More Between Us, Chapter 8/? "Aftercare and Naptime"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 8/?
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 9, 140
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
A/N: Additional part found here occurring between chapters 8 and 9.
Day 5
Peter took the bottle and rattled the pills in it. He considered just walking back to the kitchen, but it occurred to him that Sylar was not in the best of shape either. The look the other man gave him - something other than sneering arrogance, cemented it. “Do you want some?”
He watched as Sylar took a single pill and Peter held his tongue about the quantity. One pill for an adult male of his size would have a negligible effect. It was hardly worth taking at all. Was Sylar trying to appear stoic and unmoved by pain? If so, then why take even one? Was he only taking one to be polite, because Peter offered? That seemed odd, but it was an odd moment. Peter didn’t question it - it was Sylar’s business, not his. Instead he said grudgingly, “I’ll get you some water in a little bit.” He turned and went back to the kitchen, favoring one leg.
XXX
Sylar blinked at the offer, a little stunned on top of his head injury. He was having instant and real difficulty deciphering the meaning behind it. Is he saying I’m weak? That he beat me? That he wants to be friends or put this behind us? Certainly he’s not forgiving me for anything. Maybe it’s a Hunger reference.
/’I guess I’m like an addict. It’s like a drug you can’t enough of.’/
“Oh…uh, thanks,” he said quietly after a pause. He managed to grab out a pill from the tiny bottle. Almost as soon as he’d done so, his companion had turned away, saying something about water for him. Sylar was left to blink at the man’s back, his mouth open to protest that he didn’t need it. Oh, well. Maybe he could drink it for hydration purposes; he had just gotten a thorough, uh, workout as it were. That’s what it was.
XXX
He had a lot of puttering around to do and various muscles and sore spots were protesting now that he didn’t have as much adrenalin coursing through his system. He got himself a glass of water and washed down triple the standard dose. The only thing he had to be concerned about was nausea or stomachache if taken on an empty stomach. He washed his face again, blew his nose, waited while the residual, secondary bleeding stopped, and washed again. His wrist was really swollen by now, which was part of why he’d handled the other self-care first. He located the sealing storage bags he’d seen in the drawers earlier and fumbled one under the ice dispenser in the door of the fridge. A few moments later, he had a bag of ice and a couple stray cubes on the floor. He kicked them out of the way.
XXX
Peter was opening and closing the freezer, scrabbling around in plastic bags with what sounded like ice. Ugh, ice…That sounded good right now. However, he didn’t move into the kitchen or risk upsetting Peter’s space; the guy probably had his own routine for cleanup and he didn’t feel like disturbing it. The only move Sylar made was to toss back and swallow the pill, wincing as he did and not from the lack of water or taste of the powder on the pill.
/’Drugs and pills are the devil’s work, Gabriel. Don’t ever fall into them; only misery and death and destruction come from that kind of…living,’ he remembered his mother, foster mother, Virginia, saying to him at the tender young age of eight. Someone a few floors up in their apartment complex had just O.D’d. He only knew that because his mother had asked the EMTs who came for Mrs. Ellens.
And he only knew what an overdose was from biology class and reading. He caught himself wondering what it felt like. He was beginning to suspect Virginia needed some pills herself. He remembered hearing the speech multiple times; any time he had a headache, his mother would start up again on the sin that was pills, whether he wanted them or not. Mostly he knew they couldn’t afford them. “They will lead you into Hell and God will not see you.”/ Funny, I’m already in Hell.
Oh, those were the days, he mused next and he stared and picked at his knuckles.
XXX
He looked at the bag blankly, then at the box of bags. Sylar was hurt too and as much as a part of his brain said, Good - the bastard deserves it, another part was much less bloodthirsty. He wanted to help people and it wasn’t like his patients had to pass much in the way of an entrance exam to qualify. Human? Check. Alive or recently so? Check. Good to go.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d treated a patient who’d slugged him, wrestled with him or even tried to kill him. The worst he’d had to deal with was a mechanic with carbon monoxide poisoning and a crowbar - clearly impaired and dangerous, clearly needing to be subdued and treated. He’d had a hard time talking the cops out of shooting the man. Once he and Hesam had managed to get the crowbar away from him through a combination of coaxing and sleight of hand; though the police had moved in, the man had gone berserk at the betrayal and all hell had broken loose.
There was hardly any more effort involved in making two ice packs as there was in one. He snagged another bag and filled it halfway, as he’d done with the first, then sealed it shut. He grabbed a couple kitchen towels to wrap them in and started back, then remembered the water. He got a new glass down, filled it and set it aside. He dug out the cracker sandwich set and put it in a pocket, then gathered up the ice packs and towels between his right forearm and body, carrying the water in his left.
He looked at Sylar very briefly, then away, and offered him the glass. “Here.” He was trying to be sensitive to the fact that Sylar probably didn’t want his help, but he’d also noticed the man hadn’t actually left. Surely that meant something, didn’t it?
XXX
Peter returned moments later balancing ice and towels and extending a glass of water towards him. Kindness, his mind supported randomly; he’s being kind. “Thank you, Peter,” he forced himself to say, taking the glass in hand; almost embarrassed now that the man would do something like that when it was difficult for the more injured medico.
His mind still tripped over the idea of kindness after that kind of intentional incident. God, it was just a glass of water, why was it such an unheard of thing? Because you’re not used to people, he answered himself, and people aren’t used to you. Maybe Peter did believe him about the rock in their collective shoe, was that even possible? Surely a man who felt his niece’s rapist sat in the next room wouldn’t bring said supposed offender a glass of water.
Somewhere in his long buried conscience, the words bubbled up, “I’m sorry,” was his low murmur. Unsure of the reaction that would garner, he kept quiet and took a sip of the cool water and fiddled with the glass; tracing the decorative ridges with careful fingers, he eyed the condensation.
XXX
Sylar said something indistinct as Peter took one of the towel-wrapped ice packs and set it on the end table next to the other man. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it certainly wasn’t an insult. It sounded a lot like an apology. Peter was angry, and accepting, both at the same time. Regardless of the anger he was deeply relieved to hear what was probably an acknowledgement that deliberately pissing one another off was a bad idea. He didn’t respond directly, letting the probably-an-apology stand without drawing attention to it. He gave a single nod and limped over to the easy chair.
He started to settle himself into it, heard a crinkling and paused to remove the crackers from his pocket. He set them on the arm of the chair and sank into it. He breathed out a long sigh, letting, forcing, himself to relax. He shifted the remaining ice pack down to his wrist, arranging it carefully.
XXX
The instant before he apologized, the medic had set one of the two ice packs on the side table next to him. That drew his attention more than any words Peter could have spoken. ‘Fuck you’, ‘you’re insane’, ‘enjoy hell, rapist’ or even ‘die alone’. All things he wouldn’t have batted an eye over (not really).
Peter Petrelli had made him an ice pack. Sylar didn’t move a single sore muscle towards it other than to stare first at it, then at Peter’s moving back, then back to the ice. Peter heaved himself into a chair, melting into it as if he were trying to cover it with his limbs like a blanket after removing the cracker pack; the man releasing a sigh similar to a less-noisy helium balloon for volume.
I don’t know about the average familial kitchen, but I don’t think he had time to make a bomb or put liquid nitrogen in it… He glanced back at the towel that rested over the seemingly innocent ice packet. That kind of speculation was a moot point; Sylar knew it was safe; it was a fucking ice pack for goodness sake; but it was kind of ingrained in him. Sylar glanced and nodded at Peter’s hand as he began to place the ice packet (through a towel of course) onto the delicate phalanges, “You’re gonna need help taping that,” he subtly offered in return.
XXX
He glanced up at Sylar’s words, clearer this time. He’s offering to help me. I shouldn’t turn him down. I should let him help. The idea of letting Sylar do something more involved than stand still while Peter touched his shoulder was a little…scary? Well, maybe that wasn’t the right word, because his feelings were born of the same reluctance as his lack of desire to let Sylar fix him lunch. Resentment - maybe that was a better description.
“Yeah,” he said vaguely, committing to nothing yet. “We shouldn’t do anything until the swelling goes down a little though.” ‘We’ - so was he going to let him help? Was he going to let Sylar handle an injury of his? He made a rough grumbling noise in his throat and leaned back in the chair, shutting his eyes. Let’s see if we can get through a half hour or so without trying to kill each other - metaphorically, that is.
Eyes still shut, Peter gently manipulated his right hand with his left, figuring out what was wrong. Fourth metacarpal - boxer’s fracture, bar room fracture. Well, at least I don’t need a cast, or…probably don’t need pinning. I wonder if I could get an x-ray machine to work? He worried about how clean the break was. Even if it was relatively clean, responded well to taping and he managed not to re-injure it, this was going to take weeks to heal. He stopped messing with the injury and gave some thought to his other hurts.
XXX
Peter addressed his offer, giving a tentative ‘yes’ or so Sylar took it to be, but then followed it up with a more negative noise, settling in. He watched, interested, as he saw his enemy and only companion close his eyes in his presence, something he would have deemed impossible and unheard of. And it was unheard of. No one ever so much as blinked when he was around, especially the big hazel eyes that were now shut, blissful physically, but hiding troubled thoughts.
Sylar nursed the glass of water slowly as he forced his eyes away from just drinking in the sight of someone. A someone he’d hit and bruised up inside by beating him down, wearing him down over the years and finally shredded the man’s heart up by killing his brother. Self-defense. He’d just finished toying with the man and he was met with a kind act, not once but twice.
XXX
His face was banged up pretty hard, having been hit at least three times and pretty solidly every time. He didn’t feel disoriented, but his neck felt strained. Then of course he was limping a little from being kicked in the upper thigh, his scalp hurt where his hair had been yanked and his neck also hurt at the joint of his right shoulder - a pressure point Sylar had punched. He frowned and rotated the joint a little, as he could without moving his right hand. His face was feeling…full, he guessed the right term was.
I’ve been here, what? Five days? At this rate I won’t need to worry about the hand. I’ll manage to kill myself long before. He sighed again, realizing suddenly that he was sitting in a room with Sylar with his freaking eyes shut. They snapped open and he looked over at the man, then shut them with a tiny grunt. Calm down, idiot. Just calm down.
"How are you doing, man?" he asked, opening his eyes just a little to regard his companion.
XXX
Only glancing as Peter moved his shoulder around, Sylar was leaning over and reaching out for the proffered ice pack when Peter’s eyes shot open and he started, jarring his entire body painfully. His hand jerked and he swiftly pulled it back, rubbing it over his jean-clad knee, desperate to act as if he hadn’t done something wrong. How much of his reaction Peter witnessed, he wasn’t sure, but a few drops of water had made it onto his other leg from the glass.
