More Between Us Chapter 72/? "Couched"
More Between Us, Chapter 72/? "Couched"
Day 23, January 2, Evening
Since Peter came for lunch so late, it made sense that his dinner visit was late also. But ten thirty-four was quite a bit late. Sylar had had time to consider that maybe Peter’s random questions - the ones that were about Sylar - were in fact rhetorical somehow, not meant to be answered. That would explain a lot of the empath’s upset. Being shoved away after trying to hug him was…well, it hurt and the hurt grew to resentment and that turned to plotting. The knock came and Sylar answered the door, letting a wary, surly Petrelli inside without comment. Sylar backed off but didn’t look happy about it. And here I thought hugs were good. Just not from me.
XXX
Peter had not appreciated having a casual hug subverted into an opportunity to perv on him, or whatever it was Sylar had been doing with his sniffing and ignoring of signals to cut it out. It was … insulting. That was a term Peter felt he'd been using a lot lately, but it seemed to fit. Disrespectful might have been better - his boundaries, desires, personal space, preferences, possession of his own clothing - disrespected. He was tired of it, angry about it, and although the emotion had faded in the hours since he'd seen Sylar for lunch, Peter had still needed to work himself up to returning. It was the encroachment of definite drowsiness that finally pushed him into making the trip, not wanting to fall asleep and render it impossible.
He felt he had to come back. Sylar hadn't taken his pills when alone and Peter had his suspicions about how much the guy had (or had not) eaten while unaccompanied. Then there was the matter of Peter having said he'd come back - that was important, as was his awareness that Sylar had some very understandable issues about being left. Whether the right term was 'insult' or 'disrespect', Peter wasn't going to torment Sylar by disappearing on him.
He wasn't happy about it though. He walked in like he expected Sylar to act inappropriately at any time, which to a large extent, was Peter's expectation. He stayed as far away from the man as he could and kept his eyes on him as much as possible. Peter gave the living room only a brief glance, then headed for the kitchen to carry out his purpose. “I'm going to get the ice cream.”
XXX
Why, so you can give me a brain freeze? Sylar malingered in the doorway of the kitchen. His mouth wanted to run again and the sole thing keeping him from doing it was his headache and grumbling stomach…And the fact that he didn’t have any words to hurl at Peter. It was clear he was on thin ice already, but, Jesus, he hated being looked at like that, like some kind of…thing or vicious, unattractive animal. He’s just come for my feeding. He’ll throw the food in and run. That’s what he wanted to do earlier. “Okay,” he said of his non-choice, his tone treading just this side of resentful and disrespectful. He’d had a lot of practice with that one.
XXX
Peter traded sullen glares with Sylar, pointed enough that in a different frame of mind, it would have been hilarious in how overdone it was. Right now the looks were simply more irritation to an already aggravated situation, but one thing that had evolved between them was that neither of them seemed too intimidated by the other. He gave Sylar's passive-aggressive tone a put-out, long-suffering look as he put the ice cream carton on the counter. He went looking for the scoop.
XXX
Sylar approached, Peter’s disposition be damned, standing a normal distance (such as he understood it) away to get out bowls before he saw that Peter was going to have difficulty scooping with one hand and a brace. He didn’t say anything; it was better not to. Instead he held out his hand (daringly within Peter’s limited personal space bubble) for the scoop.
XXX
Peter bristled at what he initially took as an incomprehensible gesture, some manner of pointing at him or the ice cream, or perhaps the scoop he'd just retrieved from the drawer. I'm getting it, okay? I'm not doing it wrong, am I? “What?”
XXX
“Give me the scoop.” His voice implied that much was obvious and he was getting a little impatient.
XXX
Why does he want the scoop? Peter wondered. Sylar was closer to the sink. Perhaps he was going to put it in hot water? I could do that. Peter swallowed, weighing how much of his ego was wrapped up in being the wielder-of-the-ice-cream-scoop. As it turned out, not very much - even when dealing with an annoyingly unapologetic Sylar who wanted the odd privilege but not enough to lower himself to ask for it.
“Okay,” Peter said in as neutral a voice as he could muster (which was: not especially), stepping backwards and then following that by turning and looking around the kitchen for the painkillers. I can do that while he heats the scoop or whatever. Just … stay away from him.
Peter returned to watch Sylar filling the second bowl, prying at the frozen confection with determination - and a dexterity that Peter lacked. Oh. I can't do that. That's why he wanted it! He's … helping. Peter blinked and moved back in, much closer than he'd previously gotten, reaching out cautiously to take the ice cream carton as Sylar finished with it. He returned the box to the fridge, not quite finding it within himself to verbally acknowledge the assist.
It was a very quiet meal. Plain vanilla ice cream, unadorned and unaugmented, wasn't really Peter's speed, but it was what was there. He scraped off the melted skein from the lumps, eating slowly. Sylar looked steadily more depressed and less confrontational as they shared space without meaningful interaction. This isn't working - being angry at each other. Peter sighed, poking at the last bits of ice cream in the bottom of his bowl, hurrying them in melting by dividing them. “I was thinking that tomorrow I'd go look at the piano again, maybe after breakfast. Would you like to come with me?” Actually, he'd been thinking no such thing, but he felt like he needed to offer something to get them out of the ugly silence that was building between them. Fiddling with the piano sounded like a good activity. The only other thing on his mental to-do list, such as it was, was to clean up the smashed storefront and there was still a dusting of snow under some of the eaves - he'd rather wait until it dried out completely.
XXX
Ice cream for dinner, Sylar pondered after downing the pills. And I thought he was the responsible, adult nurse. A small voice reminded him of his last self-prepared meal - saltines. It’s just the dessert before din- well, dessert as dinner. Somehow I doubt that if I eat like him, I’ll get muscles like his. Sylar snuck glances at his companion, who, while he didn’t look thrilled, didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave and equally wasn’t chatty. What is there to say after someone…sniffs you during a hug? ‘So…smelled anyone good recently?’ I’d even find that weird. When Peter didn’t speak and didn’t look inviting, Sylar eventually got a clue and focused on his food despite the urge to just do anything for attention. It felt strange, bereft of sound except the contented clinking of spoons in bowls (comforting in that there were two sets of sounds which meant he wasn’t alone, though pathetic in that he was reduced to enjoying cutlery sounds). It was French vanilla, his favorite, the best ice cream there was; even if Peter was making faces at it (that was amusing all by itself). He savored the flecks of spice over his taste buds until Peter spoke.
Sylar did a slight double-take. Maybe keeping my mouth shut works after all. Peter also phrased it in terms of like and dislike, as if that factored in. He’d fallen asleep on Peter last time and effectively trapped them in a place Peter hadn’t wanted to be. But they’d also slept together. Sylar wondered if he could will the weather to trap them again. The offer was suspiciously too good to be true, delivered so openly. He’s lonely. Maybe he wants to keep an eye on me? Or is this a test? Rhetorical? Sylar didn’t see what use he’d be, especially if he just fell asleep again. “Sure,” he finally said in a tone that was neither yes nor no. It didn’t sound that exciting (not much did in the lifeless world) but it wouldn’t do to sound excited anyway.
XXX
Peter nodded, taking the agreement as more definite than Sylar’s tone implied. It wasn’t like Peter would be all that hurt if Sylar declined. He was trying to be social and friendly because he’d feel like a bad person if he didn’t. At the same time, there was a part of him that felt he was a bad person for even tolerating Sylar, much less allowing his company. There was just no winning. He finished his ice cream and headed off to the sink to rinse the bowl.
XXX
Sylar looked up at the ‘I’m done’ clanking of utensils. He sped up his own consumption. How is he always done before me? We weren’t even talking. Is my concussion making me slow? Once finished, he slid his dishes beside Peter’s to be cleaned; hovering close, but not too close, as he waited uncertainly.
XXX
“I'm going to head back to my place tonight,” Peter volunteered, not that Sylar had asked, but Peter wanted to make it clear the sleepovers were finished.
XXX
Sylar inhaled at the news. It was obvious Peter was already out the door in every other way but physically. Was he that easy to dismiss even as the last person alive? “Do you have to?” he muttered as the man passed by him, a little hopeful and quiet enough that Peter might miss it because…he wasn’t sure he wanted it to be heard and answered.
