Day 73, February 21

Already frigid, the air had managed to get even colder. Peter was certain the flakes on the wind weren't just surface snow being blown around. No, it was snowing again. Great. He was frozen by the time the hospital came into view through the gloomy white. He knew Sylar had to be suffering far more. Peter's wrath had cooled enough that this mattered to him. He scanned the looming building, picking out the red lights of the emergency entrance. "Over there!" he said to Sylar in the first words he'd spoken since blowing up at the man earlier. "Come on." He said it as an order, making the assumption that Sylar was borderline or definitely hypothermic, thus probably confused. He glanced back to make sure Sylar was tagging along as he cut across the lot towards the slightly-further-away emergency entrance.

XXX

Sylar had begun the walk in growing despondency. He hated that Peter probably saw him as he truly was – a pathetic fuck-up loser with no specialness or usefulness to be had. He spent half the walk desperately thinking up a way to appease his only companion (who had blessedly fallen silent) and win back some iota of the human decency he'd just lost. He was never a friend. We were never friendly, no matter what he says. (It's too confusing for me. I can't understand it.) As with most of his dealings with other people, he struggled to see how one minute he could be getting Peter hot and bothered, conversing literally in the man's lap, and the next be demoted to greedy, deficient pond scum. Around the halfway point, the cold got to him. He could feel the wind cutting through his jacket and into his skin. He'd long since turned up his collar but his face felt stripped clean of flesh. He shuddered with each step, paranoid about slipping, and even more afraid of what would happen if he fell and Peter kept walking…

After he'd really lost track of time, he heard a voice – Peter's – through the air rushing past his ears. He looked up to make out the small, dark form against all the white-washed weather. Without any real consideration of why he should or shouldn't, Sylar angled his trajectory to follow Peter, uncaring of their destination or what Peter might do to him there.

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Once inside the sliding doors, Peter went directly behind the vacant reception desk, opened a door to the side, grimaced to find he'd opened the wrong one, then opened a second door. There was what he wanted and why he'd sought this entry over the other – a warming oven, ready stocked with toasty blankets. He grabbed three of them and shoved them at Sylar. "Wrap up." He got one for himself and put it directly over the icy skin of his own face, drawing in the scent of clean linen, faint antiseptics, and warmth. After a moment, he tossed it over his shoulder and pointed at the receptionist's chair. "Sit." He stripped off his gloves and shrugged off his backpack before helping Sylar arrange the blankets, then grabbed even more of the things to pile on top of the man. It wasn't like they needed to save them for other patients, after all.

XXX

Sylar trudged in and gasped at the temperature difference indoors. He must have aimlessly followed Peter too closely because soon after entering the building, the medic was shoving one or several large objects at him. They seemed too large to be a threat but it startled him and he tried to jerk away, failed, then his reflexes kicked in and he caught the three blankets. Within seconds, he could feel the heat breaking through his coat and he didn't move, twitching spastically from shivering. Seconds later, Sylar was falling back into the large, leather rolling chair, feeling too dumb to comprehend what was going on. He saw Peter moving and felt more heat, but it hurt to defrost! Sylar hissed and squirmed as he began to melt under the blankets. His nerves danced with tingling fire and he could hear more clearly his teeth chattering. "D-d-don't bo-ther…Mmm!" he managed before a groan ruined the sentiment.

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Peter made a single chuckle of dark humor, looking over Sylar's face and registering the discomfort there. On the other hand, it was a good sign that Sylar was...responsive at least. "Hey, no dying on me," he joked. "I'd go bonkers without you here. How do you feel?" He moved close, spreading the blankets out without bothering to unfold them. He moved them as cushy blocks of warmth, putting one on Sylar's chest and another further down his thighs. The rest were in the man's lap. Peter's own hands ached with the cold and he'd had them in gloves. Sylar's were bone-white, but the man was at least still able to do gross manipulations with them.

