Day 34, January 12, Afternoon
Sylar tried for a wry grin. It was true, what Peter said. He wondered at how the attempts (and failures) at being good seemed to mean nothing no matter who made the attempt. Well, people at least noticed when Peter was a good boy. He watched his food carefully. Just in case.
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"I've told you about the cargo container, right? I got out of it when a bunch of guys broke it open in Cork, Ireland, thinking it was full of stuff they could fence. When they found me, they were angry, felt cheated, and thought I had to know something about where the stuff they'd come to steal had gone to. I didn't. I didn't know my name; didn't know I had powers. They took me back to a bar called the Wandering Rocks. And they … beat the crap out of me. There were three of them. They took turns. It didn't jog my memory." He sighed, remembering how Caitlin had cleaned him up and how much, how desperately, he'd bonded with her. A tiny smile flitted over his lips. "After they let me go, I slept in the back room on top of the liquor boxes, with some old clothes and a couple cast-off blankets. I didn't know where else to go for a while." Peter looked down at his feet. "Eventually, Elle showed up and fried the proprietor while I wasn't there. His name was Ricky."
He took the plate from under the warmer, getting a double layer of napkins to keep from burning his hand, and brought it out. He sniffed at it as he did. Burned meat. That's where the smell was coming from! 'Don't be an idiot' - like that's going to work. "Your plate, monsieur," Peter said, affecting an overdone French accent. He circled the bar and dug out a second beer (this one a popular American brand) before returning to his seat, where he could drink and eat chips while Sylar finished his meal next to him. Peter poked at the now cold mushrooms on his plate, experimenting with putting them on the salty potato chips. They were fine that way. It was a taste combination he didn't think he'd ever had.
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Sylar accepted and adjusted his plate. "Thanks," he replied quietly, still thinking about the story. He tried not to examine why he wanted to beat the crap out of the people who'd hurt Peter and how someone getting fried to a crisp for it was fitting. Something wasn't making sense about it. "I get why you would stay if you had nowhere else to go, but why did they let you stay? Why did they let you go if they thought you had their stock?
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Peter poked around in the foil bag, devoting more attention to selecting his next chip than necessary as a way of avoiding looking at Sylar. "There was … a girl," he said with difficulty, his throat giving him trouble all of a sudden. He took a drink of beer and focused on his breathing for a few long moments.
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Ah. Even that much sufficed and Sylar let it drop, but eventually Peter continued.
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"She … cleaned me up after they were done. She was friendly. She was ..." He took another drink because he needed it. "She was the first friendly thing I knew – after weeks in the container, then … them, and their questions that I couldn't answer. Good cop, bad cop, maybe, but you know," he looked to Sylar for validation, "when you don't have anything else …? Anyway, after they left me alone for a while, I phased out of the ropes that were holding me. I started to leave out the back, but there was a commotion going on in the front. The guys who'd passed them the information for the heist were in the bar, wanting their money, their cut, whatever. Of course it wasn't there, but she was, alone. I heard the guys threaten her."
Peter took another drink. At this rate, he was going to need a third beer fast. That probably wasn't a good idea, so he went back to shuffling the chips around. "I went back. I ran them off. And then … I stayed."
He waited, but Sylar didn't seem to have anything to say in response. Peter went on to explain the embarrassing but fairly harmless part of the story. "They, uh … once they knew I had powers, they brought me along on a heist and had me help them hold up an armored van." He grimaced. "I mean I helped them rob the van. I didn't hold it up. I just spun it around, actually." He waved a hand loosely. "Telekinesis, but I didn't know what I was doing at the time. It was all coming on instinct."
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"And after that?" Sylar pressed, only somewhat interested. Nathan didn't know any of this.
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Peter wanted to say there wasn't much to tell. But there was, and it ended badly for nearly everyone. Only Tuko got away unscathed. And maybe Will, but he didn't know that for sure. "They never found the stuff they were looking for in the shipping yard. I think it was a bunch of iPads or iPods or something like that. One of Ricky's guys, his name was Will, tried to steal the money from the armored car robbery. I read his mind, though, and stopped him. He shot me a few times and took off. After that, Ricky seemed to think I was something special." Peter gave Sylar a crooked smile. "Then the Company came looking for me." He was quiet for a long period before adding, "Ricky sent me down the street to his sister's place. She was the one who'd cleaned me up, took my side, thought I was special in a … more real way. Elle killed Ricky."
