Day 73, February 21, late afternoon
Peter flipped a layer of blanket up over his head, pulling it down to make a hood with it. With a playful smile, he intoned, "Look! I'm a Jedi!" He was simply not buying Sylar's 'doom and gloom', 'get out of here while you still can' paranoia. He'd treated it seriously before and he still respected Sylar's feelings on it, but he was thinking maybe the best thing was to just refocus Sylar's attention to something else.
XXX
Sylar's face ended in a pained, long-suffering expression. Nothing about their situation (because Peter refused to leave for some stupid, stubborn reason) was funny. Peter just didn't grasp that yet. In a way, it made him...sad that Peter would be exposed to things he couldn't imagine. It would break the little man.
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"All I need are the glowing eyes," he added, perfectly aware that glowing eyes had nothing to do with Jedi. It was a deliberate baiting tactic. Peter put down the hood and elaborated in case Sylar wasn't prone to biting yet. "Why didn't I think of that back when I could explode and stuff? I'm sure I could have learned to focus that power down to just glowing eyes. That would have been super cool-looking." He smiled at Sylar, looking for a reaction and the almost-inevitable correction.
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Now his expression dropped, swiftly annoyed by Peter's persistent and incorrect goofiness. "You mean glowing eyes like a Sith Lord?" he intoned with deadly sarcasm, disbelieving and affronted by Peter's ignorance. "Or the Jawas?" Sylar looked away in irritation, shaking his head briefly to prevent himself from engaging and otherwise encouraging Peter further. Though glowing eyes would have been kind of cool…And frightening, if he'd had them while hunting in the dark or if he ever met Petrelli in a dark alley…or basement…or rooftop…
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Peter grinned at the response. He didn't think Sith Lords had glowing eyes either, but he was a bit fuzzy on the arcane details of Star Wars lore. He'd been more into Golden Age comics heroes than space fantasy. He'd succeeded (he thought) in changing the subject, so he moved along. "You got anything you want to talk about? To ask?" Peter shrugged and gestured at the empty lobby on the other side of the reception desk area they were sitting in. "We have time."
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"Yeah. Aren't you supposed to fuck me or at least get naked or something, to prevent hypothermia?"
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Obviously, he's still angry. That was disappointing. Peter shrugged. "If you want to get naked, I could toss you in a lukewarm shower and it would feel like your skin was boiling off. But I don't think that's what you had in mind." He patted Sylar's captive feet. "You're doing fine warming up the old-fashioned way." He clasped and kneaded Sylar's ankles a few times in a cursory fashion, the motion thoroughly muffled by the intervening layers of cloth.
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"How can you stand to work in one of these places? You know what they might do to you, don't you? If you stay? It probably won't matter that you're a Petrelli. Or a hero, if they've locked you up before."
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Peter kept rubbing, his motions slowing as he moved from the ankles to the feet, peeling back a layer of blanket so he could do a better job. There was just one layer between them now. His eyes stayed on Sylar. He cares that I might get fucked up here. Or hurt. There was that touching, heartening concern again. Peter liked it. "This is where I need to be," he said solemnly. "Making sure things like that don't happen to people – that they're treated right, that they get help." He switched to focus on one of Sylar's feet at a time, starting with the right one. "I found a place, the hospital, the medical profession, where people wanted my help, where they asked for it and they appreciated it." He shrugged with one shoulder. "Usually. Often enough. I know I'm making things better for them. That's something I didn't always get with…the way powers were with me for a while. It seemed like everything I did had some huge trap behind it – help Adam destroy the virus and accidentally release it instead. Or help Nathan with Pinehearst and somehow it snowballs into abilities getting out of control, tearing the world apart. I don't understand that…that scale of things. But I know when someone's having an asthma attack and I can help them breathe again – I helped someone. Right then, right there. If that makes me more of a target, easier for people like Danko or you to find, then so be it. I'll deal with that as best I can."
