Day 53, February 1, Late morning

When that was finished, he brought Peter to sit on the ledge of the tub. "The water's going to go on." The suite was so swanky it filled up with lukewarm water rapidly. "Towels are around here somewhere. Then I'll see about finding you clothes." Anything to get his sweatpants back. (I think they're back at my place…Ehem).

XXX

Peter pushed off his jeans, then hesitated. All he had left was his underwear, having been barefoot to start and Sylar having cut off his shirt. Do I want to be naked in front of him? (Do I want to take a bath in my underwear? I have to pick one or the other.) I'd rather not take a bath at all. (I don't think he'll let me do that.) I could fight him. (Uh-huh. That would hurt. And it wouldn't help anything. I might hurt him and I shouldn't do that.) With another sigh, this one annoyed, Peter started to push down the black boxer briefs. He'd been naked in front of plenty of others. Sylar could just deal with it.

XXX

Sylar caught the motion and quickly instructed, "Just leave those on." Is…What was that about? He kept his eye on Peter now, having heard multiple sighs in addition to the recent bratty behavior.

XXX

Okay. That settles that. He doesn't want to see me. (I don't want him to see me, either.) What would happen if he did see me? Peter didn't want to find out if his exhibitionism kink could overwhelm even the most unsexy of situations with the most undesired of partners. He climbed in the tub with care, difficulty, and more than a little wobbling. He could feel Sylar's hands supporting him at moments, which was helpful even if he still mentally begrudged it.

He sat in the water. It was nice. It was warm. He ran his left hand back and forth through it. My knuckles don't sting. He didn't clean them. Did I never hit him? My right hand hurts. That must be what happened – I hit him with my right, or he hit it, and then it was all over. He climbed all over me. That sucks. That's not how it's supposed to be. 'That's not how it's gonna come at you at a game, Pete,' a memory of Nathan's advice informed him. Sylar was pouring water on his head and Peter tipped it cooperatively to allow it. Yeah, right, Nathan. This isn't what I thought I was 'ready' for when I said that at your funeral. He gave up his internal dialogue with the depressingly recent past. Peter touched at his eyes, worrying over them, and then carefully traced his nose, trying to tell if it was broken. He let Sylar do as he would, enjoying the contact, the fondling of his hair, and the warm water. He tried leaning against the side of the tub and trying to sleep, but Sylar kept annoyingly pushing him upright and continuing to mess with him. He made whining noises to protest the mistreatment of not letting him doze and adopted a put-out air for all of a few seconds each time. Isn't he done yet?

XXX

The hardest part was getting the water onto Peter's head and keeping it off his face. Nothing would hurt more than 'hot' water sliding over already abused and swollen skin that needed to be left alone. Sylar managed it by tilting Peter's head back and placing a protective hand over his forehead and temple to encourage the water to bypass his face. Peter was helpful with that much and he was quiet for it. Knowing it was probably very wrong, he allowed himself to enjoy touching and caring for Peter in this way – fingers in his hair, hygiene ritual, cleaning him in an intimate setting. It was strange, forbidden, and wonderful. He noticed a bump on the back of Peter's head and worked around it. When he'd finished with the shampoo (apparently taking longer than he should have), he tried to briefly clean the rest of Peter's upper body about the time his patient began to try to lie down and rest in the tub. Sylar was proficient at this part and didn't linger, draining the tub and guiding Peter out.

XXX

Peter leaned against the wall and dried himself in the most skimpy of fashions, which meant he dragged the towel across his skin like … once. Everything seemed like too much of a bother. He was exhausted and now he was warm and probably as comfortable as he was likely to get standing up. If he'd been able to combine those with a feeling of safety, then he would have already been passed out. As it was, he felt very irritated by his companion and wanted to drive him away so he could get some rest. "Why am I even here if you don't care?" he blurted, wiping at his wet underwear with the towel. I don't think I should sleep in wet clothes. What do I do about that?

XXX

"Because you can't care for yourself," Sylar stated, kindly leaving out the word 'clearly.' "You need to eat and rest so you can heal. You aren't going to get that covered in muck in a corner or asleep in the bathtub." He'd kept his eye on Peter, not as dry as he should be, looking exhausted and copping attitude whilst leaned against the wall. Said attitude wasn't quite bad enough yet to remind Peter he'd agreed to accept medical treatment from Sylar as needed.

