sirenspull_logs | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who: Peter and the Joker
When: Evening, before Sirens
Where: The Roof of Peter's apartment
Summary: The Joker lures a police tail after him...just so he can have Voids close by when he draws Peter up to the roof...
Warnings: Violence, shenanigans, Joker

The red corvette spun around the corner on two wheels, nearly running down a man who was rushing his two children home before the sirens rang. That was the adorable thing about Sector Four to the Joker; it was such a wholesome place in the light of day. At night it was still part of the Port. It was the place family dreams went to die.

Joker wrenched sharply at the wheel of the corvette and glanced back at the trail of police cars behind him. The officer in the front car was yelling something at him but he did not bother listening. The officer had told him his name but Joker had not listened to that either. Guy had a funny nose, though. It was big, bulbous and red. Joker liked the nose.

"'Scuse me!" this was shouted to a pedestrian as he spun around another corner and ground to a halt, hitting a fire hydrant. The corvette failed to knock the metal aside which was disappointing. But the roof was already down and this allowed the Joker to leap nimbly from the vehicle and run for the nearest apartment building. Convenient things, removable roofs. He made a mental note to visit the late Doctor Slavkov's grave and thank him for the car.

The apartment was Joker's real target. Somewhere inside was Peter, a man important to Sylar. Sylar. The name alone raised the poison in his veins. Unfortunately, Sylar had made it clear that he didn't care about living or dying. So that meant going after his little nemesis...it was a more worthy vengeance, anyway. It was something The Persian would not have thought up.

Joker reached out and grabbed a thin, weasely man who was trying to slink away from the sidewalk. The clown's eyes were electric with malicious intent and the man lifted his hands, energy crackling at his fingertips. The glow lasted for only a moment before fizzling.

The Police Voids are in range. Good.

Joker dragged the man over to the apartment's fire escape. "Nothing personal, old chum, you're just a hostage. You know how it is when the fuzz is on your keister."

Of course, this has nothing to do with the cops either. And everything to do with Peter!

"STOP!" yelled Officer Nose, pulling over next to the abandoned corvette. Joker was already half way up the fire escape with his hostage locked in his grip. This was easy for him. When you've run up and down buildings being chased by the Bat, nothing else compared.

"PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!"

Or maybe it was "hair". Joker wasn't listening again. He dragged the squirming weasel to the edge of the roof and dangled him.

"CALL OFF YOUR BOYS, FUNNY FACE!" Joker yowled down at Nose. "OR THE CORONER WILL BE PICKING THE ASPHALT OUTTA THIS GUY'S TEETH!"

Come on out, Peter. Come stop the Big, Bad Clown.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Though he didn't want to admit it, there was something soothing about being taken into Sylar's arms while he shook, and he let himself go slightly slack with devastation, trying to clamp down on laughter that sounded anything but humorous to Peter.

"You can't kill anyone right now," Speaking through gritted teeth around laughs that were forcing their way out of his lungs, Peter tries to stop thinking about how humiliating this is and instead stuffs his face against Sylar's shoulder, as if that somehow made the torturous laughter go away. If anything it simply muffles it, made it quieter so hat Peter could tell himself it wasn't truly there anymore, even though it was all he could hear, ringing disgustingly in his mind.

Knees going stiff with paralysis, Peter grabs hold of Sylar's shirt almost painfully tight, already finding it hard to catch his breath in between the laughs he's stuffing against Sylar's shirt, and Peter has to wonder if this was going to make him lose his mind. If this was going to stop, or if this was what was truly going to kill him like nothing else had.

"I wouldn't use my powers even if I had them," he answered, and it was a breath tilted into Peter's ear, a breath that gusted at the strands of hair that fell across the other man's face. "I'd kill him with my bare hands, make him suffer for doing this to you."

Despite the softness of his voice, there was a bitter vehemence in it, and again that possessiveness. Peter was his, and this suggestion that another man could simply come and not only kill him, but make him suffer again and again, tormenting him with pain and laughter, was enough to make him angrier than he had ever been. Peter pulled himself closer, and his breath was shortening, struggling as his lungs began to freeze up again, and Sylar tangled his hand in Peter's hair and made a soft 'Shhh' noise in his ear.