He moved on to Sylar's left foot, chafing it through the blanket before doing some simple manipulation and rubbing. "We were here before, you know." He held up his right hand to illustrate, indicating the hospital they were currently in. "Getting the brace for this? There's no one here I need to fear except you, and you're right here. No one's going to do anything to me. Or to you."
XXX
Sylar listened, using it as a distraction against the multitude of fears parading through his mind and body. The heat of the change of clothes, blankets, and shelter had not diminished his tension. It was making him snappy as a reflex, to hide other, less tolerable emotions, and to keep himself aware to avoid falling into any traps. The prolonged and intentional touch caught most of his attention. Sylar knew of the technique of friction creating heat and its application to frostbite and such. He didn't think his condition was that bad to require additional friction, not when Peter had just said he was warming up just fine in the (stupid) 'old fashioned' way. This was at least the third time Peter had taken special interest in his feet and that was tipping the odds of 'just helping' or 'just checking.' It was time to ask and see what Peter had to say for himself. "What are you doing?"
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Sylar didn't need to elaborate. A single, pointed look at where Peter was rubbing his feet sufficed. And Peter knew he was right, totally right, to question the weird contact. No matter how liberated or friendly, men who were not in a relationship (and often even then) did not give unsolicited foot rubs to one another, through blankets or not, hypothermia or not. It was completely outside the bounds of normal social behavior. He'd been caught. Peter felt ice settle in his gut. He dipped his head; he hunched his shoulders. His hands slowed, but they didn't stop moving, because he liked what he was doing. He didn't want to give it up. He suspected Sylar liked it, too. He felt shame, but he also felt outraged that he felt shame, because there shouldn'tbe anything shameful in what he was doing. Slowly, articulating himself carefully, he asked, "Do you want me to stop?"
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Peter didn't jerk his hands away or even freeze. That nearly brought a small, worn smile to Sylar's face. There was something there alright. He felt another frisson of additional stimulus for calling Petrelli on…whatever it was he was doing. It didn't matter if the invisible hospital crew or camouflaged agents rushed him then, because the last thing he would see and feel and remember would be Peter holding and petting his feet. It would be a mystery worth solving. Now he asks me. I wonder what that means. "No," he replied honestly, perhaps too tired to filter himself.
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It was a simple answer, not especially slow in coming, but not rushed, either. Peter glanced up and swallowed, making a tiny nod as he continued. He adjusted the blanket around Sylar's shins so he could work above the ankles, probing through the layer between them with enough strength to make himself felt. In his peripheral vision, he could see Sylar tilt his head, eyes fixed on Peter as though he were doing something incomprehensible. Which…Peter assumed was true. He swallowed again, staring at Sylar's blanket-shod feet as he struggled to explain himself. "You said…earlier…that…just let it happen." Peter's face twitched in a brief, pained smile, something like a flinch. Because he was such a ball of tension at the moment, so carefully tuned in to Sylar's every nuance, he caught the slightly deeper breath and the slight settling back Sylar made.
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What? What did I say earlier? Of course. The invitation to touch him at Peter's whim and more recently the comment about getting fucked to stay warm and survive. The command wasn't strictly necessary but it was a message plain enough. The timing and the circumstances were anything but appealing to Sylar's mind. But the location and the pattern fit, even if it still seemed strange for Peter to be the one following it. Sylar surrendered to this inevitability, nervously attempting to foresee the motions, with his body stiff and his back raw it might be more painful than it otherwise would be. Something about Petrelli's face wasn't matching up, but he couldn't place it or, perhaps, understand it. He'd anticipated this moments ago and stupidly blurted it out as an off-color joke. His muscular tension and discomfort ramped up again. This wasn't how he wanted it to go, if he'd been asked his preference. "Ah," he said very quietly.