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"F-f-fuck…" he tried to curse Peter's intentions but he couldn't care enough to finish. Plus, he realized on some level that he actually needed the heat and this wasn't a mere recovery from cold walk in the tundra. "I k-k-know what you t-think of mee…" he tried to explain, still writhing stupidly as his muscles seized. But Peter had none of it and asked about his condition, like it wasn't painfully obvious even to anyone who wasn't medically trained. "I don't k-k-know…"

XXX

"You're going to be okay," Peter soothed. And he was pretty sure Sylar would be – if treated gently, dried off, warmed, and allowed to recover. This was not going to be brief. Sylar had clearly taken as hard a hit from the weather as Peter had thought possible. Seeing the man like this made Peter feel like shit for having told him off so thoroughly and not insisted on better gear. Peter had upgraded to a heavy down coat weeks ago. His heavy-duty work shoes were designed for all day outdoors on the streets of New York – mostly waterproof, high-topped, and well-cushioned with a high-traction tread. They constituted one of Peter's top five most valued physical possessions. Sylar's shoes weren't designed for what he'd just put them through, and neither was anything else he was wearing.

Peter put a hand on Sylar's forearm to emphasize what he was about to say. He spoke earnestly. "This is my fault – all of this: coming here in the middle of a snowstorm, not going back so you could get better clothes, knowing you were going to come with me no matter what. So if you know what I think of you, then you know I'm sorry for fucking you up like this. But it's going to be okay. We'll get you dry and you're going to warm up and everything will be fine."

XXX

With dark foreboding, Sylar still held onto the suspicion that his situation was intentional. He was helpless and dependent on Peter Petrelli in a hospital. Part of him longed to tell the medic to fuck off, that he'd thaw out on his own. The rest of him was needy and desperate for this change in attitude, this gentle attention. He couldn't imagine that Peter didn't know what would happen to him. Maybe he didn't expect I would make it. He thought I'd quit and stay in some building and that would solve everything. But the hospital…Sylar's thoughts kept returning to it with growing fear. It was all too convenient. He wants to scare me. (That's not what he thinks of me). Sylar grit his teeth, shivering, having no response.

XXX

Peter moved away, grabbing a second chair and pulling it over so he could settle in. He pulled off his headband before sitting down. It was wet and icy. He tossed it at his gloves, then used the blanket on his shoulder to towel off his hair. Enough snow had blown into it and melted that his scalp was numb on top. Some of what he toweled off were melting bits of ice to match those that had been on the headband. Sylar hadn't even had that trivial degree of protection. Peter eyed the man's head, but decided to leave it alone given Sylar's issues with head-touches. Instead, Peter had put his chair in front of Sylar. Sitting, he reached towards Sylar's left foot with one hand. "I'm going to get your wet shoes off, okay?" He wasn't asking permission, but he didn't mind if it looked that way. Peter paused only long enough for Sylar to register and acknowledge his statement before continuing his motion.

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He'd since zoned out to Peter and whatever he was doing, more focused on the vicious pins-and-needles throughout his body. Sylar started and oriented on Peter when the words sunk in. I guess that's okay….It's just my shoes, right? "'K…" What if I have frostbite? Is it that bad? Sylar sat up as much as he could, trying to see over and around the pile of blankets in his lap.

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He tugged up Sylar's foot, resting the heel on his knee as he methodically stripped slush off the laces with cold-stiffened fingers. Peter kept reflecting on how his own symptoms had to be half or less of Sylar's – if he was cold, Sylar must be frozen. The shoe came off with a lot of loosening of the laces followed by as little gentle wrestling as he could manage. As Peter had suspected, the sock was damp in patches. He rolled it off as well, then pushed up the wet pant leg to expose Sylar's shin. Peter's thumb made quick indentions from the top of Sylar's foot up to as high up the leg as he could. He looked at the fill rate with a blank, professional expression. He'd seen worse, which was to say what he saw at the moment looked pretty bad but Sylar wasn't going to lose any toes because of it. He might blister, though, and if it didn't already hurt like hell, it would as it thawed. Peter stole one of the blankets in Sylar's lap to give the exposed leg a rapid rub-down to dry it as quickly as possible. "How are you doing over there?" he asked conversationally. "Is the shivering down to the point where you can stop it if you try? It's okay if it isn't. It just helps me understand how you're doing to know that." As he talked, Peter folded the blanket out and spiral-wrapped it around the leg and foot, so what heat was left in it would do some good. He set the mummy-wrapped foot next to him in the chair and paused to watch Sylar's attempt to stop shaking.