XXX
Peter glanced over at Sylar with one brow briefly arched. “I’m going to,” he said in a tone that sounded like half challenge, half question.
XXX
“You know you can stay here.” Peter did know that, didn’t he? Even if he was something of an ill-mannered houseguest.
XXX
Peter tensed, shoulders pulling together and his head pulling back, breath coming a little harder as his nostrils flared. Keeping and using his own apartment shouldn't even be an issue, but Sylar was clearly going to make it one. “Why should I?” He glared fiercely for a moment, then let his expression soften a little. “Should I stay here until we get on each other’s nerves again and we start fighting? Sylar, I need some space. Seriously.” He tilted his head down as much as he could and still see Sylar's face, moving closer to reach out an uncertain left hand to Sylar’s right shoulder. With clenched teeth and a clipped voice, he said, “You killed my brother. For you it’s been a while and maybe you didn’t care about what you did. I care.” He stared, his right eye twitching a little, his fingers digging into Sylar’s deltoid. He swallowed, grip easing a little as he struggled to put the howling monster of vengeance back in its box. Somehow he managed, eyes dulling a little in the process as he lost eye contact and spoke in the direction of Sylar’s right ear. “I’m glad you’re doing better. I'm trying to be your nurse, not Nathan's brother. So I’ll be by in the morning to make sure you eat, to make sure you take your medicine, and then we’ll go out because …” His voice faltered and he looked off further to the side, partially deflating. “Because I don’t know what else to do.”
XXX
Sylar had nothing. That was all so very, painfully direct about everything. It…made him twinge a little, inside. Peter wasn’t happy and there was probably something he could do about it. Moreover, he didn’t know what to make of the admission that Peter didn’t know what he was doing. If Sylar had to follow him and Peter was clueless…where did that leave them? He stared, shocked or offline, nonresponsive or something. All he could muster was a small nod. Okay. And then Peter left, taking the space he claimed to need. (But I don’t need space).
Day 24, January 3, morning
Peter surveyed the street as they left Sylar's apartment, breakfast having been quiet, polite, and stand-offish for both of them. The sky was cloudy, but previous days of sun had cleared the ice and snow from the main part of the pavement. It still lingered in the shadows on the north side of buildings. Fortunately Sylar's apartment building faced south, but even without immediate danger from slick footing, Sylar was still wobbly on his feet. “Do you need some help?” He offered his left hand, motioning with it towards Sylar's right elbow or forearm.
XXX
Sylar threw Peter a glare for that one. It was bad enough without turning his pain into a running joke but in all likelihood, that's what it was to Peter. He amended his expression. If he's offering 'help,' I'm going to make him put out. It's the least he can do. "Hmm hmm," he nodded, uncaring if he looked crippled or unsteady enough to need the assistance because Peter was going to aid him anyway. Sylar took Peter’s arm as they began to cross. "It's been a long time since someone wanted to hold my hand to cross the street," smugly implying Peter was doing more than helping him cross the street just to get under his skin for that nurse-not-brother comment from the previous night.
XXX
Peter grunted in inarticulate, displeased acknowledgment. It's probably been a while since someone beat the crap out of you so bad that you were still walking funny weeks later. His mind took an unexpected turn to the dirty: Huh, I pounded him so hard he was walking funny for weeks … ha! Um, yeah, let's think about something else, okay? Thank God I'm the one with telepathy here. Clearing his throat, he asked conversationally, “In all that … stuff you did after you got your ability, did you ever have anyone … did you ever get any medical care? And I don't mean the Company stuff. I mean actual help.”
XXX
Peter didn’t bat an eye about it and that was annoying. Before he could try harder, Peter was trying to ask him something. Did I ever have anyone…? Oh, please finish that sentence with something interesting! What Pete really wanted to know was sure to be ridiculously unimportant and strange. Sure enough, it was. Sylar turned to stare at the man as much as he could while walking on potentially treacherous ground (and this time that was no metaphor). He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His chuckle sounded more like an insane giggle, “Hell of a time to talk about my annual check-up, Doctor Petrelli.”
XXX
Peter chuckled in return, glad Sylar seemed to be in good humor. He’d been worried the exchange the night before would sour things. Peter saw it as an announcement that living together was at an end, and a clarification that just because he’d been friendly and supportive while Sylar was too messed up to reliably feed himself didn’t mean they were best buddies. But then again, maybe getting that out on the table was cause for Sylar to loosen up a little. It had to be weird for him to have Peter taking care of him. “Thanks for the promotion, but what I really want to know is if you’ve ever had anything more than a check-up before.”
XXX
Fine, if he had to answer. “Not really,” he simplified. What was the point? Being a patient involved paperwork and it wasn’t as if he had insurance; going to a hospital was out of the question; clinics were possible but he was mostly healthy when he wasn’t being killed. Deep down, he wasn’t sure he cared enough if he was healthy, in pain or sick. If he lived, he’d go on; if he died, well, there were plenty of people to dance on his grave. It wasn’t like anyone cared for him so why should he? That wasn’t included in his goals. Another part of him detested the human frailty and dependence. “Why?”
XXX
Peter snorted softly at the challenging question. “Because you don’t seem to know what to do with me doing this for you.” He exhaled deeply as they mounted the far curb and turned down the sidewalk. He kept Sylar to the outside edge even if that meant he was on his right (and holding his arm, not his hand), where the sun had more reliably cleared the ice. He saw now that it would have been wiser to stay on the other side of the street, but he hadn’t been thinking. So instead of crazily recrossing, he just put Sylar on the safest part of the sidewalk and kept his eyes on his footing.
“To me, this is pretty normal - other than the part about our pasts - for someone to help someone else out when they need it. That was my job. I liked it.” Considering that he was technically still employed as a paramedic, if they ever got out of here, Peter added, “Since it’s not like I quit, I guess it’s still my job. This,” Peter gave Sylar’s hand a pat where it rested on his forearm and then pointed out a spot where melting ice wetted the sidewalk, crossing their path and draining to the gutter. It looked like water but might be slick. He said as an aside, “Watch out for that,” before resuming his previous thread, “is something I’d hope you’d do for me if our positions were reversed. You know, if you want to keep me around? People need … assistance sometimes. You know, things from you? Support, effort maybe.”
For Peter, there was a seamless spectrum from people who needed constant care, to those with occasional needs, to friends who asked for and lent support, to casual acquaintances or strangers with whom he was polite. His mind skipped over 'enemies he was supposed to oppose', because Sylar wasn't doing anything to be oppositional about. But with the other categories, there was always reciprocation, a network of providing for others and to a lesser extent on his part, being provided for. It was a basic social contact, but Peter didn’t take it for granted that Sylar was on board with it. The guy killed people, after all. It would be nice, though, to be able to nudge Sylar over into the 'casual acquaintance' group so he didn't feel so on edge with him.
XXX
Sylar casually eyeballed his rambling nurse. Peter’s meaning was quite clear, but it wasn’t in as many words that Sylar could pin him down to. “Things like what from me?” His voice was innocent. Be specific, Peter. I want to hear you say it. Peter ensuring his future care - of Sylar - was so ironically disgusting it was practically a joke; it just made him angry. Peter would inevitably need it, but it was like he was trying to secure his next ‘big brother’ since Nathan was dead, all the while holding Sylar, the potential applicant, at arm's length, wanting nothing to do with him except when Peter wished it. And he mentioned it now, as he was helping Sylar cross the street. The implication that Sylar would beat Peter to the point of serious injury, like his own current injuries, was inaccurate and offensive.
XXX
Peter grumbled something so inarticulate even he didn't know what he was trying to say, before working himself up to forming the words, “I just want to know that if something happens to me here, you’ll be here for me.” He didn't like having said that. He didn't like how it made him feel to say it or the feelings that had led to him saying it. Sylar's concussion and his own broken hand were proof that injuries here were real and serious. He thought he shouldn't even have to be asking this - would the guy act like a decent human being if Peter fell down a flight of stairs or caught a fist wrong and was badly laid up? Sylar would open sleeves of crackers for him, true, but he wouldn't touch the idea of saving Emma or anyone else. In this, though, Peter thought he had some leverage - he clearly mattered to Sylar. Hopefully that was enough, but he was still wound up tightly that he even had to ask. He didn't like having to face that he was this uncertain of Sylar. His jaw worked and he added stiffly, “There’s no one else who can be.” His steps were shorter, grip tighter, as he shot occasional narrow-eyed glances at his companion.