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Peter nodded jerkily. "I mean," he said nervously, suddenly realizing that Sylar might think this was step one towards making love to him, "just this – there's nothing else. It's only – you know. This?" His face made that pained wincing smile again. He stopped his hands, trying to breathe. His hands seemed to have the slightest tremor in them. This was knotting him up worse than anything – the concession to his needs warred with his sense of his brother's, family's honor in his mind. It wasn't anything he was thinking through. He just knew this thing he was doing, that he was 'letting happen', was both right and wrong, couldn't be allowed and should be allowed. It scared him. At any moment, Sylar might…Peter didn't know. Sylar might make it all impossible somehow and Peter knew it would be his own fault for having started it in the first place. He stared at his hands, spreading his fingers over the white hospital blanket.
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Sylar merely shrugged. He didn't know if it was possible to feel this much relief in one day. It was beyond his comprehension. Through that haze he could see Peter's nerves now, equally incomprehensible. Some parts of his ability stirred and he knew what Peter wanted, what he'd done all the other times before with the intent to care and comfort, just like now. It was easy and pleasant enough to provide. It felt like he was helping both of them to do it.
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Peter started when Sylar moved his leg, shuffling the blanket off his right foot, baring it. Sylar put the foot squarely between Peter's hands. Peter looked up at him. Sylar's face was neutral, eyes a little wider than usual, but holding no expression of judgment or mockery. Peter looked back down at the foot he had been presented with. He raised his hands and put them on Sylar's foot, one thumb against the pad of Sylar's big toe, the other curling in the groove behind Sylar's pinkie toe and the one next to it. His fingers wrapped around. It was a long, narrow foot, delicate in the same way Sylar's hands were, once you looked at them in proportion to the rest of his body. It was still cool from their sojourn through the snow, but not nearly as chilled as it had been earlier. Peter looked up at Sylar again, checking.
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Sylar said nothing, but let his eyes travel between Peter's face and the foot, then his expression changed to one of slight question. Peter's hands were warmer than the air certainly, and the gentle touching (not much of a massage as such) awoke the nerve endings throughout his body until they hummed with open pleasure. It felt oddly tender and very careful. Despite the fearful momentary spike, Sylar was reassured.
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Peter rubbed. It was more gentle manipulation and alternating pressure than it was a deep massage. He wasn't sure how Sylar's feet felt following the near-frostbite, so he didn't want to do anything uncomfortable. Instead, he touched and flexed and stretched the joints.
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He began to zone out again, staring at Peter's hands as they rubbed at his inglorious foot. Peter had very nice hands – strong, a little short in the fingers but not overly small (perhaps his own long fingers were misleading), well-trimmed nails, a little rough in the skin, and otherwise unmarked by scars or blemishes. Hands, Sylar had learned, said a lot about a person. Hands could be quite special – unique. Especially when one had the ability to transform into other people and he needed a quick way without a handy reflective surface to tell if he was in his own body or wearing someone else. Every detail was magnified then. More lazily than he intended, he blurted, "Do you have a foot fetish?"
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Peter stopped instantly, tensing again. It was a scandalizing, damning question, but Sylar had asked it in the best tone possible – factual, and like he had no opinion whatsoever about the answer – just curiosity. "No," Peter answered. Sylar shook his left foot out from under the blanket and plopped it into Peter's hands as he'd previously done with the other. Peter cradled it obligingly, then looked up. "Do you?"
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"No." I don't believe you. The cessation of motion seemed guilty. Of the two of the, he was not the one continually going for any one part of Peter's anatomy. Perhaps it was Peter being truthful about literally holding him hostage or this was just more of Peter's brand of weirdness, or both. It felt good, so he didn't want to push it too far, but he was horribly curious now. It was certainly a distraction. (I don't like one-sided touching), he realized. His instincts wanted to reciprocate. His hands even twitched under the blanket to reach out and pet Peter's hair or face now looking up at him so innocent and troubled. "If you're going to keep me here, then the least you can do is distract me. Tell me some of your fetishes." Even as he asked, he gave in to his paranoia and scanned the lobby again. The kindness to his feet was stirring things inside him that he didn't understand.
