Day 74, February 22, Morning

"Why would you brush your teeth before you eat anyway?" Sylar sighed, crossing his arms and shifting his weight. He was positioned to watch down the forbidding hallway they would inevitably have to travel down. "You mentioned breakfast. The muffins are- were safe last night in the cafeteria." Quieter, he added, "I think." Then louder Sylar continued, "One of us should remember where that is. Just grab something and my coat." He was saying it all aloud so poor Peter could keep up and feel included in the 'plan.' The weather conditions had yet to play a factor in his plans.

XXX

"Muffins sound okay." Peter moved on to brushing his teeth. He brushed his teeth in the morning for the same reason already stated – he didn't like the taste or feel of tongue and teeth after a long night. He supposed he could get away with rinsing and in college he'd made do with strong coffee or other drinks, but since he had his toothbrush with him and they had the time…might as well, despite Sylar trying to hurry him. Peter spat out the toothpaste and rinsed. He looked at his toiletry supplies. He set the toothbrush and tube of paste next to one another as he contemplated letting Sylar use them. Making a decision, he took a step back and waved at the sink. "Get over here and brush. Or at least rinse."

He stepped off to the side and pulled out his comb from his back pocket. "Like you say, we can eat light and grab your coat, but first, you need to get ready and I need to see your back. How's it feel?"

XXX

Sylar snorted and looked at the items askance. It was out of the blue, unhygienic to share (especially after Peter brought attention to the unpleasantness), and he didn't like the man's tone. "I'm fine," Sylar shook his head, brushing off the concern he secretly appreciated. He was feeling achy and a bit queasy. (What if the storm is still going on?) "I...Thank you. For...before, last night." He took a deeper breath and raked his hair back. He didn't know how to express his gratitude and similar interest in Peter's well-being.

XXX

"No problem," Peter said quietly. He frowned about Sylar declining to brush, but didn't push it. Instead, Peter busied himself with combing his hair into place. When it was as orderly as he could get without a mirror, he tossed the comb on the countertop where Sylar could reach. "I messed up your hair plenty earlier," he said in a tone that bordered on sultry. Maybe I can get more out of him this way than giving him orders. "Might want to whip it back into shape." He gave it a long pause as he pointedly looked over the disarray of Sylar's hair. It had probably suffered more from being toweled off the night before than from anything Peter had done to it this morning. "I still want to see your backside," Peter said with a playful, flirty tone.

XXX

(It could have been a big problem), Sylar thought, watching with half his attention as the empath fixed his hair. It didn't look out of place to begin with and he supposed that was one of the benefits of such a style. He noted again how Peter's hair seemed darker and more weighed down than it had years ago. "Huh?" he blurted, bringing his focus back to the present. My hair would look like a mess. He was so intent on getting out that he almost didn't care about his undoubtedly scruffy appearance. (He doesn't like beards). Sylar gave his companion a lingering, searching look, almost threatening with its concentration. You do it, he wanted to say. He stalked around Peter to pick up the comb and use it, at an angle so he could watch Peter from the corner of his eye, mostly to see if he was being watched in return. What he did growl was, "Still? I told you you'd want more soon." He knew what Peter meant, but the wording was…too intentional to be an accident. Since his hair wasn't tangled, merely disorderly, it took less than a minute without water (what with the expected cold outdoors) to rake his mane into place. He returned the comb and reached up for the shoulders of his shirt after presenting his back to the medic. (I shouldn't trust him to turn my back, his paranoia whispered).

XXX

"Yeah," Peter said softly as Sylar began to comply. It wasn't a sexy 'yeah' so much as simply gentle. "Come here." He moved to Sylar rather than waiting for the alternative, reaching up and helping lift the shirt so it cleared the man's shoulders. What he saw took every flirty undertone out of the situation, which Peter had sort of expected. It was one or the other, after all – either Sylar was fine and Peter could scale back the flirt because he didn't have to worry about him enough to try manipulation, or Sylar was still messed up and the flirting would go nowhere. The latter was the case. He touched around the inflamed, reddened, slightly swollen areas.