XXX
“Hmm…” Sylar replied, appearing to think it over, ignoring the change in body language to his left. The medic hadn’t used a question, hadn’t asked for help or the promise of future help. Internally he was rolling his eyes at the sappiness of the phrasing. How could Peter possibly romanticize that? That Peter thought he needed to cover this was insulting, like Sylar was too stupid or incapable of recognizing his companion was hurt and in need of help and what’s more unwilling to give it. It seemed…ungrateful for all the other times he’d saved Peter’s life with very little prompting. But that was Peter’s stance here: Sylar was evil and not to be trusted. “I just have to savor this moment, Peter Petrelli wants me to ‘be there for him.’” Sylar chuckled and nudged at Peter’s ribs with his elbow though his tone was sarcastic. “That is what you meant, right? I wonder what that entails,” he teased, seductive and merciless. But more seriously he asked the more important question that needed answering, ”Would you let me help you if it came to it? You'd be doing it my way or not at all - no balloons and flowers,” that was his way of warning Peter it would be tough love all the way and he wasn’t going to be Peter’s slave for the duration of healing.
XXX
Peter literally growled at the ribbing, bristling even further but the display went nowhere. He wanted to shove Sylar off the sidewalk and into the street, but the possibility Sylar might stumble, fall, and be physically hurt by it neutered him. The rest of the teasing was over the top enough to function to calm him down rather than rev him up. He gave a roll of his eyes and looked away in disgust at Sylar taking it that far, pulling in a few deep breaths of the crisp morning air. Then there was the question - a question Peter hadn't thought of and was really just as much of a barrier as his uncertainty about Sylar. He looked up at Sylar with a moment of surprise before shuttering it and looking back down at the pavement. He didn't answer for more than half a block, walking along in quiet as he gave the question his full attention.
He recalled Sylar taping his hand and Peter having a strangely pleasant experience of it even though he'd argued and jerked his hand around. It was pleasant because Sylar, for a few moments there, had played along the way Peter wanted and expected him to. Then it had turned bad, but the moment before the change kept replaying, along with Sylar's very true statement that Peter was clearly already trusting him. Just like, he realized, he was clearly already letting Sylar help him.
“Yes,” he finally said, decisive and clear, looking up to give Sylar a determined, unwavering look, like it was a promise or a pledge and it was. In Peter's mind, he was agreeing to something very important. He pulled to a stop at the curb, one street and a half block away from their destination. His voice a little softer, he said, “I want to hear you say it, that you'll help me if it does come to it.”
XXX
Sylar raised an ambiguous eyebrow at the affirmation. Of course it was easy to agree now, but when the time came Peter would surely find something to freak out over. Since his attention was elsewhere, he didn’t see or anticipate Peter stopping. Sylar took an additional step forward into the street, leaving the man behind on the curb but caught by Peter’s grip on him and his grip on Peter. The Petrelli was almost equal his height this way though still being linked wasn’t the most comfortable.
XXX
Peter felt that surprising, pleasant jolt when someone previously taller was suddenly on his level. Not that Peter went around feeling small - he was plenty tall enough - but Sylar was taller and it made Peter feel bigger to see him eye to eye for a change. He stood straighter, features smoothing as he waited for Sylar’s reply.
XXX
Sylar’s attention refocused quickly. “Or you’ll what? Leave me on the sidewalk?” he sassed because he could. Being hounded for a verbal answer was both annoying and warming because on the one hand, Peter thought he was trying to dodge (which, for once, he wasn’t) and also that Peter thought his word meant something; it was binding. Carefully, he worded his reply, “I’ll help you, Peter, with medical and medically-related care, if it comes to that.” A tilt of his head and a raise of both brows this time was his ‘is that acceptable?’ glance. “Now come on,” he tugged on Peter’s arm, “You always pick bad times for discussions, standing in the cold is just the latest one. I’m sick, you’re supposed to take care of me,” he reminded, half-serious.
XXX
Peter smiled just a little on the outside, quite a bit more on the inside. He was happy, thrilled in fact. He took that statement as not only help if he needed it, but by implication a statement that Sylar wouldn't kill him. That was big. He agreed! “Oh, I’ll ‘take care of you’, all right,” he said in mock threat. As he stepped down off the curb, he made sure he had a good grip on Sylar and then bumped him playfully with his shoulder, not quite hard enough to challenge the guy’s balance, if he was gaging it right. Just in case Sylar thought he was merely being clumsy as he left the curb, Peter flashed him a bigger, joking grin and started them across the street.
XXX
Sylar swallowed and checked his companion once more. How am I supposed to take that? (I wish he would ‘take care of me’, he thought nastily). Sylar swerved a little, making him dizzy but he wasn’t close to falling since the ground beneath him wasn’t slick at the moment. It was, however, one of those confusing human interaction gestures that he’d always struggled with. Or he’ll take care of me ‘bumping’ me off a cliff? Sylar frowned but Peter was grinning and //his memories told him Peter usually used his stoic or tearful face to pull one over on him in the past.// Peter appeared to be waiting for something so Sylar bumped him right back. Since when is touching okay? he wondered. It went over well enough and Peter let it drop after that, laughing and walking with a pep in his step. Was that…flirting? (No. He’s probably thrilled he got away with bumping you without getting maimed. I can’t very well maim him for bumping my shoulder if I want him to ever touch me).
XXX
As they walked into the building, Peter interrupted Sylar from heading into the rec room. “Hey. Now that we’re here, I thought I’d tell you the real reason why I wanted you along.” He waggled his brows, still smiling. “I need your help moving some furniture. Come on.”
XXX
Sylar froze and turned slowly, catching an evil/mischievous expression on Peter’s face. Before an abundance of suspicion and worry could build, everything relaxed when Peter mentioned furniture; in fact, everything relaxed right into an annoyed affection. Of course. To a Petrelli, I’m just the help.
XXX
Peter led the way into the office for the apartment building, blocking the door open and moving the end table away from the couch. “I want to move this into the rec room,” he said as way of explanation when Sylar came to the door.
XXX
The couch was a three cushioned, leather affair. Sylar let Peter get the first grip in front since his primary hand was broken and pulling would be easier than pushing (or so he surmised). The leaning down shifted pressure in his brain and made it throb twice as bad, but he didn’t complain. He didn’t question why they were expending the effort to move the couch across the lobby when there were padded chairs already available - the reason being he thought he could sit on the couch himself while Peter mangled the piano in one way or other. A couch would do much better for his headache (and even though he’d slept okay, about as well as he ever could, he still felt the numbing urge to sleep more). If he wasn’t allowed to sit on the couch for whatever reason, then he would wonder and protest bringing Peter an oversized butt-pillow he clearly didn’t need. Having correct feng-shui wasn’t that important.
XXX
They got it through the door and muscled it into the rec room. Peter felt like he did most of the muscling while Sylar took the lighter end. Sylar gave good advice, balanced it as they tilted it through the doorways, and steered it. Light end or not, Sylar’s input made the job much easier than if Peter had had to struggle with it himself. But of course, he wouldn’t have bothered if Sylar wasn’t here. The couch was for Sylar’s benefit, not his own, even if Peter wouldn’t say that out loud. Once it was in position to the left of the piano and midway between the chairs along the wall and the musical instrument, he did say, “Well, there you go!” and patted the arm of it like it was one big chair for Sylar. Peter walked over to the piano, stretching his fingers and picking at his brace, hoping to avoid giving himself a blister this time.
XXX
Sylar gave Peter’s back a look as the other man turned away. Does he think I’m an invalid who needs a couch? Or is it like a gift, something all for me? That’s the way Sylar was going to claim it. He put his feet on the arm (because he wouldn’t fit) and flopped down crossways, facing Peter. He crossed his arms and settled in to listen and watch.