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Peter rolled his eyes, leaning back a little although he didn't stop his attentions to Sylar's left foot. "I'm not going to have this conversation. There's no reason you need to know that." Then he saw the way Sylar scanned the lobby watchfully, and reassessed the need to keep the other man focused on something other than fear. His refusal meant he had Sylar's attention again and the expression wasn't happy. "Fine," Peter caved with another put-upon display. He cupped his hands over the tops of Sylar's feet, resting them there. "I don't have any…any weird fetishes, like rubber suits or…" he grabbed for something else random, unusual, and personally distasteful, "watersports. It's just people for me. The only weird thing is that I can hardly do it without someone." He smirked unhappily, adding sarcastically with the intent of heading off Sylar's possible offer, "But I manage, thanks." More normally he said, "It's like trying to tickle myself. Doesn't really do it." He covered Sylar's feet again, putting his hands on top of the blanket after tucking it in more than was probably needed. "And you?"
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"Nothing interesting," he stated the obvious. Peter wasn't really interested and wouldn't be even if Sylar told the truth. Not interesting per se, more likely better described as disgusting, forbidden, or horrific. "What about fucking men does it for you? Why do you like men? Or lower backs or feet?"
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Peter frowned sourly, completely aware of the evasion, just as he was of the judgment implied by Sylar questioning his sexual preferences. "Men are people; people do it for me; hence, I like men." He looked down at Sylar's feet, firming his hands over the blanket-covered shape of them. "As for…those parts…you can't get to me very well while I'm rubbing your feet. Or much, when I'm touching your back. You scare me, Sylar. I never know what you're going to do. You don't signal your intentions that well and when you do, a lot of the time they don't have anything to do with what I want. I'm…" Peter faltered, looking off into the distance a few feet to the side. "I'm willing to do some things, but…not sex. Not making out. No kissing. Not as far as you seem to want things to go. As long as you keep trying to take me somewhere I don't want to go, then I'm going to stay out of the car."
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I'm not people; I just look like people, hence why I don't do it for you. Unintentionally, Peter had answered how Sylar's seduction was faring. Peter always seemed to come to himself and remember the moral reasons why something physical couldn't progress regardless of Sylar's effectiveness. His eyes were wide and intent as he listened. The answers provided new information, or rather, reasons for things he'd already noticed or guessed in Peter's behavior. That more than anything was what he sought to gain. He thought he should feel guilty for causing Peter fear, but he didn't feel comfortable without that protection. Sylar didn't know how he really felt about it, even though this was not the first admission of Petrelli's fear. He likes me helpless, probably facing away, and for me to signal…what I'm going to do. Maybe he wants a plan; he wants to know what's going to happen. That would be nice, Sylar admitted in his own head. And this touching is him trying – he's willing to do this. He doesn't expect (or want) it to turn into something more. The realization was quick and obvious, but it shook and confused him. The concept of gentle kindness and contact without…something being asked in return seemed far too good to be true. Sylar knew that he'd asked what Peter wanted in return in the past, only to receive a similar reply. He wants me to pretend to be one of his patients, who allows him to save them and probably hero-worships him. It was not a difficult role; in fact, it would be all too easy and pleasant. I can play that game, he mentally agreed, feeling a thrill at understanding Peter's needs better.
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Peter pressed his lips together. This was a more honest conversation than he'd expected and he didn't know what Sylar would make of it. He leaned over and snagged his backpack, fishing through it for a change in subject. "You hungry? I brought a little food." He pulled out a red apple, purple plum, and two orange carrots before exhausting his small supply of edibles. He set the backpack aside with the food lined up in the valley the blanket made between Sylar's shins. He picked up the apple. "You like apples, right? I know I punched you in the teeth a few days ago. Think you can eat this?" He leaned forward to extend the fruit.