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"Hmm?" Sylar said to the touch to his shin, peering over the blankets. He was quickly reduced to groaning during the rubdown as the contact abraded his nerves though the leg felt warmer after. The concern about his body hair didn't enter the equation. Hunching in on himself, wrapped around the mound of blankets, he wondered if it would be better to warm up slowly, instead of this piecemeal. With as much of a frown as he could manage, he looked at Peter. He wanted to whine and cry from the all the back-and-forth and the recent extremities to his body, but he felt too dry except for a snotty nose. I should be able to control it. Shit, he's waiting for me to stop shivering…! I don't think I can. What does that mean? Do I need his help? "I…I…" he began, attempting to still himself and relax his muscles. He didn't want this kind of focus on his embarrassing, pathetic inability to control his own body. Sharply exhaling, he gave up when it seemed to only make matters worse.

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Peter nodded and continued, picking up the other foot and repeating the process. After wrapping that one similarly, he held it in his lap with both hands folded over the blanket to warm them as much as anything he was doing for Sylar at that moment. "You're going to love this next part." Peter smiled wryly. "It's totally the topper for me telling you there wasn't a chance in hell of us getting together. And there's not, but I still need to take off your clothes." Peter kept smiling, more than a little flirty mischief in his eyes. The situation was about as ridiculous as it could get (or so he hoped). He tried explaining, "Your pant legs are soaked, your jacket is as wet as my headband was, and I know everything else has to be damp, too. You wouldn't have been affected so much by the cold if you hadn't worked up a sweat at some point – probably just from the walking. Quickest way to fix it is to get you out of everything that's causing the chill and get another batch of hot blankets on you. Okay?"

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Sylar stared in disbelief. Being naked and dependent in a hospital, with this man, was every kind of nightmare. He knew he probably needed to strip and worse, that he needed assistance to do it. Is he going to lock me outside? Or…inside? His urge to cry increased. His eyes darted around behind Peter, feeling the walls closing in, like unseen threats were hiding behind every corner. "W-we can't stay…here…" he tried to explain to Peter why that was a bad idea. It wasn't safe. They needed to take the blankets and find another well-fortified building. If they could be safe being near the hospital at all. "We can't s-stay…" this time his tone was pleading. "We can't…"

XXX

"Okay…." Peter's brows pulled together in uncertainty. "Do you mean here in the emergency room or at the hospital?" He didn't see why it mattered – one or the other – but he could see Sylar's distress and feel it starting to roll off him in palpable waves.

XXX

Another round of shivering sunk him into the backrest of the cushy chair. "It's not s-s-safe. Peter…" He needed Peter to understand and side with him on this, not only for his own safety, but possibly for Peter's as well. With growing exhaustion, he whispered, "Find…another place…"

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Peter tilted his head like a curious dog. Then he shot another look around the place. He made one slow, deep nod, then lifted Sylar's feet from his lap and set them down in the chair as Peter rose. Quietly he said, "I'm going to look around," and gave Sylar a pat on the shoulder as he walked past him, leaving the half-enclosed area behind the receptionist's desk and walking into the lobby. He stopped there where Sylar could see him and he could still see Sylar. Peter's stride was slow but his body tense. 'It's not safe' was bouncing around in his head. Maybe things are different now. He got an infection yesterday. What if it isn't safe here anymore? What would be a danger here? Monsters? Zombies? We talked about them once… Peter cocked his head again. He heard nothing aside from the susurrus of wind and snow against the glass, mixed with the occasional 'tink' of sleet or ice blowing with it. It was so quiet he could hear his own breathing and Sylar shivering twenty feet away. What he couldn't hear, which hit him distinctly, were the usual sounds of the emergency room: no beeping of equipment, no murmuring of voices, no footfalls, no shifting or intercom or phones. The silence made the place as creepy as going into the library with Sylar, and for a moment, just as unsettling. No. He doesn't get to just say a few words and set me off. There's nothing to be afraid of here. He's confused. He's not oriented. Nevertheless, Peter gave the lobby one last suspicious look before going back to Sylar's side.