"I'm not going anywhere, Peter."

Peter had no idea how he was even supposed to react at this point -- this was Sylar, who he'd only invited into his home a number of days ago, who had even killed him once, and now Peter was clinging to him for dear life, because -- as it seemed to be becoming truer by the day -- Sylar was all he had.

And he was starting not to care about how desperately he needed him, and might have said as much if he could have.

But he'd lost the ability to speak all over again, his lungs closing off, his throat stuffed full of hysterical laughter, leaving no room for air to pass through. It made his head spin, his stomach drop out from underneath him as the paralysis took hold, and Peter had to wonder how he hadn't thrown up yet. Maybe it was the feeling of the edges of the world going dark and pulling inward that kept his stomach contents where they were, but in a way, he was thankful for the paralysis, otherwise the inability to breathe would have left him thrashing, clutching for life.

As it was though, it was the damn rictus grin that set him off the most, made him feel as if he'd lost every ounce of the control he once had over himself. But at least it meant he'd be dying in mere moments, his grip on Sylar's turning near vicious with its intensity, only further encouraged by the complete paralysis setting in.

And just like last time, it was all over -- another few seconds and Peter was going slack in Sylars arms as his body slowly began to, once again, recharge.

Sylar frowned, and the laughing came on, faster, more breathless, and he could feel the other man beginning to freeze up under him, the laughter overwhelming, the tight grip on his arms becoming vicious, knotted fingers closing tight enough to pinch and hurt, but it was the very last thing before it ended, again, and Peter fell still, slumped in his arms, and his hands fell away.

Had it taken longer for him to recover this time? He wasn't sure. He wasn't used to this, any of it--Peter was the nurse, and Sylar killed. He killed without remorse. He killed ruthlessly, and he had killed cruelly in the past, but at least he killed fast. No, that wasn't true. He had taken his time with Batman, after all, stretched it out, enjoyed every moment.

But this was cruel. Perhaps the Joker hadn't known that this would happen, that Peter would die and keep on dying, but, Sylar told himself, the clown wouldn't have cared even if that were true. But the fact was that Peter was suffering, and for some reason it was not just the insult that hurt.

Before Peter came back, Sylar edged back, brushing the spittle away from his mouth as it twisted back into something human again. He wiped his hand on the blanket, then raised it to brush Peter's hair out of his face again, just as life flickered back into the dead eyes. There was blood everywhere. Blood drying on his own hands as well as Peter's, blood matting his hair and mottled across his stomach from a wound that was no longer there. He'd been stabbed, he thought. Then this was some kind of poison?

As per usual, it didn't take too long for the paralysis to begin dragging its way out of him, pulling down from the top of his head to his lungs, diaphragm, stomach, until his body unconsciously began to breath again and suddenly Peter was dragged hard back into true consciousness.

Scrambling his feet across the ground, Peter's hands instantly slammed up against Sylar's chest as he pulled in a desperately hard breath, almost as if he hadn't breathed for years, his eyes wide with unexpected terror. It was like whiplash, being dragged from death back to life, and there was something inherently exhausting about it; having to do it for the third time in less than as many hours was making Peters head spin, and he had no chance whatsoever to catch his breath. No pun intended.

Staring hard at Sylar but staying silent, Peter keeps waiting for it, the expected to start all over again, and it's evident across his features that he's more than a little bit scared. But he's still heaving breaths like it's the last thing he can do, trying to grab hold of his life while it's still in his clutches

But if he was going to die again this time, it was taking longer to start, and when Peter realized that fact, he relaxed only slightly, his gaze slowly dropping. He wasn't exactly hopeful that it was over, and maybe he shouldn't be because a tremor suddenly worked it's way up his back, making his shoulders quake. It had taken longer this time, and it was definitely less powerful, but Peter suddenly wasn't any less terrified.

