Do No Harm


doyle_icon.gif eileen_icon.gif kaylee2_icon.gif peter7_icon.gif raith_icon.gif rourke_icon.gif

Scene Title Do No Harm
Synopsis Peter and Kaylee arrive at Eileen's apartment after receiving word from Colette that Doyle has been shot.
Date January 27, 2010

Fort Greene — Eileen's Apartment

Snow gathers on the concrete lip outside Eileen's bedroom window where a raven is perched, its hunched silhouette illuminated by the glow seeping out from the lamps that line the empty street outside Fort Greene. The apartment itself is dark, lights off and curtains drawn to deflect attention away from its interior should anyone who isn't expected come nosing around to make sure that Miss Spurling isn't out after curfew.

Inside, the French doors separating the bedroom from the rest of the living space have been left open to allow movement between Doyle's bedside and the rest of the apartment. Not that Eileen is moving much. She sits in a chair opposite her patient, head bowed and neck bent, a silver chain wound round her pale fingers as she rubs her thumb along the edge of something she presses into the seat of her palm, tracing its outline behind the knit of her bony knuckles.

As Eileen sits watching Doyle, and sits recovering, Raith is in the now otherwise unoccupied bathroom running hot water in the sink. Unlike hypodermic needles, the equipment they used to perform the transfusion can be reused, and should be reused. But it has to be cleaned first, and washing everything in hot water is the first step in this process. A bottle of rubbing alcohol sits nearby, ready to seal the deal. "I could really go for a shot of whiskey," he calls out to anyone who happens to be listening, as if anyone actually cared. The worst is over. All that's left to do is wait for Doyle to wake up.

Closing the apartment door behind himself, the darkly dressed silhouette of Peter Petrelli wasn't exactly the company Raith was expecting to entertain in Eileen's conscious absence; Even if he's less entertaining and more cleaning. Standing there by the apartment's door, he squints against the dark of the living space with a mixture of scrutiny and uncertainty. There's a firm level of emotional content layered over the people in this room, and half of it is both vestigial, and belonging to another man entirely.

"I didn't peg you for much of a drinker…" Peter offers to the greeting from the bathroom with subtle uncertainty to those words. Day by day, the memories of Kazimir Volken are becoming like a worn-out patchwork quilt, torn and frayed in places, with newer pieces overlaying and replacing the old. "How's he doing?" The question isn't so much for Peter's sake as he finally moves from beyond the doorway, but for the blonde woman revealed as his silhouette steps aside.

"E's alive." That much comes from the one awake Brit sitting at the kitchen table, offered quietly for the sleeping residents. Andy Rourke sips at a cup of tea with a certain disquiet, looking up with unfamiliarity towards Peter, but something more passing as a welcoming smile to Kaylee. "He's in there," Andy offers with a nod towards the darkened bedroom through those open French doors.

Peter turns to look back at Kaylee, brows furrowed, a hand reaching out to lay on her shoulder. He's waiting to see if she'd rather see Doyle herself, or have moral support. After all, their last words to one another weren't entirely friendly.

Eric Doyle sleeps, perchance to dream; although one would no doubt not enjoy whatever dreams stir in that head of his, his brow occasionally twitching, lips curling in a grimace before stilling. At least it's sleep, now, rather than unconsciousness, his very broad chest rising and falling slowly with only slightly erratic breath. The side of his neck is all good and bandaged up, and he's covered by sheets, mercifully, since his blood-soaked clothes have ended up god knows where. Unfortunately for him, the isotope tag is on the opposite side of his neck, so it's still there like a mark of shame branded upon him in those cold concrete halls so long ago.

A slightly nervous smile is given to Peter, reaching up to pat his hand and give it a squeeze before moving forward. A friendly smile is given to the Brick House operator. "Hey Andy.." She offers softly. "This is a friend of mine Peter. Peter.. Andy.. and you." She points at Andy. "Thanks for helping Eric."

Taking a deep breath she turns toward the room where Doyle is. You can do this. The girl never was good with rejection.. and last thing she wanted was him to push her away. Glancing down at the first aid kit still clutched in her arm, she hands it over to Peter before finally stepping into the room. A glance goes to the sleeping Eileen, "Hey Eileen." She says softly to the woman, as Kaylee settles on the edge of the bed next to Doyle. There is a pained look at the bandages at his neck.