Peter took off his coat, both because he wanted it off and to signal that they were staying for now. He hung it over the seat that now contained Sylar's wrapped feet. "We're safe for now. We can leave after you're dried off and warmed up." Not that he intended to leave right away. The worst thing to do for frostbite was re-exposure soon after the initial damage. With the way the storm was blowing, Peter figured they'd be staying the night, but he didn't mention that yet. "Come on," he cajoled Sylar. "What do you want me to take off first?" Peter suspected that Sylar's fingers weren't yet up to the fine manipulation that would be required for buttons and zippers.

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"Mmmmhm!" Sylar finally did whine and squirm with another panicked glance around the lobby, still seeing no discernible dangers aside from Peter. He did not like his options and wished he wasn't being forced into this. "Coat…" he admitted finally. He wanted to keep his pants, or at least his underwear. With his shoes and socks off, he couldn't leave. The loss of his coat would be only another layer of protection gone. All the same, he tried to sit up and uncross his arms to be helpful to the process.

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Peter leaned over Sylar, moving the blanket aside to get at the buttons. He had to stop and flex his fingers after fumbling on the third one. His fingers felt wooden, but they were getting better. He finished the rest and peeled the wet garment away. Sylar smelled, but not as much as he should have; his body heat was lacking. Even a few degrees changed a person's scent remarkably. Peter took the jacket with him to the warming oven for the blankets, putting it on the rack he'd recently emptied of blankets. "I'm going to put this in here so it will dry out faster." He grabbed his headband and gloves, slipping them inside as well. Peter pulled out a fresh, warm blanket from the bottom and returned to Sylar's side. Gently, he said, "Come here," and tugged the shivering man towards him by his far shoulder. "Come here," he repeated, tone still soft. "Let me put this behind you, on your shoulders."

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Sylar groaned at the idea and actions of peeling his coat off. It was a necessary evil, like yanking off a band-aid but that didn't mean he liked it. His arms had enough coordination to slide from the sleeves and it wound up feeling like drying off from a shower – another necessary evil but once it was done, he felt he could improve and thaw out. Once the blanket was applied he sighed brokenly, as well as one could with shivering. The heated fabric around his neck was heavenly and he was glad to be sitting so he didn't have to move. Peter continued with…some kind of gesture, pulling his face closer to the man. As brief as the motion was, Sylar nearly balked several times, feeling his muscles twitch to begin to resist.

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Peter wrapped the new blanket around the top of Sylar's shoulders, draping much of it around his neck with the hope that the rising heat would help with the head chill the man must be experiencing. Peter pressed the blanket against Sylar's shoulders with the steady pressure of his arm, pulling Sylar to him in a hug with Sylar's face to Peter's chest. He kept his hands at Sylar's shoulder level and carefully went no higher, also abstaining from rubbing or patting as he knew Sylar's recently flogged and abraded back couldn't take it. Peter put his other arm around Sylar to complete the embrace. He simply stood there holding him, feeling Sylar shake miserably and trying to lend him some of his own warmth. "You're going to be okay," he murmured.

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Sylar waited to see where he was being led or why. The most worrisome part being that Peter might touch his head…but he could dimly feel the medic's hands on his shoulders, a dull, constant weight. Another rough breath escaped him at that – his exhale would have been hitched even if his teeth weren't chattering. It was relief and gratitude. It seemed obvious that it was for the absorption of body heat and, perhaps, of comfort. I'm not any use to him like this, except for him to enjoy seeing me this way. But he's not…Peter's harsh but deserved words bewildered him in the face of this medical care. The entire situation was very confusing, every little thing was now a threat and he was woefully unprepared. It was awkward, leaning forward into Peter's chest but worth it. After a handful of seconds, he began to feel Peter's heat leaking through his shirt and into Sylar's face. It even heated his breath, using Petrelli's shirt as a filter. Shortly after, he could smell Peter, or rather, his shirt; either way, it was a welcome scent. We can't stay. I can't stay…he thought even as he closed his eyes and breathed easier.