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Quiet and grateful, he responded to both questions, "Yes." Sylar slipped a hand out from underneath its cover to take the offered food. He was amused that the rest of it was placed so casually on him and the blanket.
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"Pick something else and I'll eat the other two."
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"Carrot." He looked at his partner, feeling like he could see new layers to the man. With plurisignificance, he said in a deep, slow voice, "Thank you, Peter." The empath had listened to him and cared for him and now fed him. He still ached to touch Peter in return, perhaps to solidify the medic's reality in his mind.
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Peter's head came up at Sylar's thanks. The tone was perfect. That and the tempo spoke of consideration and actual gratitude, not some flippant nicety or casual comment repeated by rote. No. Sylar was thanking him, genuinely, and for more than the food. Peter's eyes widened slightly as he stared, surprised that after all this time, there was recognition of that. Sylar met his gaze for a long moment before ducking his head and taking a bite from his apple. Peter caught himself, blinked, and looked down at the plum, picking it up. "Yeah," he said quietly. More firmly and with a brief look up to meet Sylar's eyes again, he answered, "You're welcome." He felt warm and pleased and settled inside, like this small gesture – just a pair of words – was something he'd been waiting for and finally received.
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I deserve to be left in the snow or a random building to die of infection. With a mental headshake, Sylar moved on. The present was more important than arguing about Peter's beliefs in humanities. "My offer still stands, about you...touching me whenever and however you like." He made eye contact and dipped his chin seriously. This time, he included the 'however you like', showing clearly his absorption and acceptance of what Peter wanted. He was still confident Peter would change his mind, or at least, his stance on the topic of sex in its basest form. Just as casually as he'd said it, he dropped the subject and returned to the fruit.
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Peter leaned back in the chair, tilting his head slightly as he regarded Sylar. It was…quite the offer and he understood that now. He'd never really been able to believe it before. But after everything else Sylar had done, allowed, proposed, and even instigated, Peter believed him now. Sylar really was saying, 'Anything, anytime, anywhere', and he meant it. Even though Peter expected obvious caveats to apply, it didn't take away from how complete this was. Sylar was putting everything out there. That took courage. (And maybe desperation, but Peter didn't think that was the main motivator here. To that, he attributed guilt.) He acknowledged Sylar's offer with an equally serious nod and a squeeze to Sylar's right foot with his free left hand. With his right, he brought the plum to his mouth and bit into it carefully. He was right to be cautious - it was soft and juicy, also sweet. He sucked at the spot he'd bitten and then licked up a drip of juice that had escaped on the right side of his mouth. The one on the left side went unnoticed until it tracked down to his chin. Only then did he have the skin sensation to realize it. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, then used a corner of the blanket to scrub the whole of his mouth and chin in case he'd missed anything else.
Otherwise, eating the snack passed unremarkably, but Peter finished munching the noisy carrot feeling almost hungrier than when he'd started. Thoughts of the hospital cafeteria drifted through his mind, but Sylar was still sitting there in underwear beneath the blankets and would no doubt have his paranoia set off by any attempt of Peter's to part ways with him. So he waited. A few minutes into it, he shifted Sylar's feet so he could take off his shoes. With a glance to Sylar, he shifted position again, adjusted the set of the seat, and said, "Scoot over," to his companion before swinging his sock-clad feet to rest next to the man on Sylar's seat. Thus arranged with Sylar's feet on Peter's right and Peter's feet on Sylar's right, Peter fiddled with the levers controlling the chair. He leaned back, stretching somewhat, and shut his eyes with a sigh. There was nothing much to do except wait for the oven to finish drying their clothes.
