Day 32, January 10th, afternoon
Sylar's gut was a self-devouring coil, awakened by the smell of the soup. He was definitely hungry. The warmth of the food was a bonus, not that the suite was cold. Sylar sat and ate, slowly but steady for the most part. "Any of those is fine," was his input about the next series of meals. Soup is sick-people food. There's probably a reason for that and for him giving it to me. Or maybe his jaw is still hurting him. When he was done, he thanked Peter and brought his bowl to the sink. Sylar felt better, stronger, if not more mentally agile, but he still wanted to sleep or at least rest. With Peter, of course. It was amazing how well things could work when they weren't fighting or talking. He was very content.
XXX
"You're welcome," Peter said in a low tone with a sideways glance at Sylar as he waited in line to put his bowl in the sink. He thanked me. Just for the soup? I think it was just for the soup. Not for anything else. It's harder to thank for big things. And it's not like I'm doing it for thanks anyway. But it was still nice. He rinsed out his bowl in turn and said when he was through, "I thought I'd spend the afternoon doing some sketches and maybe lay out what I was going to do with the repairs. You want to catch a few more Z's?"
XXX
"Yeah," Sylar said quickly, more enthusiastic. That was very agreeable. He only wished he could be up against Peter, but that was weird and probably forbidden. I wonder if he's bored. He likes to be active. Worried he was an inconvenience, he asked, "Is…Do you want to be doing something else?" Sylar was sure he wasn't up for another project or trip but where Peter would go, he would follow. "Do you need…'space'?" He asked that with even more reluctance, unhappy with the prospect. Maybe he did that foot thing because he wants space, kicking me away to make room? All he knew was that pushing Peter into anything only set the Italian's stubborn victimhood or fight-or-flight on full-throttle.
XXX
Peter raised a brow at him. "That's … very considerate." He smiled for a half-second. He hadn't been expecting that and he was surprised Sylar had noticed or cared what Peter wanted. "No, I'm fine. I want you better. Getting you some rest is the best way to do that. I don't know how long you haven't been sleeping well, but," you look terrible, like you're hungover, "I think you can use it. I'll go out tomorrow. Or we can both go out tomorrow. We'll need to go shopping if nothing else."
XXX
Sylar shrugged about his sleep quality. As he shuffled back to the bedroom, he murmured, "Is it really shopping if there's no one there?" And no exchange of money? It sounded like he was going shopping with Peter and that was that. Under the covers, he sat and eased himself onto his back because it was easier for his headache to move slowly. He watched Peter to make sure he didn't slip away once Sylar was down. While the other man didn't look scheming, an escape didn't seem likely at this point. Peter's word might be shit, but the things he said seemed to hold truth. In a way, it was almost a better way to interact, not needing the promises.
XXX
Peter scouted around for the sketchbook he'd used previously, finally finding it on its edge between the nightstand and the bed. He didn't remember putting it there; didn't remember where he'd left it at all, which was obvious because he had to search for it. Peter caught himself having an existential concern about whether the location of things had permanence or whether their existence was a subjective something-or-other of his and Sylar's combined minds. It doesn't matter! I wish I'd stop that. It's like the most pointless thoughts ever! He huffed and climbed in bed, fluffing the covers and plumping the pillows, only to exit the bed immediately and stalk off to the guest bedroom with purpose. He raided it for pillows and returned to fortify his side a bit more.
He cast an eye over Sylar as Peter resettled himself. His expression softened. He supposed he wasn't being very soothing what with the unexplained huffiness or the pillow-mission. "You doing okay?" He reached over and gave Sylar a pat on the forearm. "I might be up and down a little bit, but I'll try not to move around much. I won't leave the apartment." I promise. Do you believe me? He couldn't add those words, because he didn't think Sylar did. There was no particular reason why he would believe him, after all. A couple days wasn't much of a track record and Sylar was well able to say and do things that might run Peter off despite any promises he might make. He didn't know how to reconcile that. Peter exhaled and patted him again, turning back to arrange the sketchpad. If his foot reached out and touched Sylar's shin again a few minutes later, he would have denied having anything to do with it.