XXX

"No," Peter said with what he thought was unusual clarity, "I mean why am I here, in this world, if you can't help me? If I die here, then maybe I'll get out, and if I don't, then at least I'll be dead. I won't be here bothering you anymore with my … issues and things."

XXX

"Are those my only options?" Sylar said wryly and with distaste. "Don't take it personally; you can't help me, either." Or you won't, either way. He'd had enough of Peter's goofing around, so he took up the towel and set about finishing drying Peter, a little wary of being attacked for some reason. Everything is about him.

XXX

Peter didn't notice the towel slip from his fingers, but he stiffened when he was scrubbed with it. Startled, he lashed out with his right hand in a heel strike that whiffed through empty air. Then he realized Sylar must have gone to a knee to dry his bottom half. He hesitated. Do I fight him? Fuck, I'm so tired! All he's doing is drying me off. Why am I fighting with him over this? Peter deflated and leaned against the helpfully supportive wall again. I should trust him. He's doing right. It's okay. I don't need to fight back against everything … or anything. It's not the same thing as giving up. He reached out and felt around in the air calmly until he found the edge of Sylar's hair. It was just a faint, skimming touch before he pulled his hand back, fearing Sylar might find it inappropriate if he continued. I should trust him, he thought again. Does he understand what any of this means to me? Or why I fight?

"I'm serious, Sylar. This isn't something I haven't thought about before … or, even, tried." He waited for a beat before relating an example, "That night, Noah and I were up in the plane with Nathan's body, staging that crash that you might have seen on the news. When we jumped out … I almost didn't pull the cord. It would have been simpler, easier … to just go … with him – fall, you know? Maybe he'd … he'd be there, like he always had been. Like I always wanted him to be." Tears leaked out under his puffy lids. "I stayed because I thought I could do something. What can I do here, Sylar? I could still go …" I'm in a penthouse apartment here. I wouldn't even have to go far.

XXX

Sylar paused, crouched down as he was, towel in both hands working at Peter's legs that couldn't stay dry because of his dripping underwear. He stopped and stared up at Peter. There was a lot to process. He crashed that plane? With Noah? No autopsy report? Wouldn't a car wreck have been easier? I…He's always been…like this. Suicidal, dramatic, rash, depressive, whatever it is. (Has he been like this the whole time…or have I ignored it?) In many ways, he understood it, personally, empathically; Peter's loss mirrored some of his own, as did his reactions to it – Peter had finally snapped yesterday. Sylar stood and obeyed his instinct to touch and ground his companion, placing a hand on neck and shoulder even as he frowned unseen. It explained so much – Peter's craziness, lack of logic and planning, his disregard for Sylar and his own personal care, among other things. And now Peter was crying, in pain, tired, fucked up and hurting. It was wrenching and Sylar didn't know how to fix it or even how to go about comforting a murdered man's brother. He acts like he needs me to comfort him but he won't accept some things from me – how do I know which is which?

Peter's confession made him worry for other reasons, selfish ones, like concern that he'd be left alone because Peter couldn't take it or handle the 'tough it out and get used to it' trial Sylar had been putting him through. (If anyone is supposed to die here, it's me – he said so!) It kept coming back to his own unmet needs while having to bow and scrape to please Peter. It made him angry, feeling helpless and burdened. Why is he telling me this? (He wants something that I've been overlooking. He thinks I can do something about it and he doesn't have any other choice but to trust me right now). "What do you want that I can give you?" he specified the realms of the possible to avoid the obvious answer that had started the fight before, 'I want my brother back.'

XXX

Peter adored that hand on his shoulder – it was sympathy and comfort and well-wishes all in one. It didn't still the tears he could feel trailing down his face, salty tracks that stung. If anything, they fell more plentifully. "I want to make a difference, Sylar! I've been here two months and sometimes it feels like I'm still on Day One. I'm tired of things not changing! I'm just so fucking tired …" His lean against the wall turned into a beaten-down slump. "Can I have some recognition from you of the hole you've put in people's lives? I need something to help me see you as a human being. I need to know you realize I care about … my brother, other people, Emma, what's happened and whatever is going to happen. If what I care about doesn't matter to you, then I don't have any reason to be here."