"I have you out of my sight one day and look what happens." There is more of a sad tone of guilt in Kaylee's voice, then frustration at the sleeping puppeteer.

Eileen's lashes lift just enough at the sound of Kaylee's voice to betray the fact that she isn't as asleep as she initially appears. A flash of stainless steel is briefly visible in the gaps between her fingers as she tightens her grip around whatever it is that she's holding. She does not rise from her chair — yet.

"There's plenty you don't know about me," is the only answer that Raith offers to Peter. He's not going to be finished in the bathroom for a few moments more, at least.

That division of knowledge about all things Raith is going to continue to grow as well, which is both relieving and disconcerting, given what little he does remember of the man. Peter only offers a nod to Andy, followed by a look of passing uncertainty in that he feels like he should remember him from somewhere, but can't quite place it.

Following Kaylee into the bedroom, Peter's eyes move towards Eileen, then over to Doyle. When Kaylee moves to settle on the edge of the bed, Peter's moving to where Eileen has kept herself propped up in the chair. Everything here is remarkably sedate, especially given the recent events and how panicked the girl that called Kaylee sounded on the other end of the phone. Thankfully, both Colette's anxiety and Else Kjelstrom's knotted stomach are on their way back to the Brick House by now, whether they wanted to leave or not.

When Peter lays a hand on Eileen's shoulder, it's not in attempt to rouse her from her sleep, but more of a supportive gesture. It's unlike her to be inattentive when guests are around, and that much alone has him concerned. When Peter's hand comes away, dark eyes assess the unlit room and then settle on Kaylee.

"This isn't your fault." Peter has no way of knowing this, for all he knows it is entirely Kaylee's fault; but right now him saying that and her hearing it are the last things that need to be done. Right now, everyone needs something to soothe them, be it mentally or physically.

Eric's sleep is restless, at the moment, muttering something under his breath as he shifts; perhaps unconsciously noting new sensory input as the pair enter the room, that mingles or conflicts with whatever dreams he's having. After a few moments, he stills, dropping silent once more.

Watching Eric move restless in whatever dream he's in, Kaylee rests a hand lightly on his lower arm. Her head turns slightly towards Peter, glancing at him. "Maybe.. but it feels like it." Eyes move towards the bathroom as well, even as she says. "He and I can't seem to avoid trouble that's for sure. Course, normally, I'm there to keep him from acting." Small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "I've had to alter memories before to protect him even." The smiles fall quickly, "This time.. I wasn't there and he gets shot." She shrugs a bit.

Whether the hand at Eileen's shoulder intends to rouse her, Peter's touch has that effect. The muscles surrounding her collarbone tense under his fingers, and as he's moving away from her, toward Kaylee, she's steering her own hand toward the back of the chair to steady herself so she doesn't sway when climbing to her feet. She's always been pale, but tonight her skin is more pallid than is probably healthy, and when compared to the dark curls of hair plastered to her cheeks and brow by a thin sheen of sweat, it becomes apparent that her complexion isn't just a trick of the light or the lack thereof.

Her movements, at least, are steady as she maneuvers around the chair and heads out the French doors, past the bathroom where Raith is cleaning up, past Andy at the kitchen table, and into the kitchen itself to run herself a glass of water from the tap. She drapes the chain around her throat, careful not to catch what's attached in her hair, and tucks the metal down the front of the bloodstained chemise she wears, nestling it between the swell of her breasts.

Silence from both Eileen and Raith isn't unexpected, but it is unusual. Brows furrowed as he watches Eileen depart for the kitchen, there's a hitch of something anxious beginning to grow in the back of Peter's mind. Moving to the bedside, Peter takes a look at Doyle, head craning from one side to the other, squinting in an effort to strain and make out details in the dark. After a moment of inspection at the bandaged wound at the side of his neck, Peter looks up to Kaylee and just offers her a difficult to see smile and a nod of his head.