XXX
Peter spent the morning playing slowly. He did Christmas carols for a while (including Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, with several glances over at Sylar and a few smiles to himself) and wondered if he could sound out the teapot song. He didn't try that one - it would sour things and he didn't want that. He was appreciating the lack of hostility between them. He moved on to semi-random chords for a while as he tried to recall a few popular songs he’d learned years before. ‘I Believe I Can Fly’ was one he could hear in his head, but couldn’t get the keys even remotely right. Green Day's ‘J.A.R.’ was another he worked at, getting closer with it. The song recounted the loss of a friend and the singer's intent to continue on … it was too parallel to how he felt about Nathan. When he realized that, he stopped playing mid-tune, letting his head hang for a while as he massaged his hands. What was that about no hostility? Don't make any. Stick to neutral stuff.
XXX
Sylar caught his chin bobbing towards his chest in attempts to doze. Not that it wasn’t pleasant, having company and human sound, it was the exact opposite - it was too pleasant. It was comforting. He only knew half the songs Peter played but it didn’t matter, anything new was literally novel. Instead of falling asleep on Peter again, Sylar got up to search the building for reading material, not thinking that it might cause just as much drowsiness as sitting still and listening to music. He went door to door, assuming also that Peter wouldn’t notice his absence, and had limited success. Finally, he found a dictionary, old faithful, and returned with his prize. He already had one at his apartment, of course, but he could leave this one here or perhaps start another collection just to keep busy with the gathering and reading. Sylar entered and sat quietly. Did he even notice? I am his audience after all. It didn’t seem like Peter noticed but it wasn’t like there was telltale signs aside from being interrogated. The music was mostly familiar now, the Beatles if he was not mistaken. His mother hadn’t approved of them but they had a certain charm and the music devoid of lyrics was undeniably catchy. Sylar propped the book on his chest despite its weight and opened the book at random - N, right in the middle.
XXX
Nothing was done in perfect form - Peter was no professional pianist or accomplished prodigy. He'd had a few years of lessons, several years of band class, and been part of a garage band. He was doing well when the song was recognizable and he didn't hit too many wrong notes. Still wearing the brace, he couldn't manage the higher chords at all, nor some of the combinations. Having to finger over the notes clumsily threw the timing off a lot. When Sylar took a walk, Peter took it as a judgment against his lousy playing. For several minutes after the elevator dinged shut following Sylar's departure, Peter sat silently at the instrument as though there was no point in continuing without an audience. He stretched, got up and walked around the room, then returned to the piano. Maybe I should do my practicing alone and just play the things I'm better at when he's around?
He hadn't realized how there was nothing else of consequence to hear in the world but Sylar's voice and his own … and now, a little bit of music. He transitioned to the Beatles, a band he'd practiced on a lot when he was home. He was somewhere in the middle of 'Hello, Goodbye' when Sylar returned to the room with a thick book. Peter repeated it a few times, along with a few other tunes. This time, Sylar stayed, although that might have been because he fell asleep. He was certainly being very still over there on the couch. Peter smiled softly to himself as he finished one last reprieve of 'Carry That Weight' before turning to face Sylar, finished, for now, with the piano. He wasn't hungry for lunch yet. Conversation came to mind, but … yeah, Sylar looked asleep. Then with the cessation of the music, he roused. Peter waited until he had Sylar's attention before asking, “What would you like to talk about?”
XXX
Sylar’s eyes snapped open. Nepotism: favoritism based on kinship. Huh? The music had stopped. He rubbed over his eyes once in what he hoped was a casual manner. I wasn’t sleeping. Did he stop because of me? Sylar straightened up, blinking with a small, growing frown. “That’s a trick question. What do you want to talk about?”
XXX
Peter scoffed. "It's not a trick question. Maybe we should talk about what we should talk about?" Sylar's point about them not really talking, or at least Sylar not being allowed to talk about the things that were important to him, was nagging at Peter's conscience. It would be healthy to get things out in the open between them. Assuming he could manage it without trying to break his other hand on Sylar's head.
XXX
Sylar’s face was a forcefully wary, confused frown that epitomized ‘…what?’ Peter’s words made little sense to him so he kept his mouth shut.
XXX
Peter's lips pressed together in a displeased line when Sylar didn't answer. He folded down the guard for the keys and leaned his elbow against it, settling in to wait Sylar out. It wasn't like it was all that bad a view.
XXX
When it was clear Peter wasn’t going to budge, Sylar gave him an annoyed look, crossing his arms in defiance. He was not going to be outlasted even by one so stubborn. Several minutes passed and Petrelli didn’t break. Sylar sighed, waited more with no success. "I had some time to think about it." Sylar paused and licked his lips, glancing off to the side. "I don't think that kid you found was mine." He searched for the words, "But why would I raise someone else's kid? Who would let me raise their kid?" That was asked rhetorically because he didn't want to hear any of Peter's biting comments about it. He couldn't imagine circumstances that would leave him saddled with a kid, as a Petrelli, which implied that the family knew about the kid in his care. As much as his curiosity burned him up from the inside, he knew he shouldn't and couldn't get attached to what was essentially a figment of Peter's imagination, the child. He didn't dare ask about his supposed offspring. The kid is dead anyway, he told himself. Most importantly, Sylar wanted to know the other half of the equation. Peter said that was the three or more years in the future, that time had come and gone with no mate and no kid named Noah. Did-did I screw it up? His gut felt like stone; regret, horror and pain building up already and he didn't know if Peter would take this seriously as the defining, important moment it was. Looking directly at Peter, he stated, "I...I want to know who the mother was."
XXX
“That's a good question.” Peter drew in a deep breath. “The 'kid' was named Noah.” He waited a moment, wondering if there was some reason why Sylar kept referring to his own son (even if only in an alternate timeline) so disrespectfully. He went on, “I don't know if the boy was biologically yours, but he called you Daddy. He knew you. He was comfortable with you. He,” Peter swallowed and looked down, “went to you when he was afraid.” He looked back up at Sylar. “You weren't just a babysitter to him.” Lightening the mood with a single laugh and a smile, he said, “Not to the dog, either. He was up on a stool - Mr. Muggles - and you gave him … a piece of waffle or pancake, I think. Then you petted him and you really cared about him - both of them.” Peter smiled softly, warmly. “It was cute.”
XXX
Sylar felt his throat gulp. This is exactly what he did and did not want to hear. I was a good parent? At least, that’s what he gathered from the kid going to him when he was afraid. He felt…relieved, even if it wasn’t really real, at some point he’d succeeded at something and done right by someone.
XXX
Shaking off the memory, Peter went back to Sylar's area of interest. “I don't know who the mother was. I would assume it was someone Caucasian, given how Noah looked. He was fair, with light brown hair, maybe dark blond. I don't remember his eye color.” He raised a hand indicating the child's height. “He was about this tall. Good-looking kid. Healthy.” Peter shrugged, thinking Sylar probably didn't want an EMT run sheet of height, weight, and physical abnormalities, but he sure didn't have the artistic ability to convey someone's looks. “I don't think there was anyone else in the house while I was there. I had the impression it was just the two of you right then, but if someone was living with you and gone somewhere … I wouldn't know.”
XXX
A flush of cold went through him. Dark blonde, eye color…No one else. The mother must have left the kid with him. That was the missing circumstance or reason that resulted in him raising the kid at all, because no one else would take care of him. Did the mother, whoever she was, know about Sylar’s own problems, did she know how risky it was to leave a potentially special kid with him? (Had she abandoned one or both of them? Was there a reason?) But history had not repeated itself and he’d broken the cycle. Sylar still remembered how hopeful he’d been when Peter told him he’d managed to control his ability: ‘Just believing it’s a possibility gives me hope.’ ‘I don’t want hope, I want it gone!’ How stupid he was to think that was to be his future. Lydia had dark brownish-blonde hair and Elle had been blonde… Claire was a disturbing option. Or had it been someone else entirely? None of his questions were being answered. His head jerked in a single nod, “I see,” he said even though he didn’t. Peter wouldn’t hold back information or lie, would he? The thought that tortured him was Elle’s death, if she’d been…when he… He felt sick, very physically ill. “Does it make any sense to ask why you killed him?” Sylar knew that’s what Peter had avoided saying. “I thought you said you didn’t threaten him, that you got what you wanted.” I didn’t kill Nathan yet so…?