XXX
Sylar propped up on his elbows when Peter zipped away without reason, to the guest bedroom from the sounds of it. No…not there! Come back! Come back he did, with pillows, explaining his absence. Sylar went still at the contact, looking back at Peter. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he replied though he was still confused and unsure of his status on Peter's annoyance radar. The empath seemed satisfied with what he'd said and another gentle pat later, he was minding his own business, completely unaware of Sylar's puzzlement. Settling in himself after that, he froze as he felt something, a foot surely, against his shin again! Again? He's done that before. It's his…thing. That's all? I can handle that. It's…actually kind of nice. Floating on the pleasant feelings, he turned to examine Peter with a normal gaze – taking in both the paper and pencil, the hands wielding them and the user's face as he drew. He'd never seen anyone else draw or emote creatively before (not that Peter could be considered a great artist, far from it; though he could probably convey an idea with some clarity) and he was curious to see what Peter looked like when he did those things. Mostly it was a calm or concentrated face.
XXX
He was being watched, Peter noticed. Sylar didn't have a book or activity of his own and didn't need them when he was supposed to be sleeping. He was resting, at least. Peter couldn't blame him for not dropping off immediately – not after the amount of rest they'd already had. There was a politics to looking at someone – who initiated eye contact, whose gaze lingered rather than being required to catch furtive glances. It was bold to stare, considered rude because openly regarding someone was a privilege you might not have. Peter looked over in acknowledgment with a brief smile before going back to what he was doing, knowingly extending that privilege to Sylar.
XXX
He'd been spotted, but there was no rebuke or question. This was allowed. Sylar made a hum of pleasure and rolled onto his side to continue to view the drawing process, close once more to Peter with that foot-to-shin contact going even as his lids slid into sleep.
He woke sometime in the evening when Peter rose, mentioned dinner and moved to the kitchen. I must need the food if I'm digesting that quickly while asleep, he noted.
XXX
It was cream of asparagus for dinner, with nothing more controversial as a conversational topic than Peter mentioning, "I still haven't figured out what plate glass is. I think it's just glass-glass, maybe single pane? They haven't mentioned it much." He'd swapped back and forth between books and sketching for the last couple hours. He thought he was getting slightly better at drawing, which was good given that his skills weren't particularly advanced beyond stick figures, flames, paisleys, and shadowboxed lettering.
Peter took his time cleaning up from the meal, then went over and stared out the windows for a little while at the dark, quiet, empty city. The slight sounds of Sylar moving around in the apartment behind him were comforting in the face of all that emptiness out there. The set of his shoulders relaxed and he shut his eyes after a while, just listening to those living noises. Three years, alone. Head injury. Anxiety – separation anxiety, I guess. He wants me close. Peter cocked his head slightly, taking in the sound. It's not about me. It's about him. I understand. Some, I think.
He was calm when he opened his eyes and turned to his companion. "You want to hit the sack? I think I'm going to work on drawing, just in general."
XXX
"I think so." If he didn't have to stay awake, he wasn't going to and the offer was good. Sylar felt like a fuel gauge, slowly rising with every meal, contact and nap. It would probably never fill up, and if it did, he would certainly pretend it hadn't. He wasn't sure how to express his gratitude properly, remembering what he'd said before about thanks, promises and apologies. He wanted to put his arm around Peter's sketchbook-occupied waist, or clutch his arm to him as he slept. It would be warm, possibly soft, shifting with the other's breathing, an overall wonderful experience he'd never had. Sylar eyed those parts of Peter longingly until it grew circular and pointless. As it was, he laid the back of his hand against Peter's arm as he rested on his side, facing the man, keeping it casual. It was not rebuffed. Hmmm. This is good night, right? I wonder if he'll stay here and sleep with me?