"I think the best thing you can do right now, is keep him company…" Peter offers in advice to Kaylee, swallowing awkwardly afterward as he does much like Eileen did to him, and turns a shoulder to Kaylee and departs from the bedroom. His path of approach is moving in Eileen's footsteps, following her into the kitchen; quiet, but in much the same way judgmental in his silence. By the time he's standing near her at the sink and folding his arms, his expectance of an explanation seems forthcoming.

"You look worse than Eric does…" It's not quite the same as a demand for an answer, but Peter's passive request for an explanation does at least come with a tone that she's more familiar with; something reflexively paternal, perhaps unfortunately so.

Maybe he hears his name. It's spoken down the hall, in the kitchen, but maybe he hears his name anyway, because he begins to stir. "Nnnfhgm," states Eric Doyle in what is sadly not the least intelligent thing ever to pass his lips, his brow furrowing tightly, one hand weakly lifting in a vague, half-asleep gesture towards his neck and the fresh bandages there without really being away of what he's doing.

The young telepath watches Eileen leave with curiosity and concern, brows dropping in a small frown. She returns the smile to Peter and nods, glancing over her shoulder as he leaves as well. Turning back in time to see that hand lifting, she moves to intercept it. "I wouldn't do that Eric." Kaylee murmurs softly. Whether or not he understand her, she tells him, "Don't want to accidentally undo what Eileen did for you."

"Tired," is the answer Eileen provides Peter, and she sounds it too. Glass tinkles, the faucet squeaks — water rises from the bottom of the vessel at a steady creep, filling the kitchen with the sound of rattling pipes. She turns it off again before it crawls too far, then sets the glass aside to go fishing through the pocket of her woolen pea coat left haphazardly draped across the kitchen counter. "I'm fine," she insists. "Better."

Her hand comes free of the coat pocket with fingers curled around a small orange bottle and white childproof cap, which she twists off under steady pressure applied by the heel of her palm. "If you want to make yourself useful, you can help Jensen clean up. We haven't gotten to the floors yet." Peter's tone hasn't escaped her notice. Hers shouldn't elude his, either — she doesn't want a parent, she wants a friend, and the coarseness of her voice reflects it.

Wherever Raith is must be about finished in the bathroom, because that faucet stops running, and the man waits a moment for the sink to drain before he plugs it and upends the bottle of rubbing alcohol, dousing all the equipment and producing fumes harsh enough to make his eyes sting. A moment later, Raith emerges back into the main room, drying his hands with a towel. "Hope you have a mop," he says, "If not, some of us will be making a trip to the corner market for one and some peroxide."

"Left my mop in my other pants," Peter admits with a side-long look across the apartment to Raith, one of his brows raised in regard to the older man. When Peter's attention settles on Eileen again, there is perhaps a few shreds of doubt that trace into his tone of voice. "Do you mind if I take a look at him? At— what you did? I don't think Kaylee was told exactly how he was shot, but from the looks of the bandaging it was on his neck? I just— I don't mean it as an insult, I just… I'd feel more comfortable checking and being overly cautions rather than not checking and missing something important?"

Grimacing, Peter shifts his weight to one foot and moves aside from where he'd been standing in the kitchen, starting to amble back towards the dining room. "That— might mean I have to turn a lamp on in there. If that's not going to cause a problem?" There's a look back over his shoulder to Eileen, then another equally questioning look to Raith in the kitchen. It'd be rude to ask why everyone's in here with the lights out, after all.

"K'lee…?" A vague, confused mumbling spills past Doyle's lips as he cracks his eyes open, regarding her blearily through them, his hand vaguely waving around in the air as it's intercepted, "What… happened? Hurts." A hint of a plaintive air to his words, almost childlike, confused, like a kicked puppy.

"From what I got from a panicked Colette. You got shot.. from what I can see in the neck." Kaylee explains, her voice sounding a bit strained and concerned. "But yeah.. Eric it's me. Came down here as soon as I got off the phone." Her smiles falls away, as she studies him. "What were you doing, Puppet master? Hmm?"

Trying to lighten the situation a bit, before she gets all choked up, Kaylee gives his arm a pokes. "You are not allowed to get into trouble when I'm not around. You know that right?"