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Sylar's head tilted. Of course you're special. But Peter said it like being special was…something special and Sylar understood that, or at least, he thought he did. How interesting they had that, of all things, in common. Shameless flattery came to mind. It frequently worked on insecure specials after all and most were too stupid to see it for the dangerous seduction it was. Peter had said as much but now it made sense! His thoughts were entirely inappropriate for the conversation, even as a passive audience, but excitement was hard to contain when he'd just stumbled onto the key to sex. It took him a moment to drag his thoughts up, filthy from the gutter. "What did you do about that?"
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Peter shifted uncomfortably on his stool, trying to think of a polite way to end the conversation. He knew he wasn't coughing up the important part, the part he needed to explain a lot more than why he hadn't gone after Elle or whatever it was Sylar was implying he should have done. He turned his head to look anxiously at the door to the back room, then reached over to Sylar and manhandled his deltoid some, wanting to touch. He blurted out, "Sylar, I left someone to die!"
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Sylar was doing a horrible job of proving Peter's 'freezing up on contact' comment wrong. Okay, okay, okay! He leaned away quickly, eyes wide with surprise, fully expecting to have a Peter-induced 'accident' at the bar. Not my head! he whined to himself. But there was no pressure and hardly any grip, so he remained seated and intact. Sylar adjusted himself to look like he'd been shifting his weight. Right. Change my face to look surprised at his words not his action. What was he talking about? "Ricky?" Sylar frowned, confused by that train of logic.
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Peter's voice rose, frustrated by Sylar freaking out over the touch and not getting how upset he was over this. "No, Caitlin!" He frowned and quieted back to conversational. "Though I suppose I did for him, too. Just with him, I didn't know. All I knew about Elle was just that she was someone asking around about me. It didn't seem like that big a deal or I never would have left." He shifted again, fighting against the urge to call a time-out and refuse to talk about it further. He didn't want to do that. He couldn't even hide behind the concern that telling Sylar would endanger people – they were all dead or lost.
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"Who is Caitlin?"
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"She was Ricky's sister."
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"Okay…What happened to her?" Peter seemed both eager and reluctant to talk about this. Given the recent random explosion(s) that Sylar was currently investigating (naughty detours aside), he should have been tried to be more…understanding or something, lest Peter lose it again. I thought killing people was off limits…Guess that's just when I do it, huh?
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Peter reached out and pushed his empty beer bottle, desperate for another one. "This would have to be one of my versions of hell, Sylar. To be trapped somewhere with you and have to tell you the worst things I've done in my life, the things I most regret, the times when I made decisions that hurt people and they weren't mistakes because I knew how it would turn out when I made my decision, but I made it anyway. Those are the times when I wonder if I ended up doing what my dad would have thought was right." He shook his head. "I didn't do what was right – what I thought was right. I know that, but I didn't know what else to do!"
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"Fine! Then don't tell me! I don't care! It sounds just like my hell!" Sylar fired back without totally thinking about Peter's sins he'd like to hear confessed before changing his tone, "But when you go batshit crazy on some random room, I need to know why!" There was no finishing the burger after this, the various ups-and-downs, the threat of attack and head trauma were churning his guts.
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Peter's brows drew together as Sylar's voice became emphatic – the man had his complete attention. Peter was aware they were close, physically – he'd seen closer adjoining stools in bars, but if this turned bad, it was going to be bad. They were within elbowing distance of each other as it was. It registered as a danger, but for the moment, he ignored it and hoped they could get through close-quarters emotional venting without someone getting slugged or at least pushed around.
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Sylar huffed, trying to regain his composure. He managed only a so-so job. In a calmer but no less passionate voice, he began again. "Not that you care or that you asked, but don't think that killing someone is the worst thing you can do to them, Peter. The things you do to a living person are the worst; you know, gutting their soul and their mind! And then you tell them to keep living, or maybe you don't." Sylar cruelly mentioned the man's suicide comment and general desire to have Nathan replace him.