XXX
It was much later when Peter's lids finally began to droop. He set everything aside and pulled over the brace, strapping it on to protect himself from rolling on his hand in the night. Then- He froze in the act of reaching to redistribute the many pillows. He turned and looked at Sylar, eyes wide, then back at the pillows. Oh fuck. How the fuck did I not think …?! Somehow, in planning out the day, thinking about the importance of getting food and rest into Sylar, and a good night's sleep, and even the half-formed plans Peter had entertained for the next day – somehow in all of that it had never occurred to Peter that he would be asleep, defenses down, during any of it. And if Sylar needed him close to rest, like within inches close, then … Peter stared at his bed partner, trying to figure out how he was going to avoid sleeping with Sylar when the situation required sleeping with Sylar.
There was no guarantee he wouldn't wake up molesting the guy again. Sylar had not appreciated it before. Peter had appreciated it even less because he'd taken measures to prevent it and Sylar had circumvented them. Peter had felt taken advantage of and the only reason he hadn't made a bigger deal out of it than he had was because sex hadn't been what Sylar was after. He knew now Sylar had been trying to get this, the proximity he was getting right now, which seemed necessary for his sanity and recovery.
Peter combed back his hair with his hand and reviewed his options. Trying to sneak out was not going to work – every time he'd left the bed, Sylar had woke quickly. He mulled it over and decided to opt for sleeping on top of the covers. They were both fully clothed – it should be safe. He might be a little cool and it might seem ridiculously prudish, but he could address the first with a blanket from the other bedroom and the second … well, he'd explain to Sylar in the morning. Such was overdue. His arrangements were made with a minimum of disturbance. Turning away to face the wall, Peter shut his eyes and eventually went to sleep.
Some time later, the sound of Peter's own voice woke him up from his dream. "It has glitter on it," he heard himself say. He sat up, bleary-eyed, hands flexing in memory of kneading the squishy material he wasn't handling now. Bemused, he looked over the side of the bed, but there was no box there.
XXX
Sylar awoke to an odd sensation, a sound. He caught the end of something (somehow aware it was the end of a sentence or similar), '…But it has glitter on it.' At first, Sylar, having remained unmoved throughout this wake-up call, couldn't string the words together to make a damn sentence. "Petey?" he grumbled as soon as he identified his bed partner, his tongue heavy and dry. The room was dark but a light was distant, refracting off a hallway. Through that, he could see Peter's hands doing something curled or clutched in front of him. The other man woke and sat up to look around before noticing Sylar. Um…is this bad? was his extremely unprepared response. "Petey?" he asked again.
XXX
"Huh?" Peter looked back. So Sylar really was in bed with him. Weird. He'd thought he was dreaming about that, too, because it was just as nonsensical as the rest. "I was giving your memories back, but they were made of red Play-Doh and one of them had glitter all over it." He laid back down with a sigh, letting Morpheus extend his shroud over him again without being the least troubled by a serial killer being in his bed. Mumbling now, he added, "I thought the glitter was unsanitary, but you didn't care."
XXX
A weird feeling twisted in his gut, unrelenting as it spread through him warmly. Peter wanted to give him his memories back. It made all the difference in the world, that unrehearsed and unexpected admission. It was a very nice thought to snuggle up with, glitter or unsanitariness notwithstanding.
Day 33, January 11, Morning
Sylar woke to breakfast sounds. A languorous stretch preceded his rise from the shared bed. Even his headache seemed happy to allow some warm fuzziness in his head this morning. He padded out. "G'morning," he croaked, ruffling his hair back and stretching his back once more, feeling his days old clothing rub against his skin in an annoying reminder that brought him back to earth somewhat. Need pajamas. And a shower. He waited until the food was served and Peter was occupied to ask about their (shared!) night. "So my memories are red Play-Doh with glitter on them?"