Yeah, there it was. What would my nerves do without this jumpy tension, I do wonder; he thought without amusement, barring his ever-present gallows humor. Certainly be less clumsy. Peter spoke up, but it was not anything he expected to hear from him or anyone. ‘How are you doing, man?’ Such a simple question and it had a visible impact on him, his eyes widening as he straightened a little. Completely unworthy of such a question, that’s why you’ve barely ever heard it, he concluded without self-pity.
“Did….did you hit your head, Peter? Or…I mean….” His voice trailed off as he frowned a little at the lounging man, unsure of the angle he half-suspected was being played. That immediately had him on alert, but he knew if he acted on it he would set Peter off and they’d just gotten comfortable; neither one in any condition to go another round, even verbally.
Shaking his head at Peter, he thought he heard his muscles creaking as he pivoted, slowly on his butt to toss his legs up onto the cushions, lying back, wincing as his tender scalp hit the couch’s decorative pillow. Shifting to adjust around the injury, he placed one hand under his neck for support, balancing the partly-full glass on his stomach, staring at it. Because if he can get comfortable, so can I.
What he wanted to figure out was why the question still bothered him so much.
XXX
Peter snorted slightly and smiled just a little. His face hurt at the expression. He spoke slowly, saying, “No. I hit yours. It’s kind of hard. Guess I shouldn’t have done that.” He kept smiling at the humor. I was aiming for your ear, after all. Still a stupid place to try to hit someone with my arm messed up, but it wasn’t like I had much of a chance to think it through. I wonder if he has a concussion?
“So we heal normal speed here, huh?” He knew the answer to this, as the blisters on his feet and the soreness in his back and legs - that had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with his insane, marathon wandering of the past few days - attested to. “That’s gonna suck.” More for me than you, unless I miss my guess.
XXX
He remained quiet as Peter spoke of punching his head; the smile after his words left him wondering exactly what it was for. Probably something quite painful. He felt nausea roiling in his stomach and he turned his head to the side in case he did have to throw up; his face paling like Virginia always said it did when he was sick.
“Yeah, normal speed,” Sylar eventually addressed the question about healing; the one Peter had no need to ask, surely. Like that time he’d sliced into his thumb cutting up dinner. It had bled nastily even through the band-aid, stinging in hot water making showers a little tricky. It had followed the rules he knew in regards to cellular growth, the normal kind that is. “Hmm.”
Sore throats, headaches, aches and pains, stubbed toes- they all followed the rules and Peter’s hand would be no exception, nor would Sylar’s concussion. Peter was awfully chatty, but he recognized the need; he recognized what made him do it, too; the man was looking to cope and what better way for an empath to do that then reach out…sort of.
XXX
He saw Sylar pale and become slightly diaphoretic. Yep, concussion. Probably best for him to just stay still for a while and get his bearings. He glanced around surreptitiously for a trash can. He spotted one just behind the end table that was now behind Sylar’s head. Peter rose carefully, walked over to it and moved it next to the couch. He glanced at the ice pack and wondered at that. He was a little annoyed by it and a little hurt. Annoyed because Peter could use it; he’d gotten it for Sylar and the other man hadn’t even touched it. Hurt because he really did want to help - not so much hurt because he was unappreciated, but hurt because he knew Sylar was in more pain than he would be otherwise for not using it.
He thought back about the fight. Sylar had been trying to start something. What the hell did he expect Peter to do? Stand there and snark off at him? It wasn’t one of Peter’s skills. But no, leaving the ice pack was probably because Sylar was as reluctant to accept help of him as Peter was of the killer. Oddly, Peter felt a little guilty that he wasn’t the companion Sylar wanted - whatever or whoever that might be. He had no idea what Sylar wanted in people, or friends, as traits. If they didn’t have abilities, then did he even have any use for them? He sure seemed desperate to be around Peter. And they certainly rubbed each other the wrong way. Peter went back to his seat and settled in again.
XXX
Lazily he watched the man way less carefully than he probably should have as he stood and grabbed up something near the head of the couch to set it closer to him on the floor. At the angle he lay at, he couldn’t tell what it was. But, gosh, Peter moving around was not helping his stomach; he just breathed and swallowed the bile that kept trying to rise in his mouth.
Peter seemed to be more mobile if in more pain so he tracked his motions with glassy eyes, trying to readjust his head to be comfortable around his bruising scalp. Since he was left to stare at the ice pack, he actually began to consider why he hadn’t utilized it, the real reason, if he had any. Um…spite looked to be the most probable cause. Would it be awkward to move for it again now?
XXX
Peter shifted the ice pack further down so it covered both wrist and hand. The wrist wasn’t swelling as much as he’d expected. His mind played back through the times he’d seen others with similar injuries. Physical responses covered such a range that it really wasn’t useful. He thought about the last time he’d been hurt badly. Hey, he probably doesn’t know this: “I got shot in the chest a few weeks ago. Claire wouldn’t let me take her healing at first. It kind of gave me a scare.” He was trying to make conversation. He reviewed the incident a few times in his mind, trying to think of how and if Sylar could use the information against him. That he couldn’t think of anything wasn’t all that comforting, but he didn’t have many conversational topics that Sylar wouldn’t already be informed about from Nathan’s memories.
“It made me think about how much I take for granted. I knew she was there. I would have never,” his body shook with a couple brief chuckles and no more because laughing hurt - there was a knot in his back where Sylar had jabbed him with an elbow, “I would have never jumped in front of that bullet if I thought she wouldn’t help me.” Not that I wouldn’t have still tried to stop the shooter. I just would have tried something different. “I was having a really bad day,” he said dryly. That had been the day of Nathan’s funeral.
XXX
He nodded slowly, just absorbing for the moment, formulating his response if any was desired or needed. Why’d he get shot in the chest? He’s not SWAT team, but maybe he missed his calling. Peter’s chuckling was pleasant to hear and he wondered if this was what normal men did; rather, men with friends. Buddies. Just…sit around and talk about what they’ve done? Probably not what they’d do differently, but still.
Dark eyes watched Peter carefully and casually, without any hidden agenda or malice, just looked at him. Of course, he’s not really opening up. He’s…trying to create a stepping stone between us, I think.
Claire wouldn’t let YOU take her power? That got his attention, but he wanted to point out how hard he’d had to work to get the same ability Peter had on tap - Claire’s. Three years he’d hunted her down and in the end, he’d been rather gentle about taking her ability from her. That would only spark the ‘you’re a monster and she’s my niece, duh,’ age-old argument. But he did feel the need to….add something to the….’exchange’ that Peter presented.
Somehow the man’s words just made him angry. ‘I was having a bad day. How much I take for granted’. Oh, he was having a bad day? How about how much the man had to take for granted in the first place? His ability didn’t eat him alive and force him to drench his soul in blood. He hadn’t been tortured in a Company cell for a woman who would never tell him he was ‘okay’ because of an ability he’d longed for but had gone so wrong; the ability he couldn’t control.
His mother never pushed him to become something he wasn’t (Arthur may have, but Gabriel hadn’t had a father so it probably evened out). He hadn’t been sold like a car or a dog by his father when he was a kid, living his life trapped down to a mentally unstable woman who he couldn’t leave. He had a loving big brother to take care of him and to talk with, to grow up with and learn things, do things with. He had money, a big house, any education he could point his finger at, pets at his whim, he had social skills, friends, coworkers….
I’ve only had to bleed and murder to get….well, none of that. And that was the point, wasn’t it? He, Sylar, fell short again.
“Rough time,” he grated out, anger making his throat tight, but importantly he kept his mouth shut even if the effort made him want to shove the ice pack down Peter’s throat for spite. Closing his eyes, Sylar just rubbed at his eye sockets, hissing as he hit a solid bruise there. Oh, the people skills, he sighed. Peter put his damn self in the way of any bullet headed for an innocent, so Sylar was completely devoid of pity.
XXX
Peter felt a deep, rending ache for Nathan. He almost wished his brother was still alive inside of Sylar somehow, that he’d come into this mental prison to find some reminder of Nathan, some shred of possibility that he was really still in there, that his soul hadn’t passed on and that had just been Sylar lying to him. But he’d seen no sign whatsoever of his presence, except for Sylar occasionally calling him ‘Pete’ and letting slip that he knew more than he had any right to know. That whole stuffed bear thing was layered with things other than just the rhyme between ‘Claire’ and ‘bear.’
If Nathan was still in there, then surely there would have been some indication. Peter’s face fell into sadness. He shut his eyes and waited for the emotion to pass. There was nothing else to do about it, because beating the crap out of Sylar - in addition to being easier said than done - wasn’t helpful. (He wouldn’t deny it wasn’t satisfying, though.)
XXX
Sylar did catch the wave of grief that suddenly seeped into Peter’s face, so he looked away to give him his moment, not calling attention to it or speaking just yet. Mostly he longed to avoid and bury that little incident.
He decided to inject; “I got stabbed in the eye with a pencil a few years ago. For a woman she’s not a great sounding board.” Subtly mentioning years, not weeks, making current tenses of Claire but leaving out the part about his mini-quest that became…something more serious that somehow landed him here. Help. Hell, he’d gone just about anywhere he could go and ended up, coincidently and karmatically in Hell.
I had my throat cut for a woman I thought I could be with after she twisted me around her finger and led me to murder a second time. I really did die. I was killed slowly and in ways totally against the Geneva Convention over a period of weeks just to be able to tell my mom ‘I’m special’. I died then. I’ve been brain-raped into being someone I hate and disrespect, someone who hunted me down so I could be your big brother. I pulled myself out of his grave. The more he thought of it, the less he liked the topic.
He’d sold his soul for a pair of women, out of the hopes of gaining some understanding, acceptance and possibly love, or at least the acknowledgement of it, a sign of capacity for it. Maybe just some flat out hope. He’d died so many times he’d lost count; painful, quick, bloody, slow, close-up with guns, powers, hands, drugs and other medical implements, coming close with a noose once. Gee, Peter, did you know that one?
XXX
“She stabbed you in the eye with a pencil?” He snorted, then winced and touched his nose. He glanced around. I really should have gotten some tissues, too. Luckily, it didn’t start bleeding again. ‘Years ago.’ Could have been when he got her ability to start with. Could have been at the Stanton. Could have been some other time.
