Day 9
Peter left for the bathroom and Sylar found himself idly playing with the one of the towels the medic had carried out. It was one of the nicer ones he observed, playing with the worn, blue fringe. The sink cut on and the steady noise lulled him even more into relaxation. No….no. Gotta stay alert. Life or death. Thinking back, he couldn't remember why and that was…amnesia was never a good thing for him. It always came back to bite.
He twitched when he heard a light clattering as someone snooped through his cabinet and strangely that didn't bother him as much as it should. Not like he's gonna find something interesting in there. Wait…I was doing something before this…why am I…? The continual flow of water in the sink (why's that on?), like any stable, repetitive noise calmed him like a well-oiled gear. But for the pounding in his head and the aching in his body, he was comfortable…and finding himself drowsy.
Sylar was hardly aware his eyes were shut when he…felt something else with him. His eyes popped open and he caught sight of Peter standing in his living room with his aid kit. Embarrassingly, he started, grabbing whatever was closest (ice packs) in reaction as he straightened and lifted one foot from the floor. "Jee-…fuck, Peter…." Was all he gasped and muttered out around a hummingbird heart, curling in on himself a little to recover. "Where the hell did you come from?" I didn't ask him in here…did I? Why would I? Did he come here for the kit? Did he even ask? What's…?
XXX
Peter blinked at Sylar for a moment. 'Where did I come from?' Your bathroom, perhaps? He recognized the symptoms - confusion, disorientation, lack of continuity of memory. Much of why Peter hadn't bothered with conversation earlier, after the fight and while Sylar had been ranting, was that Peter didn't see any point in talking with someone who was fucked up. He wasn't going to agree with Sylar, and he didn't want to rile him up either. Being quiet and supportive seemed simplest.
He noticed Sylar hadn't been using the ice packs. What's he got against ice packs, anyway? They'd melted a little and looked perfect to put on his eye. How long was I in the bathroom? Felt like forever. Peter tucked the plastic tote under his right arm and gestured at his face with his left hand. He spoke calmly and matter-of-factly, trying to leave out any blame or concession. "We had another fight. We both got pretty banged up. I head butted you and your concussion is a lot worse." He'd been aiming at his 'paramedic voice', but it came out more as 'I'm tired, please don't make things worse'. He paused, waiting to see how that was received, regardless of what it sounded like.
XXX
Peter sounded so calm about that: 'We had another fight'. Oh, was all he could surmise. The medic sounded annoyed and Sylar was left to wonder who'd started it. It was a gut-dropping feeling, just….being somewhere with no recollection of where he'd been or what had happened. Peter might, in theory be lying to him, but Sylar could find no reason why. He supposed this wasn't a new feeling – this was how he'd 'woken up' in this strange world after all, 'woken up' to being Nathan.
Peter was already here, didn't appear to be making any aggressive motions or intentions so Sylar felt comfortable enough, but not completely so, to settle back into his fugue state and relax a little. His face ached badly and by then his attention was free to wander to the ice chilling his fingertips as he shifted the melting cubes in the bag.
XXX
"Scoot over now and let me sit down. You asked me to get the band-aids and ointment. You can bandage your knuckles and I'll wrap mine." Peter moved forward, making to set the tote down on the couch if Sylar would just move to one side or the other. Then the tote would be between them and he could do something about the lacerated knuckles he had on his left hand. He'd noticed the couch-hogging, of course, but hopefully if Sylar's memory was faulty, then the man might have forgotten trying to slam the door on Peter and being territorial.
XXX
I did? Sylar looked up from his fondling of the packs, shifting as quickly as he could, which still felt too slow with the speed Peter approached with, but he had no desire to be crushed with the tote. So he dragged himself to the left, situating his back into the corner of cushion and armrest, automatically slouching for comfort. He kept his feet more or less on his own side of the 'divider' the tote represented. Peter had plopped it down and sat, thankfully, on the other side of it, opening the container and making a racket of plastic looking for things.
Sylar glanced at the mentioned knuckles of both participants. His own were bloody and scraped, bruised with scabs torn up or broken. His left elbow was placed on the armrest, that hand full of ice as he gently rested the freezing contraption against his head. Stop pounding already, I hear you, he instructed his head.
Sylar's eyes were slitted to watch Peter almost lazily, enjoying the patches of relief against his skull. When he saw Peter's ministrations weren't fireworks and flash, his eyes dropped to his knuckles once again, stroking the surfaces, sometimes attempting to clean.
His face is wet, he came out of my bathroom….his face was bloody, too? My hands are bloody, so are his. I probably look like crap. He hurt me – he said so, concussion. He wanted to ask, but conversation wasn't a priority, mostly he lacked energy. If anything, he wanted to cuddle up and nap, like a kid, like a cat – book and blanket, the whole thing. The position strained his abdominals and hip and thigh so he concluded he must have been struck there, too. Peter's…thorough. He was out of it significantly when he failed to notice his eyes drooping shut.
XXX
Peter opened the tote and sorted through it, making mental notes of what supplies Sylar had available. He treated the knuckles of his left hand, applying ointment and knuckle bandages to his index and ring fingers. That of his pinkie finger was hardly scuffed, but he worried over his middle finger. The tiny, inconsequential-at-the-time-he'd-gotten-it cut from the glass had exacerbated the damage done when he'd punched Sylar. The skin was split. He moved his finger experimentally, but the tendon and everything else seemed fine. He took much more meticulous care of it than he usually would for such an injury, being very carefully in cleaning it, applying the bandage snugly and then taping it for most of the length of it. I'm running short on extra hands here. And doofus over there is going to be messed up for days, at least.
