Day 52, January 31, Evening
Sylar walked for a while. It was the blood and gore on his hands and the sweat making him itchy and sticky in the uncomfortable cold that drove him to his apartment for a shower. This time, he'd been the one to walk away with barely any damage. Peter was a nurse and he'd take care of himself. It was exactly one of those brutal life lessons that Sylar, and sometimes Nathan, were familiar with. It was necessary for Peter to figure out that he was completely alone, that he needed Sylar, and he could no longer afford to fuck around with the closest thing to a person that he had. Why is Nathan so much better than me? Is Peter…brainwashed? Sylar frowned at that new line of thought but refocused at the sting of the shower water on his knuckles.
XXX
After a while, the pain receded enough for Peter to form a plan: he would go get his shoes, and then he would leave. It wasn't much of a plan, but he wasn't that good at planning anyway, or so he told himself, so it was probably best that it wasn't too complicated. He started crawling towards the wall. His eyes had swollen shut, but the wall did not seem like something that would be too difficult to find. When he reached it, he turned left. By the time he'd reached the corner of the room, he'd lost track of what he was looking for. A little more crawling brought him to the piano. He put his hands up the side to figure out what it was. It wasn't until his fingers hit a high note by depressing keys that he comprehended where he'd ended up.
I missed. The fucking wall. Little plan. Just a little one. And I couldn't do it. Not even that. Missed. Wrong way. Must have turned the wrong way. I'm such a fuck up. He collapsed into the corner between the piano and the wall, miserable and feeling so much self-loathing that it made him nauseous – or maybe that was from too many head shots. I like the piano. Where was I going, anyway? Might as well stay here. To die. Sleep. Whatever. None of it matters. I can't do anything right. Why would I be able to do that right, either? In a very vague way, he tried to use Matt's ability to leave, to get away, to shut everything out. The pain that blasted him was as bad as anything Sylar had landed on him. He doubled over, whimpering and then retching from it. No, no, no! He cringed into his corner, pawing at the side of the piano in a vain attempt to get away until the agony faded. Then he just rested there, struggling to breathe around a tongue swollen to fill his mouth and a nose clogged with blood. He panted, blind and aching and defeated by his own inability, depressed and utterly without hope or goal.
XXX
Sylar went about his routine, bandaging his knuckles the way Peter done so carefully before. I should count as a person to him, too, he remembered how important it was to Peter that he tend to him. Things are different here – he has to understand that. I need him and he needs me. I'm sick of being fucked over. A half peanut butter-jelly sandwich was his light dinner, his appetite gone as his thoughts jumped from unpleasant thing to unpleasant thing. His neediness was disgusting, stupid and pathetic after he'd won – he had no need to crawl back and sleep together with his enemy in their suite. He tried to read, stopping and staring, fidgeting. I should be content here, like this, with him. Why does nothing work? Sylar found himself worrying over everything. Tonight's nightmares consisted of a clock he couldn't fix and desperately needed to while everyone he knew hovered over him and tortured him with abuse, deprivation, and electricity because he had no usefulness.
XXX
From Peter's point of view, hours might have passed, or days. He'd never been sharply aware of the passage of time here in Sylar's world, not the way Sylar was, and now he was concussed and suffering head trauma. He was hungry and stiff and wretched. He wanted nothing more than to fall down a hole into insensibility. He wasn't even sure where he was. His confused mind threw up strange scenarios: He was in the cargo container. It was dark and he was chained to the wall, unable to move. His whole body ached, but especially his head. Or he was alone in the crashed airplane he'd been reading about so recently. He was starving and he'd smashed his face in the impact. Sylar was lurking outside, looking for victims. The only thing Peter had to eat was Nathan's corpse. He retched again at the thought. The last scenario was just as bizarre and unreal as the rest – he'd leaped into Sylar's mind and they had battled one another off and on for weeks, but Peter had lost everything and was now huddled in a corner of Sylar's brain. There, he wept over Nathan's passing. He would stay there until the end of time itself while his body rotted and decayed, forgotten in Matt's basement. In all of the possible situations, he was helpless and hopeless, consumed by pain and grief, unable to process or move forward. What consciousness he had kept running on a hamster wheel of doom, unable to step off the treadmill and think anything productive.