"This needs to be cleaned again," Peter muttered. "If we're not careful, this is going to scar." Even more softly, he added, "After everything that's happened to you, this is the thing that's going to leave marks? Huh." More normally, he said, "It'll need to be packed and bandaged before we go anywhere." He touched Sylar's skin on a normal-looking area, then down to the small of the back that had come so much to Sylar's attention lately. Peter gave it a few steady strokes – partly because it was a nice (and entirely uninjured) part of Sylar's body, but mostly to gage temperature. "I think you have a low grade fever, too."

XXX

Peter couldn't see it, but Sylar's head canted and he blinked at that. He…he thinks I'm not scarred? Again, he understood what Petrelli meant – the external flesh only, though it still caught him off guard. He inhaled before he could question it as Peter's hand made the expected (hoped for?) contact. What do you care if I scar? (You should scar my skin to match what you and everyone else has done. I deserve that). He wanted to ask and nearly did. Recalling Peter's job and history, even the comments he'd made about blood and pain unbelievably not doing it for him, Sylar held his tongue. He likes…pretty, normal things. Healthy things. Whole things. (I'm not whole, but I look like I am). "Oh," he replied, wondering if the fever was caused by the wounds or the cold of last night.

XXX

Peter stood there for several seconds, his hand on Sylar's skin and his eyes fixed on that. He was just touching, feeling a faint tingle, and being lost in the moment. Then he pulled back and reached up to tug Sylar's shirt down. "We need to get you some food so you can take your pills, have you take some of those antibiotics, and then a fever reducer. After that, I'll clean those spots up, pack the wounds, bandage, and we'll go. I don't think you're going to handle me trying to keep you here until you're fully recovered, so we'll go home as soon as your fever is down. That should be an hour or so from taking the pills. You might need days of rest to shake this, but you're not going to get that here, sleeping on couches and feeling…unsafe." Peter jerked his head towards the hallway, walking over to shoulder his backpack and gather up his coat. "Let's go."

XXX

He felt vulnerable whenever Peter lifted his shirt like this, or perhaps, even when the man touched him in 'that' way. It was colder than he liked, giving him goosebumps though Peter's hand was wonderfully warm against him. He made the tiniest sound of disappointment at the separation. Sylar adjusted the fall of his shirt then turned and blurted, "What?" He'd almost missed the part about staying until his fever dissipated. "No, just bring the pills or I'll take some before we leave." He was not counting on an hour spent here. Maybe an additional five to ten minutes to grab gear and food, but this…? The familiar suspicion that Peter was trying to keep him here with excuses and delays crept back. Sylar took up the blanket, just in case, and followed Peter. He was glad to be walking behind the man and not leading because it made him feel safer if that were possible. This time, he would leave Peter behind in the daylight, in the hospital if he had to.

XXX

The cafeteria was nowhere near the emergency wing, but they got there anyway soon enough. Peter left Sylar to go through the industrial-sized lockers and coolers for breakfast while he busied himself making coffee for the both of them. He had imagined this was a joint endeavor, but as he turned back, holding their cups, looking to see where they intended to sit, he saw Sylar standing with the appearance of unhappily waiting on him with no intention of sitting down.

XXX

Sylar heaved a loud sigh. "A quick breakfast, Petrelli. Walk and eat, come on." He'd since grabbed another blueberry muffin and a somewhat room temperature apple from a display stand and had positioned himself near the walkway to the hall that would lead back to the oven and his coat. Peter had his coat so Sylar had even more motivation to find his own. Walking and eating would be a distraction, but ideally they would be finished eating and would have hands-free when they exited in the snow. It wasn't so much that he'd planned it that way, as it was an unforeseen benefit. I wonder if I can find better clothes. Peter has his gloves and…headband thing. I could add another layer with blankets and make a scarf. He waited impatiently for Peter to join him, not allowing himself to be distracted by his thoughts and staying focused on the plan and their goal.

XXX

Peter frowned. His instinct was to dig in his heels and refuse to be hurried, just like earlier, but he had a feeling this wasn't the time for a blanket refusal to cooperate. He walked forward slowly, extending the cup towards his companion. In a serious tone, he said, "Drink your coffee, Sylar. I'll go back and grab something to eat. If you drink up, I'll make sure it's something I can eat while we walk." He waited for an acknowledgement, taking a sip of his own (fortunately heavily doctored enough with cream to be drinkable) as he waited for Sylar to take the cup.