"Sylar." It was almost a whimper, not that he thought that the other man could help in any way apart from being comforting, but he had to say it because he had to say something. And Sylar was all he had, and somehow the other man stifled the terrifying ache in the pit of his stomach just enough that he wanted to grab hold and refuse to let go. But the silence after the word was almost deafening, and while his shoulders twitched, it was all Peter could do not to fall apart and say that he just didn't want to have to die all over again. That he wasn't sure he could take it.

He wasn't startled - not the second time - because he was beginning to understand this now, understand the glimmer of fear that flickered that the claustrophobic thing that had killed him was still there, and instinct alone made Peter react the way he did. He didn't take hold of him again immediately, but dropped to just one hand on one arm, and felt the first tremor of the poison flicker across Peter's shoulder and down his back.

Sylar dropped his eyes at the plea, the call of his name, and wondered what he could say, what he could possibly offer that would make dying less horrible than it already was. He slid his hand up higher, as though resting it on Peter's shoulder could hold back the muscular twitching. It was definitely slower this time, and though it was a good sign, he knew that it would be worse for that. At this rate it could take days to sweep the poison from his system, and how many times would Peter have to suffer before that happened?

"I could kill you," he said, finally, and he wondered if that was a comfort, but his eyes were firm, as though he sincerely believed in what he was offering. "I'd be more gentle than this."

Peter had no idea if the idea was a better one than letting it all happen over again -- especially if it was going to happen slower. The slight tremor in his shoulders picked up faintly, making it look as if Peter was simply shivering, though it made him ache, as if the remnants of his recent deaths were simply tiring his muscles out.

Making a noise somewhere between a hiccup and a laugh, Peter was suddenly tried to wiggle out from underneath Sylars hold which was hard when he was near dumb with terror, his gaze scattering across the room, because it seemed suddenly that while everything was popping up more slowly, that simply meant it would take just that much longer to kill him. And if anything, that sounded infinitely more torturous.

"Goddammit, I don't want it to go any slower this time." He wasn't even looking at Sylar when he said it, and he didn't know who he was pleading to, or for at this point. Peter simply imagined that if he was home alone, he would handle this all his own way -- curling up and letting himself die on instant reply until the poison finally cleared from his system, or he lost his mind. Whichever happened first.

"But it doesn't-- You don't have to do anything, I don't--" At this rate, Peter was crumbling fast, and he was going to end up curling into himself with or without Sylar being there, the shaking only encouraging his breakdown, and not of the physical variety. "I don't know what to do."

Sylar let him go; he wasn't holding him hard, and even if Peter did step away he wouldn't get far. Healing, dying again, healing, dying. Was this a power he really wanted? He dropped his hands down and let Peter move away, watching him hawkishly, but with no small amount of concern.

"You die," he said, matter of factly, and wondered if Peter was just too proud to admit it or didn't know. But was that really the only possibility? Die and die again. If this was a poison, then it was in his blood, and there was one way to deal with that. Not that he thought often about the problems with immortality. What the powers were had never been a problem; he was only ever interested in having them.

"But it doesn't have to be like this. We could bleed it out of you. It might not get rid of all the poison, but it'd be a start." He tilted his head, rising to move toward Peter, touching his arm again. The shaking was getting worse. "You'd have to trust me. Peter, it couldn't be any worse than this."

Peter knew that there really wasn't much worse than this, didn't need to have Sylar tell him that, and if it was going to happen slow and agonizingly this time, then he just didn't want to have to do it at all. But it wasn't as if any of the other options sounded splendid either, and they all depended on having a certain amount of trust in Sylar.

Keeping his jaw clamped shut for another few seconds, terrified that laughter was going to bubble up from nowhere, he simply tried to keep his heavy breathing even through the shaking. Slowly pulling his gaze away from the opposite wall, he finally looked back at Sylar, almost choking on a laugh that he was trying his hardest to repress as he stared at the other man, almost know what his answer was going to be moments before he said it.

"Fine, just do it. I don't care, I don't want to have to die again. Not like this." The unspoken words were that Peter trusted Sylar enough to do whatever it took to get this to stop, even if that meant putting his life in Sylar's hands in an entirely different way than allowing him to watch this horror show continue around the clock.