XXX
Peter slid a bowl of oatmeal in front of Sylar before settling with his own. He'd already put out jelly, butter, and maple syrup as possible toppings. He put jelly and butter on his own as he tried to place what Sylar was talking about. It sounded familiar, like something that had happened just recently. After a moment, the dream came back to him. He scanned Sylar's features carefully before speaking, very sensitive to how any discussion of mental faculties might be taken.
"Um … yeah." He took a bite of oatmeal, then fussed with stirring in the butter without mixing the jelly too much. "It was a dream." He looked at Sylar to be sure that was understood. Peter didn't want to be held accountable for his weird subconscious. Sylar's expression was interested enough for Peter to elaborate cautiously, "They were made out of Play-Doh and kind of long," he gestured to show a length of a couple feet. "Real narrow." He made an 'okay' sign with his left hand, showing a diameter of an inch or so. "They were in a box next to bed. I was handing them to you, trying to do it without them breaking. And I had to get the right ones, because there were other strands in the box that were blue and gray, but those weren't yours."
XXX
Sylar frowned for a few seconds, listening and taking that in. They're fragile? He was being careful? He has more memories than just mine? "What about the glitter?"
XXX
Peter shrugged. "I pulled one out and it had glitter on it. I didn't know if it was one of yours or not. But you took it anyway, so I guess it was."
XXX
A curious shrug as Sylar ignored his food, "Why was the glitter unsanitary?"
XXX
Peter smiled a little, embarrassed, and picked his spoon up for another bite, this time carefully carving off a bit of jelly to go with a spoonful of oatmeal. "Well … We're eating breakfast here, but … um … don't take this wrong. It was just a dream." Having given this warning, he waited a beat for Sylar to be ready. "The top of your head was gone and you were putting the memories back in. You were fine though. I mean, you were calm, alert, oriented, all of that – but … you didn't have anything in your skull. I was handing them to you and you were coiling the Play-Doh in there. You were talking to me." He hoped Sylar didn't take this as any repressed desire to mess with his head. "All I was doing was giving them back. I guess, if we're talking about meaning … I know I wish I could give them back."
XXX
Sylar sat back straight in his chair. He didn't ask how his head came to be open – it seemed obvious. Maybe that's why he keeps hitting my head. He thinks my head being opened is fitting. "Are you being serious?" He gave Peter a penetrating stare. This was not a joke-worthy topic.
XXX
"Yes. Dead serious. It's not something that belongs to me."
XXX
Good choice of words. "I appreciate the thought," Sylar intoned a little stiffly, "but I already...have them back..." At least…I think I have them all back. I'll never know. Would I really be upset if I didn't have them all?
XXX
Peter smiled wanly. "Yeah. I know." Perhaps Sylar had missed his point. Peter was carrying a book that contained all the secrets to Sylar's life and when Sylar perplexed him, enraged him, or terrified him, Peter wasn't opening that book for the answers. It was a strain, a burden, and a temptation to leave it shut. "My point is that it's something of yours I'm carrying, that I shouldn't have taken in the first place. For better or worse, I've made your past a part of me." His eyes skated to and from Sylar's face, uneasy with what he was saying. "It's going to take me a while to figure out how to deal with that." He was quiet for a moment. "I'd like to give them back … but I can't."
XXX
I can't say I blame you for wanting to get rid of them, because clearly Peter wanted that. Giving them to me is just…a convenient ploy? He admits he shouldn't have taken them, though. You should really leave my past where it is. I wish they wouldn't benefit you just having them as a pressure point. Sylar said nothing, but he wanted to voice 'You should really leave my past where it is,' as impossible as that was for Peter to do.
