Huh? Jumping off things just to make people pay attention to me? That sounds a lot like the sort of thing someone other than you would say.”
XXX
Sylar’s head came up nervously. This was probably the angriest he’d seen Peter yet and it was here, injured, in the elevator with deadly weapons, that he’d unintentionally goaded him into blasting off. The insinuation that he’d sounded like Nathan stung bitterly. I’m not even being his brother and I sound like him - shit, shit, shit. Peter had every right to be mad, enraged, actually. Sylar knew (too late) how his words might sound. If he wasn’t going to kill me now, he will for calling him a drama queen and comparing him to Mom. He was miserable and stuck being yelled at because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut or say the right thing.
XXX
Peter continued, “What do you think all of this is, anyway?” He spread his arms threateningly to indicate the entirety of the world, bristling as he did it. Sylar did not look happy about the rant. Peter didn't care. “You are not Nathan. Matt Parkman made you think you were. It was a mental command,” he snarled, pointing at his own temple with his left index finger, pointed like a gun, as his segue brutally abandoned the pretense he'd pandered to for weeks now about the nature of the world. “Just like you being here, just like this whole world that we're fucking trapped in! It's not real. And it's over. You're not Nathan, you're not my brother, and you don't get to act like it just because Parkman and my mom and whoever else hatched some-” His throat choked up and tears came to his eyes. The plan had been so stupid! What if they'd succeeded? More, that is? Breathing raggedly, he tried to get control of himself, baring his teeth in frustrated anger as he stared down, by happenstance at the wheelchair that was mostly between them.
The elevator doors dinged and opened.
XXX
Surprisingly, Peter hadn’t moved the wheelchair nor reached for any drugs. Trapped as he was, he wasn’t going to take that as much of a comfort yet. Sylar bristled at being called crazy or…overly…delusional, whatever Peter was trying to infer. If I’m crazy and making this all up, then how are you here, accepting and living in my world-of-make-believe, Peter, huh? Your hand is broken because you broke it. No one made you do that, not me, Nathan, your mom or Parkman. You definitely don’t get to tell me how to act because you helped them turn me into Nathan. Fuck you. Do you seriously think I’d act like him if I had a choice? (Maybe). That last thought kept him from voicing his own upset reaction by taking some certainty from him.
The door opened and, suicidal or not, Sylar had enough self-preservation left to slide out before Peter could change his mind to enact death by wheelchair. He breathed hard for a moment, recovering from the adrenaline and shock that came from near-death experiences and being yelled at. Peter didn’t emerge and Sylar stayed close, about a yard away, waiting in case Peter…well, he didn’t much know what he was waiting for. Is…he going back up? Is he staying? He’s not gonna help me back to my apartment now, that’s for sure. Just as he was about to call the man’s name, he heard movement from inside the car.
XXX
Peter snapped to as the doors began to close. He jabbed the button to reopen them, pushing the wheelchair out aggressively and giving it a rough shove off to the side out of his way. He glared at Sylar like he was working himself up to round two, but instead he said, “I need to calm down.”
XXX
Sylar met his eyes for all of a second, catching the glare as it was intended before looking away. “I’m sorry. I meant…You’re a nurse. You took care of those…old people, the dying people.” There was a word for that but it wasn’t registering to him, and in his haste, and for fear of losing Peter to wherever he might go, Sylar didn’t stop to think of it. “Like Charles. A-and you were a paramedic- are a paramedic. I thought…you might have to respond to fake calls like the police do…” Explaining himself and neatly dodging answering what he (not unreliable, eye-witness Nathan) thought about Peter’s claims to aerial (suicide) hall of fame. It sure looked liked suicide, that’s what Nathan had decided. Sylar understood maybe a bit more because instead of burying and denying his ability, he’d tested it out on a corpse he’d murdered and tried to kill himself after. “Dealing with…crazy people,” Sylar waved an all-encompassing hand that included himself, the Petrellis, his mother, Peter’s patients…
XXX
Peter's eyes shot to the side as he mentally evaluated his options (Go in the apartment manager's office and flounce on the couch he'd found there earlier? Go play piano? Play something else? Pace?) while Sylar rattled on. Peter was listening, just not looking at him. The nervous, tense, and completely conciliatory tone was taking the edge off his anger, though, turning his rage into sullen resentment. He finally gave Sylar a narrow-eyed glance, tracking the hand-waving. He looked away with an unimpressed eye-roll, stalking to the side to look in the exercise room. Going in there and blowing off some steam sounded okay.