Speaking of his companion, Sylar seemed to have zoned out again. Could be a bad sign – bleeding inside his skull. Or it could just mean he's tired and needs some rest. He hasn't thrown up at least. I didn't really get a good look at his eyes, not that there's much I could do about it anyway. It's not like I'm going to penetrate the brain case to relieve pressure, no matter what the ancient Egyptians used to do. Despite a medical background, Peter was no neurosurgeon. Oddly, were their positions reversed and assuming Peter was coherent enough to consent (which he didn't think Sylar was at the moment), he'd trust the 'brain man' to know his way around someone's head. Certainly more than I would.
Peter's right hand and wrist were hurting and swelling within the brace. He was glad he'd never gotten around to tightening it correctly. He lifted himself off the couch to fetch the last two ice packs and returned, settling carefully to avoid disturbing Sylar. He took the two packs Sylar had left to him and wrapped them around his right wrist, then leaned back, wriggling around until he got a good angle to put the other two over his left eye. He settled in for a nap, worrying a little as he drifted off about Sylar's presence, but … trust has to start somewhere.
…
The gentle chiming and tolling of the clocks woke him. The ice packs were nothing but water now, though he wasn't sure how much time had passed, having not taken note of it before drowsing. He could hardly lift his head – oh my God, my neck is totally jacked. He grunted and managed to roll his head to the side, looking at Sylar, who was still asleep, mouth hanging open and snoring lightly. Fearsome killer. Ha. His thoughts went briefly to watching over Sylar? Nathan? one of those, sleeping restlessly in Peter's bed weeks before, curled around a liquor bottle. He'd seemed tortured even in sleep. It was nice to see him calmer now. Not having to live a lie … or something like that, I'm sure.
Peter wrenched his head upright to stave off further thoughts in that direction. Easing off the couch again, he gathered up the water-filled bags and put them on the kitchen counter. Then he slipped out the front door, returning many minutes later with better ice packs and some frozen vegetables he'd acquired by raiding other apartments. He debated waking Sylar but decided to let him rest. Instead he dropped the extra, prepared ice packs in the freezer and settled back in on the couch with a sack of frozen peas across the left side of his face, listening to the ticking of the clocks and trying to decide if he liked or disliked the constant, low level noise.
XXX
The sound of his freezer opening and closing woke Sylar and confused him horribly. "Mom?" he asked, muddled, unable just yet to open his eyes. They just hurt too much. Who else would be getting in his freezer? He let out a long groan and tried to suppress it as he shifted on…the couch. He heard footsteps, a little heavy, but he waited for her voice to precede her. Then he waited for maybe her hand on his forehead or his shoulder, but neither came and the footsteps passed him by. He felt her sit beside him on the couch and that was strange of her.
Peeling open his right eye he looked around a very messy living room until he saw….Peter. Oh. No…Peter meant…Nathan and Angela and…that meant Mom was dead and he'd just embarrassed himself completely. "Damn…kit," he muttered, wishing it gone so he could stretch out at least, even if it involved contact with Peter. He inhaled over his irrational disappointment. Or was that irrational hope? Sylar feeling something shift in his hand. A water bag? No, it had been ice cubes, melted now. He dropped them to the floor, stretching out his elbow that had cramped somewhat in sleep before settling it at a new angle to rest his head on his hand.
Glancing over again, he saw that Peter had a bag of frozen…peas. Those aren't mine. "What are you still doing here, Peter? I'm fine." I want to take a shower or…maybe a bath. See if I can eat something but I doubt I'll be able, probably won't hold it down anyway. I can't do that with him here. Besides, what does he care if I drop off and die in the night? He'd care that he wasn't there to gloat and say something poetic about justice finally being served, that's why. Then why doesn't he kill me? Son of a bitch makes me so angry, he makes no sense!
More or less Sylar desired privacy to bemoan and lick his wounds.
XXX
Peter felt a spasm of embarrassment at Sylar's question, an intense dislike of being unwanted and unnecessary rearing its head. It made him feel worthless and rejected (and probably had a lot to do with his choice of professions where people had to accept his help). What am I doing here? He's Sylar. He doesn't need my help. Let him fall over and whack his head again on the corner of his desk there and bleed out for all I should care. Peter's mind helpfully provided him with graphic and realistic images of Sylar on the floor, scalp torn from coming down against the sharp edge of the furniture; his watches and tools scattered across him, lying in the spreading pool of blood; Sylar twitching and dying alone in his apartment because no one had been there for him. Peter gave himself a little shake to dispel the gruesome image and levered himself up off the couch. He only partly suppressed the groan he made as his stiff neck ached.
"You have," he said as he put aside the bag of frozen peas and walked into Sylar's kitchen, "a concussion and it's not a mild one anymore." He got out one of the ice packs he'd made in the apartment where he'd found a refrigerator with an ice machine in the door. He came back to where Sylar was sitting. "Maybe you're lucid right now," he paused, eyes scanning over Sylar's face for reaction and eye contact, making sure he was following the conversation, "but you haven't been that way earlier." He offered the ice pack.
XXX
That must be the nicest way anyone has ever called me insane, Sylar thought, staring back, eyes narrowing some at the end. He took the pack after a glance, giving a nod and placing it on his cheek for the moment.