XXX

Sylar supported Peter with a hand on his chest/shoulder in case the slump was Peter abruptly falling to the ground. Fucking me would probably 'make a difference.' Once more, Peter's frustrations were blamed on Sylar's inability to provide…general happiness for his only companion. The world doesn't change – it's my fault. He can't live up to whatever he wants to do – it's my fault for holding him back. What about his fault? We already covered that, Sylar mused with a bitterness so foul it hurt. Then, at Peter's words, a tiny butterfly of hope struggled free. He wants to see me as a human being? (I don't know that I'm the best person to help with that…) "It comes at a price, Peter," he grated out around a suddenly gruff throat, "I have things that matter to me, too." He'd ceased to look at Peter's pathetic, sniffling face and went back to drying him and trying to avoid his own stupid reactions. "I know it's never been like that before, but it is now."

XXX

Peter tried to make sense of that. A price? Why hasn't he told me about it before? Things that matter to him … but … he's not saying it's a price I have to pay. Maybe it's a price he has to pay. And he doesn't want to. Or he doesn't think it's worth it, or would work. "I'm not going to give up, Sylar. Whatever it is, we can work it out; we have to. Together, you know? Or not at all ..." His voice slurred badly at the end. Sliding down the wall to the floor sounded very inviting.

XXX

"Wrap the towel around you. You're going to sit on the bed. I don't think this is a good time to talk about this," he tried to deflect the painful, necessary conversation. (Is my throat going to act up every time we try to talk now – or is that because he tends to go for my throat every time I try to say something important?) Goddamnit, he shrugged it off. Sylar still couldn't be sure Peter was even mentally competent – it might be like talking to a drunk who wouldn't remember it sober.

XXX

Peter carried the towel that was handed to him, but wrapping it around himself was too much. He went where Sylar led him because it was easier than arguing. "Sylar, I don't-" He couldn't put together the words. He couldn't even put together the thoughts. "I need to know," he managed, not sure what it was he needed, but sure there was something unresolved here. "This isn't finished."

XXX

When pressed again, Sylar sighed and gripped the clean and dry pair of underwear he'd found for Peter. Standing in front of him like this, even blind or especially when blind, was disconcerting; Peter couldn't see him – the nuances were lost and Sylar was a poor translator. "I don't know about all things being equal but I can guess that they matter to us equally. At least, that's how it has to be for anything to work. And it's not-" he stopped before he said he didn't not care about Emma or the Carnival or whatever Peter wanted him to be involved with. He didn't care, not really. There was no evidence other than Peter's claims and a half-baked, unreliable dream. "I think you're wrong, but I understand that it matters to you," he eventually summed up, leaving out his own feelings, plans, involvement, and even leaving out the part about it making no sense. He'd thought his own arguments about it had implied understanding; Peter probably needed that frustrating hope and pesky validation that eluded most people, including Sylar.

XXX

Peter swam through the words with the greatest of difficulty. It was like swimming in concrete. Whole phrases went missing on him. There was too much said, but then something snagged his attention and finally connected. "You understand me?" he said hopefully. "I want to understand you, too," he said in the same tone, looking up where Sylar's voice came from and making an abortive gesture towards reaching out to him. "That's what it's about … that's what it's all about ..."

His intentions to say more were cut short by Sylar taking the damp towel from him and replacing it with a set of dry boxers, along with the identity of the thing he had given Peter. When Peter just sat there, Sylar gave directions. It was the eventual tug at his waistband that got Peter to moving, pushing Sylar away and changing his clothes on his own. His head hurt with the motions, but he knew he would rest better in something dry. His mind stumbled over something about temperature ranges and hypothermia. As far as he could tell, Sylar had moved away for the time being. He might have been watching, but Peter had the sense he was not. Changed, he laboriously pulled himself upright again, wondering if they were going to keep talking. "Equality, right?" he murmured, trying to recall the conversation.