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Peter tilted his head and frowned, getting that Sylar was talking about what had been done to Sylar and not anything to do with Cork or Peter's recent outburst. It sounded like he was blaming Peter for the entire Nathan thing, start to finish. His frown deepened and he pulled his head back, brow relaxing a little and eyes narrowing. This is coming out now? Well, it probably needed to come out anyway.
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"Killing can be a mercy sometimes. You do it to animals, children, the elderly, the sick. Killing, death, is usually quick and final and there's no pain after for people who don't regenerate. It's not like anyone blames you for any of it. Death just happens, sometimes, Peter, and you can't fucking avoid it." With a heartfelt and gentler delivery, he nearly implored, "So…please….grow up."
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Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out with a forceful exhale. His lips were a tight line, almost a scowl. He had a lot he could say about death in general, Nathan's in specific, and Sylar's lack of it. But he didn't, not for the moment. Avoiding the death of anyone present seemed more important. So he put the chip bag on his plate, picked it up with one hand and his empty beer bottle with the other, and slid off the stool to carry them wordlessly into the kitchen. When he came back a few seconds later, he stopped at the end of the bar and leaned on it in a bad attempt to look relaxed. "How do you want me to respond to that?"
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Fuck. Sylar could tell that hadn't gone over well. He watched carefully in case it looked like Peter was leaving, walking out. There would surely be repercussions even if he did stay and Sylar resigned himself to that. He was disappointed as to the whole thing. Sylar looked up at the question, surprised at it and even more miserable because of the question itself. "I don't know," he admitted in a mildly frustrated, vulnerable, disappointed tone.
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"Let's go back to the immediate thing. Yes, I went batshit over a room, but it wasn't random to me. Most of this place," he waved his arm generally to indicate the world, "seems to be about you – your memories, your places. Your apartment, but not mine. This is the first thing I've run into, other than palm trees, that seems to be about me. I can feel it, this place, this entire world, creeping up on me, especially when you're not around. That bottle I grabbed first was bottled in Cork. That room was laid out …" He pointed towards the back of the place, towards the room in question. "You know, maybe it was coincidence and I'm making a lot out of nothing, but it was close enough to make me think reality was slipping or something. And you know I don't think this place is real the same way you do." He swallowed and looked away. "Okay, maybe kicking the crap out of some boxes wasn't the most mature way to deal with it, but I didn't take it out on you, or myself, and it's easier to fix than that storefront."
Peter grimaced and gestured at the remains of Sylar's burger. "Go ahead and finish. I'll find a mop and get started." He walked off into the kitchen, fairly sure he'd seen a yellow, rolling mop bucket near the sink. I'll need that and a trash can. I can just throw the whole box away, since it's not like anyone's going to mind losing a few quarts of bourbon.
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This was the simple if not brief explanation he'd been looking for. Listening to the backstory was fine, possibly helpful to Peter, but it wasn't what he'd really been after. Even better, it made sense, a lot of it. Of course he'd noticed he hadn't been hit or otherwise hurt in the process of Peter's fit. Sylar opened his mouth to say as much but Peter was moving away. He shut his mouth for a second then opened it again to say that Peter didn't have to clean the room then thought better of it. So Sylar was left with the burger and beer, still sullen and concerned he'd hacked Peter off once more but he obeyed. Reality creeps up on him, too. Most of the world is about me. Huh.