XXX

Sylar met that look with similar stubbornness, expecting resistance and having some of his own, internally. He raised his chin, listening. He didn't care for the commands and the condition: 'if.' He took the cup as it was extended to him. The real issue, aside from speed and pure necessity, was accepting things he couldn't repay or at least reciprocate. I didn't ask for this, he wanted to protest in habit and he certainly didn't need it, either. The reinforced paper cup was comforting and warm; the coffee inside it was black and appeared plain as if Peter had been paying attention to how he preferred it and prepared it that way, too. This place was distracting, hiding its true nature, and it would have been easy to linger if he didn't keep remembering…Sylar took a testing sip – almost too hot, but he wasn't the type to wait or spare himself pain. He cradled the coffee and tried to apply himself to patience.

XXX

With a hand freed up now, Peter returned to the storage area and glanced through the options. He grabbed a dark brown muffin. The label identified it as 'banana-nut bran'. One muffin plus coffee. Not a good breakfast to get out and slog through snow. But he set down his cup long enough to tear open the packaging for the muffin, taking a bite and picking up his cup before heading back to Sylar. Peter made a head-tilt as though to say 'Happy?' as he approached.

XXX

Getting the coffee in him seemed to stabilize him from the inside out and dull some of the aching, cold flashes. It woke him up. I'll need that. This is my plan. I have to think for…us. He'd since eaten about a quarter of his own muffin. His face didn't change much, but he felt relieved and pleased when Peter returned, ready to go. Sylar had some sense of direction of the hospital, partly educated guessing with some recognition of familiar areas. He oriented them towards what he felt was the E.R.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said as they left the cafeteria and headed towards the emergency wing. "We need to do some talking here, because we're about to have a problem. I think you want to head back immediately, like as soon as we get where we're going." Peter gestured down the hallway. "I want you to take some medicine, wait for it to kick in, and make sure we can make it without you losing any fingers or toes." He didn't say anything for a few more steps before continuing. "I'm not going to physically stop you. And if you leave, I will go with you." Peter turned and gave Sylar a steady look as he emphasized his words. "Because what I said last night about us needing to be a team right now hasn't changed. This isn't smart – leaving right away, not enough food, you sick." He frowned heavily, pursing his lips. "If you're telling me it's what you have to do, and that there's nothing I can say that will convince you to do it my way..." Peter shook his head unhappily, "...then I'll take that 'fuck you' you're sending my direction and I'll be there to help you anyway. So what's the deal?"

XXX

Sylar sighed heavily. The dread of Peter's stalling tugged at him hard once again. He was silent during the man's break because he was tired of arguing when he knew Peter had some concept of his motivations (and that Peter's safety was a factor in them). Sylar met the intent stare with his own wary side-eye, wanting to look away and not…be looked at that way, not with these words going on. They touched him and he didn't know what the hell to do about any of it. I'm not saying 'fuck you'!

The rest of it got under his skin. It was just like the gift of coffee, the stupid coffee. And warming him up with the blankets, touching his feet, finding him when he hid, sleeping with him (and presumably not doing anything perverted as he slept), and insisting on medicine. Sylar slowed to a halt, glancing everywhere but Peter, hands shoved in pockets. He knew his plan wasn't smart – hell, he wasn't even taking the time to formulate a good one! (I can't ask him…) he thought of asking for fucking help from Peter Petrelli in a goddamn hospital. The amount of care and comfort he would need to stay for an hour or half a day, however long it took for 'the meds to kick in' would be similar to…to what Peter had done for him yesterday in this same place. He didn't know if Peter could or would do as much again. His face probably betrayed some of his nervousness as he looked around, continually scanning for threats.

He should leave me here. He should just kill me. "That's…It's not…" he began and couldn't finish. "How do I know the antibiotics I took aren't making me worse?" he managed, trying to express his doubt and refusing to label his symptoms as 'sickness.' "How long is it going to take? Do you even know? What if it doesn't get better? Are you going to drag me back or make me stay? I told you: you should fucking leave me here. You still can. You don't owe me anything. You shouldn't stay here."