He didn’t have much to say beyond that, thinking it over, thinking about Claire and how she was coping, having lost a father she’d hardly spent any time with. And apparently, things between her and Noah had become quite strained because of the whole situation. Peter couldn’t say he didn’t understand. Noah deserved a good fist to the face, too. He suspected that was something Sylar could get behind. He mulled the possible conversational topic around in his head, trying to figure out something they could talk about, something emotionally invested, that wouldn’t set either of them off. Common ground, so to speak.
XXX
Sylar snorted a chuckle himself at Peter’s snort before having to check his nose, the jolt ran through him and it turned his stomach. “Yup,” he intoned after swallowing, recovering; simultaneously wondering if Peter was asking for details or not; heck, maybe the social etiquette for dealing with someone who was formerly your enemy in a civilized conversation. “I pointed out that we’re similar and she didn’t fancy the idea. Small wonder,” he was making light of the situation and nixing the part about holding her down to make his damn point…. Was he supposed to frisk the bitch down for fucking trophies, butcher knives, pieces of glass and now pencils???
He reviewed the previous depressing topic-Claire, dying or being shot/stabbed, the out-and-out filthy struggle for survival in life, the desperation to please and the failures therein. In the back of his mind he knew he was extremely jaded by the past six years, but they had more lingering effects than the other thirty. That prompted a question from him. “Death bothers you, doesn’t it? Your own and in general,” he clarified so it didn’t sound like he was talking about Petrellis Past, Nathan and Arthur.
Union Wells, Mohinder’s apartment, and Kirby were the times Sylar recalled seeing Peter ‘die’. Never stopped the fool-hardy medic; it barely gave him pause. The man was about as resilient as he was; the creepy cockroach power matched by the seemingly nuclear one (no pun intended) of the do-right empath. And that’s why he was the ideal nemesis, if he dared use the cliché Hiro-geek word. How many times has Peter actually died? He wondered at that.
XXX
His eyes flew fully open at Sylar’s question about death and he looked at the man very intently, alert for a moment. His lips moved, but he quelled it without speaking. That was quite a question and oddly deep for the small talk Peter had been aiming at. He didn’t want to just lip off the first thing that came to mind, which was ‘Of course it does.’ He settled back and stared off into the middle distance, his brows pulling together a bit. Obviously, he was thinking it over.
XXX
He glanced at Peter as they made eye contact, his expression about as bland as he could keep it, the alternative being a sick, nauseous look; he was careful not to tense a single muscle (anymore than they were already). It was almost a Nathan question. //”Takin’ care of dead people?” “They’re not dead; they’re dying; and I think its noble.” His then-wife had piped up in Pete’s defense, earning a pointed thanks towards her from his baby brother. “What’s it pay?” He’d asked so long ago.// Peter was obviously thinking about it and that meant he would be getting a genuine answer, not something quick and cheap.
XXX
Finally he said, “Death doesn’t bother me. If it did, I wouldn’t do the things I do or take the risks I take. What bothers me is pointlessness and misery, when people take the gifts they’ve been given - time, money, influence, power, or powers - and do bad things with them.” He didn’t want that to sound like an accusation of Sylar because it wasn’t. Honestly, he laid more blame at Nathan’s feet than anyone else’s for misusing what he’d had in his life. The man had had everything and he’d thrown it away. If he hadn’t had another hare-brained idea to confront Sylar directly and physically, then he’d probably still be alive. Peter sighed. Of course he was to blame too for going along with it.
And what he’d said sounded like an accusation anyway, he knew, so he softened his voice a little and decided to try begging. “Please don’t argue with me. You asked a question; I answered. I wasn’t meaning it about you, particularly. As a philosophy, it’s probably more full of holes than a colander but there isn’t much I can do about that.” He wasn’t a great debater or arguer. He had too many memories of being argued down by his father - eventually Peter had learned to listen to him sullenly and say nothing, a characteristic look of long-suffering disgust on his face. His father would wind down, order Peter to do things his way, and stalk off. After a beat he added, “Claire told me once about dying: it’s no big deal.” He smiled, even though it hurt.
He reached over and picked up the cracker pack, opening it slowly, which made the crinkling of the cellophane seem louder than it was.
XXX
Peter spoke his piece and Sylar hummed at first before a muscle in his eye twitched and his stomach heaved a little inside as he beat down the desire to lunge at Peter just for saying that, not particularly out of anger either. The same could so easily be applied to precious fucking Nathan, too! The former senator-navy-boy had squandered everything in his life, probably for the right, completely misguided reasons.
He just nodded as Peter clarified his belief, rather his view on death of all lovely topics. So long as it hadn’t been aimed at him, he had no trouble letting the man do or believe his thing as he pleased. It wasn’t something that they would be back at each other’s throats for or anything. Sylar was immortal and he’d moved his kill spot so he had no worries about it, which probably removed him emotionally from it anyway. Not that he was close to people enough to notice their lives in misery.
He knew he’d once been miserable and hadn’t had much of a life and that’s what prompted his next words. “I actually agree with you,” he stated simply. It was actually probably the reason his Hunger made him collect abilities from those who wasted them. Unfortunately it didn’t evolve into the helpful role he might wish it to be.
Heroes were special right? He hadn’t been born with a handy ability like empathy, not like Virginia would have bought that at all; ‘Empathy? Oh, you don’t need anything like that. Stop being silly and focus on these job openings at the bank…’ He could hear her pitchy voice now. Empathy wasn’t flashy, but it did help people. It would get him friends, right? Yeah, so not what Mom wanted. Important. Prestigious. Powerful (well, he had that). All that, provided he chained his ankle to Mom.
Even if he got empathy, it wouldn’t do any good. He’d managed it a time or two (women he could get close enough to kiss seemed to be easiest, the only ones thus far) and it hadn’t sated his Hunger because he didn’t know how they worked. Peter had had it and he’d still tried to kill his mother. Such a romantic, predictable cycle. Really, if he killed a few dozen people for the greater good of a million or so, would he be forgiven or praised? That was such a slim chance; he supposed it was a good thing he didn’t have to chance it.
“I suppose it depends what Claire believes, religiously. Cheerleader, probably hasn’t been alive long enough to do anything amazingly sinful or wrong, so she might very well not have a-” Peter began to open the…fucking packet of crackers. The noise assaulted him first, scraping over his ears, tender from nausea, but what did him in was the smell.
He could smell the crackers and for some reason it turned his guts for the last time. Sylar yanked himself quickly to roll and lean over the couch cushion he lay on to heave breakfast into a trash can he saw (one that Peter must have placed there earlier), before his eyes shut and he vomited, thinking, Oh, god; I hate this.
XXX
Peter examined the cracker sandwich - a couple of toasted, round crackers with what was supposed to be peanut butter between them. It resembled peanut butter, at least. It was probably a close cousin. He popped one in his mouth and looked back over to see if Sylar was going to finish his sentence. Claire might not have a what? About then the other man rolled over and lost it into the trash can, causing Peter’s own stomach to clench sympathetically. He took an immediate deep breath and shifted his ice pack off to the side, leaning forward and putting it on the arm of the recliner. He forced himself to swallow the cracker and waited a beat until Sylar began his second heave. Peter got to his feet.
He hobbled to the kitchen and dug out another towel, sticking it under the water dispenser in the fridge door because that was quick and didn’t require two hands. A little water on the floor was not a problem (although a distant part of his brain began to calculate the slipping hazard he was creating here). He switched the now-wet towel to his right and grabbed the roll of paper towels hanging from under the upper cabinets. He yanked it down, not caring too much if he damaged the holder. No one lived here. The only person who mattered around here needed the towels right now. He walked back out.
He knelt slowly next to the trash can, a little awkwardly because the muscle in his thigh spasmed and complained about the flexion. He ignored it and waited to be noticed and acknowledged, not wanting to rush the other man. He’d noticed Sylar was messed up more than just a knot on his head and a collection of bruises, but Peter wasn’t in much better shape. He’d thought - and still did - that the best treatment was rest and calming down. There wasn’t much to be done, otherwise, and like the nausea all there was to do was let it pass, provide comfort and treat symptomatically. He held the hand towel in his left and waited for eye contact.
XXX
Once he’d finished upchucking, hating the feeling intensely as always, he spat into the trash can, noting Peter’s sudden proximity. Whoa. In his hand, he held a wet towel and a roll of paper towels. He did his best to come up with some sort of threat the items could hold, but he failed to divine one. Instantly, he looked up into Peter’s face as he spoke, blinking and clearing his head by turning it back and forth slightly as if he were trying to remain awake. He wasn’t about to pass out, but he might fall asleep just from tiredness. The atmospheric shift involved with vomiting sending his headache into the hideous monster category.
XXX
He tried to ignore the smell of bile and the discontent roiling of his own stomach. Despite the odor, he took in quick breaths to hold his reaction at bay and distracted himself by running down a quick checklist of symptoms for minor traumatic brain injury. Sylar didn’t seem confused or emotional. He wasn’t perseverating and his conversation had been clear, not disoriented. Peter didn’t think there anything all that severe or treatable going on here, but he wanted to get a good look at Sylar’s eyes just in case. What I wouldn’t give for a pen light. I need to get together a medical bag. Yeah, he said to himself in his head, while that’s not a bad idea, what I need to do is quit beating the crap out of him. Of course it would help if he wasn’t picking fights. If he wasn’t who he was. Sarcastically his mind enjoined, Me and Sylar. Been here less than a week and we’re already both beat bloody and messed up.
When the other man finally looked up at him, Peter offered the towel and said quietly, “Sylar, will you let me take a look at you? I want to check your eyes for uneven pupil dilation and check your scalp where I hit you.” He spoke slowly, very aware that less than a half hour before he’d been the one hitting this man, inflicting the very injuries he was now asking to examine. He was sensitive to that, and aware that concussion victims were often irritable. These things combined (and of course that this was Sylar he was talking to), Peter wouldn’t have been surprised if the man tried to hit him again. He was aware he was in range. He leaned back a little, raising the towel again. It put his left hand up where he could try to block with it if that happened. This time, he had no intention of striking back.
XXX
Sylar managed a light frown in the face of ‘will you let me take a look at you?’ Then it hit him why Peter would ask to examine him; the words otherwise failing a connection to his logic. “Oh…Amanda, huh? That’s why.” That was the only reason Peter would want to help, wasn’t it? The man still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that Sylar was the only other thing alive here. But he really didn’t think that fact would stop the medic from drastic and potentially homicidal actions.