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The mop bucket with mop was where Peter had remembered it. He rolled it into the back room. The first order of business was getting rid of the wet, kicked-in, leaking box. There was no way to do it without getting bourbon all over him. He carried it out without coat or gloves, tossing it in the dumpster. Back inside, he gingerly picked up the scattered pieces (sparing a moment to hate on glass a bit more) and put them in the trash. He looked at the dry mop and empty bucket, realizing he'd forgotten a step. It was back to the kitchen with the thing rolling along noisily behind him. He got water, added dish soap for good measure, and returned. He mopped, only to find he couldn't operate the wringing mechanism one-handedly. Or at least, he couldn't figure out how to do it – there might be a way, but Peter had never mopped a floor with anything more complicated than a Swiffer. This huge, dread-locked, industrial-strength mop and thick, yellow, commercial bucket with a lever-actuated squeezer was unfamiliar to him. Well, gravity still worked, so he let it drip between rinsings and succeeded in getting the liquor off the floor and replacing it with a lot of water. He recovered the blankets he'd thrown around in his earlier fit and used them to sop it up. Finding the sweatshirt, he paused and fingered the knotted strings that hung from the hood. Even through the mixed scents of the room, he knew the garment would smell like her. He'd worn it when they went to the beach. She'd told him about Cuchulain and how he'd gained his power from others. Peter threw out the wet, dirty blankets along with his bourbon-soaked shirt.
Clad in the grey hoodie now, Peter rolled the mop to the kitchen and put it away. He washed his hands and returned to Sylar's side, getting that third beer now and sliding back on his stool. He opened it and took a shallow draw. It was some kind of English honey lager. He didn't like it much. "I'd had the impression the deaths you'd caused weren't just … 'things that happened', but that they were things you'd done, on purpose, intentionally. That you went places and hunted people down so you could kill them," he took another drink of the surprisingly dry beer, "and take their abilities. Or," he said shrugging, "just kill them. Was it something else?"
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The grey hoodie was new. It looked soft and comfortable and it appeared to be all Peter was wearing for a shirt. Peter's words made him forget about it. Unfortunately. "Since you don't really want to talk about that, except to hear my reasons, I assume you're trying to make a point out of something. I have more than one reason for killing people – abilities, just to kill them, both, yes."
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Peter frowned. That wasn't a useful answer, though he did click to the idea that Sylar thought Peter wanted to hear his reasons, yet he then wasn't giving them. Except to say he had a lot of them. 'Just to kill them' also stuck out like a sore thumb, but Peter left it alone for now. "Do you think you have any responsibility or blame for their deaths?"
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Sylar opened his mouth then shut it. He had several reactions to that and it took him a moment to sort them properly. "Yes and no." It was simple and straightforward even in his delivery. His voice was gaining a tone of 'where are you going with this?' but he still answered truthfully and without troublesome specifics.
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Christ! This is impossible. Is he not going to actually answer anything?! "Do you think killing them was a mercy then?"
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Sylar exhaled through his nose quick, darkly amused but not. "I didn't do it for mercy. I killed one person out of mercy and spared others for the same reason." He shrugged, unable to recall all the outliers as quickly as he would like to determine his motives for each death. "There is a difference between death and being put to death, if that's your point, even though the end result is the same. I was…talking about both earlier. I guess the saying 'people are killed all the time' is maybe a better way to put it."
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Who was that one person, then? Peter gave Sylar the biggest frowny face he could with it still being serious. He's not being sarcastic. He's just … stubbornly not answering anything, and he doesn't even look like he's doing it intentionally. Peter drew in a deep breath, still staring at Sylar like he was trying to will the right words to come out of the man's mouth. I can be angry about this, or not. He let the breath out and shook his head slowly. His frown turned to a sardonic smile and he reached out, turning his arm so as to put his forearm to Sylar's shoulder. He jostled him – a deliberate contact because he had the impression Sylar didn't like it or was bothered by Peter touching him. Maybe he had a variant of that weird tingle Peter got sometimes when they touched – Peter didn't know, but he gave him a shake anyway, hoping to annoy him in the same manner he annoyed Peter.
"That was completely unhelpful," Peter said, crossing his forearms on the bar and resting his forehead on them. Head still down, Peter lamented, "If I were trying to tell you what I did on a normal day at work, it wouldn't be a bunch of 'it depends' or 'never the same thing' or 'yes and no' if you had asked about something specific." He sat up and reached for the beer. "You're frustrating, Sylar," he pronounced, drinking some more. "And this beer sucks." He looked over at Sylar's. "Is yours any better? Is that still your first one?" Am I drunk? On two and a half beers with a meal, I doubt it. He sighed, not caring too much about Sylar's answers. Tipsy maybe. It would be interesting if I was a lightweight in this world, or if all the alcohol was way stronger here than in the real world.