Permission. That was all he needed, although to be fair he could have gone ahead and killed him without it - and had on occasion, in the past. But this was different. He knew it even as he pulled himself back to his feet and backstepped toward the door, before spinning around and jetting down the hallway. He almost went over in the lounge, turning on a dime to go through the kitchen door, and knocking drawers onto the floor to find what he needed, the sharpest knife that Peter owned.

And then he wasted two seconds staring at it, touching his thumb to the blade long enough to draw blood, preparing himself for what he was about to do.

Peter owed him.

Sylar head back to the bedroom, slipping the knife through a beltloop as he went, and stopped in the doorway, thinking logistically. There was a lot of blood in a human body, and it got everywhere; if Peter wanted to keep living here, then they'd have to contain the spill, and that meant going back to the bathroom. He stepped unblinkingly forward, and offered his hand.

"Come with me."

Peter stayed where he was in his bedroom, shuddering miserably, clapping his hand over his mouth to contain the occasional laugh as the tremors slowly worsened. Peter wasn't sure he was exactly thrilled about this idea, but if it made this all stop, if it put an end to this before he had to die another three times, than he didn't particularly care. Who knew how long it would take if he didn't, each death growing infinitely more agonizing until there was nothing left of him.

Lost in thought as his shaking turned harder, Sylar's appearance caught him off guard and he snapped his attention up, pausing for only a few seconds to stare at the knife in Sylars belt loop before he caved and took Sylar's hand, pushing himself up to his feet.

"Okay." Dropping his gaze miserably, Peter just wanted to get this over with, wanted to be done with it. And he was just trying not to think about what was going to happen next as he was led to the bathroom.

At least Peter wasn't fighting it all the way, because Sylar didn't think he'd be able to wrestle him into the shower and keep him upright while he did what he needed to unless Peter was willing. It was an odd sensation, nervousness, it had been a long time since he'd felt anything like it, and this shouldn't have felt as alien as it did. It was just killing, after all, and he was good at that.

He walked backwards from the bedroom to the bathroom, parted the mildewed shower curtain and stepped back into the basin, still holding Peter's hand. The shaking was getting worse, he could see, but there was no need to keep his hands steady--this wasn't surgery, it was murder. Or was it euthanasia?

With his elbow he turned on the shower, and it took a few seconds to turn from ice cold to warm, running off them pink and sticking his clothes against him. He wrapped one arm around Peter to keep him steady, and drew the blade.

"Your body won't heal so long as the blade is inside. That's right, isn't it?" He licked his lips, dropped his head against Peter's. "Concentrate on staying conscious for as long as you can."

Peter was a willing participant in this only in the sense that it was the lesser of two hideous evils, none of which he wanted to deal with. But at least he wasn't going to complain about it as he followed Sylar into the shower, ducking his face when the other man turned on the spray to avoid the water.

There wasn't anything comfortable about this as his pants quickly began to cling to him, dried blood already starting to run through to the drain. And yet, Sylar's arm around him was still comfort, a constant, something he was still undoubtedly thankful for.

But he looked up at the other man and nodded, shaking hard enough that he was gritting his teeth. "i'll do what I can," was all he managed before squeezing his eyes shut, reaching for Sylar's shirt and grabbing hold, twisting the fabric in his fingers. There was nothing he could do but wait for the inevitable and hope it didn't send him sinking to his knees.

This. This was trust, and it was a strange thing to have, particularly since Peter was the one who knew what he was. Particularly since he was holding a knife. He kept his head down against Peter's, moving his other hand imperceptibly behind him, and tried to remember what he knew from his books about human anatomy. Without his abilities, it would be education and luck that helped him to get this right, to bleed Peter as long and as much as possible while leaving his brain and heart to stave off death as long as he could. Somewhere which would hurt less than any other place - and that was difficult enough as it was.

There were less pain receptors in the back, and the place he had chosen was below Peter's heart, and as he put the knife into place he urged Peter's head a little lower against his chest--it would make it easier on his heart. Peter would lose feeling in his legs, which meant that Sylar would be holding him up, but he was prepared for that. He knew what he was doing.