Eileen, apparently, isn't one of those caretakers who develop possessive attitudes toward their patients without a pre-existing emotional attachment. "Do what you need to," she tells Peter, shaking out a single pill from the bottle into the cup formed by her opposite hand. "I've already told Rourke that he can stay the night, but he needs to either be back at McRae's or the Hangar before sunup. I have a parole officer who's just looking for an excuse to put me up against the wall."

She washes the pill down with a mouthful of water, green eyes crinkling around the corners, and wipes her nose with the back of her hand before forcing herself to stomach what's left in the glass. "Keep the curtains closed."

"Hey, yeah, mop?" Raith says again, "Look, all that blood there? On the floor?" He points to indicate just what blood he means. "It's not exactly incon-fucking-spicuous. So, I say for the third time, mop?"

"I'll get you a bloody mop, I've got one down in m'truck, buncha' disinfectant an' cleaners and stuff too. We were cleanin' up a house at Summer Meadows af'er all." Andy grouses with a sweep of his palm over the top of his shaved head, pushing his chair out from the table and rising up straight. "'Sides, I need to call and see if Sparkles and Pukey got back to the Brick House a'right." Glancing into the bedroom over his shoulder, Andy consider's Doyle's grumbling noises, then rubs at the back of his neck anxiously. "I'll be back in a shake, you birds don't go spillin' no more blood while I'm gone."

While Andy begrudgingly concedes to Raith's demands and considers how cold it must be outside with the rain having finally shifted over to snow, Peter is silently making his way from Eileen's side and returning to the bedroom. Perhaps the face of a Petrelli isn't the most welcomed thing to rouse to, but health supercedes ego in so much as Peter is concerned. When he gets inside of the bedroom doorway, he reaches out to the side, turning on a light switch and flooding the bedroom with the dim, warm glow of a bedside lamp. It's enough for what he needs.

"He awake?" Comes the rather obvious question from Peter. It's only now that it becomes apparent that he's dressed far too nicely to have come here to play doctor. The crisp white dress shirt, black tie and suit jacket is something that'd be worn out to a fancy dinner party — the likes of which he was supposed to be going to before all this happened. "I'm just gonna' take a look at what Eileen did, get a— second opinion?" Peter cracks a smile, and only now begins shedding his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

"I's… he hit Neil, and…" The groggy, dream-scattered memories of what preceded the gunshot are attempted to be drawn together, as Doyle grasps for them blearily, "…and then everything turned black and white, I don't know what that was, and…"

Then his eyes widen as the light's clicked on, and the light washes over Peter Petrelli, in a suit, rolling up his sleeves to 'check him out'. "No… no! No, no, no, not again, no, I won't let you—" He struggles to sit up, although that's not happening anytime soon - he could hurt himself if nobody stops him, though. Fortunately, he's a little too groggy right now to focus on his ability. Yet.

When the light comes up, the young blonde has to squint against the sudden light. "Yea…." Kaylee starts to answers Peter, starting to turn towards him when Eric starts to panic. Surprised at the reaction, she can only stare at him for a moment. "Oh.. shit.. Peter out." Kaylee demands sharply and suddenly, slipping to one knee on the bed so she can lean, in front of Doyle to get his attention. Hands moving to press against his shoulders. "Eric.. stop.. Calm down, Puppet Man." She doesn't want to use her ability to calm him, but it may come down to that. "Come on.. look at me. He's not here to hurt you.. I promise you." Her tone insistent as she she tries to get through his panic and calm him.

Eileen doesn't move toward the French doors when the sound of Doyle's struggles reaches her ears, his laboured breathing barely audible over the rustle of the sheets and groaning bedsprings. Fortunately, these are noises that aren't out of place in Fort Greene — she hears them every night coming from adjacent apartments. Sometimes it bleeds down from the suite above, punctuated by the steady thump of a headboard driven repeatedly against the wall.

She slips the bottle back into her pea coat pocket, abandons her empty glass in the sink and goes to close the front door behind Andy on his way out.

Raith… rolls his eyes. "Peter, you have the best people skills ever. Leave the guy alone, he's fine. I'd trust Eileen to stitch my neck shut." She probably has in the past.