"I don't want to talk about anything else." He got up and went to fetch his coat, pulling on his gloves and sulking about the whole thing.
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Sylar heaved a sigh. "I don't mean to be frustrating. Sometimes you don't seem to understand what you're asking. It's complicated. You told me not to talk about that, so I don't. For the most part," he amended, standing after the other man. There was more he could say about it, other questions he could ask, but he held back because Peter wasn't interested and he'd all but requested that Sylar shut up.
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Peter stopped in the middle of pulling on the cut glove that fit over his brace. Of all the times to pull the 'you told me not to talk about that' card! Is he just messing with me? "I'm asking you to tell me now."
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Sylar watched him for a moment more. Peter was across the room. Of course, that hadn't been a deterrent before…"Alright. Ask the questions again."
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Peter tugged off the glove and stuffed it back in his pocket. "The people you've killed – did you kill them on purpose, intentionally? You hunted them down so you could kill them and take their abilities? That was your decision?"
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"Yes, I kill people intentionally most of the time. Sometimes I have to defend myself but…that's an argument all to itself. Yes, I hunt them. I want their ability. They don't want it or won't use it or they hate themselves. They don't see how special they are so I take it and I use it how it should be used. I take it away from useless people; I make it special. Maybe that's a mercy, I don't know. Half the time death isn't the point, I just want the ability and death is a side effect. I kill them because I'm angry and they're lives aren't worth more than mine – that's how people treat me. People, like you, take notice. Killing…taking abilities, gives me purpose. And people want me for that purpose because I'm useful and good at what I do." Sylar didn't look away from Peter's eyes the whole time; delivered his reasons calmly, logically, then waited.
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'People, like me, take notice.' What does that mean? But first Peter wanted answers to what he'd asked earlier. "Do you feel responsible for their deaths?"
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Sylar inhaled. "I told you it's complicated…Yes, in the sense that I take life, I plan it, I intend it, sometimes I desire it and sometimes I don't. I've…I had to get over the part of me that…couldn't handle the killing." He looked away now, licking his lips, focused more on his own thoughts and feelings, the memories, too. "I understand other people's arguments but I reject them. Do I feel responsible? Not particularly. Death is a part of life, the food chain, and all that. No, I'm not responsible because it isn't…black and white. I've been pushed and tempted and manipulated into killing. It wasn't my intention to ever kill people, I would have preferred not to but I have to deal with it now that I do. I don't rule out the…extenuating circumstances of my past or the 'what-if' variables even if it's just wishful thinking. That's not what you want to hear but that's how I see it and I know I'm alone in seeing it that way, so we…usually default to your moral hero's way of things." Sylar tried for a smile.
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Peter met Sylar's attempted smile with narrowed eyes and head pulled back. If he looked like he was judging Sylar, that was probably because he was, or at least was trying to. Everything was yes and no at the same time, which sort of made sense. Being a serial killer was a dangerous, antisocial activity to pursue, so that Sylar had reasons for and against wasn't surprising. "You've thought about this. Are you okay with who and what you are? And what did you mean earlier about how people like me take notice – take notice of what?"
"I know that's not really a fair question about what you're okay with. But it seems to me like you're okay with it on one hand, but then not on the other, so I want to know more about where you're coming from there." His voice was hard and clear, brows drawn together, and watching Sylar closely with a tiny tilt of inquiry to his head. Peter moved a couple steps closer, but was still most of half the bar away from him.
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Sylar's eyes snapped to Peter with suspicion but he tempered his expression until it was hidden. "Of course I'm okay with everything, who I am and what I am. I made myself, didn't I? I mean, what happens if I'm not okay with myself and what I've done? Are you…" Here, Sylar turned and slid from his stool with smooth motions, approaching Peter casually, "going to help me?" he asked that with pleading sarcasm, applying his wide-eyed innocence that seemed to sucker Peter right in every time even as he grasped at the man's coat lapels as if helpless.