Then again….Peter had stopped earlier when he’d had Sylar dead to rights with the gun. Peter….Peter wouldn’t be subtle if he did try anything, he knew; no poisons or cutting Sylar’s wrists in his sleep. The non-murderer would probably prefer something at a distance; something cold and detached, not close-in and hands-on. Touching the person and watching the lights go out of the eyes and feeling the heartbeat falter, then slow and stop wasn’t Petrelli’s style. He couldn’t handle something like that. Sylar gently and slowly took the towel and swiped it over his face, setting it aside again, nodding his thanks.
XXX
Peter watched the other man closely as he rose from the trash can. Sylar’s answer to Peter’s question made no sense at all. Internally, Peter revised, Okay, not coherent now. That made him cautious, because a rational person was much more likely to signal an attack. One who was impaired was less predictable.
XXX
Sylar couldn’t get his mind completely around the fact that Peter would set aside his justified revenge to save someone (and/or hundreds or thousands of innocents) using Sylar as his plot of choice. Empathy must play a part in resisting temptation like that. Go figure. He’s a fucking white knight in shining armor. Peter, your brain is definitely broken; you make no sense.
He moved to prop himself up on his elbow, his stomach still squirming around, but he had nothing left in it to cause problems. “If touching me is all you wanted, you didn’t have to hit me,” Sylar teased him, his expression showing gentle amusement in his sarcasm, looking away to show he wasn’t serious. Probably why he became a nurse in the first place, he mused absentmindedly.
He then faced Peter directly, keeping his eyes open sufficiently, “You won’t find anything serious in there. It’s only a mild one.” The smell of Peter (and crackers) close up wasn’t a pleasant thing, but it was another person in this Hell, so he was grateful to a degree. If only said smell didn’t make him want to hurl again, he’d be that much happier. Then again, he knew he probably smelled now, too, and smelled worse. He sighed as Peter moved in to gently peel his eyelid back and lean in close, professional and removed as ever, to peer into his pupil, repeating the process with the other.
It wasn’t as uncomfortable as it could have (perhaps should have) been. The last time someone had checked his eyes like that had been….in a Company cell and he’d been dead/dying.
XXX
Peter started to get his back up about the ‘touching’ comment. That had nothing to do with it! Wait, incoherent again. He calmed and put on his best paramedic smile, put aside his bristling and exchanged it smoothly for amused agreement. “Well, then, just let me take a look.” He shifted the trash can out from between them and examined Sylar’s eyes - brown, clear, and healthy. Nice eyes. If I had a light I might be able to tell if he had much brain swelling. There’s got to be a flashlight around here somewhere.
XXX
Sylar managed to roll his eyes at Peter buying his punch line. “”M joking, man,” he murmured, “I’m not a child,” he couldn’t resist a slight chuckle at the empath’s gullibility. Once Peter removed his hands, he made to lie back down, but his companion reached for the back of his head and it took everything in him not to react badly to that one.
/’C’mon, Nathan, I know you’re in there…’/
Sylar settled for looking along down his body, staring at his toes, leaving his head turned so Peter could see and touch his scalp. For some reason hair was horribly intimate and having the EMT touching it finally made him uncomfortable. Doctors, Matt, Peter, Mohinder, Angela, Chandra, even his mother had all left something to be desired when it came to that having his head touched; but he kept very quiet while Peter poked and prodded painfully at his skull and scalp. He noted the irony of the gesture. The head was a very special place because it housed the all-important brain. The whole sum of a person was in there. Someone once said ‘We are only what we remember.’ And sometimes near-eidetic memory (and clairvoyant memory) just sucked.
He remembered having his life sucked away by the hands currently on his scalp and it had been a headache unrivaled by the current one.
XXX
Peter slid his hand into the man’s hair, tightening his lips. His body tensed and he noticed that Sylar’s did, too. Peter had done this to hundreds of patients. But doing it to Sylar came with emotional baggage. It reminded him of crouching beside and over the man - also in the aftermath of a fight. One hand had cradled the back of his head, the other on his forehead, forcing what he was out of him no differently than his mother had had Matt Parkman do. He’d killed him more intimately than if he’d strangled him, what with the glimpses of Sylar’s past and the fleeting impression of memories as Peter had drained them out of the other man. It was as premeditated as it could be. He’d called on Rene for both facets of his ability, always expecting that he’d have to use it that way, glad actually that Sylar hadn’t taken his spurious ‘offer.’ Peter hadn’t intended him to.
He remembered seeing Mohinder grab the sides of Sylar’s head and bash it on the concrete floor at Pinehearst. Sylar had come back for his ‘brother’ then - an unexpected moment of loyalty when Peter’s own father had turned against him. If Sylar had truly been on Arthur’s side, he never would have come back for Peter. It was odd - where Sylar had placed himself in that struggle. He’d been told he was family and believed it. He seemed taken by Angela, but it was Peter he’d reached out to several times in different ways. He’d never so much as spoken to Nathan and he’d turned on his ‘father’, Arthur, more than once. What to make of that? The only person he treated like family was me. And I didn’t even believe he was.
XXX
Hissing sharply through gritted teeth, he kept his eyes closed and his noises to a minimum as Peter massaged the large, delicate bruise on his skull, feeling the rise of flesh from the bones. Fuck, that hurt, forgot how much that hurts. Hands in the hair feels nice…any contact kind of does, actually. It’s like remembering I’m ‘human’ for the billionth time now. Have to ignore it. That kind of thinking brought danger in its wake. (He refused to allow the heady feeling from the unadulterated contact that had nothing to do with the injury. His heart beat faster because of it all).
Once the medic was apparently satisfied enough, he pulled his hands away. He’d noticed Peter’s defensive arm in place earlier, but he hadn’t acknowledged it. “We should just limp home, man. Get some rest for a bit,” he suggested. It was an easy way for both of them to tend their hurts and feel safe in their own apartments. And if he didn’t get moving he would most likely fall dead asleep there on the couch.
XXX
He felt of the knot that had already formed under Sylar’s scalp. Peter ran his fingers through the hair around it and confirmed there was no bleeding. The subdermal hematoma wasn’t bad. Peter pulled his hands away and Sylar settled back, arranging himself for rest even as he insisted they should go back to their respective apartments. Peter picked up the ice pack and continued to speak in his paramedic voice - even, calm and friendly with a steady smile. “Yeah? How about we just stay here for now. It’s morning. There’s no hurry. Here’s just as good as any other place. Now raise up a little and let’s put this ice pack on the side of your head there. It’ll hold the swelling down.”
Surely Sylar knew that, but why he’d spurned it earlier was uncertain. If he was having cognitive problems though, then it didn’t have to make sense.
XXX
Opening his eyes at the sound of the ice pack being handled, not looking at it but at Peter as he raised his head to allow the medic to place it against his concussed cranium. “Hmm…’K.” Oh, that’s it, force the ice pack on me, why don’t you? He had to hold back another fit of chuckling as his over-active imagination went wild with images on the subject. Peter told him to keep still, so he answered with “No problem,” and finally diverted his gaze away.
Honestly, the doctor smile had always creeped him out because it always spelled bad news. You’re dying, you have cancer, your left foot has to be amputated, this will only sting for- And on Peter (not a doctor), the medicinal man who’d just tossed back way too-many-to-be-healthy pills for his own broken bones; oh, yes, Sylar had heard that; it had almost double that effect. The patronizing (doctor?) voice was not getting the man any points as he’d noted earlier.
In a way it was amusing for him (and Nathan’s fucking memories) to see just what Peter did at the job he never left. The guy had to be in serious pain; Sylar had had his shoulder torn out without having his heal-anything powers and he remembered how agonizing it was. The fact that Peter could do what he did with a broken hand was that much more impressive to him. High pain tolerance, the little bastard, he thought with something akin to affection before he snapped himself to rights; Knock that off.
XXX
Peter’s voice slipped back to normal as he got to his feet. “Standard treatment for concussions, assuming you’re not showing any danger signs,” which you are, but there’s nothing I can do about it and they’re not bad ones…we’ll see if you keep vomiting or that was a one-time thing, “is to lie down for thirty minutes in a darkened room and do nothing at all. If you feel like you want to sleep, then sleep. They’ve proven that stuff about keeping people awake has no basis in medical fact. I’m going to turn out the main light in here.”
XXX
Sylar had no answer to the comments about staying put, so he didn’t bother to make any, settling in to the icy packet on his head, controlling the groan he wished to make. Just as he was wanting to close his eyes but forcing them to stay open by setting the glass on the coffee table after drinking the rest, Peter addressed the science of the fact and he made a noise to show his attention to that fact, “Huh. That’s interesting,” he said, his tone read of genuine intrigue. The ability node in his brain perked up at learning something; What was that about not doing anything, Peter? Then you shouldn’t teach me things, I’ll only hound you into the ground for more.
XXX
He went to turn on the hall light. The kitchen was already lit. By turning off the light in the living room, the area remained lit enough to see, but much dimmer. “That should help with the nausea, too.” In case Sylar wanted someone to take the blame for the enforced rest period, Peter added quite truthfully, “My feet hurt. My back hurts. My leg hurts. I don’t see any reason why we should go anywhere. But if you want me to leave and that’s the only way you’ll rest, then tell me and I’ll get out of here.” In which case, I’m sure you’re not going to rest, but there’s no way for me to make you do it anyway.
There’s not a whole lot I can do if he has swelling or bleeding in the brain. I can’t do surgery. Wait…none of this is real. He can’t be hurt too bad. It’s imaginary. He arranged the ice pack a little better over his hand and wrist. That sure feels real. I didn’t wake up this morning without blisters. So…if he thinks he has a concussion, then I guess he has a concussion. Here’s to hoping he doesn’t think he has intracranial hemorrhaging.
XXX
Peter got up, but Sylar continued to look around even after the lights cut out. It’s a regular game of Heads-Up-Seven-Up or Who’s In My- Uh, no. Not going there. In the “dark” with….Peter Petrelli; he’s injured, he’s slow and I know, at least, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to start anything. He’s had his chances so….relax. Why would Peter think I want him gone? Just don’t know how far I can trust you, man. Somehow he wanted to voice that last thought, but knew it was already in contention. “No, no. You’re fine,” he spoke up, probably a little too quickly, waving towards Peter’s designated chair.
So….it’s just…nap time, then. This is so weird….
“Um….Peter?” he asked hesitantly once the man sat himself down with his crackers once more. On thinking about his question, he dismissed it. He didn’t think he wanted to know the answer or Peter would lie or something. “Never mind.” After a pause he spoke again, eyeing the popcorned ceiling lazily, surprisingly comfortable for being in pain, “Just let me know when your hand needs to be taped up,” Sylar reiterated his offer as the human male’s version of a thank you.
He barely noticed his eyes slipping shut.