As much as he'd like to listen to Kaylee, Peter doesn't. Eric Doyle's psych profile on Company records never included anything about soothing platitudes making a world of difference to him, and there's something reassuring about the fact that it'll take something more straightforward to get Doyle to relax. As Peter continues on his way into the room, he pauses to look back over his shoulder at Raith, lips pursed together and head nodding once, as if to imply good for you before rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Something more straightforward is exactly what the doctor ordered for Doyle. After all, a doctor's oath is based on the principal of do no harm. Besides, right now he has perfect people skills.

Calm down, Eric. No one's going to hurt you.

Peter may be unused to his new form of mimicing abilities, but the principals of Kaylee's form of telepathy and that of Matt Parkman's are almost identical, and there's one thing he'd been adept at in the past, it was an implanted suggestion. Dishonest, certainly, but it beats having to explain the situation in any depth. After all, it is the truth, even if conveniently so. Besides, a little mental push never hurt anyone, least of all Eric Doyle.

Pausing by the door only because of the commotion in Eileen's bedroom, Andy's got his jacket half on as he looks at the three in there, then over to Raith then back to the door. "I— will 'ave your mop back right sweet…" he offers in a hushed tone of voice, looking back over his shoulder one last time before opening the apartment door and stepping out into the fifth floor hall. When Andy departs and Eileen shuts the door for him, Peter's making his way to Doyle's bedside.

Moving in to the side of the bed aligned with Doyle's wound, Peter leans over and braces one hand on the puppeteer's shoulder. "You just lie still…" he urges in a gentle tone of voice, his other hand starting to pick at the bandage on his neck, peeling it back to get a look at the wound itself and the suturing done.

Peter's hand on Doyle's shoulder, however, isn't quite for show as much as it is something a bit more selfish. Like a child in a candy store, Peter can't help sticking his fingers into the jars and sampling everything he can. When there's an exchange of white light from Peter's palm to Doyle's shoulder and back again, telepathy is forsaken for something new something shiny something with puppets.

The memories that Eric Doyle has of Peter Petrelli hearken back to the cold, heartless corridors of Level 5; of being caged, treated like a subhuman, poked and prodded with needles from time to time, kept under low-level sonics to keep him too nauseous to use his ability to escape.

They're not good memories. Even if it wasn't anything that Peter did specifically, Eric remembers his face.

"No. I'm not going back, I'm not…" His hand raises, fingers curling in, and then that telepathic push drives itself past his paranoia, his full-blown phobia of imprisonment, and his hand lowers, slowly.

He grimaces, head ducking to one side as he lets himself be pushed back into the bed, his face turning away from the wound to let Peter look at it. As the tape peels off his skin, he asks quietly, "What happened?"

Not hard for Kaylee to guess what happened, glancing at Peter with worry. "Don't worry Eric, I doubt he plans to send you there." her blue eyes move back to her portly friend. "I wouldn't let him anyhow." She gives him a bit of a smile, relaxing as he does, shifting enough that she's out of Peter's way.

"How does it look?" Kaylee asks, glancing at Peter.. Not that she doesn't trust Eileen's skill.. She's just worried. "And you.." She glances at Doyle again. "..relax and rest. Okay? Gotta get you moved soon." Apparently she's not going anywhere for the time being.

The sutures holding Doyle's neck shut aren't the quality that Peter might expect to find if he'd been taken to the emergency room at St. Luke's and treated there, but Eileen isn't a surgeon — she isn't even a doctor. Her work is comparable to that of a field medic operating out of a combat zone, and although he can't quite put his finger on it, there's something remarkably familiar about the pattern the stitches form that isn't unique to the Briton. He's seen it somewhere before, but like so many of the memories drifting aimlessly in the slush between his ears, the details are too hazy for him to place.

Pausing at the stiching, Peter furrows his brows, running a thumb along the skin at the side of the wound in inspection before carefully affixing the bandage again and pressing the surgical tape back down against the side of Doyle's neck to hold the gauze in place. "I take it you did a kitchen sink transfusion too." That's not as judgmental as Peter had hoped it would come off as, and instead sounds a touch more impressed.