Continued...
Day 23, January 2, Evening
Since Peter came for lunch so late, it made sense that his dinner visit was late also. But ten thirty-four was quite a bit late. Sylar had had time to consider that maybe Peter’s random questions - the ones that were about Sylar - were in fact rhetorical somehow, not meant to be answered. That would explain a lot of the empath’s upset. Being shoved away after trying to hug him was…well, it hurt and the hurt grew to resentment and that turned to plotting. The knock came and Sylar answered the door, letting a wary, surly Petrelli inside without comment. Sylar backed off but didn’t look happy about it. And here I thought hugs were good. Just not from me.
XXX
Peter had not appreciated having a casual hug subverted into an opportunity to perv on him, or whatever it was Sylar had been doing with his sniffing and ignoring of signals to cut it out. It was … insulting. That was a term Peter felt he'd been using a lot lately, but it seemed to fit. Disrespectful might have been better - his boundaries, desires, personal space, preferences, possession of his own clothing - disrespected. He was tired of it, angry about it, and although the emotion had faded in the hours since he'd seen Sylar for lunch, Peter had still needed to work himself up to returning. It was the encroachment of definite drowsiness that finally pushed him into making the trip, not wanting to fall asleep and render it impossible.
He felt he had to come back. Sylar hadn't taken his pills when alone and Peter had his suspicions about how much the guy had (or had not) eaten while unaccompanied. Then there was the matter of Peter having said he'd come back - that was important, as was his awareness that Sylar had some very understandable issues about being left. Whether the right term was 'insult' or 'disrespect', Peter wasn't going to torment Sylar by disappearing on him.
He wasn't happy about it though. He walked in like he expected Sylar to act inappropriately at any time, which to a large extent, was Peter's expectation. He stayed as far away from the man as he could and kept his eyes on him as much as possible. Peter gave the living room only a brief glance, then headed for the kitchen to carry out his purpose. “I'm going to get the ice cream.”
XXX
Why, so you can give me a brain freeze? Sylar malingered in the doorway of the kitchen. His mouth wanted to run again and the sole thing keeping him from doing it was his headache and grumbling stomach…And the fact that he didn’t have any words to hurl at Peter. It was clear he was on thin ice already, but, Jesus, he hated being looked at like that, like some kind of…thing or vicious, unattractive animal. He’s just come for my feeding. He’ll throw the food in and run. That’s what he wanted to do earlier. “Okay,” he said of his non-choice, his tone treading just this side of resentful and disrespectful. He’d had a lot of practice with that one.
XXX
Peter traded sullen glares with Sylar, pointed enough that in a different frame of mind, it would have been hilarious in how overdone it was. Right now the looks were simply more irritation to an already aggravated situation, but one thing that had evolved between them was that neither of them seemed too intimidated by the other. He gave Sylar's passive-aggressive tone a put-out, long-suffering look as he put the ice cream carton on the counter. He went looking for the scoop.
XXX
Sylar approached, Peter’s disposition be damned, standing a normal distance (such as he understood it) away to get out bowls before he saw that Peter was going to have difficulty scooping with one hand and a brace. He didn’t say anything; it was better not to. Instead he held out his hand (daringly within Peter’s limited personal space bubble) for the scoop.
XXX
Peter bristled at what he initially took as an incomprehensible gesture, some manner of pointing at him or the ice cream, or perhaps the scoop he'd just retrieved from the drawer. I'm getting it, okay? I'm not doing it wrong, am I? “What?”
XXX
“Give me the scoop.” His voice implied that much was obvious and he was getting a little impatient.
XXX
Why does he want the scoop? Peter wondered. Sylar was closer to the sink. Perhaps he was going to put it in hot water? I could do that. Peter swallowed, weighing how much of his ego was wrapped up in being the wielder-of-the-ice-cream-scoop. As it turned out, not very much - even when dealing with an annoyingly unapologetic Sylar who wanted the odd privilege but not enough to lower himself to ask for it.
“Okay,” Peter said in as neutral a voice as he could muster (which was: not especially), stepping backwards and then following that by turning and looking around the kitchen for the painkillers. I can do that while he heats the scoop or whatever. Just … stay away from him.
Peter returned to watch Sylar filling the second bowl, prying at the frozen confection with determination - and a dexterity that Peter lacked. Oh. I can't do that. That's why he wanted it! He's … helping. Peter blinked and moved back in, much closer than he'd previously gotten, reaching out cautiously to take the ice cream carton as Sylar finished with it. He returned the box to the fridge, not quite finding it within himself to verbally acknowledge the assist.
It was a very quiet meal. Plain vanilla ice cream, unadorned and unaugmented, wasn't really Peter's speed, but it was what was there. He scraped off the melted skein from the lumps, eating slowly. Sylar looked steadily more depressed and less confrontational as they shared space without meaningful interaction. This isn't working - being angry at each other. Peter sighed, poking at the last bits of ice cream in the bottom of his bowl, hurrying them in melting by dividing them. “I was thinking that tomorrow I'd go look at the piano again, maybe after breakfast. Would you like to come with me?” Actually, he'd been thinking no such thing, but he felt like he needed to offer something to get them out of the ugly silence that was building between them. Fiddling with the piano sounded like a good activity. The only other thing on his mental to-do list, such as it was, was to clean up the smashed storefront and there was still a dusting of snow under some of the eaves - he'd rather wait until it dried out completely.
XXX
Ice cream for dinner, Sylar pondered after downing the pills. And I thought he was the responsible, adult nurse. A small voice reminded him of his last self-prepared meal - saltines. It’s just the dessert before din- well, dessert as dinner. Somehow I doubt that if I eat like him, I’ll get muscles like his. Sylar snuck glances at his companion, who, while he didn’t look thrilled, didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave and equally wasn’t chatty. What is there to say after someone…sniffs you during a hug? ‘So…smelled anyone good recently?’ I’d even find that weird. When Peter didn’t speak and didn’t look inviting, Sylar eventually got a clue and focused on his food despite the urge to just do anything for attention. It felt strange, bereft of sound except the contented clinking of spoons in bowls (comforting in that there were two sets of sounds which meant he wasn’t alone, though pathetic in that he was reduced to enjoying cutlery sounds). It was French vanilla, his favorite, the best ice cream there was; even if Peter was making faces at it (that was amusing all by itself). He savored the flecks of spice over his taste buds until Peter spoke.
Sylar did a slight double-take. Maybe keeping my mouth shut works after all. Peter also phrased it in terms of like and dislike, as if that factored in. He’d fallen asleep on Peter last time and effectively trapped them in a place Peter hadn’t wanted to be. But they’d also slept together. Sylar wondered if he could will the weather to trap them again. The offer was suspiciously too good to be true, delivered so openly. He’s lonely. Maybe he wants to keep an eye on me? Or is this a test? Rhetorical? Sylar didn’t see what use he’d be, especially if he just fell asleep again. “Sure,” he finally said in a tone that was neither yes nor no. It didn’t sound that exciting (not much did in the lifeless world) but it wouldn’t do to sound excited anyway.
XXX
Peter nodded, taking the agreement as more definite than Sylar’s tone implied. It wasn’t like Peter would be all that hurt if Sylar declined. He was trying to be social and friendly because he’d feel like a bad person if he didn’t. At the same time, there was a part of him that felt he was a bad person for even tolerating Sylar, much less allowing his company. There was just no winning. He finished his ice cream and headed off to the sink to rinse the bowl.
XXX
Sylar looked up at the ‘I’m done’ clanking of utensils. He sped up his own consumption. How is he always done before me? We weren’t even talking. Is my concussion making me slow? Once finished, he slid his dishes beside Peter’s to be cleaned; hovering close, but not too close, as he waited uncertainly.
XXX
“I'm going to head back to my place tonight,” Peter volunteered, not that Sylar had asked, but Peter wanted to make it clear the sleepovers were finished.
XXX
Sylar inhaled at the news. It was obvious Peter was already out the door in every other way but physically. Was he that easy to dismiss even as the last person alive? “Do you have to?” he muttered as the man passed by him, a little hopeful and quiet enough that Peter might miss it because…he wasn’t sure he wanted it to be heard and answered.