XXX
Continued...
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 9, 140
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
A/N: Additional part found here occurring between chapters 8 and 9.
Day 5
Peter took the bottle and rattled the pills in it. He considered just walking back to the kitchen, but it occurred to him that Sylar was not in the best of shape either. The look the other man gave him - something other than sneering arrogance, cemented it. “Do you want some?”
He watched as Sylar took a single pill and Peter held his tongue about the quantity. One pill for an adult male of his size would have a negligible effect. It was hardly worth taking at all. Was Sylar trying to appear stoic and unmoved by pain? If so, then why take even one? Was he only taking one to be polite, because Peter offered? That seemed odd, but it was an odd moment. Peter didn’t question it - it was Sylar’s business, not his. Instead he said grudgingly, “I’ll get you some water in a little bit.” He turned and went back to the kitchen, favoring one leg.
XXX
Sylar blinked at the offer, a little stunned on top of his head injury. He was having instant and real difficulty deciphering the meaning behind it. Is he saying I’m weak? That he beat me? That he wants to be friends or put this behind us? Certainly he’s not forgiving me for anything. Maybe it’s a Hunger reference.
/’I guess I’m like an addict. It’s like a drug you can’t enough of.’/
“Oh…uh, thanks,” he said quietly after a pause. He managed to grab out a pill from the tiny bottle. Almost as soon as he’d done so, his companion had turned away, saying something about water for him. Sylar was left to blink at the man’s back, his mouth open to protest that he didn’t need it. Oh, well. Maybe he could drink it for hydration purposes; he had just gotten a thorough, uh, workout as it were. That’s what it was.
XXX
He had a lot of puttering around to do and various muscles and sore spots were protesting now that he didn’t have as much adrenalin coursing through his system. He got himself a glass of water and washed down triple the standard dose. The only thing he had to be concerned about was nausea or stomachache if taken on an empty stomach. He washed his face again, blew his nose, waited while the residual, secondary bleeding stopped, and washed again. His wrist was really swollen by now, which was part of why he’d handled the other self-care first. He located the sealing storage bags he’d seen in the drawers earlier and fumbled one under the ice dispenser in the door of the fridge. A few moments later, he had a bag of ice and a couple stray cubes on the floor. He kicked them out of the way.
XXX
Peter was opening and closing the freezer, scrabbling around in plastic bags with what sounded like ice. Ugh, ice…That sounded good right now. However, he didn’t move into the kitchen or risk upsetting Peter’s space; the guy probably had his own routine for cleanup and he didn’t feel like disturbing it. The only move Sylar made was to toss back and swallow the pill, wincing as he did and not from the lack of water or taste of the powder on the pill.
/’Drugs and pills are the devil’s work, Gabriel. Don’t ever fall into them; only misery and death and destruction come from that kind of…living,’ he remembered his mother, foster mother, Virginia, saying to him at the tender young age of eight. Someone a few floors up in their apartment complex had just O.D’d. He only knew that because his mother had asked the EMTs who came for Mrs. Ellens.
And he only knew what an overdose was from biology class and reading. He caught himself wondering what it felt like. He was beginning to suspect Virginia needed some pills herself. He remembered hearing the speech multiple times; any time he had a headache, his mother would start up again on the sin that was pills, whether he wanted them or not. Mostly he knew they couldn’t afford them. “They will lead you into Hell and God will not see you.”/ Funny, I’m already in Hell.
Oh, those were the days, he mused next and he stared and picked at his knuckles.
XXX
He looked at the bag blankly, then at the box of bags. Sylar was hurt too and as much as a part of his brain said, Good - the bastard deserves it, another part was much less bloodthirsty. He wanted to help people and it wasn’t like his patients had to pass much in the way of an entrance exam to qualify. Human? Check. Alive or recently so? Check. Good to go.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d treated a patient who’d slugged him, wrestled with him or even tried to kill him. The worst he’d had to deal with was a mechanic with carbon monoxide poisoning and a crowbar - clearly impaired and dangerous, clearly needing to be subdued and treated. He’d had a hard time talking the cops out of shooting the man. Once he and Hesam had managed to get the crowbar away from him through a combination of coaxing and sleight of hand; though the police had moved in, the man had gone berserk at the betrayal and all hell had broken loose.
There was hardly any more effort involved in making two ice packs as there was in one. He snagged another bag and filled it halfway, as he’d done with the first, then sealed it shut. He grabbed a couple kitchen towels to wrap them in and started back, then remembered the water. He got a new glass down, filled it and set it aside. He dug out the cracker sandwich set and put it in a pocket, then gathered up the ice packs and towels between his right forearm and body, carrying the water in his left.
He looked at Sylar very briefly, then away, and offered him the glass. “Here.” He was trying to be sensitive to the fact that Sylar probably didn’t want his help, but he’d also noticed the man hadn’t actually left. Surely that meant something, didn’t it?
XXX
Peter returned moments later balancing ice and towels and extending a glass of water towards him. Kindness, his mind supported randomly; he’s being kind. “Thank you, Peter,” he forced himself to say, taking the glass in hand; almost embarrassed now that the man would do something like that when it was difficult for the more injured medico.
His mind still tripped over the idea of kindness after that kind of intentional incident. God, it was just a glass of water, why was it such an unheard of thing? Because you’re not used to people, he answered himself, and people aren’t used to you. Maybe Peter did believe him about the rock in their collective shoe, was that even possible? Surely a man who felt his niece’s rapist sat in the next room wouldn’t bring said supposed offender a glass of water.
Somewhere in his long buried conscience, the words bubbled up, “I’m sorry,” was his low murmur. Unsure of the reaction that would garner, he kept quiet and took a sip of the cool water and fiddled with the glass; tracing the decorative ridges with careful fingers, he eyed the condensation.
XXX
Sylar said something indistinct as Peter took one of the towel-wrapped ice packs and set it on the end table next to the other man. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it certainly wasn’t an insult. It sounded a lot like an apology. Peter was angry, and accepting, both at the same time. Regardless of the anger he was deeply relieved to hear what was probably an acknowledgement that deliberately pissing one another off was a bad idea. He didn’t respond directly, letting the probably-an-apology stand without drawing attention to it. He gave a single nod and limped over to the easy chair.
He started to settle himself into it, heard a crinkling and paused to remove the crackers from his pocket. He set them on the arm of the chair and sank into it. He breathed out a long sigh, letting, forcing, himself to relax. He shifted the remaining ice pack down to his wrist, arranging it carefully.
XXX
The instant before he apologized, the medic had set one of the two ice packs on the side table next to him. That drew his attention more than any words Peter could have spoken. ‘Fuck you’, ‘you’re insane’, ‘enjoy hell, rapist’ or even ‘die alone’. All things he wouldn’t have batted an eye over (not really).
Peter Petrelli had made him an ice pack. Sylar didn’t move a single sore muscle towards it other than to stare first at it, then at Peter’s moving back, then back to the ice. Peter heaved himself into a chair, melting into it as if he were trying to cover it with his limbs like a blanket after removing the cracker pack; the man releasing a sigh similar to a less-noisy helium balloon for volume.
I don’t know about the average familial kitchen, but I don’t think he had time to make a bomb or put liquid nitrogen in it… He glanced back at the towel that rested over the seemingly innocent ice packet. That kind of speculation was a moot point; Sylar knew it was safe; it was a fucking ice pack for goodness sake; but it was kind of ingrained in him. Sylar glanced and nodded at Peter’s hand as he began to place the ice packet (through a towel of course) onto the delicate phalanges, “You’re gonna need help taping that,” he subtly offered in return.
XXX
He glanced up at Sylar’s words, clearer this time. He’s offering to help me. I shouldn’t turn him down. I should let him help. The idea of letting Sylar do something more involved than stand still while Peter touched his shoulder was a little…scary? Well, maybe that wasn’t the right word, because his feelings were born of the same reluctance as his lack of desire to let Sylar fix him lunch. Resentment - maybe that was a better description.
“Yeah,” he said vaguely, committing to nothing yet. “We shouldn’t do anything until the swelling goes down a little though.” ‘We’ - so was he going to let him help? Was he going to let Sylar handle an injury of his? He made a rough grumbling noise in his throat and leaned back in the chair, shutting his eyes. Let’s see if we can get through a half hour or so without trying to kill each other - metaphorically, that is.
Eyes still shut, Peter gently manipulated his right hand with his left, figuring out what was wrong. Fourth metacarpal - boxer’s fracture, bar room fracture. Well, at least I don’t need a cast, or…probably don’t need pinning. I wonder if I could get an x-ray machine to work? He worried about how clean the break was. Even if it was relatively clean, responded well to taping and he managed not to re-injure it, this was going to take weeks to heal. He stopped messing with the injury and gave some thought to his other hurts.
XXX
Peter addressed his offer, giving a tentative ‘yes’ or so Sylar took it to be, but then followed it up with a more negative noise, settling in. He watched, interested, as he saw his enemy and only companion close his eyes in his presence, something he would have deemed impossible and unheard of. And it was unheard of. No one ever so much as blinked when he was around, especially the big hazel eyes that were now shut, blissful physically, but hiding troubled thoughts.
Sylar nursed the glass of water slowly as he forced his eyes away from just drinking in the sight of someone. A someone he’d hit and bruised up inside by beating him down, wearing him down over the years and finally shredded the man’s heart up by killing his brother. Self-defense. He’d just finished toying with the man and he was met with a kind act, not once but twice.
XXX
His face was banged up pretty hard, having been hit at least three times and pretty solidly every time. He didn’t feel disoriented, but his neck felt strained. Then of course he was limping a little from being kicked in the upper thigh, his scalp hurt where his hair had been yanked and his neck also hurt at the joint of his right shoulder - a pressure point Sylar had punched. He frowned and rotated the joint a little, as he could without moving his right hand. His face was feeling…full, he guessed the right term was.
I’ve been here, what? Five days? At this rate I won’t need to worry about the hand. I’ll manage to kill myself long before. He sighed again, realizing suddenly that he was sitting in a room with Sylar with his freaking eyes shut. They snapped open and he looked over at the man, then shut them with a tiny grunt. Calm down, idiot. Just calm down.
"How are you doing, man?" he asked, opening his eyes just a little to regard his companion.
XXX
Only glancing as Peter moved his shoulder around, Sylar was leaning over and reaching out for the proffered ice pack when Peter’s eyes shot open and he started, jarring his entire body painfully. His hand jerked and he swiftly pulled it back, rubbing it over his jean-clad knee, desperate to act as if he hadn’t done something wrong. How much of his reaction Peter witnessed, he wasn’t sure, but a few drops of water had made it onto his other leg from the glass.