XXX
"That's all there was to the dream. Maybe we should talk about … me sleeping with you?" He leaned back, a nervous smile creasing his features as his hand went to his hair to fidget with it. "I think I can put my sleeping habits under my list of 'things I never thought I'd need to discuss with Sylar.'" He gave a throaty, rueful laugh before swallowing and getting more serious. He leaned back to the table. "Um … when … you know, when you got in bed with me a week or so ago, after that I said something about me not being the best of bed partners." Actually, he was pretty sure he'd said he wasn't a platonic bed partner. "That's … true." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fiddling now with his spoon. "I … touch people I'm sleeping with." He rolled his eyes, looking anywhere but at Sylar for a moment. "And sometimes, as you found out, I do more than just touch. That's … as far as it goes. I mean, I wake up, but … sometimes I'm already …" I sound like a rapist! (And that's kinda what it is, Pete. Which is why it's so fucking important to talk to him about this. He needs to know who it is he keeps trying to get in bed with.) I've never raped anyone! "Just wake me up. Please."
XXX
Sylar faked a small smile about being the last person to be told about Peter's bed habits, not that he necessarily needed the information. It was an annoying reminder of how low he was on…any of Peter's lists about anything. He addressed his oatmeal now as Peter spoke until he got to the part about waking him up, then he looked up under his brows. Are you kidding me? Wake him up? When he's hard and in bed with me? Right, and he won't blame me for whatever placement he's in. He was absolutely ignoring that.
XXX
Peter put his elbows on the table and raked at his hair. This was a very stressful conversation to have, but the worst part was out. He switched to something less violating. "I talk in my sleep sometimes. You know that, too. I've had other people complain that I'll follow them around in the bed trying to be up against them or touching - well, I mean in contact with them, I don't grope people." Usually. Should I tell him that? I think he's probably figured that out from what I already said. "There are things we can do about this. If we have to sleep together, we're going to have to have some separation, like me on top of the covers. And … dressed, like last night." He swallowed again, very uneasy with how much of a dangerous pervert this made him sound like. He tried to get a read on how Sylar was taking all of this. Nathan knew some of it, but Peter had never slept with him as an adult, after developing an active sex drive. A kid's adorable snuggling up to you and murmuring in his sleep became a lot less attractive in a fully grown man.
XXX
It was about this time some part of Sylar (or God forbid, Nathan) started to realize this would make an excellent alibi for when Peter did grope him: 'But I was asleep!' Since that was in play, Sylar tuned out most of it, except the parts about separation by clothes or bedding. It made sense but Sylar didn't think it was necessary. (It's not like I've ever slept with anyone. I don't know what I'm like…Should I tell him that? If I fuck it up, it will be over. He's…making an effort here). "Okay," he said simply, hoping to not only cease the rush of admissions/confessions and to give his own input. "I don't know what I do when I sleep. I don't have as many…" he trailed off and reconsidered what he was going to say, which basically amounted to 'I know who and where I am and I'll remember things better without my abilities.' "I don't have my abilities. I already told you what not to do when I have…disturbances." Very much Sylar hoped that his nightmares' record with sleeping with Peter was steady because otherwise it would get embarrassing quickly and he didn't need to be more vulnerable than he already was. May I eat now? He held Peter's eyes until he was cleared to disengage and focus elsewhere.
XXX
Peter nodded, reciting what he remembered of Sylar's directions to show he had paid attention and give an opportunity for Sylar to correct him if he was wrong. "If you're having a nightmare, I don't touch you. Use a pillow or something else to wake you up then." He thought, but Sylar didn't seem to have as many issues with sleeping. Aside from the big one – that he needed someone sleeping with or near him. "And … I should never touch your head." He looked down, his lips drawing together as he wondered if Sylar's prohibition on that was due to Sylar cutting open heads, Peter forcing out his memories, or something done to him by the Company. The answer is probably 'all of the above'. "As far as that sort of thing goes," he said quietly, "I'd really prefer if you didn't point at me, or at least, not at my head."