Day 53, February 1, Morning
The next morning, Sylar was ready, hungry (in case the invitation to eat arose), and curious. He wanted to be uncaring about Peter as it would make everything easier. He was weak and dependent and…couldn't benefit from it. So long alone continued to affect him at every turn. He went to the Pegasus on a misty, overcast day of biting cold. A lucky glance in at the rec room showed that Peter was there – still? again? Scowling at whatever was going on, he drew closer and tried not to smell both vomit and blood. When he came around the piano to see Peter, he grimaced. Peter's eyes were bruised and swollen shut; his nose and mouth had bled with a few cuts to his face; the floor, his shirt, and face was a crusted mess; his lip busted, and he wasn't reacting or moving, probably blissfully unconscious. Sylar's stomach wasn't happy (and neither was his nose), but he'd developed an iron constitution after cutting into brains. Peter looked like death and hell warmed over; he clearly hadn't moved all night. Well, this was his regularly scheduled, unavoidable wake-up call. Sylar nudged him with his foot. It garnered less of a response than he would like. "Peter," he said at normal volume.
XXX
He heard a voice. It said his name. Which reality am I in? Which timeline? Am I still in the plane? In Sylar's mind? Is the plane in Sylar's mind? Is the cargo container there, too? Something pushed on his leg and it stirred him out of his befuddled stupor. Peter literally peeled his face off the side of the piano, blindly turning in the direction of what instinct told him wasn't a friend. Alarm coursed through him as he finally began to take note of his horrible condition. He was defenseless. He raised his hand, but there was no saving bolt of electricity to drive off the intruder. He batted and kicked instead, then tried to wedge himself more firmly into the corner, turning his back to the threat and covering his head. His clothes, stiff with dried blood and worse, crunched as he moved. "Go 'way," he slurred, his tongue clumsy, huge, and painful in his mouth. I have never felt this awful for this long in my life – and things are about to get worse. It made him want to cry in frustration, if nothing else.
XXX
Peter…held out his hand like some kind of attack and after that devolved into a fit of attempts to fight Sylar off. It was only making his job more difficult. "Peter, knock it off." He grabbed Peter by the shoulders of his shirt (moderately clean as it was), too impatient to wait for the man to right himself, and instead, hauled with the intention of bringing him to his feet.
XXX
"No!" Peter tried to pull away from the hands that sought to move him. I have to fight! He kept his left hand up to protect his face and tried to use the right to shove at … whoever. Sylar, he assumed, but it could have been someone else. They might take me to the lab, or the plane … His legs were steadier than he thought they would be, although his ability to tell up from down wasn't working. He hit his hand on the wall or Sylar, recoiled violently from the pain into the side of the piano, and fell back to the floor. His chest heaved as it felt like the room was spinning. He switched hands, cursing himself for having forgotten which one needed to be protected. I can't do anything right!
XXX
Peter was acting like a complete child. Any little thing was setting off overreactions. "Get up, Peter. No- use your legs," he commanded, grabbing him this time under the armpits. Like a child. Did I hit a reset button on him yesterday or something? Why is he acting like this?
XXX
Peter tried to shove Sylar away one-handedly, but he was blind, Sylar was not giving up, and Peter was beginning to fear that he'd piss the guy off and get another beating. He could hear the irritation in Sylar's voice. It grated on Peter's ears and gave him a new spike of anxiety. It would be so easy for Sylar to hurt him and although Peter didn't fear death, he didn't want any part of more pain. "No," he tried again as he was forced to regain his feet, but this time his physical resistance was limited to uncooperative stiffness. There was a word … a word that meant something … "Stop," he said. It didn't make any sense that that word would help him with anyone, but he tried it anyway.
XXX
Finally, a word that made a bit more sense. He'd better not puke on me. Peter's bell had been thoroughly rung, so Sylar stayed put with his arms under Peter's, holding him up with the thought that Peter needed a minute for reasons unknown.
XXX
Everything stopped. Peter even held his breath for a few seconds, waiting … but yes, it had stopped! "Stop, stop," he repeated, both hopeful and inane, his voice weak with relief. As soon as he had his breath back, Peter reached out tentatively to touch at whatever portion of Sylar was closest. That seemed to be his chest. Didn't all this start with me reaching for his chest? He flinched and moved his hand up, finding a shoulder. He's tall. "Sylar," he said unnecessarily, but it made him feel good to have put a definite label to the person. He didn't hit me for touching him. (You mean he hasn't hit me again yet. I'm sure I didn't get beat up like this on my own.)