Yeah, there it was. What would my nerves do without this jumpy tension, I do wonder; he thought without amusement, barring his ever-present gallows humor. Certainly be less clumsy. Peter spoke up, but it was not anything he expected to hear from him or anyone. ‘How are you doing, man?’ Such a simple question and it had a visible impact on him, his eyes widening as he straightened a little. Completely unworthy of such a question, that’s why you’ve barely ever heard it, he concluded without self-pity.
“Did….did you hit your head, Peter? Or…I mean….” His voice trailed off as he frowned a little at the lounging man, unsure of the angle he half-suspected was being played. That immediately had him on alert, but he knew if he acted on it he would set Peter off and they’d just gotten comfortable; neither one in any condition to go another round, even verbally.
Shaking his head at Peter, he thought he heard his muscles creaking as he pivoted, slowly on his butt to toss his legs up onto the cushions, lying back, wincing as his tender scalp hit the couch’s decorative pillow. Shifting to adjust around the injury, he placed one hand under his neck for support, balancing the partly-full glass on his stomach, staring at it. Because if he can get comfortable, so can I.
What he wanted to figure out was why the question still bothered him so much.
XXX
Peter snorted slightly and smiled just a little. His face hurt at the expression. He spoke slowly, saying, “No. I hit yours. It’s kind of hard. Guess I shouldn’t have done that.” He kept smiling at the humor. I was aiming for your ear, after all. Still a stupid place to try to hit someone with my arm messed up, but it wasn’t like I had much of a chance to think it through. I wonder if he has a concussion?
“So we heal normal speed here, huh?” He knew the answer to this, as the blisters on his feet and the soreness in his back and legs - that had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with his insane, marathon wandering of the past few days - attested to. “That’s gonna suck.” More for me than you, unless I miss my guess.
XXX
He remained quiet as Peter spoke of punching his head; the smile after his words left him wondering exactly what it was for. Probably something quite painful. He felt nausea roiling in his stomach and he turned his head to the side in case he did have to throw up; his face paling like Virginia always said it did when he was sick.
“Yeah, normal speed,” Sylar eventually addressed the question about healing; the one Peter had no need to ask, surely. Like that time he’d sliced into his thumb cutting up dinner. It had bled nastily even through the band-aid, stinging in hot water making showers a little tricky. It had followed the rules he knew in regards to cellular growth, the normal kind that is. “Hmm.”
Sore throats, headaches, aches and pains, stubbed toes- they all followed the rules and Peter’s hand would be no exception, nor would Sylar’s concussion. Peter was awfully chatty, but he recognized the need; he recognized what made him do it, too; the man was looking to cope and what better way for an empath to do that then reach out…sort of.
XXX
He saw Sylar pale and become slightly diaphoretic. Yep, concussion. Probably best for him to just stay still for a while and get his bearings. He glanced around surreptitiously for a trash can. He spotted one just behind the end table that was now behind Sylar’s head. Peter rose carefully, walked over to it and moved it next to the couch. He glanced at the ice pack and wondered at that. He was a little annoyed by it and a little hurt. Annoyed because Peter could use it; he’d gotten it for Sylar and the other man hadn’t even touched it. Hurt because he really did want to help - not so much hurt because he was unappreciated, but hurt because he knew Sylar was in more pain than he would be otherwise for not using it.
He thought back about the fight. Sylar had been trying to start something. What the hell did he expect Peter to do? Stand there and snark off at him? It wasn’t one of Peter’s skills. But no, leaving the ice pack was probably because Sylar was as reluctant to accept help of him as Peter was of the killer. Oddly, Peter felt a little guilty that he wasn’t the companion Sylar wanted - whatever or whoever that might be. He had no idea what Sylar wanted in people, or friends, as traits. If they didn’t have abilities, then did he even have any use for them? He sure seemed desperate to be around Peter. And they certainly rubbed each other the wrong way. Peter went back to his seat and settled in again.
XXX
Lazily he watched the man way less carefully than he probably should have as he stood and grabbed up something near the head of the couch to set it closer to him on the floor. At the angle he lay at, he couldn’t tell what it was. But, gosh, Peter moving around was not helping his stomach; he just breathed and swallowed the bile that kept trying to rise in his mouth.
Peter seemed to be more mobile if in more pain so he tracked his motions with glassy eyes, trying to readjust his head to be comfortable around his bruising scalp. Since he was left to stare at the ice pack, he actually began to consider why he hadn’t utilized it, the real reason, if he had any. Um…spite looked to be the most probable cause. Would it be awkward to move for it again now?
XXX
Peter shifted the ice pack further down so it covered both wrist and hand. The wrist wasn’t swelling as much as he’d expected. His mind played back through the times he’d seen others with similar injuries. Physical responses covered such a range that it really wasn’t useful. He thought about the last time he’d been hurt badly. Hey, he probably doesn’t know this: “I got shot in the chest a few weeks ago. Claire wouldn’t let me take her healing at first. It kind of gave me a scare.” He was trying to make conversation. He reviewed the incident a few times in his mind, trying to think of how and if Sylar could use the information against him. That he couldn’t think of anything wasn’t all that comforting, but he didn’t have many conversational topics that Sylar wouldn’t already be informed about from Nathan’s memories.
“It made me think about how much I take for granted. I knew she was there. I would have never,” his body shook with a couple brief chuckles and no more because laughing hurt - there was a knot in his back where Sylar had jabbed him with an elbow, “I would have never jumped in front of that bullet if I thought she wouldn’t help me.” Not that I wouldn’t have still tried to stop the shooter. I just would have tried something different. “I was having a really bad day,” he said dryly. That had been the day of Nathan’s funeral.
XXX
He nodded slowly, just absorbing for the moment, formulating his response if any was desired or needed. Why’d he get shot in the chest? He’s not SWAT team, but maybe he missed his calling. Peter’s chuckling was pleasant to hear and he wondered if this was what normal men did; rather, men with friends. Buddies. Just…sit around and talk about what they’ve done? Probably not what they’d do differently, but still.
Dark eyes watched Peter carefully and casually, without any hidden agenda or malice, just looked at him. Of course, he’s not really opening up. He’s…trying to create a stepping stone between us, I think.
Claire wouldn’t let YOU take her power? That got his attention, but he wanted to point out how hard he’d had to work to get the same ability Peter had on tap - Claire’s. Three years he’d hunted her down and in the end, he’d been rather gentle about taking her ability from her. That would only spark the ‘you’re a monster and she’s my niece, duh,’ age-old argument. But he did feel the need to….add something to the….’exchange’ that Peter presented.
Somehow the man’s words just made him angry. ‘I was having a bad day. How much I take for granted’. Oh, he was having a bad day? How about how much the man had to take for granted in the first place? His ability didn’t eat him alive and force him to drench his soul in blood. He hadn’t been tortured in a Company cell for a woman who would never tell him he was ‘okay’ because of an ability he’d longed for but had gone so wrong; the ability he couldn’t control.
His mother never pushed him to become something he wasn’t (Arthur may have, but Gabriel hadn’t had a father so it probably evened out). He hadn’t been sold like a car or a dog by his father when he was a kid, living his life trapped down to a mentally unstable woman who he couldn’t leave. He had a loving big brother to take care of him and to talk with, to grow up with and learn things, do things with. He had money, a big house, any education he could point his finger at, pets at his whim, he had social skills, friends, coworkers….
I’ve only had to bleed and murder to get….well, none of that. And that was the point, wasn’t it? He, Sylar, fell short again.
“Rough time,” he grated out, anger making his throat tight, but importantly he kept his mouth shut even if the effort made him want to shove the ice pack down Peter’s throat for spite. Closing his eyes, Sylar just rubbed at his eye sockets, hissing as he hit a solid bruise there. Oh, the people skills, he sighed. Peter put his damn self in the way of any bullet headed for an innocent, so Sylar was completely devoid of pity.
XXX
Peter felt a deep, rending ache for Nathan. He almost wished his brother was still alive inside of Sylar somehow, that he’d come into this mental prison to find some reminder of Nathan, some shred of possibility that he was really still in there, that his soul hadn’t passed on and that had just been Sylar lying to him. But he’d seen no sign whatsoever of his presence, except for Sylar occasionally calling him ‘Pete’ and letting slip that he knew more than he had any right to know. That whole stuffed bear thing was layered with things other than just the rhyme between ‘Claire’ and ‘bear.’
If Nathan was still in there, then surely there would have been some indication. Peter’s face fell into sadness. He shut his eyes and waited for the emotion to pass. There was nothing else to do about it, because beating the crap out of Sylar - in addition to being easier said than done - wasn’t helpful. (He wouldn’t deny it wasn’t satisfying, though.)
XXX
Sylar did catch the wave of grief that suddenly seeped into Peter’s face, so he looked away to give him his moment, not calling attention to it or speaking just yet. Mostly he longed to avoid and bury that little incident.
He decided to inject; “I got stabbed in the eye with a pencil a few years ago. For a woman she’s not a great sounding board.” Subtly mentioning years, not weeks, making current tenses of Claire but leaving out the part about his mini-quest that became…something more serious that somehow landed him here. Help. Hell, he’d gone just about anywhere he could go and ended up, coincidently and karmatically in Hell.
I had my throat cut for a woman I thought I could be with after she twisted me around her finger and led me to murder a second time. I really did die. I was killed slowly and in ways totally against the Geneva Convention over a period of weeks just to be able to tell my mom ‘I’m special’. I died then. I’ve been brain-raped into being someone I hate and disrespect, someone who hunted me down so I could be your big brother. I pulled myself out of his grave. The more he thought of it, the less he liked the topic.
He’d sold his soul for a pair of women, out of the hopes of gaining some understanding, acceptance and possibly love, or at least the acknowledgement of it, a sign of capacity for it. Maybe just some flat out hope. He’d died so many times he’d lost count; painful, quick, bloody, slow, close-up with guns, powers, hands, drugs and other medical implements, coming close with a noose once. Gee, Peter, did you know that one?
XXX
“She stabbed you in the eye with a pencil?” He snorted, then winced and touched his nose. He glanced around. I really should have gotten some tissues, too. Luckily, it didn’t start bleeding again. ‘Years ago.’ Could have been when he got her ability to start with. Could have been at the Stanton. Could have been some other time.