XXX
"For the next couple days, it's real likely you'll have periods of being disoriented, dizzy, not sure what's going on, and clumsy. You'll fall easily. You'll probably have trouble with self-care." Peter turned and opened the tote again, digging out another set of knuckle bandages and the tube of ointment. "You might be fine if I'm not here. Or you might not. It's not like I've got anywhere else to be." He gave the bandage wrapper a lot more attention than it deserved as he stripped off the outer packaging. Peter's voice became low as he said, "If I was somewhere else, I'd be worried the whole time that you'd taken a header in the bathroom and died, because I was too eat up with hate to help you out."
XXX
Did he just imply that I can't clean myself? Insane and dirty. Again. What is with this trend? I don't think- I don't like that he's judging me based on my messiest apartment. Maybe the apartment has nothing to do with it. Sylar followed Peter's movements with only some interest, more of a self-interest interest. If Peter pulled out a rib-spreader, Sylar would wanna know about it (not that he had one in his aid kit). Sue him; he had a real thing about not enjoying the company of medical men. So he just invites himself over?
Peter was focused with the wrapper, but Sylar's mind was running limited mental loops around the words 'worried' and 'died', 'hate' was in there, too. You would worry? That sounds like you'd regret it if I died…must be some empath-guilt complex. He'd be pissed he let someone die on his watch, that's it. What is it you really want, Petrelli? All he could do was frown and listen.
XXX
He looked up at Sylar, his gaze very level and serious. Hate. Started all of this. I've got to get over it. Better if I just don't think about it. "Let's look at your knuckles there. You were going to take care of them earlier, but you couldn't focus enough to do it." Which is part of what I mean about self-care. "If you want to hold that ice pack in place, I'll work on whichever hand is free." He pushed the tote out of the way and sat down close, setting the supplies on his thigh and waiting to see if Sylar would offer a hand and cooperate, snatch the bandages and do it himself, or refuse to work with him at all.
XXX
"My…" Sylar glanced down at the mentioned joints, seeing them torn and bloody. By the time he'd looked up again Peter had pushed the tote away and made his approach. Sylar was left to blink and control his breathing. I'm not that out of it. Am I? Peter's voice was low and barely slow enough for him to follow; technically there was little to no threat but there were too many unanswered questions for Sylar to go along with things. Peter got closer than Sylar wanted; he was so vulnerable.
Sylar shifted back, frowning at he thought. Help would be nice, he knew, it would feel nice and be great. Having the man clean the knuckles that had pounded into him (he assumed) not too long before was wrong even by Sylar's inadequate standards. Sylar certainly wouldn't fix up Peter's knuckles, especially if they had caused his concussion. He hadn't received real medical treatment in…how many years? and now he was thoroughly distrustful of the entire system and the people who served in it. He'd done without all this time so he would be okay, one way or other. Peter might break his fingers as punishment. It wasn't like this was America and he had freedom of speech and rights for human treatment (that he probably shouldn't receive anyway); it wasn't like he could sue Peter for medical abuse.
And what the hell was he really to do here? Deliver his hand, delicate as could be like a princess and…hold hands with Peter? Hands were important, especially to a watchmaker and telekinetic. That touch would be downright intimate and Peter was asking for it and probably doing so for the wrong reasons if only Sylar could divine. This had to be some sort of test; like sticking one's head into a lion's mouth, this would be sticking his hand out for Peter to…hurt or heal. Peter would want something in return later and that had him…more curious than anxious.
Lifting his head, still staring at Peter, his mouth tensed. Sylar shoved his right fist into the man's space for indefinable treatment. Not my first Androcles moment.
XXX
Peter pulled back sharply from getting a fist thrust at him, his face going to wary and alert. Sylar, on the other hand, looked challenging … and afraid. Peter held very still for a few seconds, his eyes first darting rapidly between Sylar's hand and face, then making that same trek much more slowly. Peter relaxed and started to move. He reached his left hand up, open, under Sylar's and lifted it slightly. He felt that static again between them - a weird sensation he'd felt off and on since he got here, whenever he got really close to Sylar and was paying attention. In the middle of fighting didn't count.
He didn't know what it meant. He wondered if Sylar felt it, too. It made his hand (and some spot inside of his head) itch. It had a certain similarity to the feeling he got when he touched someone who had an ability. Spontaneously Peter wondered what would happen if he tried to take one of Sylar's abilities, here. Sure, Sylar claimed not to have any, but back in Matt's basement, or wherever their physical bodies were now, he still had them. Would it work and I'd have one of his abilities here? Would I lose telepathy and get kicked out of his head? Or would it not matter at all, because it would be my body that had the ability, not me? No matter what, I think he'd see it as an attack. This is not the time to start shit. He set the thought aside.
XXX
Sylar snorted and hid his amusement at Peter having a similar reaction to actually getting the desired hand. The motion may have been sudden, the fist a sign of aggression, but it came nowhere near contacting Peter's body, more was the pity. While Peter's eyes were involved with the hands, Sylar was left to watch the medic's face, curious about the thoughts going on behind it. His hands, previously feeling a little clammy, warmed up instantly when they felt Peter's skin. It was a jolt, a shock; the gentleness was a completely separate matter to top that. His fingers loosened without any order from his consciousness, not that it mattered.
Sylar inhaled over the sensation, swallowing for good measure. Even in his condition he could feel his nerves sizzling; he knew how someone could get addicted to feeling people up if that was the feeling it inspired. That could explain a few things about Peter and his job choices – hero and medic. Sylar caught himself envying that luxury.