There was no warning before he pushed the tip of the blade into the renal artery, just below Peter's kidneys. He held him a little tighter, and was aware that maybe he ought to say something. Something reassuring, something...caring.

"I have you," he finally mumbled, and twisted the knife to open the wound. Hot blood poured onto his hand, splashed with water from the shower, and he let out a shaky breath. "Stay with me, Peter."

Peter wasn't entirely aware or not if he made a noise when Sylar finally jammed in the knife, though if he made one it wasn't even remotely pleasant. And though he knew it was coming, he couldn't help the squirming reaction it tore from his muscles as pain ripped though him, giving Sylar's shirt a viciously hard pull forward as his head nearly flew up.

He hardly even noticed the spilling of his own blood save for the extra warmth of the liquid sliding down his back, and the fact that it didn't flow quite the same way as the water from his shower. But it was the smell of it that got to him, the acrid scent of his own death, and the way the color of the tub turned instantly red at his feet.

But god if it didn't hurt like a son of a bitch, and Peter was finally done staying quiet, making a rather loud riotous sound as his head spun sickly, his vision pulling fuzzy at the edges. He could feel his knees starting to give out from underneath him and unconsciously, he dropped a hand from Sylar's shirt, reaching behind himself in some pitiful attempt to get rid of the knife because it was agonizing and it just didn't stop. And all he wanted to do was make it stop, but he was still shaking, still gurgling the occasional laugh and Peter was half convinced he was going to simply fall to pieces against Sylar's chest.

There was nothing quite like that sound. It was the same sound as people made when he cut open their skulls, but that was usually cut off sharply enough as he reached inside and snapped everything dead. No, this was something else, because it carried on, and Peter reached back behind himself to try and dislodge the knife. Sylar's grip was strong, but the knife was slippery from blood and water, and the only way to stop him from taking it was to raise his other hand higher, lodging his arm under Peter's armpit to keep his shoulder from rolling back.

"Shh," he rattled, long and slow. As close as a lover's embrace, but this was slaughter, and Peter was the lamb. "This isn't anything new. I know what you're thinking. You want this to stop, but you know this is inevitable. It always is with us. You're better than this. Don't let it shake you, defy it right to the end."

His hair had swept down with the weight of the water, and it stuck it into his eyes and down his face. He felt half drowned, the weight of his wet clothes and a wet Peter bogging him down, but the other man couldn't hold himself up any more. It wouldn't be much longer now.

"Look at me," he said. "Look me in the eye, and tell death that you're not afraid."

H's trying, by god is he ever trying. But his feet are intent on sliding out from under him no matter how hard he's trying to work at keeping his knees locked, because nothing seems to be to functioning correctly when he's in agony, when the bottom of the tub is flooded with his own bood, and when what little blood was catering to his brain was slipping away, leaving him with only higher level functioning.

Trying to listen to Sylar talk was hard enough when he was fading in and out but Peter kept trying to grab hold of the words like they were they only stock left he had in reality, finally giving up in his efforts to grab hold of the knife.

"Sylar," Looking up at him through wet bangs that were still running pink, the focus he has on the other man keeps pulling out and Peter keeps squeezing his eyes shut, choking on agonized sobs before forcing his eyes open again to try to regain his sight. But no matter what he does, Sylar's turned into a blur, the edges of his vision black and closing in, and he doesn't want to say the words. In fact, he doesn't want to talk at all, he just wants to scream, but he hardly has the energy to do it when he's staring down deaths door.

"I- I asked you to..." The tremors have dwindled from ones that were poison induced to simply shakes of a dying variety, and Peter's finding it hard to make his tongue form the words that Sylar wants him to say. It shouldn't matter, not when he can barely think straight, but he's forcing out whatever words he can. "-- M'not afraid of it."

But he's drifting and there was no other way to put it. Dangling from consciousness on a thin rope, any eye contact he might have had is lost entirely when Peter drops his head down against Sylar's chest, going practically slack and Peter just whimpers, the last sound of a man inches away from death.