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Peter kept holding as the minutes stretched out. There was no reason to rush. With the removal of Sylar's shoes and jacket, he was fairly sure the man's natural processes could make progress against the chill, however slow it might be. Also, Sylar was obviously spooked and confused. The last thing Peter wanted was to provoke Sylar such that he had to fight him, or worse yet, chase the man's now half-clothed ass out into a blizzard and fight there to get him back to safety and warmth. The only danger Peter was certain of was the two of them and their often-fraught interactions. So he hugged Sylar to him and waited while the shivering slowly spaced out into intermittent spasms.

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His next groan held more relief. The small warmth and proximity involved was a comfort on a level he knew he didn't deserve. He couldn't stay in this pseudo-embrace forever and they couldn't remain in the hospital for long, either. After a few moments, Sylar moved his face around on Peter's chest to warm all parts of his face. He was prepared to defend himself if Peter accused him of cuddling or taking advantage or something else, but there was no reprimand and he continued. He wished they were in a safer location where he could perhaps convince Petrelli to lie down with him for body heat. As it was, the man's warming, dry shirt banished the pins-and-needles in the nerves of his face until he began to regain feeling.

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Peter thought at first Sylar was nuzzling his chest. It certainly felt that way for a moment, but the cooler skin of the new part of Sylar's face now pressed against Peter clued him in to what was going on. Sylar was just using Peter exactly as Peter had presented himself to be used. Peter smiled some and gave Sylar an encouraging squeeze. It was nice to help in so visceral and direct a manner. It gave him an entirely platonic thrill. After giving Sylar a handful of seconds to warm the other side of his face, Peter unfolded the blanket around Sylar's shoulders. He flipped part of it on Sylar's head and stepped back. "Dry your hair." He mimed a scrubbing motion at his own head before heading over to where he'd dropped his backpack.

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Sylar huffed, straightening as his support backed away. He was no idiot and knew that extremities like hands, feet, and head should be attended to first, as they were the primary victims of severe cold. With a lingering glance at what Peter was doing, Sylar ducked his head to bring it more in the reach of his hands. He made a few scrubbing motions before checking Peter again. He continued this pattern until his locks lay in a drier, messy array, saying as he tried to smooth his hair down without a comb, "We can't stay here." His consonants were elongated and his motor function far from his usual precision, but he stuttered less.

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Peter grabbed the backpack and brought it with him as he returned to Sylar's side, because this was an important enough concern for him to address immediately and directly. He squatted down, putting a hand on the wet denim cladding Sylar's knee. It was worrisomely cold, which was exactly how Peter expected it on someone who was borderline hypothermic. Very seriously, he said, "I hear you. I understand you want to get out of here, that you're saying it's not safe here." Peter dipped his head in a single nod, touched that Sylar seemed as concerned for Peter's safety as his own. "You're not safe out there either until you get warmed up and in dry clothes." Peter gestured at his backpack. "I brought some stuff. I don't think my pants will fit you, but the shirt should and I have underwear. We still need to get your pants off and in the oven so they can get dry. They feel like they're as wet as your coat was." He patted Sylar's knee. "Pants off. Underwear, too. Let me help you with the button and zipper, then I'll get the stuff out of my pack while you finish." He leaned in, shifting aside the blankets so he could release the top button on Sylar's jeans, then awkwardly pulled down the zipper over the bunched folds of stiff, damp denim.