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Sylar hesitated for a few portions of a second before he complied. Soon enough, his questions were answered with Peter's feet being dropped next to his thigh as the other man appeared to relax. Sylar looked between the feet and Petrelli's content face (noting the empath wasn't as relaxed as he seemed at first glance). Very gently, so as not to disturb, he lifted the corner of the blanket that still covered his underwear and draped it over the other man's feet before laying his right hand over them. He knew only too well that Peter had been extremely understanding about his…issues with all things medical and even Peter himself in this context, even though they both knew Sylar deserved to be tortured because of his past. So, one kindness (rather, many kindnesses on Peter's part) for kindness. Peter hummed, so Sylar gave the feet a tired squeeze and left his hand in place, feeling as pleased as he could in a hospital. When it became apparent that Peter wasn't getting up soon, Sylar gingerly began to pet the blanket over the feet – gingerly not because Peter's feet were gross (they probably were), but because he didn't necessarily want to mimic the reasons behind Peter massaging and checking Sylar's feet more than once. It earned him more accepting sounds and he smirked without much effort. The cold was still damnably slow to leave the core of him and he wished his quickly beating heart would hurry to change that.
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Finally, Peter stirred out. He'd spent the last many minutes staring through the lobby and out the windows, watching the swirling grey darken even further as night truly fell out there. He wondered about snow drifts and the lack of plows. Fortunately, the distance back to their apartments was relatively short, but even so he wasn't about to try the trip until morning. He worried about how to put this to Sylar in a winnable argument. One step at a time. First we have to get what we came for. He got himself out of the chair, put his shoes on, stretched, and wandered over to the oven to check progress. "These are dry." Peter tossed Sylar's dress shirt to him, and walked over with socks and underwear. Those Peter stuffed into the backpack, since Sylar was already wearing one of Peter's sets. Then he went back to the oven. "Now let's see how the pants are doing." He frowned and carried them over, feeling up the garment. "They're still a little damp around the waist and in the crotch here – where it's thickest, I guess, but the rest seems dry. I think we should leave your coat in there for now. We can go get the antibiotics. The store room is just right through there." He gestured in the right direction, then handed off the pants and turned to put his own coat into the oven, not sure why he hadn't done that earlier. Because I was more concerned about Sylar's stuff than mine, probably.
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Sylar pursed his lips at the mention of leaving his coat behind, even temporarily, even to dry it. He was getting some of his way, progress towards leaving and putting his clothes back on. He wasn't as fast as he would have liked to dress, what with most of it involving buttons. He felt shaky even after the food, like the sugar from the fruit had gone to his blood too quickly or something. It was better when he saw Peter leaving his coat as well, though it didn't really mean much of anything. Sylar found that his shoes were still wet since Petrelli hadn't put them in the oven. He was concerned that it might…endanger his health further to wear wet shoes again. But if it meant leaving sooner…Sylar sat again and asked, "May I have my socks?" as Peter was packing. Seconds later, he was shoving warm, dry socks into soggy, chilly shoes, then standing to follow Peter hopefully to the exit. But no, Peter led him deeper into this deathtrap. How does he know where to go? Has he explored here without me?
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They walked through the various suites and rooms, all empty, most dim as the hallways were lit but the rooms weren't. The little glass-fronted rooms reminded Peter of the holding cell he'd been put into in Odessa. He suspected they reminded Sylar of even darker things. He gave his companion an aware glance, but didn't bring it up. The stock room was easy to find as Peter had visited it three times now, once with Sylar when they'd come for the brace. The two other trips, he'd once been getting supplies for Sylar and the other time just liberating a backup trauma kit to keep in his room. And besides, the whole hospital was roughly modeled off Mercy Heights. Peter would know his way around the place blindfolded.
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His shoes squished nastily and squeaked in a very inopportune way if he need to hide. Sylar noticed the glance and met it warily. What does that mean? (If he was smart, he would be worried I'd attack him again, like Mercy). With mixed feelings and something like a guilty feeling, he knew in his gut that he would fight or initiate if he felt he had to. And Peter leading him further into the dark, creepy fortress wasn't giving him confidence. Desperately he wanted Peter to continue to understand (or just play along, if that's all it was) long enough for them to make a break for it, even if leaving was dangerous, too. He tried not to look into the rooms but he couldn't help himself. He stuck close to Peter in the hall.