He didn’t have much to say beyond that, thinking it over, thinking about Claire and how she was coping, having lost a father she’d hardly spent any time with. And apparently, things between her and Noah had become quite strained because of the whole situation. Peter couldn’t say he didn’t understand. Noah deserved a good fist to the face, too. He suspected that was something Sylar could get behind. He mulled the possible conversational topic around in his head, trying to figure out something they could talk about, something emotionally invested, that wouldn’t set either of them off. Common ground, so to speak.
XXX
Sylar snorted a chuckle himself at Peter’s snort before having to check his nose, the jolt ran through him and it turned his stomach. “Yup,” he intoned after swallowing, recovering; simultaneously wondering if Peter was asking for details or not; heck, maybe the social etiquette for dealing with someone who was formerly your enemy in a civilized conversation. “I pointed out that we’re similar and she didn’t fancy the idea. Small wonder,” he was making light of the situation and nixing the part about holding her down to make his damn point…. Was he supposed to frisk the bitch down for fucking trophies, butcher knives, pieces of glass and now pencils???
He reviewed the previous depressing topic-Claire, dying or being shot/stabbed, the out-and-out filthy struggle for survival in life, the desperation to please and the failures therein. In the back of his mind he knew he was extremely jaded by the past six years, but they had more lingering effects than the other thirty. That prompted a question from him. “Death bothers you, doesn’t it? Your own and in general,” he clarified so it didn’t sound like he was talking about Petrellis Past, Nathan and Arthur.
Union Wells, Mohinder’s apartment, and Kirby were the times Sylar recalled seeing Peter ‘die’. Never stopped the fool-hardy medic; it barely gave him pause. The man was about as resilient as he was; the creepy cockroach power matched by the seemingly nuclear one (no pun intended) of the do-right empath. And that’s why he was the ideal nemesis, if he dared use the cliché Hiro-geek word. How many times has Peter actually died? He wondered at that.
XXX
His eyes flew fully open at Sylar’s question about death and he looked at the man very intently, alert for a moment. His lips moved, but he quelled it without speaking. That was quite a question and oddly deep for the small talk Peter had been aiming at. He didn’t want to just lip off the first thing that came to mind, which was ‘Of course it does.’ He settled back and stared off into the middle distance, his brows pulling together a bit. Obviously, he was thinking it over.
XXX
He glanced at Peter as they made eye contact, his expression about as bland as he could keep it, the alternative being a sick, nauseous look; he was careful not to tense a single muscle (anymore than they were already). It was almost a Nathan question. //”Takin’ care of dead people?” “They’re not dead; they’re dying; and I think its noble.” His then-wife had piped up in Pete’s defense, earning a pointed thanks towards her from his baby brother. “What’s it pay?” He’d asked so long ago.// Peter was obviously thinking about it and that meant he would be getting a genuine answer, not something quick and cheap.
XXX
Finally he said, “Death doesn’t bother me. If it did, I wouldn’t do the things I do or take the risks I take. What bothers me is pointlessness and misery, when people take the gifts they’ve been given - time, money, influence, power, or powers - and do bad things with them.” He didn’t want that to sound like an accusation of Sylar because it wasn’t. Honestly, he laid more blame at Nathan’s feet than anyone else’s for misusing what he’d had in his life. The man had had everything and he’d thrown it away. If he hadn’t had another hare-brained idea to confront Sylar directly and physically, then he’d probably still be alive. Peter sighed. Of course he was to blame too for going along with it.
And what he’d said sounded like an accusation anyway, he knew, so he softened his voice a little and decided to try begging. “Please don’t argue with me. You asked a question; I answered. I wasn’t meaning it about you, particularly. As a philosophy, it’s probably more full of holes than a colander but there isn’t much I can do about that.” He wasn’t a great debater or arguer. He had too many memories of being argued down by his father - eventually Peter had learned to listen to him sullenly and say nothing, a characteristic look of long-suffering disgust on his face. His father would wind down, order Peter to do things his way, and stalk off. After a beat he added, “Claire told me once about dying: it’s no big deal.” He smiled, even though it hurt.
He reached over and picked up the cracker pack, opening it slowly, which made the crinkling of the cellophane seem louder than it was.
XXX
Peter spoke his piece and Sylar hummed at first before a muscle in his eye twitched and his stomach heaved a little inside as he beat down the desire to lunge at Peter just for saying that, not particularly out of anger either. The same could so easily be applied to precious fucking Nathan, too! The former senator-navy-boy had squandered everything in his life, probably for the right, completely misguided reasons.
He just nodded as Peter clarified his belief, rather his view on death of all lovely topics. So long as it hadn’t been aimed at him, he had no trouble letting the man do or believe his thing as he pleased. It wasn’t something that they would be back at each other’s throats for or anything. Sylar was immortal and he’d moved his kill spot so he had no worries about it, which probably removed him emotionally from it anyway. Not that he was close to people enough to notice their lives in misery.
He knew he’d once been miserable and hadn’t had much of a life and that’s what prompted his next words. “I actually agree with you,” he stated simply. It was actually probably the reason his Hunger made him collect abilities from those who wasted them. Unfortunately it didn’t evolve into the helpful role he might wish it to be.
Heroes were special right? He hadn’t been born with a handy ability like empathy, not like Virginia would have bought that at all; ‘Empathy? Oh, you don’t need anything like that. Stop being silly and focus on these job openings at the bank…’ He could hear her pitchy voice now. Empathy wasn’t flashy, but it did help people. It would get him friends, right? Yeah, so not what Mom wanted. Important. Prestigious. Powerful (well, he had that). All that, provided he chained his ankle to Mom.
Even if he got empathy, it wouldn’t do any good. He’d managed it a time or two (women he could get close enough to kiss seemed to be easiest, the only ones thus far) and it hadn’t sated his Hunger because he didn’t know how they worked. Peter had had it and he’d still tried to kill his mother. Such a romantic, predictable cycle. Really, if he killed a few dozen people for the greater good of a million or so, would he be forgiven or praised? That was such a slim chance; he supposed it was a good thing he didn’t have to chance it.
“I suppose it depends what Claire believes, religiously. Cheerleader, probably hasn’t been alive long enough to do anything amazingly sinful or wrong, so she might very well not have a-” Peter began to open the…fucking packet of crackers. The noise assaulted him first, scraping over his ears, tender from nausea, but what did him in was the smell.
He could smell the crackers and for some reason it turned his guts for the last time. Sylar yanked himself quickly to roll and lean over the couch cushion he lay on to heave breakfast into a trash can he saw (one that Peter must have placed there earlier), before his eyes shut and he vomited, thinking, Oh, god; I hate this.
XXX
Peter examined the cracker sandwich - a couple of toasted, round crackers with what was supposed to be peanut butter between them. It resembled peanut butter, at least. It was probably a close cousin. He popped one in his mouth and looked back over to see if Sylar was going to finish his sentence. Claire might not have a what? About then the other man rolled over and lost it into the trash can, causing Peter’s own stomach to clench sympathetically. He took an immediate deep breath and shifted his ice pack off to the side, leaning forward and putting it on the arm of the recliner. He forced himself to swallow the cracker and waited a beat until Sylar began his second heave. Peter got to his feet.
He hobbled to the kitchen and dug out another towel, sticking it under the water dispenser in the fridge door because that was quick and didn’t require two hands. A little water on the floor was not a problem (although a distant part of his brain began to calculate the slipping hazard he was creating here). He switched the now-wet towel to his right and grabbed the roll of paper towels hanging from under the upper cabinets. He yanked it down, not caring too much if he damaged the holder. No one lived here. The only person who mattered around here needed the towels right now. He walked back out.
He knelt slowly next to the trash can, a little awkwardly because the muscle in his thigh spasmed and complained about the flexion. He ignored it and waited to be noticed and acknowledged, not wanting to rush the other man. He’d noticed Sylar was messed up more than just a knot on his head and a collection of bruises, but Peter wasn’t in much better shape. He’d thought - and still did - that the best treatment was rest and calming down. There wasn’t much to be done, otherwise, and like the nausea all there was to do was let it pass, provide comfort and treat symptomatically. He held the hand towel in his left and waited for eye contact.
XXX
Once he’d finished upchucking, hating the feeling intensely as always, he spat into the trash can, noting Peter’s sudden proximity. Whoa. In his hand, he held a wet towel and a roll of paper towels. He did his best to come up with some sort of threat the items could hold, but he failed to divine one. Instantly, he looked up into Peter’s face as he spoke, blinking and clearing his head by turning it back and forth slightly as if he were trying to remain awake. He wasn’t about to pass out, but he might fall asleep just from tiredness. The atmospheric shift involved with vomiting sending his headache into the hideous monster category.
XXX
He tried to ignore the smell of bile and the discontent roiling of his own stomach. Despite the odor, he took in quick breaths to hold his reaction at bay and distracted himself by running down a quick checklist of symptoms for minor traumatic brain injury. Sylar didn’t seem confused or emotional. He wasn’t perseverating and his conversation had been clear, not disoriented. Peter didn’t think there anything all that severe or treatable going on here, but he wanted to get a good look at Sylar’s eyes just in case. What I wouldn’t give for a pen light. I need to get together a medical bag. Yeah, he said to himself in his head, while that’s not a bad idea, what I need to do is quit beating the crap out of him. Of course it would help if he wasn’t picking fights. If he wasn’t who he was. Sarcastically his mind enjoined, Me and Sylar. Been here less than a week and we’re already both beat bloody and messed up.
When the other man finally looked up at him, Peter offered the towel and said quietly, “Sylar, will you let me take a look at you? I want to check your eyes for uneven pupil dilation and check your scalp where I hit you.” He spoke slowly, very aware that less than a half hour before he’d been the one hitting this man, inflicting the very injuries he was now asking to examine. He was sensitive to that, and aware that concussion victims were often irritable. These things combined (and of course that this was Sylar he was talking to), Peter wouldn’t have been surprised if the man tried to hit him again. He was aware he was in range. He leaned back a little, raising the towel again. It put his left hand up where he could try to block with it if that happened. This time, he had no intention of striking back.
XXX
Sylar managed a light frown in the face of ‘will you let me take a look at you?’ Then it hit him why Peter would ask to examine him; the words otherwise failing a connection to his logic. “Oh…Amanda, huh? That’s why.” That was the only reason Peter would want to help, wasn’t it? The man still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that Sylar was the only other thing alive here. But he really didn’t think that fact would stop the medic from drastic and potentially homicidal actions.