XXX

Underwear? (Is that weird if I wear his underwear?) Realistically, he knew Peter's undergarments were clean – else Peter wouldn't have offered – and the medic was only thinking of his health, but the social/sexual aspects were fuzzier in Sylar's mind. That mystery had been more interesting than the more present concern of getting naked to don said underwear. Wait, help me with…? Sylar gave a disbelieving look, making no move to cooperate. When Peter's hands came in and under, he leaned away as if that would move him beyond reach or prevent the contact. His own hands felt too cold to grip properly, powerfully if…if he needed them to. His mind unhelpfully reminded him that Peter had stripped his pants before for medical reasons and no harm had come of it then. But today Peter had believably told him to go fuck himself after Sylar's ill-conceived and failed apology. He wasn't sure where he – they – stood. His hips unconsciously shifted into the seat further, if that were possible, to prevent Peter having to grab at the denim of his crotch to lift it away from his (doubtlessly frozen) junk. For all the drama, it was over in seconds and he breathed easier.

XXX

Peter picked up the backpack and turned away, giving Sylar a degree of privacy. He set out the change of clothes he'd brought along: shirt, underwear, and socks in one pile, jeans in another. He left the extra set of underwear in the pack. He didn't think his jeans would fit Sylar and he might as well change into dry ones himself anyway. The shirt Peter was wearing was mostly dry by virtue of having been under his coat, but his jeans were as wet as Sylar's, clinging and damp. He glanced back at how Sylar was getting along.

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Sylar was left to wriggle out of wet jeans and underwear and keep himself covered and warm, all using hands that were frightfully unresponsive for a restorer of timepieces. At least Peter wasn't watching. Sylar at first tried to plan the best way to accomplish this task and simultaneously avoid it to see if the solution (or the reason) would appear/disappear without any action. More likely, Peter would jump in to help again. What if I can't get the dry underwear up over my legs because they're damp? It seemed like a lot of work. Sylar arched his hips and shimmied the jeans down to start, then began to kick the pant legs to shift them down.

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Peter handed him the dry clothes and collected the pants and underwear. He carried them over to the oven, arranging them on the rack while Sylar was getting dressed behind him. Peter sat on the floor to take off his shoes, then squirmed out of his pants. He turned, stretched, and reached out to snag the dry pants he'd left closer to Sylar, next to the backpack. Dragging them to him, he slid them on, then dithered over his shoes for a moment. The tops of my socks are wet. Do I leave the shoes off and let them dry? What happens if Sylar tries to take off and I don't have my shoes on? He's not very disoriented now and he's still saying the same thing – that it's not safe. Peter moved on to putting his shoes on, the concern great enough that he wanted to stay mobile and prepared. He got to his feet, thankful he'd brought the pack. The dry pants were much more comfortable. With his attention focused on Sylar, he hadn't realized how cold his own legs were.

He got out a final batch of blankets and plopped himself down in the seat across from Sylar. Without asking permission, he scooted close, scooped up Sylar's feet, set them in his lap, and smothered them with half the hot blankets. The other half he tossed into Sylar's lap for the man to do with as he wanted. "So, tell me why it's not safe. What do I need to be watching for?"

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The waistband of Peter's underwear kept rolling and twisting inwards as Sylar tugged them up, but he had enough fine manipulation in his hands to unfurl them to lay properly; and once he wore Peter's shirt and boxer briefs whether or not they belonged to another guy, he felt better. The air of the hospital wasn't the cold of the outdoors so his legs, even bare and covered in blankets, felt like they could thaw in time. The wet was completely gone from him. The undergarment was enough to preserve his dignity and a bit of his safety. That done, Sylar watched Peter slither around in his own dressing process. Then the Italian approached him with the gift of more blankets and presumptively gathered up his feet, which Sylar allowed, after a cautionary, curious blink. Breathing out, he momentarily burrowed back under the fresh material, watching his companion. "It's a hospital," he said that like it was obvious. "We-…before- the Company…I-…Just hospitals. This is how it always starts. They infect you with something, take your clothes, lock you away, then…" Sylar took a long look around the utterly empty emergency room lobby, perhaps even stranger to him for being so abandoned. "Then they do things."