XXX

"Lay down. Come on," Sylar herded him up into the bed, unexpectedly wrung out and tired himself. He wanted to be done. This was the point in his limited 'humanity' where things started falling apart because he couldn't maintain it. He wasn't patient or gentle enough; not smart, understanding, experienced, useful, capable enough. I can't even take care of you for a few hours, he thought in despair. I know it doesn't seem to matter to you, but I do it anyway; because that's all I can do. Sylar saw that Peter was too far gone to eat; his motions clumsy, his mutterings finally insensible. He tucked the little man in. I do the best I can, Peter. The last was emotionally complicatedly tangled, Damn you.

XXX

With difficulty, Peter found a position that didn't put too much pressure on the side of his face, nor on the back on his head, which was also tender. My shoes … "I don't have any shoes, Sylar," he tried to say, but his words might have been too slurred to be intelligible. He lifted his head and tried to focus. "How will I get away if they come for me and I don't have any shoes?" His voice was clearer this time, but even he could hear the whining tone of exhaustion in it. He was too messed up to realize Sylar wouldn't know what he meant even if he got the words out right. It'll be okay … he's here … He came back for me. He let his head fall to the pillow. His breathing evened out as he relaxed. I haven't given up. He understands me. We'll talk more … later.

XXX

Sylar frowned, coming back to put a hand on Peter's bundled form. "No one's coming for you," Unfortunately. "It's just me." That isn't very comforting for him, is it? I guess I'm the only one coming for him. (To save him or end him?) he quietly asked himself, discomfited at his own self-honesty. At least Peter seemed to be realizing his predicament and this was the long-expected fallout. The empath slumped and hushed, hopefully asleep, so Sylar patted him and moved away. This is good, right? He's finally getting something into that thick head of his. Sylar understood it all too well, having had to come to these realizations of letting go of hope without companionship and thinking about it every day for four years. He had to try and consider things from Peter's perspective, where family and friends were left unaccounted for. (Is that better or worse than my case of knowing no one was coming for me? Hopelessness is easier to accept).

Sylar checked him a few moments later but he was out cold. Peter didn't (yet?) have the phobia of losing his partner in such a large world – and he was asleep. Sylar went downstairs to bring up the man's shoes, coat, exercise clothes, and all the books. While he was there, he looked for the man's brace, then dug out the mop bucket and some soap for the mess in the rec room, applying it and leaving it to soak. He'd want gloves to handle the actual clean up anyway. Back in the suite, Sylar swept up the floor around the table, cleansed the sink, threw away the towels and closed the trash bag. He snacked on some cheese and brought his book with him to lay beside Peter to pass the time.

XXX

If time passed, Peter wasn't aware of it. He only knew that at one moment he was alone; the next there was someone there. He didn't know how he knew it, because the bed wasn't moving as far as he could tell. Maybe he felt the heartbeat or breathing through the mattress – something biological and largely subconscious. He reached for the person. They weren't close. He crawled across the bed, gingerly because he seemed to be hurt to hell and back. Thinking about the injuries (and the weird fact that he couldn't get his eyes open – was he dreaming?), he remembered believing he'd had a fight with Sylar, then a meaningful talk, and this must be Sylar he was going to now. It must have been a good talk, because Sylar's presence was desired.

Peter sank down next to him, slipping uncertain fingers around Sylar's elbow, and pressing the upper part of his forehead to the man's bicep or deltoid. "Don't leave me," he said, the emotion of his words resounding on several levels. It was the pathetic, pitiable plea of a boy who had waited days and sometimes months for his hero to return for such brief visits, not the declaration of the solitary person fate seemed determined he should be, what with his broken relationships with his family, fragmented love life, and abilities that strained all attempts at even casual friendship. He didn't have the strength to deal with it alone. He was unguarded at that moment, and sad. There was so much to grieve, he didn't even know where to start. After a few undignified, painful sniffles, he fell back asleep.