When brown eyes finally meet Eric's, Peter offers something of an apologetic smile as he leans back and away from the larger man. "You were shot," Peter admits with a tap to the side of his neck. "From the looks of it the Operator of the Brick House dragged you to safety. I know some young girl called Kaylee in a panic, I think her name was Colette?" One dark brow lifts up at the notion, not quite sure on that. "You're— " Peter hesitates, "safe, for now. The girl who sewed you up is going to have to clean your blood up off her floor before her parole officer comes by in the morning. But other than that, you seem to have made it out okay."

Shrugging his shoulders, Peter looks over at Raith and nods his head affirmatively, if they'd put money on it, Peter would've owed Raith a beer. Looking back into the room, there's a momentary hesitation on Kaylee, then back to Doyle. "Kaylee was worried about you," he emphasizes, for the sake of his friend. "You're lucky to have as many people who care whether you live or die as you do." That may have sounded a bit harsher than he intended.

"I know that I was shot, I'm not a complete idio— ow ow ow— " A sullen glance to Peter, Eric's hand half-raising as if to touch the wound before it falls down to his side, and he shifts uncomfortably where he lays, all too aware of how little he's covered with. If he's awake enough to feel self-conscious, though, it can't be all that bad. "There were these… guys. Mobsters, maybe," he says quietly, fingers curling in the sheets as he glances past Peter to Kaylee, then back again, "They were trying to bust up the place, or something. This guy hit Neil with a bottle, I couldn't— I mean, what was I supposed to do, just sit there?"

He's not one hundred percent, though, and that little moment of panic took a lot out of him. He sinks back against his pillow, eyes closed as he mutters, "Couldn't just… sit there. Thanks. For, uh. Saving my life. I guess." Who he's talking to, there, even he probably doesn't know for sure.

"No… not sit there. I wouldn't have either." Kaylee admits with a small tug at a smile. "Did the right thing, buddy." She reaches over to take his hand briefly giving it a squeeze, before getting to her feet so he can rest. Glancing at Raith and Eileen, she offers, "I'll help clean up the mess." It'll keep her busy at least.

So much for staying away till she feels comfortable again after getting kicked out. Glancing back at her injured friend, she knows she'll make sure to spend what time she can out at Summer Meadows again, just in case.

Eileen's only reaction to Peter's use of the word girl in reference to her is a soft snort blown out through her nostrils. Kitchen sink transfusion doesn't dignify a response either as far as she's concerned — she's too busy standing by the chaise in the living room, curtains bunched between her fingers in one hand, the other clutching the object at the end of the chain around her neck as she angles a glance around the fabric and out the window, watching Andy unload the equipment from the truck parked on the curb.

They should clean that out, too.

Watching Doyle drift in and out of consciousness, Peter breathes in a deep breath and exhales sharply. "He'll be alright, fortunately. He's lucky that Eileen was even able to do anything for him in this situation, he's lucky for a lot of things." Sending a tired look to Kaylee, Peter flexes his fingers open and closed, then glances over towards Eileen and furrows his brows, before looking back to the blonde by Doyle's bedside. "Stay here tonight, maybe your friend will be back. I should see if I can show up late to that date at the Orchid Lounge that I passed up. I'll swing by in the morning, pick you and Eric up and drive him to the Brick House. It's the closest safehouse in the area. It'll be around five in the morning, before the sun comes up, so we can sneak him in."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Peter rubs the heel of his palm against his forehead. "I guess I'll put a call out to see if any doctors in the Ferrymen can get some antibiotics for him too…" From the tone of Peter's voice, he can't seems to quite get the idea through his head that he's still doing things like this, despite professing to want to live a more normal life.

Looking back to Eileen, Peter offers a mild smile, before angling a look over at Raith. Something goes unsaid, before Peter reaches for his jacket and throws it over his shoulders.

"Sorry for doubting you, Eileen. You did good— great, really. You saved his life."

Inwardly, Peter's wondering if he'd have gone through the same lengths to do the same, transfused his own blood to save Eric Doyle's life. That he has to even question the notion worries him.

Sometimes he's not sure he likes the man he's become.

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