XXX
Peter took Sylar's fist and put it over the thumb and forefinger of his right. "Uncurl your fingers. Rest them on my hand. Please don't squeeze." Oh God, please don't do that! I will flip out, I won't trust you, it'd be totally unprovoked and I'd want to smother your dumb ass in your sleep. Which … well … it isn't that bad between us yet. Oh wow, he thought with morbid humor, a new low we could potentially sink to.
He gave a long, slow exhale and stared at Sylar's hand for a moment, waiting to see what happened. He was very aware that he was putting his worst injury rather literally in Sylar's hand. Peter, too, had rules, although they weren't as formalized perhaps as Sylar's. Deliberately inflicting pain, outside of the context of the fight itself, was beyond the pale. Not that he'd never gone there himself - a certain nail gun came to mind. Sylar's punitive slap earlier had been wrong, whereas none of the punches were. Should Sylar hurt him now, Peter would get far more averse to exposing any weakness to him in future.
XXX
Peter directed him to move his hand so Sylar did, laying his hand flat and letting it relax over the other man's. Squeeze? Why would I-? Oh. Oddly enough, as good as this all felt, it was making him uncomfortable and he couldn't place it. The question 'why?' was on a loop in his head. It wasn't like he'd probably die of infection so he failed to see what Peter was so bothered about covering his knuckles. Perhaps habit or boredom? But it came right back to 'why do you care?'
XXX
After a pause, he moved on to picking up the ointment and dutifully applying it to the lacerated knuckles one at a time, careful and slow. He followed it with one bandage after another, occasionally tilting Sylar's hand off his own so he could use his right thumb and forefinger to peel the backing off the bandages. Mostly he was having Sylar's hand rest on his merely for balance and so he could, with small motions or pressure, encourage Sylar to turn his hand to more convenient angles.
By the end, he was feeling more comfortable and even went so far as to let some humor creep in. "I dunno about you, but I have exceeded my recommended daily allowance of knuckle sandwiches for today." He gave Sylar a friendly smile. "Don't need any more. Can you switch hands for me now?"
XXX
Sylar felt his hand being positioned where Peter needed it and the feeling was insanely relaxing. Already out of it, tired, aching and drowsy this was not helping his alertness. Isn't he tired, too? I hope he knows better than to think I'm gonna follow Dr. Petrelli's recommendations to sleep or bed rest, surely he's not that stupid. Better tie me to the couch; he'd have more luck with that. Probably more luck that I want him to have, actually. Yeah, well…
Any casual touch was so foreign it was like another language, another culture, a lightning rod, in short, to his nervous system and his brain, ironically, couldn't code that. Peter knew the language that much was obvious – this really didn't seem to bother him a bit. The idea that someone would heal him after he'd beaten them was…well, he didn't know what to think of that, but it made him queasy. Peter was not the type to allow that and Sylar knew better that the empath didn't deserve it either. The man was literally a new breed to him and one that required more study.
Peter's fingertips were rough, where they touched, but it was being hit up with narcotics; Sylar found his eyelids drooping a little as he relaxed further, shifting the ice pack to various aching parts of his face. The man's voice, strangely absent for some reason, snapped him a little more awake. Did he even attend high school? Oh, right – Petrelli. Sylar gave him a blank look, completely off-balance to the friendliness and humor, not following either at all.
"I'm not gonna die if you don't cover me in band-aids," he said slowly, thinking Not your problem anyway. He shifted the pack to the bandaged hand, extending his left hand in turn. "I think its fucked up you're doing this, you know," Sylar informed him, more honest than he otherwise would be.
XXX
"Ha," Peter said, smiling in rising good humor as much as his pained face allowed. "I know. It is. You're not the first person I've been in a fight with and ended up treating, you know?" He stopped to get out an antiseptic wipe and clean Sylar's hand first. This one had gotten dirt imbedded in the small wounds somewhere along the way. Probably should have cleaned the other, too. But that would have stung. I don't know if he would have let me. I think he will now. He started speaking quietly, offering a story to distract because he knew what he was doing would hurt. "Hesam and I were working about … it was a couple months ago. We were just getting back into the routine after those problems, right? So we get a call for an intoxicated. It's late at night, or early morning depending on how you call it, and the night tour is always full of weird characters."
XXX
Well, no duh. There was Nathan. I'm sure you helped out your guy friends after you had a scuffle. Sylar grit his teeth but otherwise didn't move as he saw the antiseptic wipe zoning in on his hand. An inhale of breath was the only reaction he gave it, recalling the difference between hydrogen peroxide as a child and the official, sanitized packet of wipes Peter was now using. Which…problems were those again? We all have so many… Weird characters, huh? Why are all these stories of his custom made for me? The violent psycho and now the drunk you beat up and heal? Gee, I feel special.
XXX
He finished with the wipe and picked up the ointment, giving the skin a moment to dry. "I'm not very partial to alcoholics. I …" Peter thought about his father's slurred words that night when he was sixteen: 'If you go back in there, you are no son of mine!' They'd been at a country club party and his father, too many sheets to the wind, had gotten in an argument with another attendee. It was a stupid political argument, as much of it as Peter had heard. Threats were exchanged, then blows and the men were separated. Angela tried to hustle Arthur out but he was having little of it. Peter started to go back and see if the other man was okay. His father's words had given him pause, but after a second he'd walked on. Peter apologized on his father's behalf and then left. He often wondered if his words had made any difference, but no charges were filed, nor were there any complications. His father never mentioned it, nor the threat. Peter had always resented it, though.