XXX
Peter feeling on him was what made the most sense: panicked and hopeful fumblings, trying to see his surroundings, his rescuer with touch alone. He's totally blind. And he'd been here all night because…he can't see and he can't smell. It was sick, but it was part of what he'd been looking for, being needed by Peter, which was one of the causes of this conflict. No one else was going to (Peter needed to know that), and no one else could if Peter was unable. "It's me," he said in response to his name.
XXX
Yes, okay, got that. Peter's brain managed to work that out – this was definitely Sylar. He nodded brokenly. His head hurt with the motion and it felt like the floor tipped. He wanted to sit down again, but Sylar had hold of him. It being Sylar, and him settling on that as a positive identification, did nothing to ease his nerves. The only thing that would have upset him more would be to find it was Arthur holding him. He stood very stiff and still, trying to work out what he should do.
XXX
Sylar understood what Peter must be feeling and thinking, none of it nice. "We're going up to the suite," he explained and began to turn his charge. He would clean the hell out of his coat later.
XXX
Why? Barely articulate around his tongue, he said, "I can die here or there; it doesn't matter." He tried to pull away, preferring the coziness of a corner of hard floor, wall, and piano to wherever Sylar of the annoyed voice and unyielding hands wanted to put him. An annoyed Sylar was frightening in Peter's current state. There were too many things that could happen, Sylar was too unpredictable, and Peter couldn't process it all. It would be safer just to stay, and for Sylar to go away. If he thinks I'm a pain in the ass, maybe he'll just leave me here.
XXX
Sylar had free reign of expression since Peter couldn't see it. He rolled his eyes, "Uh-huh." He wondered if he didn't know something important that Peter did about his condition. He said the first twenty-four hours are crucial. (And I left him here. He could have died?) He was moving when I left! How was I supposed to know? He's alive now and he's not going to die on me because he's lived this long. Sylar got his arm under Peter's right – thinking ahead that the left hand would be useful for feeling things out and holding himself up, and it was easier to get him out of the corner. Hugging Peter to him to prevent any crazy squirming that would result in Peter taking a header, Sylar tried to pace their steps together for ease of motion given their height difference. Peter was stumbling all around, barely helpful but not exactly deadweight; he was jumpy, too.
XXX
Peter resisted passively, moving only as required, unhappy about each step. He felt very unsafe in the open air without the wall and piano close at hand, without the floor supporting him in a way that he was unlikely to tip over and fall. Now he had only Sylar to cling to, an untrustworthy support at best, and so Peter went along haltingly, constantly fearing that at any moment he would be dropped.
The first step on the marble tile of the lobby nearly caused such a fall as Peter yanked his bare foot back and Sylar was forced to take up the slack. "Wh-?" When the world stopped lurching crazily, Peter stuck out a foot to test the flooring. It was cold and slick. He pressed on it; it held. That's the lobby. Okay, that makes sen-. Sylar pushed him forward sooner than he would have liked. Reluctantly, he went.
He twitched at the dinging of the elevator and again at the sound of the doors opening. He recognized the sounds, at least, placing them and stringing together a mental yarn map with stickpins at 'piano', 'rec room doorway', and now 'elevator entrance'. Why are we going somewhere? He balked again, declining to take a step into the elevator car until Sylar manhandled him into it. As Peter was keeping his hands close to his body and had a horrible sense of balance, it wasn't that hard to do. I don't want to be in here! It sounded close and small. Peter shrank from it, which was tough – it was everywhere. First it's too big, now it's too small.
Peter reached up and touched his face, feeling over contours that were hideously unfamiliar. He could imagine it, though, from faces painful even to look on at work. Auto accidents were the worst. My eyes … They were puffy and huge. Should I try to peel a lid back and see if I can see? That's dumb – I shouldn't do that. Wanting to hide, just get away and turn his back to everything, he made another half-hearted attempt to shift away. Sylar would have none of it, so Peter stood with his hand over his eyes, breathing unevenly.
XXX
Once in the elevator, Sylar didn't let Peter slink away as the man indicated he wanted to do with all that leaning. He didn't want to put Peter down, have him be sick in more places they would have to clean, and not be able to get him up again or have to deal with a struggle in a moving metal box. Maybe he doesn't know where he is? "We're going up to the suite now, Peter. We're almost there," Sylar repeated himself and enunciated in case something was wrong with Peter's ears, too. "Just don't puke," he muttered, hefting Peter at the ding of the doors and started down the hallway.