XXX

Peter stirred after a while. There was no way for Sylar to know if he was conscious, dreaming, or what, but luckily it didn't matter at the moment. He allowed the touch, placing his hand atop Peter's as he thought before speaking. (If it was possible…if I had the chance, would I leave him here alone?) Peter had already expressed that he thought it was wrong for anyone, including Sylar after the things he'd done, to be left alone in a place like this. Certainly Nathan wouldn't leave him; the very idea was insulting, unthinkable. Sylar…still felt that Peter needed to suffer his due punishment for dehumanizing him and hurting him where he could not be healed. Both of them knew what it would do to Peter if he were ever abandoned in nearly any capacity. Peter was weak that way, but he was strong or brainwashed in his ability to see it. Maybe he does need a brother after all. And I'm not saying it's me or that it has to be me – but he's clearly very dependent. One of us was right: 'the world hasn't seen anything yet. I remember him saying he wouldn't leave me, either (of course, I didn't believe a word of it). I still don't believe him about anything – what he says, what he wants isn't possible; it never has been. (That wasn't the question). A long minute or two after Peter had made his…request, Sylar answered it. "I won't leave you." He petted the hand on his elbow now. This was…allowed; Peter wanted it as well as needed it, so it wasn't Sylar's perversions. He was good to me when I was injured.

The rest of the day and night, he didn't wake Peter, not even for painkillers on a very empty stomach. He would be clueless with anything injectable. So he did his best to comfort. Sylar took it further when Peter….sniffed and whined in pathetic need or genuine pain; Sylar stroked at his back, upper shoulder and arm because those areas hadn't been hurt, "Shh."

Day 54, February 2, Morning

It was thirst that finally woke Peter. He groaned slightly and rolled away from Sylar. His brain was not functioning too well. Neither was the rest of him. What the fuck is wrong with my eyes? He touched them. His right hand ached. And why am I sleeping without my brace? What had led up to 'now' was fuzzy. He remembered talking with Sylar and Sylar … tending him. Peter tilted his head back and lifted his eyebrows as much as possible. He could just barely see the narrowest sliver of the world. Huh. He turned his head back and forth, recognizing the penthouse and recalling that Sylar had told him that was where he was going to take him. Oh hey! Peter realized suddenly, My eyes themselves are okay! I can see! Fuck, what the hell would I have done if I'd been permanently blinded? … I suppose that would have just been something to adapt to. Glad that's not an issue. Can I find the bathroom like this? There will be water there. It was tiring to hold his face like this, though, and the energy he'd gotten from the realization was fading. He felt his way along the edge of the bed, pausing at the corner of it and trying to take his bearings. If I just keep following the wall, I'll get there eventually.

XXX

Sylar had been up and around, gathering up necessary things like more clothes, food, and ice for when Peter woke. It was nearly twenty-four hours since he'd put Peter down to sleep and naturally he'd readied himself for bed and slept alongside Peter. It was the surreptitious, shuffling noises that told him something was different than Peter's other stirrings. "Peter?" he called when he opened his eyes and found his companion gone. Uh…I didn't think I needed to restrain the concussed, suicidal, sleepwalking blind person. Literally falling asleep on the job here.

XXX

Peter hesitated for a moment. Sylar? That's Sylar. We slept together. It seemed stupid, but Peter felt a need to remind himself of these things. Some of his memory seemed fine; some did not. "Sylar," he answered, but without the questioning tone. He wasn't sure what else to say, so he continued on to the bathroom, following the wall and taking care not to run into anything along the way.

XXX

Sylar exhaled, very relieved that Peter was around and alive. Whatever Peter was doing, he likely needed supervision if not help. Sylar was down the hall in seconds. I never claimed to be a great babysitter, but I did think I'd do a better job than this. I mean…a day and he's barely moved or spoke and then this. Peter was already in the bathroom.

XXX

I've had ass that tasted better than my mouth does right now. (Actually, I would not put my mouth on an ass that tasted this bad.) Although his drive to get to the bathroom had been to drink, once there he became preoccupied with cleaning – first his mouth, then his nose. He felt over the tender, swollen, lumpy parts of his tongue that he'd bitten at some point. He could recall it having been so large that he'd liked to have choked on it. Comparatively, it was much better. He rinsed his mouth repeatedly, then drank from his cupped hands as thirst reasserted itself. His stomach was not thrilled with the new contents and roiled unhappily. Peter stood at the counter, feeling of the counter top and wondering if he was going to vomit into the sink over something as minor as a little water.

XXX

Sylar loomed in the doorway, a protective presence, frowning as he assessed Peter's balance and capability to be in there alone. With a mental shrug, he voiced it, "Are you okay to be in there?" He made it this far.

XXX

"Hm?" Peter turned, having zoned out and forgotten Sylar was there. "Yeah, yeah, I think I'll be fine."