"So anyway, we see the guy." Peter applied ointment as he spoke, ignoring the conversational lapse he'd created by wandering down memory lane. "He's holding the wall up and he has blood on his face. He's big, tall, beefy white guy, real pale. I send Hesam over to check him while I get the stretcher out. It didn't occur to me that he might be combative. Drunks are, sometimes, but he was just standing there … anyway, next thing I hear is Hesam yelps something and there's a scuffle. I drop the stretcher and run around the van to where I can see the guy has a hold of my partner's uniform and he's … I don't know, trying to grab Hesam's face or something. I go over and start to pull them apart. The guy's laughing and as soon as I break his grip on Hesam's shirt, he clocks the side of my head with his fist."
He moved on to bandaging the knuckles. "I don't know why … it shouldn't have … but the laughter and getting hit just really pissed me off and I hit him back. He acted like he didn't feel it and bopped me in the nose, still laughing, so I hit him again and he fell. By then, Hesam was trying to pull me off." He frowned. "Come to find out, the guy was in hypoglycemic shock, which can be worse than drunk. Hesam pushes a couple doses of dextrose on him and the guy's a lot more put together, but he doesn't say much – what can he, really? His recall's probably shot. My nose was still bleeding some, so Hesam drove and once I got the flow stopped, I took care of the guy. He'd fallen a couple times and got scuffed up and hurt, besides, you know, me hitting him. All I could really do for him was clean him up, cover him with band-aids," Peter smiled at Sylar again, borrowing the other man's phrase and being amused by the thought of doing that to him, "and hope for the best."
XXX
The wipes disappeared much to his relief and Peter went on with the story. So laughing at him while hitting him when he's trying to help is…not gonna make Peter happy. Peter did appear to be more cheerful, at least, if his chattering was anything to go by. As usual it was an interesting view into Peter's life and profession, something Nathan and the family knew or cared little of. Now if only he could concentrate on it, he'd be set. Surely Peter was not that heroic to want to 'help/heal' out of guilt – that was a fucking joke.
For someone who worked with tiny things, band-aids were an annoyance – one Sylar avoided whenever possible due to the lack of adhesion, flexibility and dexterity required for brain-panning and watch repairs. Sylar supposed he could see how 'covering someone in band-aids' (if that was what Peter was so tickled about) would be amusing to Petrelli, but he personally missed the humor. Come any closer with that friendly attitude, Peter, and I'll show you what else needs to be 'covered in band-aids'…And he would…if he somehow wrangled up the energy. Right now he was growing pleasantly comforted having his hand played with. Sure, there was very little touching actually going on, but the idea of it was what counted.
XXX
Peter released Sylar's hand, capped the ointment and gathered up the bandage backings for the trash. "You got any Tylenol or non-aspirin painkillers around here? They'd be a big help to you."
XXX
Some brattier part of Sylar's brain perked up and before he knew it or could care to stop himself, he was blabbing away, "Was that story supposed to mean something? I'm not the first one you've done this to so don't feel special?" If Peter was going to get chatty-Cathy, Sylar felt he should get on the train. "This is all a head game to you, so this is like…a fantasy?" He would leer here, honestly, but his face was uncooperative; Sylar managed a smirk.
XXX
Peter's mouth opened, but nothing came out. What? A … a what? His rather pleased mood started crashing and burning as Sylar's accusation hit him like a punch to the gut.
XXX
"Not a very creative one. But that makes it all better – beating on me helps you sleep at night so long as you play medical hero enough to…what? Cover your tracks? You'd need to. If this is mental, you need to expunge your guilt, poor creature, by helping those you've wronged because your consciousness has a visitor and you have nowhere to hide. That explains the fucking band-aids!" Sylar held up his now band-aided hands up for display. It all made sense now.
Jackass, summed up Sylar's feelings for Peter at the moment. Hearing yet another story of how Peter abused a patient, didn't report it, went on his way with little to no guilt and still dared to call himself the perfect hero. Fucking Saint Peter. The hypocriticalism was staggering, the nerve. And what's worse: Peter pretended not to see or believe it. A real piece of work, Petrelli was. Hating is okay to you so long as its 'all in your head!' This is the beginning of the end, I can tell. Peter would not stop at mere beatings and death threats – guns and knives were all lethal, but there were millions of painful things to do to a body and mind if the abuser was creative enough, especially once that door had been opened. Sylar would know.
XXX
Peter recoiled from the verbal attack, hands up slightly in case it became physical. "No … no." I did not want to start a fight with you earlier. I'm sorry I did. It hurts. I didn't mean to … Why would you think I'd … Is he just unstable again? Peter looked at the bandaged knuckles, looking between them and Sylar's angry face. Do I disagree with him? Argue? I said no fighting. Arguing might set him off. Agree then? I've already said no. What the hell was I saying 'no' to? "No, this isn't how I wanted things to work out. If it was, I wouldn't have lost the fight. Or the one before that."
He's angry because I'm helping him and I'm the one who hurt him. Maybe I am feeling guilty. Am I? (I'm the one who messed him up. I threw the first punch.) Does it matter? He's still hurt either way. Matters to him. Because if that's it, I'm using him. And I'll go away as soon as I get my fix because it's not about him. Is that what I'm going to do? Do I really care about him as a person and as a patient, or is it just because he's the only one here?
XXX
Sylar muttered, grudgingly, practically pouting to himself, "Good point," fiddling idly with the newly acquired band-aids. That went and poked holes in most of his logic. So now what?