XXX
Peter glanced over at Sylar with one brow briefly arched. “I’m going to,” he said in a tone that sounded like half challenge, half question.
XXX
“You know you can stay here.” Peter did know that, didn’t he? Even if he was something of an ill-mannered houseguest.
XXX
Peter tensed, shoulders pulling together and his head pulling back, breath coming a little harder as his nostrils flared. Keeping and using his own apartment shouldn't even be an issue, but Sylar was clearly going to make it one. “Why should I?” He glared fiercely for a moment, then let his expression soften a little. “Should I stay here until we get on each other’s nerves again and we start fighting? Sylar, I need some space. Seriously.” He tilted his head down as much as he could and still see Sylar's face, moving closer to reach out an uncertain left hand to Sylar’s right shoulder. With clenched teeth and a clipped voice, he said, “You killed my brother. For you it’s been a while and maybe you didn’t care about what you did. I care.” He stared, his right eye twitching a little, his fingers digging into Sylar’s deltoid. He swallowed, grip easing a little as he struggled to put the howling monster of vengeance back in its box. Somehow he managed, eyes dulling a little in the process as he lost eye contact and spoke in the direction of Sylar’s right ear. “I’m glad you’re doing better. I'm trying to be your nurse, not Nathan's brother. So I’ll be by in the morning to make sure you eat, to make sure you take your medicine, and then we’ll go out because …” His voice faltered and he looked off further to the side, partially deflating. “Because I don’t know what else to do.”
XXX
Sylar had nothing. That was all so very, painfully direct about everything. It…made him twinge a little, inside. Peter wasn’t happy and there was probably something he could do about it. Moreover, he didn’t know what to make of the admission that Peter didn’t know what he was doing. If Sylar had to follow him and Peter was clueless…where did that leave them? He stared, shocked or offline, nonresponsive or something. All he could muster was a small nod. Okay. And then Peter left, taking the space he claimed to need. (But I don’t need space).
Day 24, January 3, morning
Peter surveyed the street as they left Sylar's apartment, breakfast having been quiet, polite, and stand-offish for both of them. The sky was cloudy, but previous days of sun had cleared the ice and snow from the main part of the pavement. It still lingered in the shadows on the north side of buildings. Fortunately Sylar's apartment building faced south, but even without immediate danger from slick footing, Sylar was still wobbly on his feet. “Do you need some help?” He offered his left hand, motioning with it towards Sylar's right elbow or forearm.
XXX
Sylar threw Peter a glare for that one. It was bad enough without turning his pain into a running joke but in all likelihood, that's what it was to Peter. He amended his expression. If he's offering 'help,' I'm going to make him put out. It's the least he can do. "Hmm hmm," he nodded, uncaring if he looked crippled or unsteady enough to need the assistance because Peter was going to aid him anyway. Sylar took Peter’s arm as they began to cross. "It's been a long time since someone wanted to hold my hand to cross the street," smugly implying Peter was doing more than helping him cross the street just to get under his skin for that nurse-not-brother comment from the previous night.
XXX
Peter grunted in inarticulate, displeased acknowledgment. It's probably been a while since someone beat the crap out of you so bad that you were still walking funny weeks later. His mind took an unexpected turn to the dirty: Huh, I pounded him so hard he was walking funny for weeks … ha! Um, yeah, let's think about something else, okay? Thank God I'm the one with telepathy here. Clearing his throat, he asked conversationally, “In all that … stuff you did after you got your ability, did you ever have anyone … did you ever get any medical care? And I don't mean the Company stuff. I mean actual help.”
XXX
Peter didn’t bat an eye about it and that was annoying. Before he could try harder, Peter was trying to ask him something. Did I ever have anyone…? Oh, please finish that sentence with something interesting! What Pete really wanted to know was sure to be ridiculously unimportant and strange. Sure enough, it was. Sylar turned to stare at the man as much as he could while walking on potentially treacherous ground (and this time that was no metaphor). He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His chuckle sounded more like an insane giggle, “Hell of a time to talk about my annual check-up, Doctor Petrelli.”
XXX
Peter chuckled in return, glad Sylar seemed to be in good humor. He’d been worried the exchange the night before would sour things. Peter saw it as an announcement that living together was at an end, and a clarification that just because he’d been friendly and supportive while Sylar was too messed up to reliably feed himself didn’t mean they were best buddies. But then again, maybe getting that out on the table was cause for Sylar to loosen up a little. It had to be weird for him to have Peter taking care of him. “Thanks for the promotion, but what I really want to know is if you’ve ever had anything more than a check-up before.”
XXX
Fine, if he had to answer. “Not really,” he simplified. What was the point? Being a patient involved paperwork and it wasn’t as if he had insurance; going to a hospital was out of the question; clinics were possible but he was mostly healthy when he wasn’t being killed. Deep down, he wasn’t sure he cared enough if he was healthy, in pain or sick. If he lived, he’d go on; if he died, well, there were plenty of people to dance on his grave. It wasn’t like anyone cared for him so why should he? That wasn’t included in his goals. Another part of him detested the human frailty and dependence. “Why?”
XXX
Peter snorted softly at the challenging question. “Because you don’t seem to know what to do with me doing this for you.” He exhaled deeply as they mounted the far curb and turned down the sidewalk. He kept Sylar to the outside edge even if that meant he was on his right (and holding his arm, not his hand), where the sun had more reliably cleared the ice. He saw now that it would have been wiser to stay on the other side of the street, but he hadn’t been thinking. So instead of crazily recrossing, he just put Sylar on the safest part of the sidewalk and kept his eyes on his footing.
“To me, this is pretty normal - other than the part about our pasts - for someone to help someone else out when they need it. That was my job. I liked it.” Considering that he was technically still employed as a paramedic, if they ever got out of here, Peter added, “Since it’s not like I quit, I guess it’s still my job. This,” Peter gave Sylar’s hand a pat where it rested on his forearm and then pointed out a spot where melting ice wetted the sidewalk, crossing their path and draining to the gutter. It looked like water but might be slick. He said as an aside, “Watch out for that,” before resuming his previous thread, “is something I’d hope you’d do for me if our positions were reversed. You know, if you want to keep me around? People need … assistance sometimes. You know, things from you? Support, effort maybe.”
For Peter, there was a seamless spectrum from people who needed constant care, to those with occasional needs, to friends who asked for and lent support, to casual acquaintances or strangers with whom he was polite. His mind skipped over 'enemies he was supposed to oppose', because Sylar wasn't doing anything to be oppositional about. But with the other categories, there was always reciprocation, a network of providing for others and to a lesser extent on his part, being provided for. It was a basic social contact, but Peter didn’t take it for granted that Sylar was on board with it. The guy killed people, after all. It would be nice, though, to be able to nudge Sylar over into the 'casual acquaintance' group so he didn't feel so on edge with him.
XXX
Sylar casually eyeballed his rambling nurse. Peter’s meaning was quite clear, but it wasn’t in as many words that Sylar could pin him down to. “Things like what from me?” His voice was innocent. Be specific, Peter. I want to hear you say it. Peter ensuring his future care - of Sylar - was so ironically disgusting it was practically a joke; it just made him angry. Peter would inevitably need it, but it was like he was trying to secure his next ‘big brother’ since Nathan was dead, all the while holding Sylar, the potential applicant, at arm's length, wanting nothing to do with him except when Peter wished it. And he mentioned it now, as he was helping Sylar cross the street. The implication that Sylar would beat Peter to the point of serious injury, like his own current injuries, was inaccurate and offensive.
XXX
Peter grumbled something so inarticulate even he didn't know what he was trying to say, before working himself up to forming the words, “I just want to know that if something happens to me here, you’ll be here for me.” He didn't like having said that. He didn't like how it made him feel to say it or the feelings that had led to him saying it. Sylar's concussion and his own broken hand were proof that injuries here were real and serious. He thought he shouldn't even have to be asking this - would the guy act like a decent human being if Peter fell down a flight of stairs or caught a fist wrong and was badly laid up? Sylar would open sleeves of crackers for him, true, but he wouldn't touch the idea of saving Emma or anyone else. In this, though, Peter thought he had some leverage - he clearly mattered to Sylar. Hopefully that was enough, but he was still wound up tightly that he even had to ask. He didn't like having to face that he was this uncertain of Sylar. His jaw worked and he added stiffly, “There’s no one else who can be.” His steps were shorter, grip tighter, as he shot occasional narrow-eyed glances at his companion.