XXX

That wasn't totally believable, but he allowed it. "Are you feeling any better?"

XXX

Sylar's words were tiny prods just as they had been the day before, each phrase requiring more mental energy than Peter thought it should. He felt along the counter to where the toilet was. "Yeah, better," he said distractedly. "I'm going to use the toilet." 'Go away,' was what he wanted to say. It wasn't until he had his boxer shorts down and was sitting that it occurred to him: There is a door. I could have shut it. He didn't have much urine to pass anyway, which was not a good sign, he knew. I need fluids. Returning to the sink after, he washed his hands, rinsed his mouth again, and took another drink, as big a one as he dared. He ambulated back to the bed, thinking, Lie down. Get some more rest. Worry about fluids later.

XXX

"Ah," Sylar said and went to hover in the hall. Peter emerged after a while and returned himself to the bed under Sylar's watchful eye. He approached to place a hand on Peter's shoulder, confirming to himself that Peter was somewhat alright and to Peter…well, he didn't know what he was trying to say. "I'm going to get you some food. It's been a while. You might feel nauseous but do your best."

XXX

Peter automatically put his hand up at Sylar's touch, finding the man's hip and returning the contact. He remembered being patted and comforted in the night. Was that a dream, or did that happen? "Okay," he said agreeably. "I will." For someone who had been kind to him, he'd definitely do his best. "What am I going to eat?"

XXX

The reciprocated contact had Sylar exhaling with surprised, pleasant feelings. That's definitely sick – enjoying this. He didn't mean to touch me there. He lingered a moment. I never said I wasn't…perverted. He knows that. "Soup," his voice had changed, softening or something equally stupid.

XXX

Peter nodded and felt of his right hand after Sylar moved away. It was swollen and tender, but there was no protruding bone or other sign of horrific injury. "What happened?" he asked. "With the fight, I mean – how did it start?"

XXX

Sylar was in the kitchen, heating the stove, and getting out a mug for the soup since anything with a spoon wouldn't do. "You started it and I finished it." By now, he knew that was an insufficient answer for the curious and stubborn Petrelli. "You came at me, saying you wanted your brother back and that you didn't need me conscious."

XXX

"Hrm," Peter grunted. He could vaguely remember that – or more accurately, what Sylar said fit with what shadowy memories Peter was able to recall. I do want my brother back. But … I didn't need Sylar conscious? What was I going to do? He had the feeling his ability had something to do with that, but he couldn't connect the dots. Feeling over his hand again, he asked, "Do you know where my brace is?"

XXX

"I looked for it but it wasn't downstairs. I don't know where your apartment is," Sylar smirked at the future necessity of knowing where Peter lived. It was a half-truth, since there were many ways of finding out which exact apartment Peter used – but those ways depended on Peter using the apartment, being there, traveling to and from. "I brought your shoes and exercise clothes up. We can always tape your fingers."

XXX

"My shoes?" Peter said hopefully, perking up. "Good. How long has it been since the fight?" He felt over himself, belatedly realizing he was mostly naked. Sylar must have changed my clothes … Oh. The vulnerability that implied frightened him – not the nudity so much, but his helplessness and lack of memory of it. Again, he remembered his back being petted in the night. It seemed like less of a dream and more like something that really happened. He's been okay with me, right?

XXX

"About two days. Do you remember anything?" Sylar felt both dubious and hopeful and some of it leaked into his voice. That would suck to beat him up for nothing. Of course, talking to him is usually like talking to a deaf person. Talking to anyone, really.

XXX

Two days. Honesty seemed like the best policy. "I remember some. Are you angry at me?" It was an important thing to know, especially when Peter was not in a position to protect himself from that anger.

XXX

The soup was warm and the question should have been expected. With Peter it was emotion based, 'are you angry at me?' and in the now. Sylar shrugged as he poured the lukewarm soup into the mug. It was another thing to struggle through answering. (He can't hurt me). And how honest should he be here? He always harbored…things like that, the anger, hatred, pain, need, hope; the mess of it all was what drove him to a more refined, elevated goal. "I wish you wouldn't ask me things like that," he muttered, bringing the mug and a napkin to Peter. "I have the mug here, give me one of your hands," and guiding them together, then sitting himself. "It should be the right temperature. And if you have to get sick, I have a trash can standing by."