XXX
Peter stood up, looking worried, freaked out and off-kilter as he looked for something to do to cover his introspection and indecision. He searched around for a trash can, not finding one in line of sight from where he stood in the living room. He was reluctant to go wandering over to Sylar's bed or behind his desk to look, so he went in the kitchen instead. He dropped off the bandage backings and drew up a glass of water. He caught himself before he walked out with it, having been intending to offer it by way of placation, but all he could see that leading to was it being thrown or spilled if Sylar was still angry. He put the glass down on the counter and came out empty handed.
XXX
"Dude, what are-?" Sylar asked aimlessly, not expecting an answer – he didn't get one. Peter seemed to be looking for somewhere to put the wrappers, moving into the kitchen before Sylar could speak. Sylar wasn't horribly upset. He wouldn't be even if he were not concussed, no…he would be, about the kick and re-jarring his concussion, the whole throwing the first punch for answering a (probably rhetorical) question. What made sense to him was Peter using this as some sort of an angle and the intuitive had pretty much run out of angles to theorize about, aloud or otherwise.
XXX
Peter came to stand before the couch. "I didn't think the story meant anything. I was just talking. I've been … having anger issues, for a while now … ever since the … that … at that hotel, where you were." The Stanton. Peter knew it was called that, but he couldn't get the name out. Did I subconsciously know about Nathan? Was that it? Or was it all that crap at Coyote Sands and how everyone I want to lay my fists into is either dead or memory wiped or my mother? "If you need an explanation of why I'm trying to help you, it's because I want to help you. I do not enjoy …" He paused, breathing harder and flushing a little, "hurting people. Even you. I promised I wouldn't fight with you any more today. Help me keep that promise, okay?"
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Peter stood near enough and Sylar simply looked up at him, wonderingly. What now? Just talking? We do that now? Without katanas? Sylar ducked his head, too quickly, aggravating his skull again, but bit his lip all the same to keep quiet…somewhat. PETER having anger issues? What is this? Some sort of cop-out, bullshit excuse? Like he's never had a problem before? I know that's a fucking lie. Like I'm the person to talk to about it? Like we talk about this shit now? Well, we do when Peter has a problem – we talk about our feelings. My god…*I* am his therapist…Please, Peter, hit me again, I'm not hearing this right…
Sylar couldn't help it, not when faced with that…segue (to phrase it nicely). He laughed; his shoulders shook before he allowed noise to escape, but escape it did, first a few muffled chuckles that he eventually couldn't hold in. Before he knew it, he was laughing outright, craning his head back to the ceiling for a moment and only then did he look up at Peter. Oh, god…he doesn't like hurting me? Then why don't you stop, son, hmm? Don't bullshit a bullshitter as the saying goes.
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Peter frowned at having his issues laughed at, then made to roll his eyes, which mostly involved looking up at the ceiling in mild disgust because his eyes and injured face wouldn't help him with the expression. His neck complained about the strain anyway. "Fine. Yeah. It's not that big a deal, I know. It's stupid." I ought to have gone to therapy or something. When Noah Bennet starts telling you you're losing it, a person really ought to listen. Maybe it was just the accumulation of everything. I'm sure Sylar's had worse, so yeah, I'm sure I sound sort of stupid and pathetic, whining about something minor like … not being able to handle my own emotions. Same reason why I almost blew up New York. Doesn't seem so minor when you look at it that way. I wonder if that diabetic would have thought it was minor? Does Sylar think me punching him was minor?
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"Ah, Peter," Sylar said with a sigh, not entirely finished laughing in Peter's face admittedly. Sylar reached out, slowly enough (but still too fast) for Peter's nearest hand, his right. "C'mere…c'mere…I won't bite, I won't fight, just sit." He led Peter around to sit beside him, close enough to mimic their position of earlier before Peter had risen. He put a hand on the other man's shoulder, pulling him nearer. With a deadly straight face, the exact opposite of the laughter, this time much closer to the medic, Sylar dealt with a sense of sarcasm and near-regret, his tone hinting at apology, "You're cute when you lie," and with that he pulled Peter's face closer to eye the untended cut on the empath's cheek. If this is how we're going to play this…
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Peter glanced down for what Sylar was reaching for and wanted to jerk away as Sylar took his right hand, but he was too slow to react before Sylar had his hand wrapped lightly around the brace. Shit! It was like leading a bull by a ring in its nose - the nose being such a sensitive part that the bull didn't dare pull away. Likewise, Peter didn't dare to try to extricate his broken hand. He ended up getting led back to sit on the couch, which was harmless enough even if the manner of getting there alarmed him.
Sylar talked to him and Peter listened, though it didn't calm him much. Okay, what's going on here? Sylar pulled him in close and got serious. Peter tensed, sitting up straighter and giving resistance to Sylar's hand on his shoulder. Peter pulled his head back as far as his stiff neck would allow, his face showing his consternation at the unexplained proximity and even more at Sylar's intense, direct eye contact from only inches away. All kinds of signals fired up inside of Peter, most of them related to fear. Whoa! What? I wasn't lying. Wait, I'm 'cute'? What the hell is he doing? I could ask, stupid. "Wh-what are you doing? Sylar?" He stopped pulling away when Sylar's gaze shifted to Peter's cheekbone and probably to the re-opened tear. It's not bleeding again, is it? He found himself asking again, What the hell is he doing?, with no better answer than before.
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I can be the hero, too, Peter, Sylar thought. His head was a fucked up space at the moment otherwise he'd never have deluded himself with that type of thinking. What it boiled down to was 'anything you can do, I can do just as good if not better.' He supposed, as an afterthought, that probing and poking Peter's cut wasn't going help any; so he turned aside partly, keeping an eye on Peter in case he decided to squirm off somewhere. Reaching into the tote he took out a handy, stinging wipe, fiddling with the packaging until he ripped the top portion off, muttering, "Cleaning your filthy face."