XXX

Peter tilted his head, watching Sylar fidget guiltily and listening to him nearly stammer. He's afraid and embarrassed about it, and guilty about me trying to help. But he wants me to give him a reason not to listen to the fear. "And I told you," Peter said steadily, "I'm not leaving you here." He gestured in the direction of the doors out, beyond which it was light grey and almost foggy in appearance, but maybe that was just the frosted glass. He still hadn't looked at the weather. "What would I do out there without you? Go play piano and mind my own business all the time? I'd go crazy." He gave Sylar an insightful look even though his statement was obvious: "So would you."

Peter walked over to the nearest nurse's station and shrugged out of his backpack as he changed the subject. "You took some antibiotics? What kind? When?" Whatever he'd taken, it wasn't the ones Peter had been carrying, which meant Sylar had snagged something from a storeroom or maybe a cart.

XXX

I'm already crazy, he thought tiredly, admitting the obvious. Sylar knew he had reasons but his strangeness remained. "The same kind you showed me last night. After I…left you."

XXX

"How many?"

XXX

"Two. I followed the directions."

XXX

Peter nodded. "That's good! Great!" He was cheered to find Sylar had been doing some self-care on his own. Peter dug out one of the bottles from the backpack and offered it to Sylar after checking the label. "This is what we got yesterday," he said, speaking with the enthusiasm of someone who thought medical miracles were really cool. What he held in his hand could save lives or at least shorten misery. "A course of antibiotics will take days to kill off the infection in your body, which is why I'm saying we might as well leave today if the weather's cleared enough and you're mobile, which you are. You won't rest well here. We'll get you back home where you're comfortable, I'm comfortable, and you can take the pills regularly like you should, twice a day. But before we go out there and slog through a mile of snow, we need to treat the main symptom, which is fever. Otherwise, you're going to be sick, feel sick, and not able to do your best. I don't want you falling out before we get home. If there's any dragging going to happen, it's going to be me dragging you to the nearest safe place, so let's make sure that's home and not right back here. The fever reducers should take effect within an hour. It's not long. You'll feel better. It's standard ibuprofen."

XXX

Fortunately, Peter hadn't tampered with the seal on the bottle – he saw that when he took hold of it; otherwise Sylar would have insisted they trek back for a replacement. He stared at the bottle in his hand, still feeling like crap mentally and physically. His bruises ached and his muscles protested sleeping on Peter and a couch. An hour – they'd already spent nearly a day here, what was one more hour (3,600 seconds, he reminded himself) when it meant he might never have to return, at least for these ailments? "Okay," he whispered and looked up, resigning and preparing himself for that much.

XXX

"Okay." Peter looked around at where they were. "The storeroom's over that way. Let's go get what you need." He grabbed his backpack and headed off in the direction he'd indicated.

XXX

Sylar wondered if this was the same storeroom as before and he noticed that Peter more than most had a sense of direction. Peter, being shorter, with his backpack and messy hair, looked a bit childish from behind. It was amusing. The Italian's physique was anything but childish or feminine and neither was his determined stride. Sylar walked after him, still holding the bottle of pills when he didn't want to be carrying them, so he walked just beside and unzipped the main compartment of the backpack as Peter walked to deposit the bottle and re-zip the bag. He paid attention to the hallways, signs, and turns they made until they arrived at, yes, the same storeroom.

XXX

Tylenol was easy to find – clearly labeled, near the door, available in just about every dispensary option known to mankind. Peter poured out the right number of pills from a normal bottle and handed them off to Sylar.

XXX

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "Tylenol is different from ibuprofen, Peter," he said with a touch of warning in his voice. Tylenol was better than ibuprofen for fever. Either way, he wasn't afraid to down over-the-counter painkillers and now he knew what the pills looked like in the event of any attempted switching. He would have preferred to be in control of dispensing his own meds, but it was Peter's backpack and he couldn't shoulder it in the intended way for any length of time.

XXX

"They have the same effect – they'll both cut your fever." His brow furrowed and he glanced around the rows and rows of Tylenol variants, puzzled at why the more standard ibuprofen wasn't there. He shrugged away the peculiarity as being far from the weirdest thing about the place. He turned back to Sylar. "You should take a dose of antibiotics while you're at it." He gestured at his backpack. "One now, one tonight." Leaving Sylar with the medication, Peter wandered around the pharmacy looking for other things, including the wayward ibuprofen. He was sure he had some back at the apartment. It was one of the things he'd stocked up on before. "We're going to have an hour. Do you want me to clean your back here, or at the apartment later?"