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"Ah," Peter said softly. That's what he thinks I'm doing – he's infected, I've taken away his clothes, I'm sure there's somewhere around here I could lock him up. "I see where you're coming from." He let it alone for a moment and carefully tucked the blankets around Sylar's feet and calves, appreciating the warmth radiating from them on his still-cool hands. For the average person, Peter would have thought the fear irrational, but he knew enough of Sylar's history to know medical attention had repeatedly been used to inflict lethal and terrifying trauma on the man. Peter had injected him once and, at a different time, abandoned him to have his brains nearly dashed out by Mohinder, so Peter couldn't even make the argument that he could be trusted. Instead, he acknowledged Sylar's concerns. "That makes sense."

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Sylar pursed his lips, his face grim from the memories. His attention was set on Peter and his…reaction. There was a glimmer of hope that Peter understood and might not force him to stay in the hospital. It was giving him a nearly physical itch, an unpleasant emotion made into a tangible, bodily sensation just being here.

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He gazed out past Sylar at the windows that took up half the far wall. Even though Peter thought it was still daytime, late afternoon probably, it was dark as night out there. The looming, total cloud cover combined with the merciless wind and thickly blowing snow to reduce visibility to mere feet. "It's worse now out there," Peter said with a nod of his head towards the outdoors, "than it was when we came in." As he considered the weather, he did another round of compulsively checking on the tuck job on the blankets in his lap, choosing one on top to reposition under Sylar's feet, putting some padding between the man's bony heels and Peter's thighs.

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Sylar glanced at Peter's compulsive, overly-kind, perhaps unconscious bundling of his feet. He hummed despite himself because the air did sneak up under the blankets to touch his legs and he couldn't keep his torso and head covered very well if he were to reach to warm his feet. It was almost a necessity for Peter to aid him that way and the gesture and literal warmth was lovely, earning a small, pleased hum that had nothing to do with Peter's comment on the weather. He did not give a damn about the weather. As soon as he got his breath back, dry clothes or not, he would dress and drag Peter through the snow to safety. More that he did not want to be parted from Peter (or have Peter unattended near the hospital and its devices), but he also felt an unforeseen responsibility not to leave a fellow special in a place like this.

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Peter bit one side of his lip before saying, "Let me give you some background on where I'm coming from. The last time I came here during a storm, I thought I was going to die on the way back. It got dark. I didn't think I was going to make it." He gazed levelly at Sylar, who should know Peter had had enough death and near-death experiences that he didn't say that lightly. "The storm wasn't as bad as this one looks to be. It wasn't as cold. There was ice underneath, though, and I fell … repeatedly. Between that and the pulled muscles I already had from fighting you, I could hardly walk to get back. That's why we have that wheelchair. I'd originally thought I was getting it for you, but that thing saved my life. No way I would have made it otherwise, especially not carrying all the fluids and stuff you needed. Using it like a walker, I limped my ass back in the dark, with wet pants because even though I'd worn thermals and that heavy coat, I hadn't brought a change of clothes with me, and I didn't think I could wait until morning. I didn't think you could stand for me to wait." He didn't mention how he'd thought the worsening of the storm and perhaps even his own injuries was some manifestation of Sylar's precarious condition. Those thoughts had frightened him, driven him, and made him even more determined to push through and get back even at the risk of his own life.

"But you're here now. You're safe. I'm safe. We're warming up. We don't have to go out into that." He gestured at the storm. "You, absolutely, don't need to be re-exposed to the cold. It's dangerous. You could lose fingers or toes if we tried to go back. You know how easy it is to get disoriented out there in all that snow, once you get chilled and your thinking slows down." Peter was silent a moment, chewing the inside of his lip. "But at the same time, you've got good reason not to want to be here. I get that." He paused again before continuing, "What did you have in mind? Do you know someplace close? What I was thinking is that there's beds, hot showers, and a cafeteria here. We don't have to be in a hurry like I was that other time."