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Peter took a half step back as Sylar approached. For a moment, he thought he was about to get throttled even though that didn't mesh with anything else that was going on – words or expressions. Nothing was making sense. Sylar was going from resolute and determined, content with his past and trying to calmly explain it, to slinking across the room with an out-of-place innocence and then grabbing at him. His hands came up and off to the sides as he waffled between leaning away and letting Sylar do whatever it was he was doing. Mostly, Peter just stood there and looked surprised.
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"No; you never believed that anyway, did you? You know exactly what I am." Sylar sidled up to the shorter man closer still. "I enjoy walking on the dark side, I'm not good with temptation. I like the power, the control; I do it for the fucking release! You respect the abilities even if you think I'm an abomination; you notice. Maybe you know how much I love…" he grasped Peter's right hand, mostly covered in the brace. It would be easy to gain compliance with this in his grip, although it was light for now and the man's left hand was free to strike. "…I love getting hit on by heroes." Sylar raised the hand to his mouth and licked, wet and hot, across all the empath's knuckles, purring, "Maybe this is my kink; maybe I'm just playing nice."
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What the hell? Had Peter been less startled by the whole thing, he would have been provoked by the suggestion Sylar got off on killing people. When Sylar grabbed his hand, he didn't react at first. Then, Wait, what are you doing? "Stop it!" Peter tried to pull away. Sylar's grip tightened. Is he going to bite me? But no, it was just a lick – disgusting – and making Peter want to rise up on tip-toes with tension. Teeth bared, his left hand went to Sylar's right shoulder, shoving him.
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Sylar weathered the push, stepping back and then adjusting his balance forward right after, admonishing with a teasing tone, "You broke the bed in the back, Peter…That's okay. We don't need a bed."
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Peter's eyes went to his right hand. It was securely caught. At the moment Sylar had took it, Peter hadn't been thinking he needed to oppose the grip. He'd just been glad creepy-Sylar had let go of his coat. But now, Sylar was holding it hostage. Since Peter wasn't inclined to allow that (and he might have had he any idea of why Sylar was doing this), it translated to a need for getting free as quickly as possible. Jerking, twisting, and anything else that involved trying to get his hand free directly would be painful. That left the option of making this behavior too expensive for Sylar to continue. Fortunately, he didn't seem to be doing much in the way of defense. It occurred to Peter that might be intentional – all of this made sense if he assumed Sylar was trying to goad him into attacking him. But either way, Peter wanted loose.
He punched Sylar in the throat.
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Peter hit him all right, just not where Sylar expected it – then again, when did Peter ever do what anyone expected? Sylar released the hand at once. He could have held on but his purpose had been fulfilled and the empath was very likely to escalate. He allowed the instinct to clutch his throat as he coughed over the initial pressure. Goddamnit, Petrelli! Goddamn, Petrelli! It angered him because Peter refused to play along, obey the rules and nearly every strike he made was aimed to cause major damage. I'm playing by his fucking rules and he's not playing anything at all. Every time I try to talk, I get hurt – what the hell?! I was trying to help! He wouldn't have minded so much if the other man would tone it down, even so, he couldn't really complain about the location, severity or intent of the blows. In this case, Peter clearly wanted him to shut up. The rest of his recovery was spent massaging his throat to check that it fucking worked, hacking and wheezing for air in a surely dignified manner. Everything worked, though it would hurt to speak. The growl he wanted to make was going to be delayed.
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Peter hustled backwards as fast as possible, getting to the door and knocking it open. He stopped there in the partly open doorway with cold air at his back, huffing, nose wrinkled, and watching Sylar. He didn't think he'd hurt him very badly. It wasn't like he'd had much of a wind-up for the blow, but it was a delicate part of the body. He waited to see what would happen next, a little surprised that Sylar wasn't pushing the fight.
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He could still glare, though, so he did. Sylar rasped with feeling, "You're frustrating, too." In so many ways. This must be how men indicate attraction to other men: hitting the back of the head, throat, strangling, kicking the knee. 'Love taps,' right? From that point, he didn't know what was going to happen. Did they both continue on, go home, or was Peter leaving by himself, one foot out the door already? The immediate concern was Peter's return to the shared bed tonight.