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My face is not filthy! Bloody, yeah, but that's because you beat the crap out of me. Don't be punching me in the face if you don't want it to end up that way, he thought crossly. But mostly Peter was starting to clue in that Sylar was seriously not all here. Peter remained tense, baring his teeth a little when Sylar brought to wipe to his face, his right eye (the only one he could see out of at the moment) narrowing down to a slit in case Sylar got too free with wiping that stuff around, or deliberately tried to poke him in the eye with it. Peter was still trying to sort out what Sylar was doing, the man's answer to Peter's question aside. He wasn't sure he believed that answer and was waiting for the other shoe to drop – for Sylar to make the injury worse, push him away like he did earlier after messing with Peter's jaw, maybe sneer at him … something.
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Sylar began gently patting the cut, which was oozing slowly now, both a clear-ish yellow fluid that would make up a scab later as it dried and some residual blood, enough to make him turn the wipe over. Meanwhile he held Peter's face still, his thumb under the man's chin, fingers over the ear. He didn't really give a crap about whether or not Peter liked it or minded. Peter's skin was soft with a hint of stubble under his palm, although the empath generally didn't grow enough in a lot of places to be mistaken for a grizzly any time soon. His head hair was very soft, somehow he knew it would be, less thick than Sylar's own, but very healthy and nice.
"I told you to stop bleeding all over the place." Don't you know it distracts us mentally sick people? I'm pretty sure I said as much. The wiping took longer than it needed to in reality, but it was the guy's face and Sylar wasn't exactly paying attention to the clock because the process was more interesting. Any squirming that went on wasn't tolerated and Peter was immediately brought back into place, albeit gently and firmly. Placing the wipe aside, he leaned over slowly for a band-aid, chuckling, "My turn!" as if Peter had it coming somehow. Sylar mostly just hated to be left out of anything, the whole reindeer games thing. He noticed that the band-aid in question wasn't big enough no matter which way he turned it, so he put in on vertically and deduced another bandage was in order. Procuring that, he repeated the same steps until the cut was covered.
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He's really doing this? Peter remained stiff and difficult, what facial mobility he retained showing that he was not keen on this whole thing. The first time he jerked away and Sylar pulled him back over, Peter's breathing sped up and his left hand rose as though to interfere, but he stopped short. He wasn't actually being hurt … well, aside from the inevitable little pains of having an injury cleaned and worked on, but that was par for the course. He'd tolerate that. It was the manhandling and the proximity that he was reacting to, but that wasn't quite enough for him to push Sylar away. Peter's hand brushed Sylar's shirt at the elbow and left it at that, a sort of reminder that he could be doing something about this other than wriggling and being tense.
He watched Sylar's face. The expression wasn't as intent as it had been when the man had looked at his jaw towards the end of the fight. Or maybe after the end, depending on where one drew that line. Lousy bedside manner. Needs to make eye contact. Needs to ask, or at least inform. Peter felt himself relax a little as his mind started to classify what Sylar was doing as just … bad people skills and not real danger. His lip quirked a little at the 'my turn!' comment and he watched as Sylar tried to apply the wrong size of bandage. Get a two-by-two, Peter urged mentally, without actually saying anything. They're in there. I saw them. Get one, double it over and tape it down. Instead, Sylar applied the band-aid sloppily and vertically, so the upper adhesive patch was too close to the corner of Peter's eye. He cringed a little and tried to pull his head aside, intending to reach up and adjust it, but Sylar firmly put him back to apply a second bandage. Just … let him. He's fucked up. He's … trying to help. I think. Peter still blinked too much out of reflex.
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Moving on to the unmentioned eyebrow, now scabbed over darkly, Sylar didn't clean the cut itself, but did a preliminary swipe of the skin surrounding the scab before placing a band-aid over that, too. Leaning back all of an inch, Sylar surveyed his work with a tilt of his head. "You know…you're the only one who really uses my name. Why's that?" His face was curious and a little wondering as he crumpled up the wrappers. Most users stuck to 'here boy, sit, stay, don't kill anyone' or used the wrong moniker, label, night terror, or a psychological term. But not Peter. Which was funny given that there was no one else the medic could be talking to here, so why was the name so necessary? The hero didn't even really spit his name out like everyone else did, either, which was even more strange.
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By now, Peter had eased a bit further. Fine. Sylar wants to cover me in band-aids. Payback. Whatever. Maybe he thinks he's making fun of me. His brows drew together slightly in puzzlement at the man's question. "That's … that's your name, right? Isn't that what you want to be called?" Gabriel. Peter caught himself, face shifting in realization and memory. He immediately followed with, "No, sorry. What do you want me to call you?" Maybe he wants to be called Gabriel? I'm the only one who uses his name? What's that mean? He scooted back a little, turning and looking around for where his bag of peas had gotten to. He frowned at the bag's lack of frozenness, hefting it in his hand after leaning over and recovering it from the other end of the couch.
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Sylar glanced up at the man, his eyes narrowing a little menacingly before his head lifted up at a more normal, conversational angle, "Yes. Yes," he replied calmly. What's he sorry for? What's 'no' for? The faces Peter was making…but then the medic moved on, looking around for his own ice pack. Weird.