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Sylar listened and did his best to absorb what was said. It confounded him greatly and he didn't understand it well to begin with, the concept of someone, let alone Peter Petrelli, putting their life on the line for his and fighting to do so. He's…confused. I'm not some savior and…he's still probably going to abandon me somewhere after what he said earlier. At least the hatred makes sense. (Am I going to die and he's being nice until I kick it? Like his 'death watch' obsession?) He shouldn't have bothered then, or now – his feelings are the same. He doesn't want to take the blame, or the credit, for my death. Sylar slumped, feeling defeated and tired just to hear the stories and think through the explanations. "You shouldn't…take those risks," he mumbled, bringing fistfuls of the blanket up under his chin and around his mouth. (Fingers and toes might be worth it…Better than staying here). Sylar felt the weight of depression as if all the snow heaps outside had suddenly avalanched onto him. The equation Peter presented had only one answer. "You'll need food." He nodded, convinced and agreeing with himself. "You need to leave before it gets worse."

XXX

Peter's left brow arched in question at Sylar's thrice-mentioned 'you', making it all about Peter. Coming as it did on the heels of Sylar looking puzzled through Peter's story and withdrawn now that it had been told, Peter was getting the message that Sylar didn't want to hear any of it. All the possible reasons for it were annoying. You're going to hear it anyway. "I know I just told you off an hour ago or however long – when we started this way – but there's a blizzard going on out there. When we were like two blocks from your apartment and we only had a few flurries coming down, then sure, fuck off. But now? No. Now we stick together." He gave Sylar a determined look. He is so thick-headed sometimes! "If I wanted you dead, I'd have left you out there in the snow. If I wanted you dead, I'd be standing aside and letting you head back right now, wet clothes and all. Instead," Peter pressed down lightly on Sylar's ankles, "I'm holding your feet hostage to make absolutely sure you're not going back out there until you'll make it. You got me, Sylar? This is important." He leaned forward slightly, trying to emphasize that he wasn't joking around.

XXX

Sylar closed his eyes, too drained to roll them in irritation. "Yes," he sighed acknowledging Petrelli's well-worn rebuttal. "Of course you'd say that. But you brought me here. It's the same thing, just slower. I can't leave. You can still go. You don't want to be here when…" Sylar shook his head, shivering once more. "Forget the clothes. Take some blankets," he plucked the topmost folded blanket and plopped it on Peter's head, thinking to warm the man's head and hair the way he'd done his own earlier. In a strange turn of events, Peter needed the blankets more than he did now. "You have to…save people and all that."

He hoped there was a chance Peter would listen to reason and depart for his own sake, though he didn't examine his motivation much beyond, well, the fact that he didn't know if he'd wish this kind of torture on his worst enemies, Peter included. The other part of him was beyond desperate to have a companion (dangerous or not) with him in this hellish place, even if it damned Peter, too. He needed another person to witness the horrors with him so at the least he wouldn't be the crazy one any more. Maybe there's a chance they won't take him, because he's a hero…

XXX

Peter snorted. He wasn't about to leave, for all the reasons he'd already given. He lifted the blanket immediately and somewhat warily to make sure Sylar was playing. He wasn't; or at least Peter didn't think he was, but at least the tossed blanket didn't appear to be a prelude to anything bad. Peter's face shifted to amused with a little mock outrage as he unfolded the fabric. "Might be an idea. We can use them as scarves." He looked at Sylar's disarrayed hair and teased, "You could wrap one up like a turban on your head." Peter slung the blanket around his shoulders, reaching up to scrub some of the lingering moisture out of his hair. Although his coat came equipped with a hood, he hadn't thought to pull it out of the pouch it stayed tucked into. At least, not until now. When they'd taken off, it had seemed unnecessary and he didn't like screwing up his hair any more than the headband already did. But if they had to go back out soon, it would be helpful. Maybe I should give him my coat? …No. I need my wits. If one of us is going to get hypothermia, we'd both be better off if that's him. Swap our places and I'm not sure what would be going on. He'd probably be scalding me in a hot shower, trying to help, but doing it wrong. If I can just keep him from going back out there until this blows over, that would be better than giving him my coat.