XXX
“Hmm…” Sylar replied, appearing to think it over, ignoring the change in body language to his left. The medic hadn’t used a question, hadn’t asked for help or the promise of future help. Internally he was rolling his eyes at the sappiness of the phrasing. How could Peter possibly romanticize that? That Peter thought he needed to cover this was insulting, like Sylar was too stupid or incapable of recognizing his companion was hurt and in need of help and what’s more unwilling to give it. It seemed…ungrateful for all the other times he’d saved Peter’s life with very little prompting. But that was Peter’s stance here: Sylar was evil and not to be trusted. “I just have to savor this moment, Peter Petrelli wants me to ‘be there for him.’” Sylar chuckled and nudged at Peter’s ribs with his elbow though his tone was sarcastic. “That is what you meant, right? I wonder what that entails,” he teased, seductive and merciless. But more seriously he asked the more important question that needed answering, ”Would you let me help you if it came to it? You'd be doing it my way or not at all - no balloons and flowers,” that was his way of warning Peter it would be tough love all the way and he wasn’t going to be Peter’s slave for the duration of healing.
XXX
Peter literally growled at the ribbing, bristling even further but the display went nowhere. He wanted to shove Sylar off the sidewalk and into the street, but the possibility Sylar might stumble, fall, and be physically hurt by it neutered him. The rest of the teasing was over the top enough to function to calm him down rather than rev him up. He gave a roll of his eyes and looked away in disgust at Sylar taking it that far, pulling in a few deep breaths of the crisp morning air. Then there was the question - a question Peter hadn't thought of and was really just as much of a barrier as his uncertainty about Sylar. He looked up at Sylar with a moment of surprise before shuttering it and looking back down at the pavement. He didn't answer for more than half a block, walking along in quiet as he gave the question his full attention.
He recalled Sylar taping his hand and Peter having a strangely pleasant experience of it even though he'd argued and jerked his hand around. It was pleasant because Sylar, for a few moments there, had played along the way Peter wanted and expected him to. Then it had turned bad, but the moment before the change kept replaying, along with Sylar's very true statement that Peter was clearly already trusting him. Just like, he realized, he was clearly already letting Sylar help him.
“Yes,” he finally said, decisive and clear, looking up to give Sylar a determined, unwavering look, like it was a promise or a pledge and it was. In Peter's mind, he was agreeing to something very important. He pulled to a stop at the curb, one street and a half block away from their destination. His voice a little softer, he said, “I want to hear you say it, that you'll help me if it does come to it.”
XXX
Sylar raised an ambiguous eyebrow at the affirmation. Of course it was easy to agree now, but when the time came Peter would surely find something to freak out over. Since his attention was elsewhere, he didn’t see or anticipate Peter stopping. Sylar took an additional step forward into the street, leaving the man behind on the curb but caught by Peter’s grip on him and his grip on Peter. The Petrelli was almost equal his height this way though still being linked wasn’t the most comfortable.
XXX
Peter felt that surprising, pleasant jolt when someone previously taller was suddenly on his level. Not that Peter went around feeling small - he was plenty tall enough - but Sylar was taller and it made Peter feel bigger to see him eye to eye for a change. He stood straighter, features smoothing as he waited for Sylar’s reply.
XXX
Sylar’s attention refocused quickly. “Or you’ll what? Leave me on the sidewalk?” he sassed because he could. Being hounded for a verbal answer was both annoying and warming because on the one hand, Peter thought he was trying to dodge (which, for once, he wasn’t) and also that Peter thought his word meant something; it was binding. Carefully, he worded his reply, “I’ll help you, Peter, with medical and medically-related care, if it comes to that.” A tilt of his head and a raise of both brows this time was his ‘is that acceptable?’ glance. “Now come on,” he tugged on Peter’s arm, “You always pick bad times for discussions, standing in the cold is just the latest one. I’m sick, you’re supposed to take care of me,” he reminded, half-serious.
XXX
Peter smiled just a little on the outside, quite a bit more on the inside. He was happy, thrilled in fact. He took that statement as not only help if he needed it, but by implication a statement that Sylar wouldn't kill him. That was big. He agreed! “Oh, I’ll ‘take care of you’, all right,” he said in mock threat. As he stepped down off the curb, he made sure he had a good grip on Sylar and then bumped him playfully with his shoulder, not quite hard enough to challenge the guy’s balance, if he was gaging it right. Just in case Sylar thought he was merely being clumsy as he left the curb, Peter flashed him a bigger, joking grin and started them across the street.
XXX
Sylar swallowed and checked his companion once more. How am I supposed to take that? (I wish he would ‘take care of me’, he thought nastily). Sylar swerved a little, making him dizzy but he wasn’t close to falling since the ground beneath him wasn’t slick at the moment. It was, however, one of those confusing human interaction gestures that he’d always struggled with. Or he’ll take care of me ‘bumping’ me off a cliff? Sylar frowned but Peter was grinning and //his memories told him Peter usually used his stoic or tearful face to pull one over on him in the past.// Peter appeared to be waiting for something so Sylar bumped him right back. Since when is touching okay? he wondered. It went over well enough and Peter let it drop after that, laughing and walking with a pep in his step. Was that…flirting? (No. He’s probably thrilled he got away with bumping you without getting maimed. I can’t very well maim him for bumping my shoulder if I want him to ever touch me).
XXX
As they walked into the building, Peter interrupted Sylar from heading into the rec room. “Hey. Now that we’re here, I thought I’d tell you the real reason why I wanted you along.” He waggled his brows, still smiling. “I need your help moving some furniture. Come on.”
XXX
Sylar froze and turned slowly, catching an evil/mischievous expression on Peter’s face. Before an abundance of suspicion and worry could build, everything relaxed when Peter mentioned furniture; in fact, everything relaxed right into an annoyed affection. Of course. To a Petrelli, I’m just the help.
XXX
Peter led the way into the office for the apartment building, blocking the door open and moving the end table away from the couch. “I want to move this into the rec room,” he said as way of explanation when Sylar came to the door.
XXX
The couch was a three cushioned, leather affair. Sylar let Peter get the first grip in front since his primary hand was broken and pulling would be easier than pushing (or so he surmised). The leaning down shifted pressure in his brain and made it throb twice as bad, but he didn’t complain. He didn’t question why they were expending the effort to move the couch across the lobby when there were padded chairs already available - the reason being he thought he could sit on the couch himself while Peter mangled the piano in one way or other. A couch would do much better for his headache (and even though he’d slept okay, about as well as he ever could, he still felt the numbing urge to sleep more). If he wasn’t allowed to sit on the couch for whatever reason, then he would wonder and protest bringing Peter an oversized butt-pillow he clearly didn’t need. Having correct feng-shui wasn’t that important.
XXX
They got it through the door and muscled it into the rec room. Peter felt like he did most of the muscling while Sylar took the lighter end. Sylar gave good advice, balanced it as they tilted it through the doorways, and steered it. Light end or not, Sylar’s input made the job much easier than if Peter had had to struggle with it himself. But of course, he wouldn’t have bothered if Sylar wasn’t here. The couch was for Sylar’s benefit, not his own, even if Peter wouldn’t say that out loud. Once it was in position to the left of the piano and midway between the chairs along the wall and the musical instrument, he did say, “Well, there you go!” and patted the arm of it like it was one big chair for Sylar. Peter walked over to the piano, stretching his fingers and picking at his brace, hoping to avoid giving himself a blister this time.
XXX
Sylar gave Peter’s back a look as the other man turned away. Does he think I’m an invalid who needs a couch? Or is it like a gift, something all for me? That’s the way Sylar was going to claim it. He put his feet on the arm (because he wouldn’t fit) and flopped down crossways, facing Peter. He crossed his arms and settled in to listen and watch.