Then again….Peter had stopped earlier when he’d had Sylar dead to rights with the gun. Peter….Peter wouldn’t be subtle if he did try anything, he knew; no poisons or cutting Sylar’s wrists in his sleep. The non-murderer would probably prefer something at a distance; something cold and detached, not close-in and hands-on. Touching the person and watching the lights go out of the eyes and feeling the heartbeat falter, then slow and stop wasn’t Petrelli’s style. He couldn’t handle something like that. Sylar gently and slowly took the towel and swiped it over his face, setting it aside again, nodding his thanks.
XXX
Peter watched the other man closely as he rose from the trash can. Sylar’s answer to Peter’s question made no sense at all. Internally, Peter revised, Okay, not coherent now. That made him cautious, because a rational person was much more likely to signal an attack. One who was impaired was less predictable.
XXX
Sylar couldn’t get his mind completely around the fact that Peter would set aside his justified revenge to save someone (and/or hundreds or thousands of innocents) using Sylar as his plot of choice. Empathy must play a part in resisting temptation like that. Go figure. He’s a fucking white knight in shining armor. Peter, your brain is definitely broken; you make no sense.
He moved to prop himself up on his elbow, his stomach still squirming around, but he had nothing left in it to cause problems. “If touching me is all you wanted, you didn’t have to hit me,” Sylar teased him, his expression showing gentle amusement in his sarcasm, looking away to show he wasn’t serious. Probably why he became a nurse in the first place, he mused absentmindedly.
He then faced Peter directly, keeping his eyes open sufficiently, “You won’t find anything serious in there. It’s only a mild one.” The smell of Peter (and crackers) close up wasn’t a pleasant thing, but it was another person in this Hell, so he was grateful to a degree. If only said smell didn’t make him want to hurl again, he’d be that much happier. Then again, he knew he probably smelled now, too, and smelled worse. He sighed as Peter moved in to gently peel his eyelid back and lean in close, professional and removed as ever, to peer into his pupil, repeating the process with the other.
It wasn’t as uncomfortable as it could have (perhaps should have) been. The last time someone had checked his eyes like that had been….in a Company cell and he’d been dead/dying.
XXX
Peter started to get his back up about the ‘touching’ comment. That had nothing to do with it! Wait, incoherent again. He calmed and put on his best paramedic smile, put aside his bristling and exchanged it smoothly for amused agreement. “Well, then, just let me take a look.” He shifted the trash can out from between them and examined Sylar’s eyes - brown, clear, and healthy. Nice eyes. If I had a light I might be able to tell if he had much brain swelling. There’s got to be a flashlight around here somewhere.
XXX
Sylar managed to roll his eyes at Peter buying his punch line. “”M joking, man,” he murmured, “I’m not a child,” he couldn’t resist a slight chuckle at the empath’s gullibility. Once Peter removed his hands, he made to lie back down, but his companion reached for the back of his head and it took everything in him not to react badly to that one.
/’C’mon, Nathan, I know you’re in there…’/
Sylar settled for looking along down his body, staring at his toes, leaving his head turned so Peter could see and touch his scalp. For some reason hair was horribly intimate and having the EMT touching it finally made him uncomfortable. Doctors, Matt, Peter, Mohinder, Angela, Chandra, even his mother had all left something to be desired when it came to that having his head touched; but he kept very quiet while Peter poked and prodded painfully at his skull and scalp. He noted the irony of the gesture. The head was a very special place because it housed the all-important brain. The whole sum of a person was in there. Someone once said ‘We are only what we remember.’ And sometimes near-eidetic memory (and clairvoyant memory) just sucked.
He remembered having his life sucked away by the hands currently on his scalp and it had been a headache unrivaled by the current one.
XXX
Peter slid his hand into the man’s hair, tightening his lips. His body tensed and he noticed that Sylar’s did, too. Peter had done this to hundreds of patients. But doing it to Sylar came with emotional baggage. It reminded him of crouching beside and over the man - also in the aftermath of a fight. One hand had cradled the back of his head, the other on his forehead, forcing what he was out of him no differently than his mother had had Matt Parkman do. He’d killed him more intimately than if he’d strangled him, what with the glimpses of Sylar’s past and the fleeting impression of memories as Peter had drained them out of the other man. It was as premeditated as it could be. He’d called on Rene for both facets of his ability, always expecting that he’d have to use it that way, glad actually that Sylar hadn’t taken his spurious ‘offer.’ Peter hadn’t intended him to.
He remembered seeing Mohinder grab the sides of Sylar’s head and bash it on the concrete floor at Pinehearst. Sylar had come back for his ‘brother’ then - an unexpected moment of loyalty when Peter’s own father had turned against him. If Sylar had truly been on Arthur’s side, he never would have come back for Peter. It was odd - where Sylar had placed himself in that struggle. He’d been told he was family and believed it. He seemed taken by Angela, but it was Peter he’d reached out to several times in different ways. He’d never so much as spoken to Nathan and he’d turned on his ‘father’, Arthur, more than once. What to make of that? The only person he treated like family was me. And I didn’t even believe he was.
XXX
Hissing sharply through gritted teeth, he kept his eyes closed and his noises to a minimum as Peter massaged the large, delicate bruise on his skull, feeling the rise of flesh from the bones. Fuck, that hurt, forgot how much that hurts. Hands in the hair feels nice…any contact kind of does, actually. It’s like remembering I’m ‘human’ for the billionth time now. Have to ignore it. That kind of thinking brought danger in its wake. (He refused to allow the heady feeling from the unadulterated contact that had nothing to do with the injury. His heart beat faster because of it all).
Once the medic was apparently satisfied enough, he pulled his hands away. He’d noticed Peter’s defensive arm in place earlier, but he hadn’t acknowledged it. “We should just limp home, man. Get some rest for a bit,” he suggested. It was an easy way for both of them to tend their hurts and feel safe in their own apartments. And if he didn’t get moving he would most likely fall dead asleep there on the couch.
XXX
He felt of the knot that had already formed under Sylar’s scalp. Peter ran his fingers through the hair around it and confirmed there was no bleeding. The subdermal hematoma wasn’t bad. Peter pulled his hands away and Sylar settled back, arranging himself for rest even as he insisted they should go back to their respective apartments. Peter picked up the ice pack and continued to speak in his paramedic voice - even, calm and friendly with a steady smile. “Yeah? How about we just stay here for now. It’s morning. There’s no hurry. Here’s just as good as any other place. Now raise up a little and let’s put this ice pack on the side of your head there. It’ll hold the swelling down.”
Surely Sylar knew that, but why he’d spurned it earlier was uncertain. If he was having cognitive problems though, then it didn’t have to make sense.
XXX
Opening his eyes at the sound of the ice pack being handled, not looking at it but at Peter as he raised his head to allow the medic to place it against his concussed cranium. “Hmm…’K.” Oh, that’s it, force the ice pack on me, why don’t you? He had to hold back another fit of chuckling as his over-active imagination went wild with images on the subject. Peter told him to keep still, so he answered with “No problem,” and finally diverted his gaze away.
Honestly, the doctor smile had always creeped him out because it always spelled bad news. You’re dying, you have cancer, your left foot has to be amputated, this will only sting for- And on Peter (not a doctor), the medicinal man who’d just tossed back way too-many-to-be-healthy pills for his own broken bones; oh, yes, Sylar had heard that; it had almost double that effect. The patronizing (doctor?) voice was not getting the man any points as he’d noted earlier.
In a way it was amusing for him (and Nathan’s fucking memories) to see just what Peter did at the job he never left. The guy had to be in serious pain; Sylar had had his shoulder torn out without having his heal-anything powers and he remembered how agonizing it was. The fact that Peter could do what he did with a broken hand was that much more impressive to him. High pain tolerance, the little bastard, he thought with something akin to affection before he snapped himself to rights; Knock that off.
XXX
Peter’s voice slipped back to normal as he got to his feet. “Standard treatment for concussions, assuming you’re not showing any danger signs,” which you are, but there’s nothing I can do about it and they’re not bad ones…we’ll see if you keep vomiting or that was a one-time thing, “is to lie down for thirty minutes in a darkened room and do nothing at all. If you feel like you want to sleep, then sleep. They’ve proven that stuff about keeping people awake has no basis in medical fact. I’m going to turn out the main light in here.”
XXX
Sylar had no answer to the comments about staying put, so he didn’t bother to make any, settling in to the icy packet on his head, controlling the groan he wished to make. Just as he was wanting to close his eyes but forcing them to stay open by setting the glass on the coffee table after drinking the rest, Peter addressed the science of the fact and he made a noise to show his attention to that fact, “Huh. That’s interesting,” he said, his tone read of genuine intrigue. The ability node in his brain perked up at learning something; What was that about not doing anything, Peter? Then you shouldn’t teach me things, I’ll only hound you into the ground for more.
XXX
He went to turn on the hall light. The kitchen was already lit. By turning off the light in the living room, the area remained lit enough to see, but much dimmer. “That should help with the nausea, too.” In case Sylar wanted someone to take the blame for the enforced rest period, Peter added quite truthfully, “My feet hurt. My back hurts. My leg hurts. I don’t see any reason why we should go anywhere. But if you want me to leave and that’s the only way you’ll rest, then tell me and I’ll get out of here.” In which case, I’m sure you’re not going to rest, but there’s no way for me to make you do it anyway.
There’s not a whole lot I can do if he has swelling or bleeding in the brain. I can’t do surgery. Wait…none of this is real. He can’t be hurt too bad. It’s imaginary. He arranged the ice pack a little better over his hand and wrist. That sure feels real. I didn’t wake up this morning without blisters. So…if he thinks he has a concussion, then I guess he has a concussion. Here’s to hoping he doesn’t think he has intracranial hemorrhaging.
XXX
Peter got up, but Sylar continued to look around even after the lights cut out. It’s a regular game of Heads-Up-Seven-Up or Who’s In My- Uh, no. Not going there. In the “dark” with….Peter Petrelli; he’s injured, he’s slow and I know, at least, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to start anything. He’s had his chances so….relax. Why would Peter think I want him gone? Just don’t know how far I can trust you, man. Somehow he wanted to voice that last thought, but knew it was already in contention. “No, no. You’re fine,” he spoke up, probably a little too quickly, waving towards Peter’s designated chair.
So….it’s just…nap time, then. This is so weird….
“Um….Peter?” he asked hesitantly once the man sat himself down with his crackers once more. On thinking about his question, he dismissed it. He didn’t think he wanted to know the answer or Peter would lie or something. “Never mind.” After a pause he spoke again, eyeing the popcorned ceiling lazily, surprisingly comfortable for being in pain, “Just let me know when your hand needs to be taped up,” Sylar reiterated his offer as the human male’s version of a thank you.
He barely noticed his eyes slipping shut.
XXX
Continued...