XXX

Peter took the soup, cupped it with his left hand and made a few small prods with his right to get it positioned as he wished. He had not heard most of Sylar's muttering and had the feeling he wasn't supposed to. That was bad. Did Sylar resent him – for starting the fight, for having to care for him, for both? I might be okay if he just left me alone. (Key word: 'might'.) But he didn't want to be alone, quite aside from the safety considerations. "Am I safe with you?"

XXX

"Yes, I suppose you do have to ask that of the resident monster," he snapped. It was a ridiculous and insulting question after he'd tended to Peter for a day, never mind any deals or reasonable vulnerabilities like blindness. Just as Peter had complained, it was back to square one. "You'll never understand me with that attitude. Just…accept what is and don't…don't push it, Petrelli." He felt like he was embellishing what he'd said yesterday, about…understanding, but this time it had struck a nerve. Like Peter hadn't done anything monstrous recently or ever. He wanted to stand and be away from this annoying source of words, but Peter was blind and he wasn't so upset that he'd forgotten his charge. After several harsher breaths until it deepened, he finished more calmly, distantly noting that it was both better and worse to communicate with him when Peter couldn't see, "Obviously, you're safe. I haven't been taking care of you, not so much as fucking with your head, just to hurt you some more."

XXX

Peter quietly and cautiously pulled into himself, raising the cup in front of his face as he hunched his shoulders. The words were hard to comprehend over the sound of threat in Sylar's voice. Yes, he's angry with me. No, I'm not safe. He sipped his soup. It was tomato. He liked tomato, even if his stomach had different ideas at the moment. I can't throw up. I shouldn't make things harder for him right now. Be a good patient, get better, and get out of here.

XXX

"Just…tell me what I need to do for you right now." He'd softened his voice near to a whisper after the sickening twist of watching Peter cringe and clam up. Still a monster. And he wants to erase everything and get along. He really does. It felt like his stomach, heart and lungs all dropped with stillborn hope. It won't work. Treating me like anything other than what I am has never worked. He can't do it. I can't do it, either.

XXX

Peter nodded slowly. Sylar's change in tone worried him. Is it false hope to think he didn't mean to scare me? (Maybe he was just being defensive?) I'm not a threat right now. Holding the cup with his left, he reached out in Sylar's direction, feeling along the bed until he found Sylar's knee. He brushed it for a moment and then leaned back, dizzy from the small tilt it had involved. There was no comment (defensive or not) or pulling away from the gesture, which reassured Peter enough for him to speak. "I need … supervision … so I don't do anything stupid. Obviously I need help with anything that requires seeing."

It was easier to put his mind towards this – how would he deal with himself as a patient. Simple modeling of symptoms and treatment were something drilled constantly in both nursing school and as an EMT. 'Subject is presenting these symptoms, what's the diagnosis? What's the treatment?' "Um, I need an ice pack regimen to get the swelling down. I need some painkillers because this hurts like hell and I'm going to be a problem for both of us if this goes on for hours." He knew he'd get irritable and lash out eventually. Clearly, that would be very bad. "I don't think you have the patience for it and I can't … shouldn't drive you off. So, medicate me. I should have some morphine in the bag if the pills don't do it, and I don't think they will today."

He tried to recap for Sylar's benefit. "Um … ice packs, six hours or so; painkillers; let me rest; make sure I don't get dehydrated like you did. Keep my head elevated." It occurred to him that he'd slept flat in the bed. At least in the corner, he'd been propped up correctly. He sipped some more soup, forcing it down and trying very hard to be compliant.

XXX

That's all? Sylar wondered. It sounded…easy, provided Peter was drugged thoroughly enough. Meanwhile, he'd have access to Peter and all things Peter-related. "Okay. How much morphine?" Does that mean he trusts me?

XXX

Peter tried to remember what formulation he'd selected. It's injectable. It's standard, right? I didn't get anything weird, did I, with a higher concentration? "Uh, ten maybe? Milligrams, I think? I know intramuscular is fine." That would be a stupid way to die, or get brain damage. He struggled to weigh his risks – annoying Sylar, or inaccurate dosing – both of which were rife with uncertainties. He didn't know and so he held his peace.