XXX

Sylar went still. He watched Peter carefully to see what he was doing. The cold, germy, unnatural nature of the place came rushing back and he couldn't imagine having his back cleaned here and the vulnerability involved. He felt a rush of tension before he realized he was being asked his preference. "Later," he said firmly.

XXX

Peter glanced back, taking note of Sylar's tone. Paying too much attention to the medicines was not wise, given Sylar's issues. He took down a few extra packs of gauze and ointment. He'd need them regardless of where they did it. They got stowed in his pack. "We could also go back to the cafeteria and have a real meal." He looked back at Sylar. "While we wait, you know?"

XXX

Sylar took a deeper breath. I can do this. It's just an hour. A few come-ons popped into his head but they were actually inappropriate in a hospital and he had no intention of any follow-through if he did say them. He nodded. The muffin had been good, but watching Peter try to cook and having conversation would be…almost normal and distracting at the least. He had the feeling that Peter understood quite a bit of his fears, accepting them, and even…giving comfort in the face of them. It did not help him feel less like scum, but it did help make it all bearable, which he desperately needed. It was a relief not to picture Peter turning on him here or be forced to relive anything from the past involved with the man. "Yeah," he agreed with more enthusiasm than he'd yet shown. "Don't tell me you like the food here, too?" This was Peter's world as much as the library was Sylar's.

XXX

Peter shrugged as they left the storeroom and headed off deeper into the complex, retracing their steps. "It's okay. Some of the food is pretty good. Stay away from the pasta dishes. Sometimes the bread is stale. And you have to spice everything. But the meat and vegetables are pretty good." He tilted his head conspiratorially at Sylar, "At least they tell me the meat's good. Desserts are okay."

"I'm told the coffee used to suck big time." Peter perked up suddenly, tapping Sylar on the forearm. "I've got a story! So there was this one time we had a gal join up, daughter of a whole family of doctors. Part of her residency or something included taking a tour with the EMT service for, like, a couple months. A semester, probably. She hated the hospital coffee. Hated it. With a passion. She called it dishwater and the name stuck, at least for the EMTs."

Peter kept on for a few more strides as he pulled together the rest of the story. "So a few weeks after she joined, she brought in this fancy machine that would grind the beans, make espresso, all the bells and whistles. This was before Keurigs were the big thing. This was almost as good as the Starbucks booth might make, and it was before the hospital had a Starbucks booth, too. The coffee it made was so good, that word got out fast. And it spread. At first it was just the nurses dropping by, but then the doctors, and pretty soon we had folks sneaking it out for the red blanket patients. The thing was, everyone wanted the coffee, but no one would bring the beans. So whenever she'd bring some in, she'd get a cup and then people would find out, and the stuff would be gone within a couple hours. No matter how much she brought."

"I didn't mention it exactly, but she was pretty rich. I don't think it was the cost that got to her so much as the unfairness of it all. She got the machine for the EMT break room so the EMTs – the people she was working with – could have something decent to drink while heading out on New York's slushy streets at four in the morning. But the stuff was never there. People were asking after it. The EMTs, we knew what the score was, so we just kept our eye out for when she'd bring in new and otherwise we had the usual dishwater."

"A little more than halfway through, she quit bringing beans. She took the machine away. She didn't say much to any of us. When she left and moved on in rotation to a hospital down in DC, she gave us all Starbucks gift cards, said it was what she would have been paying anyway for beans and stuff." Peter stopped, leaning a little so he could see the Starbucks booth down the hall. They were about to turn towards the cafeteria and would lose sight of it then. "Two weeks later, they opened that, and I know she had to have something to do with it, with all her connections." Peter smirked, jerking his thumb towards the booth. "It wasn't more than a couple months later that they overhauled the coffee in the cafeteria, probably because of all the money everyone was pumping into Starbucks." He shrugged as they walked into the empty food area. "The stuff's pretty good now." He spread his arms slightly and smiled, turning to face Sylar, walking backwards to do it. "So in the end, everyone won."

XXX

Sylar trailed behind Peter, head tilted thoughtfully. "Did you do her? Or even try? She sounds like your type." Even though I know he says he doesn't have a type. "Except smarter than you," he added under his breath, going for the refrigerator for an apple if he could find one. She was probably smarter than Peter because this mysterious doctor solved the problem for everyone with macro-level thinking, not just…treating symptoms with selfless acts. Sylar arrested, hands still on the door of the huge metallic refrigerator and pivoted to give Peter a knowing look. "It was Emma, wasn't it?"