XXX
Peter spent the morning playing slowly. He did Christmas carols for a while (including Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, with several glances over at Sylar and a few smiles to himself) and wondered if he could sound out the teapot song. He didn't try that one - it would sour things and he didn't want that. He was appreciating the lack of hostility between them. He moved on to semi-random chords for a while as he tried to recall a few popular songs he’d learned years before. ‘I Believe I Can Fly’ was one he could hear in his head, but couldn’t get the keys even remotely right. Green Day's ‘J.A.R.’ was another he worked at, getting closer with it. The song recounted the loss of a friend and the singer's intent to continue on … it was too parallel to how he felt about Nathan. When he realized that, he stopped playing mid-tune, letting his head hang for a while as he massaged his hands. What was that about no hostility? Don't make any. Stick to neutral stuff.
XXX
Sylar caught his chin bobbing towards his chest in attempts to doze. Not that it wasn’t pleasant, having company and human sound, it was the exact opposite - it was too pleasant. It was comforting. He only knew half the songs Peter played but it didn’t matter, anything new was literally novel. Instead of falling asleep on Peter again, Sylar got up to search the building for reading material, not thinking that it might cause just as much drowsiness as sitting still and listening to music. He went door to door, assuming also that Peter wouldn’t notice his absence, and had limited success. Finally, he found a dictionary, old faithful, and returned with his prize. He already had one at his apartment, of course, but he could leave this one here or perhaps start another collection just to keep busy with the gathering and reading. Sylar entered and sat quietly. Did he even notice? I am his audience after all. It didn’t seem like Peter noticed but it wasn’t like there was telltale signs aside from being interrogated. The music was mostly familiar now, the Beatles if he was not mistaken. His mother hadn’t approved of them but they had a certain charm and the music devoid of lyrics was undeniably catchy. Sylar propped the book on his chest despite its weight and opened the book at random - N, right in the middle.
XXX
Nothing was done in perfect form - Peter was no professional pianist or accomplished prodigy. He'd had a few years of lessons, several years of band class, and been part of a garage band. He was doing well when the song was recognizable and he didn't hit too many wrong notes. Still wearing the brace, he couldn't manage the higher chords at all, nor some of the combinations. Having to finger over the notes clumsily threw the timing off a lot. When Sylar took a walk, Peter took it as a judgment against his lousy playing. For several minutes after the elevator dinged shut following Sylar's departure, Peter sat silently at the instrument as though there was no point in continuing without an audience. He stretched, got up and walked around the room, then returned to the piano. Maybe I should do my practicing alone and just play the things I'm better at when he's around?
He hadn't realized how there was nothing else of consequence to hear in the world but Sylar's voice and his own … and now, a little bit of music. He transitioned to the Beatles, a band he'd practiced on a lot when he was home. He was somewhere in the middle of 'Hello, Goodbye' when Sylar returned to the room with a thick book. Peter repeated it a few times, along with a few other tunes. This time, Sylar stayed, although that might have been because he fell asleep. He was certainly being very still over there on the couch. Peter smiled softly to himself as he finished one last reprieve of 'Carry That Weight' before turning to face Sylar, finished, for now, with the piano. He wasn't hungry for lunch yet. Conversation came to mind, but … yeah, Sylar looked asleep. Then with the cessation of the music, he roused. Peter waited until he had Sylar's attention before asking, “What would you like to talk about?”
XXX
Sylar’s eyes snapped open. Nepotism: favoritism based on kinship. Huh? The music had stopped. He rubbed over his eyes once in what he hoped was a casual manner. I wasn’t sleeping. Did he stop because of me? Sylar straightened up, blinking with a small, growing frown. “That’s a trick question. What do you want to talk about?”
XXX
Peter scoffed. "It's not a trick question. Maybe we should talk about what we should talk about?" Sylar's point about them not really talking, or at least Sylar not being allowed to talk about the things that were important to him, was nagging at Peter's conscience. It would be healthy to get things out in the open between them. Assuming he could manage it without trying to break his other hand on Sylar's head.
XXX
Sylar’s face was a forcefully wary, confused frown that epitomized ‘…what?’ Peter’s words made little sense to him so he kept his mouth shut.
XXX
Peter's lips pressed together in a displeased line when Sylar didn't answer. He folded down the guard for the keys and leaned his elbow against it, settling in to wait Sylar out. It wasn't like it was all that bad a view.
XXX
When it was clear Peter wasn’t going to budge, Sylar gave him an annoyed look, crossing his arms in defiance. He was not going to be outlasted even by one so stubborn. Several minutes passed and Petrelli didn’t break. Sylar sighed, waited more with no success. "I had some time to think about it." Sylar paused and licked his lips, glancing off to the side. "I don't think that kid you found was mine." He searched for the words, "But why would I raise someone else's kid? Who would let me raise their kid?" That was asked rhetorically because he didn't want to hear any of Peter's biting comments about it. He couldn't imagine circumstances that would leave him saddled with a kid, as a Petrelli, which implied that the family knew about the kid in his care. As much as his curiosity burned him up from the inside, he knew he shouldn't and couldn't get attached to what was essentially a figment of Peter's imagination, the child. He didn't dare ask about his supposed offspring. The kid is dead anyway, he told himself. Most importantly, Sylar wanted to know the other half of the equation. Peter said that was the three or more years in the future, that time had come and gone with no mate and no kid named Noah. Did-did I screw it up? His gut felt like stone; regret, horror and pain building up already and he didn't know if Peter would take this seriously as the defining, important moment it was. Looking directly at Peter, he stated, "I...I want to know who the mother was."
XXX
“That's a good question.” Peter drew in a deep breath. “The 'kid' was named Noah.” He waited a moment, wondering if there was some reason why Sylar kept referring to his own son (even if only in an alternate timeline) so disrespectfully. He went on, “I don't know if the boy was biologically yours, but he called you Daddy. He knew you. He was comfortable with you. He,” Peter swallowed and looked down, “went to you when he was afraid.” He looked back up at Sylar. “You weren't just a babysitter to him.” Lightening the mood with a single laugh and a smile, he said, “Not to the dog, either. He was up on a stool - Mr. Muggles - and you gave him … a piece of waffle or pancake, I think. Then you petted him and you really cared about him - both of them.” Peter smiled softly, warmly. “It was cute.”
XXX
Sylar felt his throat gulp. This is exactly what he did and did not want to hear. I was a good parent? At least, that’s what he gathered from the kid going to him when he was afraid. He felt…relieved, even if it wasn’t really real, at some point he’d succeeded at something and done right by someone.
XXX
Shaking off the memory, Peter went back to Sylar's area of interest. “I don't know who the mother was. I would assume it was someone Caucasian, given how Noah looked. He was fair, with light brown hair, maybe dark blond. I don't remember his eye color.” He raised a hand indicating the child's height. “He was about this tall. Good-looking kid. Healthy.” Peter shrugged, thinking Sylar probably didn't want an EMT run sheet of height, weight, and physical abnormalities, but he sure didn't have the artistic ability to convey someone's looks. “I don't think there was anyone else in the house while I was there. I had the impression it was just the two of you right then, but if someone was living with you and gone somewhere … I wouldn't know.”
XXX
A flush of cold went through him. Dark blonde, eye color…No one else. The mother must have left the kid with him. That was the missing circumstance or reason that resulted in him raising the kid at all, because no one else would take care of him. Did the mother, whoever she was, know about Sylar’s own problems, did she know how risky it was to leave a potentially special kid with him? (Had she abandoned one or both of them? Was there a reason?) But history had not repeated itself and he’d broken the cycle. Sylar still remembered how hopeful he’d been when Peter told him he’d managed to control his ability: ‘Just believing it’s a possibility gives me hope.’ ‘I don’t want hope, I want it gone!’ How stupid he was to think that was to be his future. Lydia had dark brownish-blonde hair and Elle had been blonde… Claire was a disturbing option. Or had it been someone else entirely? None of his questions were being answered. His head jerked in a single nod, “I see,” he said even though he didn’t. Peter wouldn’t hold back information or lie, would he? The thought that tortured him was Elle’s death, if she’d been…when he… He felt sick, very physically ill. “Does it make any sense to ask why you killed him?” Sylar knew that’s what Peter had avoided saying. “I thought you said you didn’t threaten him, that you got what you wanted.” I didn’t kill Nathan yet so…?
Continued...