XXX
Sylar tilted his head. For someone who's lived through as much as he has, he still thinks death is the worst thing that can happen to him. "I don't point at your head, I point at your face," he clarified, mostly to himself. It was mild but a little defensive. If I pointed at your head, you'd know it. And in Sylar's book, powerless pointing was better than violence. It was an acknowledgement though, the best he could safely give. He didn't know how successful he would be in that endeavor because Nathan pointed far more than Sylar (who was aware of what the gesture meant) and what was left of the senator was…unpredictable.
XXX
Peter stared at Sylar for a moment, thinking about the pointing incident that had last upset him. It had been right here at this very table, with Sylar not pointing at Peter's head, but merely at a glass which was directly in line between Sylar's finger and Peter's head (or face, if you wanted to be ridiculously pedantic). He looked down and curled his lips inward, biting at them to keep from saying anything – 'It doesn't matter!' 'You know what I meant!' and 'I don't fucking care what you thought you were pointing at!' He exhaled and looked at Sylar's bowl, then his own, his lips pursed. Don't argue with him over breakfast. Just don't. Yesterday went fine because we didn't talk about anything. Just leave it. He glanced up at Sylar to say, "Alright," like the word was dragged between his teeth by force.
He finished eating, then stared into the middle distance, off to the side. After a moment, he realized it might be helpful to share his plans with Sylar, rather than expecting the guy to figure it out as they went along. "I was thinking," he said, refocusing on his companion, "that we're going to end up back here tonight." Peter scratched at the back of his neck, still uncomfortable about the 'sleeping together' thing. But there seemed nothing to be done about it at the moment. Odd dreams aside, the night had gone fine. "So we need to go out and get some food for this place. I'd like to swing by the storefront I was working on the other day and take another look at the settings, maybe measure some things off. I don't have a measuring tape … I'm sure the hardware store has one. So maybe food first, come back here, unload, then back to the hardware store and the storefront?"
XXX
Everything but the sleeping sounded like a lot of effort, manageable only if conversation and helping were minimal and fighting was nonexistent. Sylar glanced up, "Okay," he said and went back to eating.
XXX
Peter nodded. "Okay. Before any of that, though, I'm going to go downstairs and work out, then across to clean up at my apartment. We can meet up later downstairs. I'll probably be a couple hours." He glanced at Sylar's bowl, this time keeping his ass planted until Sylar was done – no more shorting Sylar on his meals just because Peter wanted to move around the room. He asked, "How are your toes doing? I want to take a look at them before we go anywhere."
XXX
Sylar blinked at him. He made another mess in his apartment? Is he only neat around me? No…he licks utensils…Sylar eyed his spoon, nearly finished with his oatmeal. He left that alone as there was nothing to be done about it now. He flexed his socked foot; still seated he made a walking motion with it to apply pressure. "They're…They'll be fine." I wish you'd take a look at something else more hands on…He couldn't help the look he cast over Peter's bodily profile, even while sitting. His spoon was set in his bowl. "Do you want to do it now?" Sylar was internally smug at his own innuendo, boosting his mood and some of his blood flow.
XXX
Peter did a double-take at the way Sylar was looking at him. There was desire there, smoldering in Sylar's eyes. Uh … huh. Peter's brows climbed slightly and he didn't look away, didn't back down. And I might be in bed with this guy tonight? "Finish your breakfast," he said, his tone a dare. I guess I should be happy he's feeling good enough to start shit. I will wear his ass out if I need to. We'll see how he is after a full day.
XXX
For a moment their eyes held until Peter made his command. Sylar grinned widely, very amused and pleased with himself (and Peter) at having been caught. "I'm done," he said, and it was true.
XXX
Peter made a pointed look in Sylar's bowl, rolled his eyes slightly at the remaining couple of bites and rose. "I'll go wash my hands." It wasn't necessary, but it was habitual and more importantly, it got him away from Sylar for a few needed moments while Peter marshaled his patience and metaphorically put his nurse-hat on. Scrubbed up, he returned and went to one knee next to Sylar's left side. "It's this one, right?" By now, his tone was clear and neutral. He looked to Sylar for affirmation before touching him.