XXX

Peter had been scowling, trying to decide what the problem was with Sylar's assumption that Peter might have tried to get with any female he mentioned, when Sylar implied Peter's options were even more limited. "No," he said with exasperation. "It wasn't Emma!" Now the assumptions were being leveled at her! He shook his head. They weren't insulting assumptions – at least not about Emma. The ones about him, though…

XXX

Sylar frowned, almost disappointed with that answer. He'd been so sure of his hypothesis: rich, selfless, smart girl in Peter's own profession. Perhaps Ma hadn't approved – of course she hadn't approved. "Huh." He dug out a Red Delicious and an orange for Peter then drew closer to him to see what he was making.

XXX

Peter started poking around, looking for precooked stuff he could just warm up. He eventually settled on a second cup of coffee, a pair of biscuits with cheese and what he hoped was scrambled egg inside of them, and a packet of oatmeal. He couldn't find any decent syrup or even any jelly, but he figured he'd live if he added enough butter and sugar. He worked on his coffee while the microwave ran, heating everything to edibility if not necessarily the most palatable. Fresh would have been better, but he wasn't sure of Sylar's patience. He took his seat at a small table nearest where they'd been preparing their food and waited to see if Sylar had anything to say.

XXX

Sylar stole some of the same biscuits, eggs, cheese, butter, and a cup of the coffee. He felt a craving for doughnuts but that would be far too unhealthy for sick people. I think people trapped in this hellhole need doughnuts more than most. A smirk graced his face as he heated his own biscuit when he imagined eating doughnuts in Primatech's cells, maybe gluttonously stuffing his face in front of Bennet's glaring eyes. He returned to his earlier question, "Did you try to do her?"

XXX

Peter let his shoulders and upper body slump demonstratively in his seat. "No! I did not!" In retrospect, he probably should have. "Just because I run across someone interesting doesn't mean I try to get with them." He pursed his lips, rolled his eyes, and went on to doctoring his oatmeal as well as he could with the available ingredients. I'd like some raisins or nuts in this. "At least, not anymore." He shook his head and took up his first bite. "I did that back in college. Once I got in nursing school, I cut a lot of that stuff out. I was finally doing what I wanted to do with my life. All of that other stuff, the partying…was a distraction. It was me trying to…self-medicate out of a bad situation, one where I felt meaningless, or worse than meaningless. And then once I got abilities..." Peter hunkered down slightly over his food, expression turning surly. "I haven't been with anyone since I became an EMT. I think I told you that."

XXX

Sylar paused in the act of buttering a biscuit. Some of that wasn't new, but some of it, the way it was phrased held more truth than Peter probably consciously intended. 'Self-medicating' with sex. With lots of super-casual sex when he's in a bad situation, feeling meaningless and probably suicidal like now with Nathan gone…Peter was in very deep, the worst he'd ever been to the point where he couldn't help himself or seek comfort in familiar ways. He's used people before. Oh, of course Peter would have some grand excuse to justify it. Those realizations added some perspective and gave him a twinge of discomfort that someone like Peter was in this 'bad situation' and unable to get out or get some. (I'm too cheap for him.) No wonder his approach wasn't, until only recently, gaining headway. Peter really wanted that relationship crap he said he did and Sylar didn't know whether to be pleased or disgusted.

He stared at Peter for a long while, otherwise unmoving. Staring at him until his gears and mysterious inner workings were inspected. For most of it, Peter kept on eating or struggling and grimacing at his food but that was unimportant.

XXX

Peter noticed the intent stare being directed his way. He ignored it for a few sulky seconds as he mentally reviewed what he'd said. While nothing in particular seemed worthy of staring, he could see there was a lot Sylar might be reacting to. Out of patience waiting for Sylar to explain, Peter looked up and demanded, "What?"