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"Over here," Peter said, going to the refrigerated section towards the back. He slid the glass panel aside, pulling out several bottles, giving their labels a quick glance before handing two of them back to Sylar for the expected examination. "I'm going to get some syringes, too," he said quietly, shutting the cooler without getting anything other than the two common, well-known antibiotics whose names he believed Sylar would recognize. Peter's choices were careful, even if he was going about the job in a practical manner. He showed the small box of syringes briefly before putting it in his backpack. "Those bottles don't need to be kept refrigerated all the time," he said with a nod towards the ones Sylar was holding. "That's for long-term storage only. They'll be fine until we get back." He turned and went back to the medication shelves. "I want to get some pills though, too. That's primarily what we'll use anyway." He ran his fingers down the labels, finding what he wanted. He took down two medium-sized bottles, again presenting them to Sylar for him to check. Peter opened his backpack again. "Put everything in here when you're done." He looked around the place as he waited, flexing his right hand. He gently manipulated the knuckle that had previously been broken, trying to monitor Sylar without appearing to monitor him.
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Sylar tensed, hanging back in the doorway when he saw the medicine display case. But Peter handed them back, making no attempt to hide the bottles, harmless without- yes, syringes. A swift, paranoid glance was passed between inspecting the label and watching Peter. Sylar was left holding his own medicine before Peter also gave him the opportunity to visually check the needles, then passing over the pills. Fortunately his large hands accommodated all four bottles. Everything checked out, unless Peter or someone else had insanely managed to switch anything in a way he couldn't even imagine…He could verify with the protective seals later. Sylar stood and stared, blinking a few times at having some…control, almost, of his medical care (not for the first time confounded by it). He was glad when Peter gave instructions about the backpack. He was almost grateful to discharge the bottles, even more grateful to be receiving proper medicine, for Peter's understanding, and that it meant they could finally leave. He shuffled quickly after Peter.
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It was clear that now that they had the stuff they'd come for that the next order of business was going back into the blizzard and freezing their asses off in an ill-thought out effort to get somewhere else. It was dumb, even by Peter's standards, and he wanted no part of it. His stomach growled as though offering an excuse. "Listen." He tagged Sylar on the elbow to signal him to stop in his unaccountably squeaky shoes as they went down the hall. "We're here. Your coat could use some more time drying. I'm hungry. Let's get dinner in us before we do anything else."
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Sylar started some and quickly stilled himself in a more appropriate reaction to being touched, like he'd offered and agreed earlier. It was just this place…He frowned, listening. "What? Food? From here-? No, we can't. It might be drugged." He did not put it past the Company or the government or just hospitals in general. He recalled Bennet bringing him food and taunting him in Primatech the first time. His argument was at least somewhat reasonable.
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"It…" Peter stared for a few seconds, struggling with the depth of paranoia Sylar was showing. "Okay," he said, trying to be accepting. "Well, there's other stuff we could make. Like, hot coffee, or hot chocolate," he said with the slightest emphasis on 'hot'. "Or we could heat up some soup. I'm sure it's all prepackaged food, sealed up. You can check it."
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Sylar waited, eyes narrowed for those few seconds of being stared at. Hot food sounded amazing. It also sounded like a slippery slope. Sylar didn't stop to examine if it might be Peter who was offering the temptation intentionally or if the slope existed on its own. "No," he stated, walking to the oven, opening it to retrieve their coats and Peter's pants, gloves, and headband. He shrugged into his coat. They were still damp but he didn't care. Hypothermia sounded like a peaceful, quick, preferable death than any comfort offered here.
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Peter huffed, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, but he still shook his head. "We should get something before we head out. Come on, Sylar," he pleaded. "This is basic survival stuff! Food, water, shelter! A few pieces of fruit isn't enough. Your pants aren't even completely dry. Or probably even your coat. This would give them a little more time to dry out." He looked at the coat now on Sylar's body. With another shake of his head, Peter balled up his pants and stuffed them in the backpack, putting on his own coat because that was easier than carrying it. He stuffed the headband and gloves in his pocket, still not intending to go outside and actually use them.