XXX
Before you touch my feet? Whatever, Peter. Sylar turned in his seat, elbow on the table as he awaited instructions. It surprised him when Peter approached him at the table – he'd thought they examination would take place somewhere more comfortable and less subservient for Peter. Like the bed? "Uh, yeah, yes." He raised the leg to elevate the foot.
XXX
Peter pulled the sock loose carefully. He started by tugging to loosen the sock on the top of the foot and then on the sole, then peeled it down over the heel before pinching it up on the sole and pulling off and upwards so as not to stress the toes. He cupped the heel of Sylar's foot with his left hand. He took a moment to review the body part in question, looking especially at the toes relative to one another for size and discoloration. He gently brushed off stray sock-lint from Sylar's sole before pronating the foot to watch the flex of tendons and movement of bones. "If there's any displacement, I'm not seeing it. That's a good thing. Which ones are bothering you?" He was fairly sure of which ones (after all, Sylar had told him before, but Peter been concussed at the time and as far as that went, so had Sylar), but he still asked for confirmation, looking up.
XXX
"The index and middle," Sylar pointed. His big toe hurt on the end, but it didn't bother him to walk or run.
XXX
Peter took the pinkie toe between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, squeezing lightly on the joint where the toe joined the foot. He shifted his left hand to bring his thumb and fingertips into contact so he could better feel it if Sylar tensed. This little piggy went to market, he thought as he moved up a joint, squeezing gently on the next knuckle and manipulating it up and down. He looked up at Sylar to check for any pain reaction, then moved on to the next toe. He skipped the mentioned index and middle without so much as touching them, repeating his check on the big toe. Human curiosity made him want to check the others, too, but messing with something until it hurt was a guaranteed way to hurt. Sylar said they pained him and without an x-ray machine, that was all Peter had to go on. Well, that and the very faint bruising he could see around the ends and the knuckles. He set the foot back on the floor and offered Sylar his sock.
XXX
He watched Peter work, soaking in the attention and care at such close quarters. His caretaking companion was very gentle, almost unduly so, in handling his foot. It bordered on ridiculous, but it was wonderful – warm, careful hands holding his heel like it was fragile. Peter checked his face a few times; Sylar had no need to signal anything so he didn't, wondering if that was the right response. He was disappointed when the nurse didn't replace his sock.
XXX
"They look okay. Let me know if they start hurting you more as they day goes on. You took your painkillers, right?" Peter looked around, checking for the bottle. He set it in front of Sylar and took away the bowls and utensils.
XXX
I won't get hooked on these, will I? he thought as he swallowed the usual dose. "I can walk," he insisted, standing to back it up and begin helping with cleaning up the butter, syrup and jelly.
XXX
"I know, but there's no reason to tough it out." Peter rinsed the dishes and set them aside. "I'm going to go work out and clean up. I'll be back in a few hours."
XXX
"What am I supposed to do?" I should shower, that's what he's probably going to go do. Why can't he shower here? Just because Peter said (not promised) he would return, and he had nearly every time, didn't mean Sylar was happy or comfortable with the separation. It would seem empty and cold without Peter here. He would need different, new reasons, other than the truthful paranoia that Peter would not return, to keep the man with him.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a surprised look. Since when am I in charge of how you spend your time? His mouth opened to say that (and probably in a sharp tone), but he remembered Sylar crying on his knees, asking Peter to take it all away – everything. And again, in the hospital nailed to the plywood, trying to order Peter to kill him. Am I stuck here because he won't let me go? Has the carnival … Emma … everything already happened and I'm trapped in Sylar's head forever because he doesn't want to be alone? Peter's brows pulled together in an expression that was concerned, both for the life he might be missing and the genuine need Sylar's clinginess demonstrated.