In the suite, Sylar set the table chair out for Peter, sliding him down into it. "It's a chair. Sit down and I'll be right back." He'd spotted the most-convenient medical bag. Maybe that was a good idea for him to get that. Though it was yet to be seen if there was anything in it that Sylar could use or that would be of use to Peter.
XXX
Peter almost fell off the chair the moment Sylar's hands left him. He wasn't quite sure what happened – it wasn't intentional. He just kept leaning in the direction support had been, then had a sudden wave of vertigo as he felt himself going down. "Whoa!"
XXX
Sylar had been about to walk past and get the bag off the wheelchair. He heard Peter exclaiming and saw him leaning towards the floor. A quick step-and-a-half back had both hands on Peter's shoulders, righting him and applying some pressure so Peter could…tell which way was up or whatever. "Sit. Sit until I'm done. You can lie down after."
XXX
The tone of voice was still harsh. Peter pulled away from it, tense under Sylar's hands. He shifted his feet so they were further apart – maybe that way he'd notice if he started to tilt again. By chance, one of them brushed against something. As Sylar walked away, Peter's toes explored the thing. Another chair leg? Or the table – the chairs are near the table. I'm at the table in the suite. He thought about the layout. He could remember it, but he already couldn't remember how far or even if Sylar had pulled the chair any distance from where it had started. My short-term memory must really suck. He reached cautiously to his right, finding the table with only a minor bump to his right hand (accompanied by a grunt). He hung onto it as firmly as he could.
XXX
He waited a beat to see that Peter could sit on his own. To be fair, a chair required more balance than a corner. Sylar brought the medical bag over to the table in front of Peter. "This is your medical bag, the one you brought here from the hospital?" What happens if he doesn't remember? What happens if his brain is mush? What if he doesn't get better? (No, no, no. I can- I have to fix this. I will fix this). He opened it without waiting for anything Peter had to say.
XXX
Peter heard rustling consistent with one of the canvas trauma kits he'd lugged from the hospital. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to answer or not, so he didn't. He turned his head in the direction of the sound. Is he going to hold me accountable for what's in there? A weird vision of Sylar standing over him like an angry drill sergeant, forcing him to disassemble and reassemble his medical kit while blind, came to mind. Peter wasn't paranoid enough to take the fear seriously. He's probably going to do something for me. I hope? Or maybe he's hurt, too?
XXX
There was no answer. Sylar tried another question as he went through the bag's contents, "Do you know what's wrong with you?" He lifted out the fabric scissors (never thought I'd be happy to see scissors), a band-aid, some alcohol wipes, and injectable morphine and tablets of other basic drugs like Tylenol and Ibuprofen. It was a good start. I should give him credit – something he is prepared for. (I wonder if the IV will help?) I wonder if he can answer. What's more, there was nothing sinister in Peter's go-to bag.
XXX
"I …" Is this a trick question? Is it safe to answer? He breathed harder and leaned away, far enough that he had to grip the table harder when his equilibrium tried to overcompensate for the motion. He didn't remember the fight itself – something about trying to get Nathan back and not wanting to give up – but he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't connect two and two. He and Sylar had been arguing. Now he was in a world of hurt. They were not unconnected. He tried to go through what he knew of Sylar and his personality to figure out what he needed to say, if anything. Can I trust him not to hit me if I don't give him the right answer? He remembered putting his knee on Sylar's leg and feeling relaxed in the man's presence for the first time in a long time. That was very recent. Was that what the fight was about? I let my guard down? Is that what's wrong with me? Or is it that I wouldn't give up on Nathan?
XXX
Looking over his new 'tools' with the occasional glance at Peter (it was pretty pointless to look at him except to be sure that Peter was still upright and conscious), he persisted. "What are you feeling right now?"
XXX
"Tense. Upset." Anxious. Scared. Peter hesitated, waiting to see how that would be taken. He was so tired of being on edge.
XXX
Sylar huffed. Of course, Peter would take that as a literal, emotional question. So he clarified, "Are you okay? Does everything feel normal?" Not for the first time, he wondered if Peter was being intentionally avoidant.