XXX
Sylar turned and crossed the lobby, exiting the building. “Ow! Christ!” It was around noon, they’d had lunch and now the sun was out, blazing away into his tender eyes. He quickly raised a hand to look around. It took him a few minutes, but he spotted it; his apartment was only a few blocks to his right, across the street. Undeservedly grumpy and depressed at losing the warm crutch that was Peter, he set off. The view shifted as his foot went out from under him; he flew and impacted hard on his flank and elbow. It drove the breath out of him and jarred his bones, shaking him badly for how unexpected it was. Even Nature, Fate, wasn’t happy with him. Since no one was there to hear him, and he’d gotten into the habit of talking to himself or the world before Peter had appeared, Sylar slammed the side of his fist into the ice, screaming at the pinnacle of frustrated anger to hear it echo, “FUCK!!” For once he wanted to do the right thing - cross the street, walk himself home, have a conversation, or make a friend or keep one.
XXX
Peter had the door to the exercise room open and was starting inside when he heard the lobby door cycle open and shut. He looked back, seeing Sylar going outside on his own. “Hey, um ...” he said into the now-empty lobby as he stepped back in and let the workout room door swing shut. Bad idea. Don't go out there alone, Sylar. What are you doing? Are you just looking? Peter followed, jolting suddenly in sympathetic pain and surprise when Sylar's first step onto the slushy snow-covered ice landed him on his rump. Shit! Is he okay? Didn't hit his head at least. He hurried outside, arriving in time to hear as well as see Sylar's tantrum at things not going his way.
XXX
Sylar heard the door and sat up, mortified. And after the things he’d said about his mother… “What, Peter?! What do you want? I’m crazy and I’m just doing it for the attention!” Pushing himself to his knees, he gingerly rushed the process of standing, both feet sliding some before he got his balance.
XXX
Seeing that Sylar was well enough to rage at things, Peter couldn't stop the laughter that started bubbling up. They had a saying among EMTs that the loudest patients needed the least help. It was the quiet ones you had to worry about. Sylar's anger reassured Peter the guy's worst injury was to his pride, which turned what might have been horrible into hilarity. Peter was chuckling as he tried to help Sylar up, even if Sylar was having none of it. “Aren't we all?” Peter said in answer to Sylar's words. “Come on, buddy. Hang onto me, alright? Get back over here under the eave where you're off the ice.”
XXX
Sylar growled wordlessly; it was all just too much and he couldn’t express himself any better than he’d already done. Then he got hurt and Peter laughed at him. So, yes, he struggled against the nurse, impairing Peter’s help somewhat. Mostly he flopped around like a wet fish, looking still more ridiculous, trying to get his feet while Peter had all the balance and footing in the world on the bare concrete under the eave. The nurse was considerably stronger than he was, though. His face wound up against Peter’s arms and chest a few times and he got a face-full of what Peter smelled like. Sylar wanted to stay there. God, he about melted…He may or may not have made some ambiguous sounds about it as they moved around. His clutching and grabbing at Peter’s coat and buff arms was completely legitimate, as were his sounds. He was needy and he knew it.
XXX
Trying to herd Sylar to safety, Peter said, “That stuff really messed me up yesterday. Or the day before that, I guess. You've got to watch it. Can you still walk okay?” He took a step back and eyed Sylar, trying to judge the man's stance and balance.