XXX

Sylar nodded, "Alright. I'll get the stuff." He patted Peter's shoulder again, gratitude for his cooperation (even after being snapped at) and something of an apology for that (even though it wasn't his fault) and as a momentary farewell. He gathered up a fresh syringe, morphine, an alcohol wipe, three ice packs, a bottle of water, tape and the elastic wrap. Using pillows to prop Peter on Peter's usual side of the bed first, he set about doping him up – into a vein on his right arm.

XXX

Peter had forgotten how deft Sylar was with a needle, something he had reason to appreciate soon enough. The more rapid onset of the narcotic was a relief. An intramuscular injection would have had the same effect, but spread over fifteen minutes or more. This was immediate. He still hurt, which was another relief – it meant he hadn't been mistaken in the dosage and the bottle was standard – but the drug took the edge off and that was what he really needed. He settled in as Sylar arranged him, declining the offer of taping his hand, but accepting the ice packs readily. He ended up with one behind his head between skull and pillow, one lying loosely over his right hand, and the last required wrapping his head with an elastic bandage to protect his eyes, then he had to hold it with his left hand whenever it slipped from its precarious balance. "I should probably take something anti-inflammatory, too," he said near the end of getting him situated. "Maybe ibuprofen?" If I can get the swelling down, I'll be able to see and I won't need so much help.

XXX

I thought of that earlier, something for his nose…More meds, but I won't argue an anti-inflammatory and ibuprofen is low stuff. He brought it back and pressed the pillows into Peter's hand, the bottled water into the other. Peering into the mug, he urged, "Try to drink some more soup." He left Peter's spare clothes alone for now.

XXX

Peter swallowed and sighed softly. He remembered his thoughts from a few days before about him urging Sylar to eat while the guy was concussed. The memory came with how Peter hadn't eaten lunch the day of the fight, unsettled by the gruesome details of his book. I need the food, he's right, and I don't want to be the sort of patient I wouldn't want to treat. With determination, he took another sip, then another, until he thought he'd drank as much as he had before. There was still a lot left in the cup, but he handed it back. Any more, and he'd risk throwing it all back up.

XXX

Content with his work and with Peter's progress, he got food for himself, then freshened up and returned to sit next to Peter (after snagging the rest of the pillows from the guest room). With Peter's eyes the way they were, it was impossible to tell if he was awake or conscious – there was no eye motion at all due to the swelling. It was a little disconcerting but it didn't matter much as Sylar read to himself. It's a good thing I can read for days. I should have left that clock here, the one he found and gave to me. Maybe I'll get it later. I can see why he might like doing this. There's nothing else to do and it's easy work if your patient behaves.

XXX

Eventually, Peter felt the mattress depress as Sylar joined him, which Peter found comforting. Seconds passed. Noises. A page being turned. Time passed again. Another page turned. Peter adjusted the ice packs and wondered about Sylar's reading speed. Could I use that to figure out how often I should shift the ice? But do I have the concentration to stay focused on that? I don't think so. It's too long to just sit here and do nothing but count and listen. What was I reading before all this? He remembered the book and the story of the Andes survivors, as well as the message he'd taken from it – a reminder that he shouldn't, couldn't give up. That's what started the fight. I wasn't going to give up on Nathan.

"What do you mean when you say Nathan's dead? You and I have both been dead before." Peter asked it calmly. The dampening of pain, the quiet, and the soothing chill of the ice packs had taken the edge off emotionally, as well. "I thought Dad was dead for a long time, but he came back." Couldn't Nathan?

XXX

He'd barely gotten into the book when Peter spoke. What was that about not annoying me? he thought wryly, And what a good time to ask more of those questions – when you're already beat to a pulp. (At least it's safe to talk). Sylar pursed his lips in distaste. "I mean that he's dead and you buried him." A…complicated thought struck him, one that invoked very mixed reactions. What about Claire's blood? Some kind of healer? No! I'm not encouraging this. Damnit! No wonder he doesn't believe me when I tell him it's over. (Like some people should stay dead? I'd be one of them). Survival of the fittest. (Who am I to judge? That makes me no better than Peter playing God). He shifted and frowned heavily.