XXX
He's angry. If he gets angry enough, he'll hurt me. (Or maybe he'll leave?) Thinking is hard. Way harder than it should be. "Um … I have a concussion," he said slowly, putting together his symptoms. Then he was ducking his head and flinching from something- It felt like the air movement right before something touched you, but Sylar was in front of him; the 'motion' had been from the side and rear. After turning to face that direction for a few seconds, Peter decided it was nothing. Sylar might punch him in the face, but he didn't think the man would fuck with his sanity. He faced Sylar again, his neck aching with the movement. "I'm … uh, no, things aren't normal."
Peter swallowed and his stomach churned. I should give a report of myself. That's what he wants. If I was a patient and he was the paramedic, what would I tell him? His breathing slowed a little from the frantic pace it had been keeping, as he applied himself to the task. My ABCs are okay. So it's cause of injury next, right? "I think I was in a fight … with you. I woke up with … um," he reached up to touch at his face, "my eyes swollen shut. I can't breathe through my nose. My face hurts a lot. I don't know if I have broken bones in it. My teeth are intact." He paused a moment to check that. Most of Sylar's blows had apparently been to the upper part of his face, but he could pick up the raw meat taste of his busted lip, so not all of them had been. "My tongue's wrong, but I'm not choking on it." Most of his words were clumsily rendered, but he was managing. He swallowed again. That was difficult and painful. "I'm nauseous. I have to urinate." That was a good thing, Peter supposed. It meant he hadn't gone on himself while unconscious or in a stupor. "The rest of me feels okay. I mean like hands and arms and stuff. My balance is fucked. I can't think." That's not a very good report. He worried over that, but he was already exhausted from what little he'd said and the mental effort in putting that much together. He sagged in the chair. "My right hand hurts like hell," he added, since that probably wasn't apparent to Sylar and he thought it needed to be said. He didn't talk about how he still wanted to go hide in a hole.
XXX
"That's good," Sylar said aloud, arms folded, hip against the table as he watched Peter and catalogued injuries. He was about mid-way through categorizing what could be treated and how when he realized how that sounded and hastily corrected it, "I mean: that's what I needed to hear, not…necessarily good that it…happened." A concussion, tongue, eyes, the hand, and a trip to the bathroom. Thankfully most of it could be treated if not outright cured, even more fortunate was that Sylar had taken so little damage that he could treat Peter. "I'm going to cut your shirt off. Just stay still." That was the first order of business and it was done only with a sense of purpose and little notice of the human form beneath the garment. (Is this how it is…was for him? Sick people really aren't sexy). And seeing Peter's eyes like that…It was gross to look at on anyone, but Peter's beautiful eyes weren't there to…watch him and react to him. It was as if more than part of his face had been erased.
XXX
Peter stiffened. He could sense Sylar's proximity, like there was a buzz from him, or maybe it was the same way the elevator car had felt small and the rec room had felt big. He felt Sylar was close before the man touched him. He drew back and even with Sylar's announcement, Peter put his left hand out to find him and help keep track of him. Why is he cutting off my shirt? Do I have injuries under it?
XXX
Sylar put his right arm into Peter's hand without thinking about it much. It would make everything safer and smoother. With his left, he guided the scissors down the front of the disgusting shirt, parting it in half until it was only connected to Peter around the shoulders and arms – those were cut next. The crust of filth cracked and fell to the floor in the wake of the scissors; he would have to clean that up later. Sylar stepped back carefully, "I'll be back in a minute." He took the shirt to the kitchen, balling it up then throwing it into the trash. He got warm water started in the sink and brought several hand towels from the bathroom to wet them.
XXX
Peter touched over Sylar's arm tentatively – the one with the bicep pressed to his palm so neatly that Peter assumed it to be intentional. He was still careful for a moment, waiting for withdrawal. When there was none, he relaxed a little and let his hand rest on the muscle, gaging the tension in Sylar's body by how he moved. When Sylar moved away, Peter listened as the man busied himself. He felt of his own body idly – chest, abdomen, sides – relieved not to find anything out of place. He was scratching at a few crusty spots near his collarbone when he heard Sylar draw near again. He went back on the defensive immediately, leaning away, breathing harder, and half-raising his left hand in front of him.
XXX
"I'm back," he announced himself, thinking of that line from Terminator as he did. "I don't know how much you can understand, but I've got a wet washcloth first, then some alcohol." Sylar pulled out the other chair, placing it in front of Peter. Sitting there, he said, "Upper chest," before wiping with the towel. The mess came up fairly easily, fortunate so Peter wasn't scrubbed raw. It was strange to return the favor like this – not the beating, but taking care of someone to this extent. He remembered that Peter hadn't been happy about that.