XXX
“I’m fine!” Sylar spat quickly, pulling away from Peter, trying to cover up for…well, everything. He bristled at the very thought of needing assistance. Just like Mom. I didn’t do it on purpose! He thinks I did! He wanted to vent, physically, at something soft, powerless, available and responsive, which mostly described Peter here - and he would have laid into Peter if he didn’t think the nurse would kick his ass. He searched for something to blame instead - there had to be something besides his rather ‘human’ error. The indignity was a weakness he couldn’t afford. Relief came when Peter didn’t rub it in, but it left him just as confused what to do. There just wasn’t anything to blame. “I used to be able to make ice; melt it, cut it up into tiny pieces, disintegrate it; fly over it!” But Peter ignored him once more. Sylar didn’t know what to do with that, either.
XXX
“Let me go get the wheelchair. We'll both hang onto it. It's a big help.” In a much better humor (seeing Sylar fall on his ass was a great tension-defuser), Peter went back inside and retrieved the ambulatory appliance. As he got it outside, he said, “I'll take the right. You take the left. Let's just go real slow.” He took hold of the right handle of the wheelchair with his left hand, leaving Sylar to take the left handle with his right hand. It put them each on opposite sides of the thing, jointly pushing it forward along the sidewalk.
XXX
Sylar grumbled dissentingly, but slowly followed the example after thinking ahead some. If he fell twice he’d look stupid on purpose, instead of on accident like the first fall looked (or so he hoped). “I didn’t fall on purpose,” he informed Peter to cover how retarded he felt co-driving a goddamn wheelchair filled with drugs, which didn’t seem to bother Peter, then again, little aside from Sylar seemed to. His protest was important because he needed Peter to think every ailment or injury was real, even if it wasn’t. And he hadn’t fallen on purpose, this time - he needed to make that clear. When I fall on purpose…I use rope for effect. Sylar was wound tighter than the bundled clock, fussy, twitchy, paranoid, defensive. He’d come close to getting his lights knocked out several times now. He wanted some kind of emotional outlet that would be acknowledged and addressed with kindness and help; he wanted his own bed and rest without the roaming, all-encompassing gaze of the sun or Peter’s judgmental, triggery scrutiny. He wanted some of that wonderful smell and human flesh Peter possessed. And when he was done resting, he wanted some safe interaction, damnit. I want, I want, I want. I know.
XXX
“Yeah, I know. Stuff's slicker than snot.” Sylar seemed really stressed to Peter - voice tense, body language wound up and a little jerky, eyes darting around like he expected the ice (or Peter) to come after him. It was enough to make Peter wonder if he was uncovering another weird phobia. Wasn't he afraid of thunder, too? He made sure to move slowly and deliberately, keeping an eye on his companion and trying to do nothing that might agitate him further. I wonder if he's just afraid of things he can't control with his abilities? Well … that's kind of broad. That's … everything now. But if someone had been really powerful and then lost it all, then maybe he feels like he's at the world's mercy?
XXX
Peter wasn’t giving him much and that made him nervous. He could neither cut into the man’s head nor read his mind to see what was going on inside. Other people’s thoughts were dangerous, threatening, and untouchable. It was like they could see everything in him, everything about him and he couldn’t retaliate, explain or fix whatever they saw that they inevitably didn’t like. They reached his apartment building with little incident (a few slips in the slush on his part). “You’re-you’re coming up, right?”
XXX
“Sure. That was the plan.” Peter took over driving the wheelchair alone now that they were off the ice, which left Sylar both hands free to manage doors, the elevator buttons, and to keep his own balance.
XXX
Sylar relaxed then, which struck him as an odd reaction. Stockholm Syndrome. That’s all. He’s…not my brother; not my friend. He’s not anything but dangerous. But he’s going to play a game with me. He mentally scoffed at that. A board game or the world-domination game? Do I care which? (Do I care who wins?) They rode the elevator with much less tension this time - Sylar making a point to avoid looking anywhere near Peter’s person the whole way in case any warning glares were being lasered at him. For such a usually gentle man, Peter could really make someone uncomfortable - although, for such a usually gentle man, Peter could kick ass, make trouble and glare like few others with much less effort than Sylar thought fair. He hobbled a little faster to his door, where he saw that the wheelchair would be a tight fit in his crowded apartment.