The smell was overwhelming, as much as he was used to it. There was blood all around them, but at least it was confined to the shower, which would make it a little easier to wash away. Sylar only tightened his grip as Peter began to sag against him, and he kept the other man's exhausted gaze, listening to his breathless words, the haggard quality of his every breath. He could feel his heart struggling now, and the blood flow was slowing.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered both himself and Peter down into the pink water, arranging the other man across his chest, dabbing the hair out of his eyes again. There was a fresh gush of blood from the change in angle, but it wouldn't help Peter now. The light was going steadily out of his eyes.

A moment before that happened he leant forward, brushing his lips across Peter's temple.

He didn't say a word--honestly, he thought Peter might not hear him anyway, and just a few seconds later he raised his hand from the knife, and closed Peter's eyes with bloodied fingers. The blood kept flowing, but it was little more than a trickle now, and Sylar did not wait long before reaching down to pull the knife free, tossing it out of the bath casually. The water was slowly clearing.

Peter wasn't conscious for most of it, being lowered into the bottom of the bathtub and settling there, though he desperately tried to stay for as long as humanely possible. There just wasn't anything he could do in the end, not as death dragged him in all over again, forcing his body to go as limp as it had gone every singe time before.

Coming back this time, however, took far longer than the times before. Replacing pints of blood wasn't an instantaneous process, and Peter remained exactly as he was for seconds on end before the wound knitted itself back together, before his brain slowly started to turn the lights on for the fourth time time that day, grabbing hold of life and pulling Peter up through consciousness all over again.

That wasn't to say that he actually felt all that pleasant this time when he took a soggy but sudden gasp of breath, starting to cough a second later as one of his hands found the edge of the bathtub, fingers slipping desperately against the linoleum -- Peter's attempt at trying to find grounding however he could. Squeezing his eyes shut to avoid the spray of the shower, Peter was right back to heaving for breaths and trying to make his mind work again, though he almost instantly started to curl sideways and burrow his face in against Sylar chest. At this point, Peter hardly cared that it was Sylar, because he was human, and he was alive, and safe in an absurd kind of way, and god, Peter was more than a little bit tired of dying.

Coughing between every breath, Peter's lost never every ounce of shame that he ever had, and he hardly cares that he's practically trying to cuddle with Sylar, while drenched in the bottom of his bath tub. For the next near minute, all he's trying to do is remember what it actually feels like to be something close to alive, even if that means being a drowned puppy at the same time.

Sylar was shuddering, sopping wet and feeling it, and there was as much blood on him as there was on Peter, but it was all over. It was over for now, at least. There was still the possibility that the shaking would come back, that he would die all over again, but for the moment there was peace.

At least until Peter came back, splashing and flailing and gasping.

Sylar was almost as exhausted as Peter was, and he made a prefunctory attempt at keeping the other man still. Fortunately he didn't flail too far, and after a moment he sank sidewards into him, and pressed his face against his chest, and Sylar dropped his hands down across Peter's shoulders and just exhaled.

A long minute passed, and with it the hot water, and Sylar reached up to smack the water off, shivering from the downpour of ice cold water. He looked up at the wall beside the sink and wondered if he could reach the towels without moving. If he only had his powers...

He was stroking Peter's back, rubbing heat into him instinctively as the warm blood-stained water they were sitting in spiralled away down the plughole, his chin in the other man's sopping wet hair.

Shivering from cold instead of any sort of tremors, Peter was doing what he could to try and turn himself on his stomach, instinct telling him to curl up against Sylar, who was warmer than he was, though just as equally drenched. The hand at his back helped equally as muh, only encouraging him that much more to seek refuge against the other body in the tub.

Still pulling in hard breaths that had his chest heaving, Peter didn't know if he hurt simply because his mind was playing tricks on him, or because his body had truly tired itself out with the constant repeat of having to bring him back to life. But he didn't care what the answer to that question was, because he was tired, tired of dying and desperately hopeful it wasn't about to happen again anytime soon.

After another long few moments, Peter finally stops struggling so hard for breath and slowly settles, albeit coldly, exactly where he is. Finally opening his eyes to peer blearily through his bangs at the side of the tub, even if he felt like speaking, he wouldn't have the slightest clue what to say, so for another few seconds at least, he stays silent, waiting. Hoping that this is all over with. Some small part of his mind notes that he's curled up against Sylar, Sylar of all people, but his ability to care has slipped down the drain with the rest of his blood, and for the moment, all he wants is whatever comfort he can find, not exactly too bothered by the source of it.