XXX
Caitlin's cloth wasn't as warm. Something inside of him broke at the realization of the parallels. There were differences, for sure – he wasn't tied right now and didn't have any abilities, but here he sat, bloody, shirtless, helpless, memory compromised, unable to flee, and being tended by someone involved in how he had ended up this way. The tiny consideration of waiting for the water to warm up rather than going with a cold cloth made Peter huff out a breath that was half a sob before he gathered it back up and got control of himself. The kindness seemed to clear his head for a moment. He doesn't have to clean me at all. It's not like I'll get an infection. Caitlin did it because she thought I might talk. She said so. He's not doing it for that. I don't think he expects anything of me.
Peter's left hand found Sylar's elbow and touched it as tentatively as he had the arm earlier. Hey? Okay? At first he was just tracking the limb as Sylar scrubbed at his collarbone, neck, and other areas that didn't have bruises on the other side of the gore. He wasn't shaken off. It's okay. Peter cupped Sylar's elbow and settled in there, holding him. It came as an almost physical rebuff when Sylar finally pulled away from him.
XXX
Sylar turned the portion of the towel frequently as he moved up towards Peter's face. He was careful but it was difficult to be gentle with a towel and as much gunk as Peter had on him. He didn't think anything of the contact when it didn't interfere with the cleaning. It served the purpose of allowing Peter to 'see' and anticipate Sylar's movements faster than Sylar verbalizing it. It also meant that his care was being accepted, not that Peter had much choice. Peter was considerably more relaxed now, not so twitchy. I wonder if that's because he's choosing to touch me and that helps him or because I'm treating him, cleaning him, whatever.
With most of the undamaged stuff cleaned, that left Peter's face. The washcloth was…well. Sylar took up the second cloth, "I'm going to the sink again." He stood and wet the second towel, leaving the first in the sink, then sat across from Peter.
XXX
"You don't have to do this. Thank you," he spoke, voice small. He held his hands in his lap, guilty for imposing, especially on someone who hated him as Sylar did. I'm putting Sylar in the same fucked up position I was in with him. It's wrong. "Listen, I ..." He was so tired – of being tense, of being afraid, of trying to think and keep up with what Sylar was doing and why. "I don't think you should do this. There's … there's no point, Sylar."
XXX
Sylar noted that Peter was aware enough to thank him. "I think I should do this. I know what I'm doing – more or less." He wasn't going to argue with the concussed 'patient' as he supposed Peter was. It required patience more than anything, and something of a kind disposition to do this job; he would manage it. I guess taking care of Mom all those years might come in handy. This was considerably different. Since it had helped before, he placed Peter's hand back on his arm. "Doing your face now."
XXX
You know what you're doing? What is it you're doing? Does any of it mean anything? Peter struggled with the questions that bubbled up in his mind. In the meantime, Sylar had put Peter's hand back on his arm so maybe that was an answer all by itself. The contact came as a relief so thorough it was physical. It was a tie between them and Peter wanted to believe it was something more than merely functional. He rubbed Sylar's elbow and the back of his arm, feeling the cloth under his fingers and guessing at what Sylar's shirt looked like.
Peter lifted his chin and occasionally pulled in his breath a bit more harshly when it hurt, but otherwise he stayed as still as he could and let Sylar work. When he moved up to Peter's eyes, Peter took his right hand from the table and put it on Sylar's shoulder. Whoa. Whoa. Ow. All of that hurts. His lips tightened and his fingers shifted on Sylar, but he kept his grip pressure light and didn't complain verbally. He didn't want to be pushed away or resented for taking what he needed to get through this. He was so vulnerable he ached with it. Hanging onto someone was what he needed to stay sane.
XXX
Sylar kept the contact between skin and cloth as light and brief as he could, going up around Peter's mouth and nose, cleaning the few facial cuts, then up around and even over his eyes because it had to be done. "Easy. Almost done. Almost done….There. Finished with the towel." Next was a quick wipe down with some alcohol wipes involving some sting. "Here comes the alcohol. It's going to hurt for a minute." Peter's skin was sensitive and raw more than open and bleeding per se.