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Peter quirked a brow, rolled his eyes, and tilted his head in a wordless, 'Yeah, I probably am' gesture. Sylar could clearly breathe and speak. Those were good signs, but they didn't preclude the possibility of swelling. Peter let the door shut behind him and suggested, "You should put some ice on that. Go get one of those bags of food from the freezer. Use it."
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If Sylar could have sighed, he would have, but he followed the directions, going into the kitchen and digging out a baggie of pre-cut carrots. He hits me, then he tries to help. What's that syndrome called, the hostage one? He expects me to go along with it, whatever it is. It was frustrating only to get half (if that) of what he wanted every time. "It'll be cold enough outside," he grumbled. He felt shaky, shaken, weak after the conversation. Being punched was both painful, emotionally, and helped him normalize as he wondered why Peter had to do things the way he did. (I hate myself. How is that not obvious? Does he know?) Because he'll kill us and make things worse if he knew. I had to distract him. (I just want to sit here for a while). On the kitchen floor? That's pathetic. (Then that's how I feel. Pathetic). Dutifully he kept his face close to neutrally blank as he pressed the cold bag to his throat. At least it meant the mini-fight was over. "What now?" Sylar asked into the too-quiet silence.
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Peter had followed Sylar, somewhat, when the other man went in the kitchen. What that meant was Peter kept most of the width of the bar between them, but angled to keep an eye on him through the service counter. When Sylar returned, Peter didn't have to stoop and juke to keep line of sight. In answer to his question, Peter said with a wry smile, "Well … standard first aid training would dictate I have you lie down, relax, and slow your breathing for the next fifteen to twenty minutes while we let the ice pack work and I keep a close eye on you. The danger is that swelling might constrict blood vessels and cause you to black out unexpectedly. But I'm not sure if you'd put up with that as a treatment, or if I'd put up with how you might put up with me. So how about we compromise and we'll both sit on the floor. Okay? It's not nearly so far to fall, if it comes to that."
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Sylar's expression was highly dubious, but Peter already guessed his response to that. "I am not going to fall down," he complained and dismissed the idea, frowning about it. I did mention a bed and the floor.
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"The other option is that we go home," Peter said, which came out as more of an ultimatum than he intended. Certainly he was already mentally vetoing the rest of the trip. He assumed it was early afternoon, the place wasn't in sight, and then they'd have to get back … all in the frigid air and short amount of remaining daylight. Plus, Peter's morale was flagging. If his was, he assumed Sylar's was worse.
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"Alright, fine," Sylar huffed. He came around the corner of the bar and sat somewhat close to the stools. Peter was the most interesting thing here so Sylar observed him because he could. This could get more awkward or it could be comforting, sitting, on the floor, with nothing else to do.
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Peter sidled closer before folding his legs to sit so-called Indian style on the floor. He was now only about ten feet away, which was still an odd distance to be from someone you were friends with, and unwisely close to someone you didn't trust. "One nice thing about this place is that it's pretty germ-free as far as I can tell. 'Sterile' has its advantages." He regarded Sylar as closely as he could from where he was at, looking at the guy's color. He doubted anything was seriously wrong or would become so, but he saw no reason to take the risk. Peter glanced down at his right hand, rubbing his left thumb over the knuckles where Sylar had licked him. He supposed the spittle was sterile, too, not that it was wet anymore. "What was all that about?"
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In a much better act of innocence, Sylar answered, "What was all what about?" That's another thing he does. He asks me endlessly why I do anything. I only ask him when it's important or makes no sense or I'm…bored or curious, but he wants to know the reasons why.
XXX
"I mean that … What you just did – that ... approach. Why?" Peter was a hair's breadth from asking what he'd done to provoke it, but that made it sound like he was at fault and he didn't feel he was. The more he thought about it, the more he thought Sylar had started the whole heavy-handed, over-the-top flirting specifically to get Peter to hit him, but the motivation for that was a mystery. Sylar didn't seem happy now, so maybe he'd expected something else?