It felt like forever that they lay there, bitterly cold, soaking wet, each of Peter's breaths, his fluttering heart, beating against his own. He became more used to the cold after a while, but it was Peter's warmth against him as much as anything else that helped steady him. He didn't question it--after the first minute it didn't seem as strange any more, and they sat in teeth-chattering, companionable silence, because Sylar wasn't sure what to say either.

Five minutes later, he gave up on his quiet will for the towels to fly across the room toward them, and with a great effort, and slipping a little across the bottom of the tub, he pulled both himself and Peter up and onto the tiled floor, still dripping pink water, and then - quite suddenly - he laughed.

It was an awkward laugh, a mere bark of laughter, because Sylar didn't laugh often, and on top of everything else it was almost obscene, after all it had been laughter killing Peter.

"Can you stand?" he finally asked, pulling the towels off the rack and wrapping one of them around around Peter's bare shoulders, dropping the other on his head.

He really didn't have much of an invested interest in getting to his feet, but he couldn't do anything to stop it either as Sylar dragged him up and back onto the floor of the bathroom. The movement made his head swim slightly -- he still looked pale, drained of any excess of blood, and it took him a few moments to adjust to his own height.

But it was the laugh that seemingly made him flinch from surprise. He was pretty sure he'd be fine if he didn't hear himself laugh for the rest of the week, but he hadn't expected one from Sylar. Not that he was upset by it, it simply caught him off guard, but then there was a towel being dropped on his head and Peter furrowed his brow, warming slowly under the cotton.

"Yeah, i'm fine."

That was only partially true -- he was nowhere close to fine, but he could stand, proving as much when he ruffled the towel into his hair before pulling it away and looking down at himself, pants dripping a pink puddle onto the bathroom floor, one that was merging with one at Sylar's feet, and Peter didn't exactly want to go dripping bloody clothes through the rest of his apartment.

Though what that required, was a request that he didn't really want to say out loud.

Sylar hesitated, and very carefully he unwound his arms, making sure Peter really could stand before he let him go. He fetched another pile of towels out of the cabinet, set them on the lid of the toilet and unfolded one of them into his own hair, taking stock of the situation again.

And it was clear, very clear, what he had to do. He licked his lips, once, then turned back toward Peter. It was fortunate that he could stand to be cold a little longer, because there was much to do.

First, he stripped off his own drenched shirt, because it was making him all the more uncomfortable, and then he crouched down, taking off Peter's soggy shoes and peeling off his socks, all the while dripping conspicuously on the floor. He slipped off his own shoes and socks too, then stood, plucking one of the towels up and holding it out in front of Peter, eyebrows raised.

And even with the towel held out, he found himself trying to work out where to look.

Watching Sylar, in a daze of sorts, he hadn't really expected the other man to drop down to his knees and begin taking off his shoes. It was as if this evening was becoming infinitely stranger as the seconds ticked by, and Peter was losing his place in reality. But for the time being, he really just didn't care.

The affection in the gesture wasn't lost on him either, or perhaps Peter was making more of it than Sylar was, and he just responded resolutely, making every action as easy on Sylar as he could possibly.

But it was when Sylar held the towel out in front of his waist that Peter paused, completely aware of what he was implying even without the eyebrow raise from the other man. For a second, he almost decided to drop the idea all together, he didn't care if his carpet was covered in blood. Except for how he did, and he swallowed thickly, dropping his gaze down onto himself.

His own movements were a bit slower than Sylar's, but he's undoing his jeans a second later, exhaling shakily as he squirms them down past his hips, the wet fabric trying to cling to his skin as he goes. His boxers go right along with them, and Peter's breathing far too hard as he teeters precariously, trying to pull his legs out of the heavy, damp denim. He's still paler than he should be, still trying to return back to one hundred percent when he reaches for the towel Sylar's holding out.

But suddenly it seems he has enough blood to have a flush.