XXX

A tilt of his head was his only reaction as he kept staring for several seconds more. "You could," he said softly, replying to the last thing Peter had said about 'not getting with anyone since becoming an EMT' – a rather silly distinction. Sylar cleared his throat, breaking his stare, and went back to the act of buttering. "You could, you know. Just…medicating. Therapeutic. Cathartic, maybe." He gave half a hitch of his shoulders like a shrug to keep the pressure and denial away. He eyed the food as if that would reveal any foreign contaminants, then took a bite of the biscuit and salted his scrambled eggs. Make him feel needed. Important. Understood. "What does 'self-medicating' mean to you? How does that work?"

XXX

"With you?" Peter said just as quietly. There was a little challenge and doubt in the question, but he didn't ask it like it was preposterous. After all, Sylar had offered quite seriously, multiple times. As always, it struck Peter as generous and unnecessary, as well as jarringly incongruous to contemplate doing such an act with the man who'd killed his brother and Peter himself, among so many others. What would it be like for him? Is it a conquest, or penance? His eyes narrowed a little. Peter finished off his oatmeal and pushed it away, turning to the egg biscuit next.

"Technically, it's just...being your own doctor," he said soberly, taking a bite and watching Sylar's face, looking at his eyes and considering how handsome Sylar was despite how ragged he was at the moment. "That's kind of like being your own lawyer. It's not really smart, especially when the problem's not physical." He took another bite. His prediction about the food seemed accurate: slightly stale biscuit, but otherwise fine. Egg and cheese were as good as one could expect of something frozen and microwaved. "Getting loaded and fucking people isn't what I need. It wasn't then, either."

XXX

The food was…subpar. Sylar swallowed and frowned at his plate for a second, setting aside his knife, too. He felt too hot and irritated. So he admits he's 'fucked' people. Not just women, either. "No, of course not." He didn't think Peter was answering the question, just alluding to it and ruling out distracting comfort fucking. Sylar nearly started to point out the dodge, but wanted to prove himself. "You want a life of meaning. You want a relationship. Someone who understands. Someone who knows you're special. You want to be special to that person. Then," he added with amusement, "You can fuck their brains out." This is making me sicker than my back and the food combined. Sylar picked up his fork and tried the eggs, which were better for the salt. The coffee was a good cleanse.

XXX

Peter regarded Sylar, picking up the tension and frustration in the man's body language. He tilted his head slightly. I think he's still upset I'm not putting out, that ten years ago I would have went to bed with him in a heartbeat and now I have standards. Though I wouldn't have fucked Nathan's killer back then either. Peter grimaced. "Exactly. Not that I expect to get that." He finished off his biscuit and looked into his coffee cup, trying to decide if he wanted to finish it off or not. Wait a second, he means him! A relationship, understanding, thinks I'm- "You think I'm special?" Peter blurted out. The coffee cup ended up back on the table, forgotten instantly. "I mean," he tried to backtrack, because that much was stupidly obvious due to the double meaning of 'special' and not knowing which one (or both) Sylar meant, "I know you…yeah, but…that's not…" He paused and made a second stab at expressing his disjointed thoughts, "You keep trying to kill me, to fuck with me, to hurt me. And you want to be with me, that way?" His face showed the confusion he felt.

XXX

Addressing the near-invitation about being with Peter more intimately, Sylar answered, "What if I say yes? It won't change your mind. It doesn't change anything. I'm still me and Nathan's still dead." That was the bitter truth. It didn't matter what he wanted, assuming he wanted Peter that way at all – he did, because this was the only arrangement available to either of them.

XXX

Peter frowned, disappointed. What Sylar said was true, but it wasn't the answer he wanted to hear. Peter wanted an explanation for the mistreatment, not a promise it was going to continue. "No, it doesn't change anything," he said slowly. "I'm not going to be with someone who keeps trying to hurt me." He finished off his coffee. "Just because you want to get laid doesn't change all the reasons I have for not doing it. If you can't even offer me basic safety, then you're right. Completely." He set the empty cup down and gathered up his utensils and dishes, walking them back into the kitchen.