Blinking once, he took a second to think the question through, not in terms of…his desires. 'What do you want me to call you?' Is that like saying he knows- What else is there to call me? He knows something I don't here or he knows what I know and won't say? What kind of answer is he looking for here, Bozo the Clown? Ass Face? Hey, Good Lookin'? Darth Sylar? Hannibal Lector? Oh, that's a good one, we'll really go for that. (Well, there's always 'Mr. Gray' if we wanted to be kinky…)
"There's…more than one option to choose from?" He frowned, putting some emphasis on grilling Peter now. "You're the only one who uses my name in a sentence, to my face, to refer to me. Not 'hey, you' or…something." Really the list of 'or somethings' was pretty long so he aborted the rest of the choices. And, yeah, being called by, not only a real name, but the one that he preferred…it was a big deal.
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Peter set the somewhat-thawed bag on his knee so he could reach up and rub under his chin, then brush the spot over his ear – both of the places where Sylar had been holding his head. It felt funny there – sort of warm, like a phantom sensation lingering on his skin. He tried to ignore it, running his fingers across the spots and giving himself something else to feel. Now that he was a little apart from where Sylar was sitting, he let his fingers move on to the band-aids, feeling out where they were. That's got to be the lousiest bandaging job I've ever seen. Certainly it's the lousiest I've ever had. He suppressed his smile. It was … cute … to use Sylar's own word. And a hell of a lot better than fighting.
He looked up as Sylar resumed speaking. "Yeah … ha, um … in the future you asked me to call you Gabriel." And I kind of doubt your parents named you 'Sylar', though I thought that was just your last name. But you say 'yes', I should call you that? He wasn't sure what to think about Sylar not getting the basic respect of even being addressed as a person by most people. Actually, no, Peter knew what he thought about that: that sucks. It was partly that, and the previous warmth at Sylar's attempt at helping him that prompted Peter's next words, but more than that was how he delivered them.
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Sylar mentally amended himself as he remembered: I suppose Mohinder calls me Sylar…but he's using it…wrong; he says it wrong. Sylar nearly choked on his own saliva. I did what? I never…wait. Future? He's seen my- The momentary natural shock and light sting of 'why didn't you tell me?' faded fast as it had been trained to do. "What?" Sylar growled out, aiming for a penetrating gaze that probably fell short, damn headache. What did he see? Shit, he probably won't say. Or maybe he can't say. What, was I dying or something and asked him to put it on my headstone? I wouldn't even get a headstone, what are you talking about. What would ever induce me to ask him to call me that?
The possibility of his future being seen (and not divulged) and having some of his original identity on the loose, perhaps even common knowledge…that was pretty horrifying. But what was there to do about it? He'd have to experiment with hitting Peter hard enough to make him forget. "That's not my name," he graveled out, deadly serious. That would wind Peter up in the hospital, apocalyptical world and no medical staff irregardless. Sylar had never been good at…delegating punishments or 'sticking up for himself' in any vaguely constructive form. All or nothing were his methods, violence and power. All the same, something was poking at his consciousness, something he'd forgotten regarding his semi-lie about Gabriel not being his name.
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"You know, I don't know how we missed it," Peter said, fighting an amused, warm grin that was hurting his face, "but I don't think you and I were ever properly introduced." He looked over Sylar's face as intently and with as much friendship as Peter would anyone he was meeting for the first time in a formal social setting – with a charisma and genuine interest in who Sylar was that Peter had a natural aptitude for displaying, as well as plenty of training. "My name's Peter Petrelli. I'd offer to shake hands, but …" He shrugged lightly, lifting his brows and indicating his injured right hand with a small wave. The well-practiced (for Peter at least) ritual tickled him and for some reason struck him as more of a peace offering than any amount of doctoring. He waited with an expectant expression for Sylar to carry out his end of the rite.
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Peter's mood appeared to shift right back to perky (what was this boy on?), smiling and grinning. Admittedly that was much preferable to grumping, growling and accusing or that blank face, but it was all those were all understandable. What did Peter have to smile about?
How we missed what? Sylar thought before Peter explained it. He was following Peter's every move and word, waiting for the light bulb to go off, not realizing that, impaired as he was, he might not have the mental electricity available. Sylar froze and went still, then his head slowly tilted back a little. Introduced? But how did we meet again? /They let me hold him in the hosp-/ No!...Homecoming. We didn't have time for that! While his mind raced through all this, both people in his head pinged that this might definitely be a sick joke, ongoing. I know who you are…, he thought, quiet even in his own mind. After everything we've…that's happened, you still want to… with me?
Nathan recognized the look, had been on the receiving end many times as a lawyer and congressional candidate. Sylar was left floundering at what looked like a friendly, serious introduction, having never received that kind of attention – he'd never been deserving of it (introduction or attention of that nature), so why would it come his way? It screamed of manipulation because Peter was fucking with the natural order of things. People like Petrellis didn't so much as glance at people like him. Why now would he get something…unexpectedly nice? He absolutely couldn't deny whatever game it was, it was working – something twisted painfully pleasant in his chest and wound up feeling a little fluttery and luke-warm (while the rest of his nerves fought fires with chilled apprehension).
Sylar was left to blink, once and slowly, gauging the unfamiliar social scene directed at him. "Sylar. Just…Sylar." He quickly redirected his mind from how goddamn cheesy it sounded not to 'have a last name' but it wasn't like his watch came with a baby name book or a how-to-Villain's-guide. The damn thing hadn't even come with working insides. Glancing at the motions of Peter's braced hand, his own appropriate fingers twitched in social sympathy and habit, but he didn't move otherwise, though the fingerprints were now hooked on all things Peter-Petrelli's-face. Perhaps waiting for the 'and you killed my brother!' finale of violence made sense?
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