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Lips tensed, he also shook his head. It would be impossible to convince the medic how right he normally would have been and how deadly wrong he was now, so Sylar didn't bother. Peter appeared to be acquiescing with the plan. At least he was fairly certain Petrelli would follow his patient into the dark and dangerous weather. I have to lead us out. He could feel the cold prickling at his nerves once more and the heat and health retreating from him. It felt like more responsibility and effort than he had in him, but he knew he had to try.
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Peter chewed the inside of his lip. His stomach growled again as he turned and headed, wordlessly, to the lobby entrance. All he'd intended to do was look out at the storm and use it as a final debating point against Sylar's phobias, but he moved too close to the doors. The first set swooshed open ahead of him. He stopped anyway, but Sylar walked on past him without stopping to allow another round of negotiations.
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Surprisingly Peter gave up with no more than those paltry efforts at arguing and made for the doors. Sylar was ready, so he came along. Petrelli stopped and Sylar didn't. I have to make this work, he thought as he led them from the light of humanity into the cold treachery of the elements. It wasn't confident, preconceived, or comforting, particularly when his actions reminded him of the negative aspects of Peter's character: leaping without looking and trusting insane visions only he could see. The snow and wind struck him like a blow but his momentum carried him forward rather than his own intent or power. He shuddered and gasped at the cold air that rushed into his mouth and throat. The cold sent him shivering immediately but the further they traveled from the lights of the hospital (lights! That's what they needed!) the less Peter could see of his misery.
XXX
"You don't have a blanket for your head!" Peter didn't know if his words even reached Sylar's ears. He hurried outside to find it was just as cold as he'd feared, or maybe worse with the whipping wind and constant onslaught of snowflakes. "My hood…" It was still tucked inside his coat. To get it out would require taking off the coat. Instead, he hastily fastened the coat shut as he stumbled after Sylar, scrambling to get his headband and gloves on while keeping his feet and forcing his way through snow that was up to their knees in places. "Fucking New York winter," he grumbled loudly, but still probably not enough to be heard over the wind. "Why can't we be in California? How are the palm trees going to survive this, huh? Fuck, it's cold!" He looked back at the hospital fading behind them, sure this was a bad idea. Then he turned and followed Sylar, unwilling to let the other man face danger alone.
XXX
Sylar spared an abbreviated eye-roll at Petrelli's whining. Who's the crazy one now? he reasoned. Palm trees and California. Oh, but the Company poisoning food or wrongfully imprisoning you is just- Damn, it's cold. That much he agreed with. Sylar pivoted back to make sure Peter was coming and keeping up. He slowed briefly until they were closer, not wanting to lose his companion in the low visibility. He doubted he would make more than a short journey, which emphasized the importance of finding a suitable building quickly. I'll be fine if…That 'if' seemed large and daunting, like he couldn't pick a random direction to search or he might get lost in a city full of buildings and not find one at all. He repeated the mantra of: I'm warm, I'm warm in his head as he trudged and shuffled (no longer stepping for fear of slipping) along. His shoes felt horrible, wet in the midst of inches of ice cold and his coat kept the wind off him some, but offered no help from the chill. He chose straight and angled to the left as near as he gave it any thought. Of course, the parking lot was huge. He nearly ran into a brick structure, with his head down against the wind as it was. His arm barely obeyed him when he raised it to open the push-in glass door with the annoying bell attached, using his body and shoes as a wedge to hold it open for Peter, then quickly letting it fall closed. One look around sunk his hopes. It was a small office, certainly with limited food, no heat after hours, and definitely no sleeping areas or other amenities. He didn't want to hear it from Peter. "W-we'll…w-we'll just try again….in a min-minute," he hissed through his shivering.