"Um." He cleared his throat, tilting his head in uncertainty as he tried to feel his way through the new role being thrust upon him. He wasn't rejecting it; he was just unfamiliar with it. Peter didn't know what to make of that much responsibility. "Whatever you want - you could clean up, read, take a nap. I'm just going to be downstairs at first …" He trailed off, not wanting to invite Sylar to work out with him, but not wanting to disinvite him either. Peter was fine with Sylar being in the rec room if it made him happy to be where he could hear Peter.
XXX
"Oh," he replied to the undesirable answer. It was the unfortunate side effect of being 'sick,' which is what he was after all. As Peter went about doing the dishes, Sylar tried, "Am I allowed to take showers now?"
XXX
"Allowed?" This time he couldn't stop himself from blurting. "Yes," he answered after a beat, not sure if he should let Sylar put him in a position of being responsible for what the other man did. "I would think you'd rather go down the street to your place, though. One of the things I want to get while we're out shopping is shampoo, razors and stuff, for here. I don't know about you, but I don't remember liking the stuff that was in here."
XXX
Sylar shrugged, "They're fine for me." It was sort of a lie but he didn't feel like trekking over the ice back to his apartment for hair product. He began to unbutton his shirt. He peeled it off, letting it fall from his shoulders and into his hand. "I'll see you later," he rumbled a sort of invitation, now standing shirtless in front of Peter. He looked him in the eye for a moment before he turned and walked to the bathroom. He was arrogant enough to demand Peter's attention and to assume he had it until he disappeared into the hall.
XXX
Peter watched as Sylar undressed, alarm warring with … interest? curiosity? something, but his throat was dry and his eyes kept flicking between Sylar's fingers and face. Is he just going to strip right here? What the hell is he doing?! But no, it was just the shirt. He swallowed as Sylar turned and headed off. For a moment Peter looked back to the sink, but he was done. He looked back at Sylar's retreating form, calling out, "Close the door this time!" Then shook his head. He didn't know why he cared, given that he was leaving anyway, but care he did. The guy was scandalously good-looking, which was inconvenient as hell. Peter shook his head again and went out, shutting the front door firmly (but not slamming it) because he wasn't quite sure Sylar had clued that Peter wasn't sticking around.
XXX
Sylar rolled his eyes. Whatever, Peter! He mentally called back in response. It wasn't like doors were any protection against a motivated Petrelli. To make something of a point on multiple levels, he left the door open a crack. Despite the 'doctor's' okay, he went carefully in the shower. Has anything changed since I…lost my marbles in front of him? He thinks less of me. He won't break in, he won't…attack me, or so he says. So long as we don't talk about anything and so long as I don't say anything, we're fine. Is he still going to take my mind bit by bit? He wasn't thrilled to be left alone at all, but especially in the potentially dangerous bathroom where he was not visited; his thoughts were not good company. The shampoo wasn't great either.
XXX
Peter pushed himself fairly hard during his workout. He was tense, wound up by Sylar's open display of interest in him. It complicated things enormously, in ways Peter didn't want to think about. It would be easier to blow off if he hadn't been expecting to share such close quarters with him. The only thing he could think of was to tire Sylar out as much as possible without setting back his recovery, but that itself was such a fine line that it seemed impossible. I've done impossible things before. I'm here trying to do an impossible thing – getting Mr. Serial Killer to save people. But I don't have to deal with any of that right now. Right now I have to shower. Then we'll go get groceries. Who knows what else might happen? I won't get anywhere by worrying about it. He threw his sweat towel on the nearest bench and set off for his apartment and a hot shower. When he arrived back at the penthouse, he was clean, shaved, and felt human again. He knocked, waited for some signal of Sylar's awareness of him, and walked in when he got it. "Hey." Peter made a bob of his head at the door. "You ready to go?" He moved over to where he'd shed his cold weather gear the day before. He hadn't needed it for the short walk across the street to his apartment building, but he would for the grocery store. He gave everything a cursory check for dryness and started putting things on.