XXX
Alcohol? Does it need alcohol? I don't think I need that in this world. Maybe it needs the astringency? Peter flinched when it hurt. "Ow," he said with affront. Feeling betrayed, he took his hands from Sylar and put them in his lap again, hunching unhappily, corners of his mouth turning down. This pain was different from cleaning his face. It seemed unnecessary. How much of what I think is going on here actually is? Does he care if he hurts me? Sylar's voice had been no different than any other time during this – workmanlike and uninflected. His body had not seemed to relax from Peter's touch, but merely to tolerate it. It set on ear Peter's idea, with the warm cloth and the contact, that Sylar might have some regard for him, some sympathetic impulse. He said he'd take care of me and that I wouldn't like it. Is that all this is? A duty? (What else would it be? He hates me. I hate him.) I don't want to be in this world if that's all it's ever going to be – him hating me, me hating him. He felt miserable again, looking down the barrel of a gun to endless fights and impersonal care-taking, if any at all.
XXX
"All done with that." He put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "I want to try to get you into a bath, wash your hair out, okay?" Sylar had been thinking about this. A shower was out – Peter couldn't stand, couldn't see, and probably couldn't wash himself or figure out how to. Sitting in the shower would put hot water on his face more likely than not, so a supervised, nonsexual bath was the best idea. And if Peter was coming to bed, the sheets needing to be washed notwithstanding, he was going to be clean. Sylar told himself it would make the smaller man feel better, too.
XXX
"I don't need a bath," Peter slurred. "This is stupid." He knew he was sulking because of the sting of the alcohol and a perceived rejection of a supportiveness that probably hadn't been there to start with. Petulantly, he shrugged off Sylar's hand. "If I don't mean anything to you but someone to not be bored with, then go away."
XXX
Sylar had noticed the withdrawal but couldn't guess at the cause until Peter voiced it. Sass at this point was ridiculous, but when someone was concussed (he'd discovered) things didn't always need to make perfect sense. "It's not stupid. You have vomit, blood, and snot in your hair and the only way to get that out is a bath." Sylar put his hand on Peter's lower back, not trusting his ability to stand or walk but allowing the illusion of freedom since that was apparently important.
He went slower as the hallway to the bathroom was confined – the bathroom wasn't small (this was a penthouse suite after all), but two grown men, stuck together by necessity made it trickier. The bathtub was separate from the shower stall, so there was a ledge to the tub where Sylar would probably sit (or lean over). "I'm going to…" and here he –they – hit a snag. Peter had to urinate, with a broken hand, dizziness, and no balance or sight. "Um…You need to piss, so…I'm going to take your pants down, okay?" He held Peter with both hands on his ribs, standing in front of him, ready to catch or guide as needed. Peter's hand had been led to the ledge of the counter to assist with this. He waited for some kind of response.
XXX
"No," Peter said firmly. He knew he sounded as pointlessly irascible as any elderly patient intent upon trying the patience of the nurse. But like so many elderly patients, he wasn't getting what he wanted, emotionally, out of the exchange and this was the only defense he could muster. "Show me the toilet and I'll sit and do it." He struggled to recall the layout of the bathroom and to parse it from all the other bathrooms he'd been in lately. It wasn't a room he'd tried to memorize. Getting to a toilet was something he needed, though. The bath – he wasn't too sure of. I'm too tired for a bath and I can't be that dirty. Just prop me up in another corner and I'll be fucking peachy.
XXX
I can't 'show you' the toilet – you're blind. Sylar exhaled, not necessarily angry or frustrated; he was more at more working through the various problems Peter felt compelled to present. "Okay, fine," he agreed a little to quickly, knowing Peter was aware enough to want privacy…and that Sylar had just made what must seem like an attempt to molest him. With a flush of embarrassment, he added, "It's better if you can do it yourself anyway. It's behind you a half step and to your left."
XXX
When he was done with the toilet, Peter wanted to argue about the bath. He wanted to fight – for his dignity, his rights, and maybe a little respect. Peter wanted to be more than a patient. He wanted to be special. But he was so tired from being on the defensive for so long, from having his one moment of what he'd thought to be kindness directed at him thrown into question, and, well, the concussion. He wanted to turn off his brain and fuzz out again. Sylar was not letting him. Peter sighed dramatically. It doesn't sound bad, really – lying in warm water. Maybe I can fall asleep in it. (Maybe I can drown in it.) "Fine," he said, clearly not fine.