XXX

Sylar straightened, head tilted in intent, curious examination once again. He shoved another large bite into his mouth when Peter got up, chewing quickly. "No, of course that doesn't change anything. You wanting to get laid does." Sylar wiggled out from the table, bringing his own dishes to the kitchen only to set an example – he had no intention of ever coming back here so the issue of cleaning was moot, however, Peter had some…table manners that needed improving and he wanted to follow the empath anyway. "Pete…" Sylar laid a hand on the man's shoulder, trailing his hand down the muscular, warm arm. "Of course you'd be safe. You don't enjoy being hurt. I know that." The unfair idea was that Peter would get to hurt him and maintain Peter's own safety, a sort of 'live to abuse another day' kind of thing. Though Peter had denied any interest in that theme, he couldn't imagine how Peter wanted to pin his hopes on an actual relationship. I don't see how I 'keep trying to hurt him.' Here, alone anyway. Doesn't he know that my attempts are usually a lot more successful? He filed that away to ask soon, but later.

XXX

Peter twitched at Sylar's hand coming down on him, with Peter not knowing if it was the start of something violent, sexual, both, or neither. He'd just finished setting down his dishes, turning around to find Sylar there, with Sylar's hand gripping him the moment Peter noticed his presence. With the counter against Peter's far hip, there was nowhere to run if things went bad. But Sylar's expression wasn't aggressive. The 'Pete' was unsettling, given how many times he'd told Sylar not to use that name. That it didn't seem to be an intentional jab made it all the more troubling. Still on edge, Peter watched the hand stroke down his arm, then looked up for the delivery of Sylar's words. Peter's brows rose slightly, his eyes widening with the motion.

He believes that,but he beat me unconscious just a few weeks ago and I'm not even totally sure why. What if that 'yes' just means he's going to keep trying to kill meandhe wants to fuck me? That's no different than anything – everything – he's said before. Peter's eyes narrowed and lips pursed as distrust came over his features. He pulled away with an unimpressed grunt and a roll of his eyes as he extracted himself from the close quarters. "We should get going," he said curtly.

XXX

Sylar bit his lip, allowing his hand to slide off as Peter pulled away. He was…disappointed his words hadn't garnered more of a reaction, a pleasant one. He doesn't believe me. (Do I want him to? How do can I make myself believable? I thought he trusted me). "Yeah," he agreed with a sigh. Lingering here even for the purpose of seduction wasn't worth it.

XXX

Peter was grumpy, sullen, and irritable as they walked back, him mulling over Sylar's words to ill effect. The statements translated in Peter's mind as, 'I want to kill you and fuck your corpse' or something equally graphic, maybe 'I want to crucify you and get off to it' tended to do that to Peter. His mind kept unhelpfully providing him with images that combined a desire to kill him with a desire to fuck him. Peter's imagination was too vivid for his own good sometimes. He kept his eyes off Sylar as they walked and worked on not balling his fists too tightly. By the time they got to the emergency wing, Peter didn't mind that it was probably cold as hell outside and Sylar's fever might not have broken yet. He went through the required motions of pulling out blankets and offering them to Sylar. "You should wrap one over your head and another around your shoulders. Tuck them both into your jacket. It'll keep the wind off your head." Peter readied his own outerwear, tossing the headband on a counter next to Sylar so the other man could use it if he chose. He shouldered his backpack and waited for Sylar to finish getting ready.

XXX

Peter gave him a suggestion, not an order this time. It was a good idea, though it meant he would look ridiculous. Sylar saw the wisdom in it because success wouldn't result in yet another stay in the hospital. Taking a moment as he hefted a blanket and began to sort it out, folding it, he said, "Why aren't you wearing one?" Headband or not, it was a good precaution that also applied to Peter.

XXX

Peter slipped his coat off to tug the hood out of the pocket it was tucked into. "I have a hood. And a heavier coat that will keep my core temperature up better than yours." He fingered the material of the hood with a skeptical expression. It wasn't thick. Without the headband covering his ears, it wouldn't be as effective as it had been the day before. "I made it here in the first place with just the headband, but my face was frozen stiff. I think the hood will be enough."

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar sarcastically agreed with a lift of his eyebrows. He promptly snatched and threw another blanket into Peter's chest. Now we can both look like idiots. He felt some nerves about going back outside, but it was vastly preferable than staying here. Memories of the icy experiences and fear from before were hard to forget and he told himself he was more than mere weather. The thought that nature would kill him after all this time was laughable and shameful. His back was pained; feeling tight and stretched in a delicate, dry way. It took a moment to sling the blanket around himself as his flesh protested the motions and the friction against his clothes. He bundled the blanket around him like a cowl and hood, crossing the ends over and shoving them between the buttons of and into his coat.