Partly blocking the door, he suggested, “Um…you should…leave it in the hall.” Hinting still further (but he would put his foot down and fight over it if need be, his phrasing, tone, and body language were a red herring of politeness, for now), “You can come out and get the stuff if you need it.” Which was his way of being safe and in charge - the meds, and Peter’s possessions, weren’t welcome. With that, he scooped up the clock and his book, making sure Peter didn’t sneak anything in, before letting himself in.
XXX
“Okay,” Peter said agreeably, parking the chair next to the grocery cart full of books in the hallway. It fits right in. Ha. My stuff; his stuff. He watched as Sylar gathered up the clock and book, noticing what seemed like a furtive manner in the other man. Is he going to try to lock me out or something? He's acting really paranoid. Again. Didn't he ask me up? Or was that him being afraid that I would come up and hoping I didn't? Peter lingered over the wheelchair, giving Sylar plenty of opportunity to retreat inside without him. He pulled out the bag of cheeses and the slicer, trying to see if there was anything else that needed to be brought in. No slam of door sounded, so he glanced to the side to see that Sylar was observing him closely enough to telegraph continuing suspicion. But he's not trying to lock me out. Maybe it's the meds that's concerning him? I don't know. Doesn't matter. I need to defuse him. He held up his items, showing them off for inspection. Sylar seemed satisfied; they both went inside. Probably not a good time to make a big deal about having found a cheese slicer.
Peter wandered into the kitchen to stow the cheese, still trying to work out what was up with his jittery companion. Is he still thinking I'm mad about the Heidi-in-a-wheelchair comment or the part about me jumping off buildings for attention? He turned around from putting stuff away to find Sylar virtually in his pocket, having put down his own things and then followed Peter into the kitchen with disturbing stealth. But the guy didn't appear to be up to anything malign. He was just … there. And continuing to eye-ball Peter like he expected Peter to try something at any moment. He's really afraid. Of me leaving? That's what he's been most afraid of since I got here.
Peter pulled in a deep breath, putting on a smile that wasn't the same as his usual nurse-face. It was different because it was more genuine, more gentle, and showing a momentary affectionate amusement. “Come on, Sylar,” he said, gesturing back towards the living room. “Have a seat on the couch for me. You need to get out of your wet shoes. Socks, too, probably.”
XXX
Having been given enough of a cue, Sylar led the way to the living room, sitting first. He waited moment, unsure what he was waiting for - most likely waiting for Peter to park it somewhere. When that didn’t happen, he got to work. He’d laced his shoes snug enough, it wasn’t his usual, thorough job because of his headache. His shoes were in better shape than his socks, which had soaked up the slush; they were the more difficult, too, sticking to his skin. The process was mildly frustrating because he wanted to hurry for several reasons, the pain in his head affecting everything it was so strong. Did I take any pills? I thought I did…His jacket was the next thing removed.
XXX
Peter watched the removal. Is he well enough to assess frostbite on his own? We weren't out long. He's otherwise healthy, so he's not in much danger of anything, is he? How wet did his feet get? Didn't he already have something wrong with his toes? Kicked a file cabinet. I should look at that again. He started to squat or bend - whichever didn't matter, as Peter straightened quickly and with a grunt of pain. “Nope, that won't work for me. If I get down there, I won't be able to get back up.” At least, not easily, not without hurting. Between all his various pulled muscles around his groin and hips, getting up and down wasn't a simple matter.
XXX
Sylar stopped and looked up immediately. “Huh?” Then Peter clarified it. “Oh.”
XXX
Peter dipped into the bathroom to emerge with a towel and took up a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Sylar. “When you're done there, turn and give me your feet. I want to look at them.” He said it perfectly matter-of-factly.