XXX
Sylar shrugged. His interest was caught on Peter's thumb rubbing his just-licked knuckles – was that a gesture of disgust, 'get it off,' or was it…like a caress? The man himself was ambiguous enough that he discerned no answer. Probably disgust what with the mention of a sterile world. Goodie. I'm sterile so he's not freaking out about my germs. "I just wanted to. Obviously." I wanted to do more than that. It's not like I can just call time-out or stop to a conversation, not once he gets going. It's always a lose-lose, it just depends what I chose to do that will make me lose. He didn't know how that was going to be taken. "Is it supposed to feel like something's twisted?" he said of his neck. It was mostly neutral. His hands held the ice pack and adjusted his clothing to make his throat more visible and comfortable, offering himself up to see what Peter would do. It would make everything better if Peter would play nurse again.
XXX
"Your neck?"
XXX
"Yes." What else would be, Peter?
XXX
Well … he didn't know what it meant to feel that way. With a beat of hesitation and a bevy of checking glances, Peter knee-walked the few steps over to him and knelt to one side and to the front of Sylar's right. It was the side he'd been hit on. Sylar was making only occasional eye contact, mainly looking away and letting himself be examined. Deciding it was safe, Peter draped the ice pack on Sylar's shoulder and looked at the area in question. He was pretty sure, from memory and the vasodilation, that he'd struck Sylar mostly on the side of the neck, the impact falling mainly against the sternocleidomastoid muscles. That Sylar could speak and swallow without much difficulty confirmed it. He touched the back of the fingers of his left hand lightly against what he judged to be the center of impact. "Here?"
XXX
Sylar made a happy noise, something of a hum, though disguised it as a groan of discomfort – he thought it was successful. "Right here…" he indicated the area, fingers brushing Peter's. It didn't feel great and it did feel somewhat twisted or crushed or something, he didn't know what.
XXX
"Hm," Peter said. He turned his hand to use fingertips, pressing them lightly for a few seconds against the stiffer skin above the area, which would be bristly as the day wore on, then over the smoother, softer skin where he'd struck, then under it. Nothing was throbbing or distended.
XXX
This was making up for everything. The touch was barely-there, but it was intentional and kind and skin-to-skin. Not wanting to seem weak, he rested his hands on Peter's forearms, not considering that it also kind of increased his neediness.
XXX
Peter jumped when Sylar touched him, just a little, more a start really. A wash of pins and needles through his extremities announced the flood of adrenalin that small contact had created. He looked down, taking a couple shallow breaths. But it didn't look like anything to be worried about. He took a deeper breath and let it out as he turned his attention back. "It's just localized here?"
XXX
"Yes. It's mostly where you hit me, that area," Sylar indicated it again. "I still feel pressure; it feels tight. It hurts my headache." You hurt me. What are you going to do about it? What am I going to do about it?
XXX
"Okay." Peter gently palpated the front of the throat, but everything seemed to be where it needed to be. The memory of choking Sylar ran through his mind. He glanced up at Sylar's face, remembering the guy waking and rubbing on him, just as he'd made a pass moments before. Was there a common factor in what they'd discussed before each of these? Peter had the feeling there was. "I think it's just the swelling." He replaced the ice pack. "Just hold that there for a while longer."
XXX
Sylar swallowed as the touch extended to his throat itself. It was just instinct but it probably made him look nervous. Their eyes met at almost the exact same moment, both of them likely thinking the same thing. It didn't look like Peter was uncomfortable…Sylar knew he was feeding off the attention, completely caught up in enjoying the other man's gaze on his person, on his skin. His throat was chilled because of the ice but Peter was warm. "Is that normal? What happens if it continues?"
XXX
"It's normal," Peter reassured, deciding not to address all the possibilities and alarm his patient. "You're going to be fine." But let's stay sitting down just in case. He scooted away, out of arm's length, but not so far away as he'd been sitting before. He watched Sylar speculatively, trying to draw a parallel between the previous 'we were talking about how Nathan died, and then he got mean like he wanted to piss me off' and the more recent 'we were talking about him killing people in general, and then he started another fight'. What about the other fights we've had, like the one at the storefront or the one in that kid's room? What were we talking about before those?