XXX
Finished with the second sock, Sylar set them and the shoes aside. He looked up to see Peter not in the room, but returning to it. I must be really out of it. Falling, running my mouth. I’m a pain in the ass and I don’t mean to be. I wouldn’t care for me, not like Peter’s doing. Is that stubbornness or patience? Virginia has been one to emphasize ‘virtues’ (and ‘sins’). She’d cropped up enough, too much, already today. Sylar raised a long eyebrow. Peter looked very serious and un-fucking-bothered by his own request for the gift of feet. O-kay…
Sylar did as requested, shifting to proffer his limbs, trying and failing to hold them above Peter’s lap but the angle of back and knees overcame him. The towel was a good idea, keeping clammy, otherwise smelly (dirty?) feet off Peter. Wait, isn’t this a custom to other cultures? Foot baths? Foot…worship? What the hell’s it called? His eyes were tracking between Peter and his feet in the man’s lap.
XXX
“Set them down,” Peter murmured, pushing Sylar's feet so the heels rested on his thigh. He immediately moved one over a few inches, off the still-somewhat-tender spot where Sylar had kicked him a little more than a week before. They were long, angular feet, appropriate to Sylar's height and size. Pale, too-white skin was cool to the touch as he rested his left hand briefly on the sole and then the fingers of his right (where they weren't restrained by the brace) against the top. The skin on the bottom was dry enough; that on the top was damp. He scrubbed with the towel at the wetter portions of skin. It was mainly on the top of foot (under laces and tongue of the shoe) and around the ankles. On the plus side, he didn’t see any signs of frostbite. He set aside the towel to look at Sylar's toes with more interest.
XXX
The nurse plucked and tugged his toes aside, palming them just to…feel the skin. Is this a test? Sylar’s expression turned amused, The ‘let me massage your feet’ line, routine…custom thing. But that was all. He snapped his face back to neutral as Peter patted him dry, kindly covering him with the towel when done. “Do you…enjoy giving physicals? I mean…Is this a standard thing? Do my feet really need…this?” He tilted his head and gestured, curious and probing.
XXX
He tensed at the man's first question, shooting Sylar a wary look like Peter had just been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. He’d been accused too often of manufacturing situations to save people from (even if only once) and he felt on shaky ground helping Sylar at all. The follow-up questions let Peter relax a little. He watched Sylar's face for a few more moments as he double-checked intent. Then he looked at the towel-covered feet, resting his hands against them.
XXX
Sylar hadn’t been fidgeting before, but he went still now, seeing and feeling Peter tense, stare and check out his feet. Don’t break my toes. I didn’t mean anything (much) by it. He debated pulling his feet away as a precautionary measure.
XXX
Thus settled, Peter answered what he perceived as a challenge to his ethics directly and straightforwardly. “Yes, I enjoy it. I like being with people, seeing them. You can't treat a patient without looking at them, getting information about them, and some of that information you have to get by touch. It's standard.” He shrugged. “I think your feet need it. What if they had frostbite and I didn't bother to check? What if, since the last time I looked, those stubbed toes had infected or something? How would I know if I didn't look?” And I can’t trust you to take care of yourself yet.
Peter smoothed down the towel and tucked it in a little. It was an unnecessary, habitual care-taking gesture. His eyes followed what he was doing now rather than Sylar's face. More slowly and softly, he added, “We're taught, as nurses and paramedics, to touch our patients. It makes them happy; they feel recognized. There's a lot of studies about the benefits of positive touch.” He reached up to scratch at his nose self-consciously, still looking down instead of at Sylar. “People don't get enough of it.” He was trying not to admit that he knew he’d picked a profession that allowed him to connect with people, literally and frequently. It looked selfish (and possibly inappropriate) and he wanted to be the opposite of that. He wanted his career choice to be about his heroism, not about self-indulgence at the expense of others.
XXX
Continued...