It's a Life of Wonder

by kandisi

It's a wonderful life... or not. Christmastime is here, it's time for faith, not fear... and with great persistence, Sylar would gladly check-out of existence... But would the world really be a better place had he never been born? He's about to find out.

Title: It's a Life of Wonder
Characters/Pairings: Sylar (Main), Peter (Fairly main), Peter/Sylar (eventual), Angela, Matt/Janice, Noah, Mohinder, Hiro, Ando, Claire/Gretchen, Rachel, Lauren, Heidi, many others to be revealed...
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: It's a wonderful life... or not. Christmastime is here, it's time for faith, not fear... and with great persistence, Sylar would gladly check-out of existence... But would the world really be a better place had he never been born? He's about to find out.
Warnings for: Some language, mild violence, slash, crack, meta-crack and general weirdness throughout.
Timeset: Post season 4.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes in any way shape or form, or any of the other medias referenced, and do not make any money off writing this; it was just for fun and to pass free time.

A/N: I recently watched that good ol' Christmas classic "It's a Wonderful Life", and decided I'd do a little Heroes spinoff, lol... I've rarely had time to get in any work on fanfiction, but I always try to get in some new stuff around the holidays. x)

-This fic does not necessarily reflect my views/opinions about any character or the topics discussed therein.
-I apologize if this is kinda long... I'm still sorta bad when it comes to keeping fics that are intended to be short as short.
-I am currently unsure of if or if not I'll have all of this all up by Christmas day. I'm gonna try my best, and while I've finished the first two chapters I didn't start the third until yesterday, lol...
-Looking at the date today... Happy Birthday, Peter! (lol, know I said the same thing when I posted a Christmas fic in this fandom two years ago...)

Well, proceed with caution... and hope those of you who read this enjoy it! :)

It's a Life of Wonder

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Chapter 1: The Days that Are

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.

- —l— -

l

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It was the most wonderful time of the year. For some people. To others, it was an ordinary day.

And to a few... it was the most horrible time of the year.

Strange, it might seem, that anyone could find a holiday – the most famous and extravagantly celebrated holiday, for that matter – a day wherein the closest thing to achieving happiness was in the forgetting of what day it was.

There were always explanations. Many singles didn't care for Valentine's Day, not everyone looked forwards to getting older on their Happy Birthday, and some still managed to find Halloween a little too scary.

Not all liked the Independence Day fireworks, there were those who had been played for fools on April Fools, and some really didn't care for the green shamrocks and little leprechauns on St. Patrick's Day.

There were the anti-partiers who dreaded New Year's Day, and while many were thankful for what they had they weren't always thankful for Thanksgiving. Not everyone went to church on Easter Sunday, and there were those who easily forgot that certain holidays existed, especially if they were out of school or didn't watch the news.

But then there was Christmas... a day in which forgetting proved virtually impossible.

"Most people who hate the holidays don't really hate the holidays themselves, it's the memories they bring back, the loneliness and the longing of something more than what they have..."

"Shut up..."

"No. I'm not letting this one go, because, well... it is Christmastime, and any person who's not happy during it is someone who's got issues."

"I do have issues, none of which have anything to do with 'Christmastime'."

"Sylar," Peter said. "I'm only willing to half agree with that."

"Peter," Sylar said. "I'm flattered you think that much of me."

"What?"

"It's nice of you to disagree with the part about me having issues. Now I know how perfect I really am."

Peter shoved him. "That was stupid," he said, shoving him again at the same moment an explosion was heard in the distance.

"No," Sylar said, and shoved him back. "You're stupid for trying to engage in a Christmas conversation with me when we're supposed to be—" Peter dived off of the building. "...saving people," Sylar finished.

He shook his head. "If this is going to be my job for the rest of eternity," he said, rubbing at his forehead while looking over the ledge, "it would only seem fair that I got my Christmas break, too."

And as for the break, he thought, it would be Peter's neck, especially if he had to listen to much more of this Christmas psychobabble.

"Oh Peter," Sylar sighed pensively, before he stepped from the ledge and fell into the night sky.

If only he could have what he really wanted for Christmas...

—l—

"Oh Peter," Sylar said, huffing. "Tell me again what I'm doing here."

Peter chuckled. "Duh," he said, and shoved him playfully. "We're here for Matt's party."

Sylar frowned at him. "Matt's private party," he said, and Peter stepped away before he could be shoved. That didn't matter; Sylar would get him back later when he shoved him into a box and shoveled it underground, with ribbons and a bow on top.

"Uh, what are you thinking about?" Peter raised an eyebrow. "You've got that look on your face again."

"That look?" Sylar laughed, shaking his head slightly. "What, you mean the look I get when I'm supposedly thinking about killing someone?" His laughter quieted and eventually trailed into silence. He hadn't been all that amused in the first place, but the look on Peter's face – one of many he had grown to recognize – was what had really promoted him into silencing himself.

"Not exactly," Peter replied cautiously, unblinking. "It's more like the look you get when you're fantasizing about... other stuff."

Sylar reached out a hand. "It's so hard," he said, running his fingertips down the pole, "to believe Parkman would actually put something as idiotic as a giant candy cane in his front yard. Look at it, Peter, hell, it actually has white lights."

Peter blinked at him. Slowly, he said, "Yeah," and went on to say, "I think ringing the doorbell or even breaking the door down would've been a better deflection than that." And hell does seem to have its white lights sometimes...

"Well," Sylar muttered, scratching the back of his head as he tried to think of something clever and witty to say. "We wouldn't still be standing out here if you hadn't dragged me here." Peter gave him a sympathetic look. "But—" Sylar cut him off. "Parkman doesn't want me here," he said, turning his back to the front door and folding his arms across his chest. "I'm not sure if you've realized, but I'd think the invitation I "failed to receive" serves as a clue."

"Hey, it very well may have gotten lost or something," Peter said, smiling softly and placing his hand on Sylar's shoulder. "Christmas is right around the corner, after all, and," he shrugged, "don't forget about how crazy and rushed the mail always gets during the holidays."

"Peter," Sylar said under his breath. "You got your letter."

"So?" Peter shrugged again. "What does that prove?"

Sylar gritted his teeth, unfolding his arms and spinning around to face him. "You have got to be kidding me!" he shouted, pointing his index finger directly in Peter's face. "Because you got an invitation and I didn't and we live in the same apartment so I find it highly unlikely that Parkman made any form of mistake with the invitations!"

"...but it still could've gotten lost in the mail," Peter whispered, finding the look on Sylar's face harder to ignore than before. At a loss for words, he shoved him, if for no other reason than that of shoving him. Sylar was quick to smack the hand away.

"I told you to stop doing that," he said, rubbing at his shoulder as though the light shove it received had been painful.

They both took a moment to think on what they would next say to the other, but it wasn't a moment longer before they heard the familiar melody originating from the other side of the door, one that seemed to be drawing closer in the seconds that followed.

"Well if you wanna bail, now's your chance," Peter said, before straightening the creases from his black, winter coat. He then licked a set of fingers and brushed a few strands of dark hair away from his eyes, rubbing his hands together afterwards even though it wasn't at all cold.

Sylar raised an eyebrow at him, wondering briefly – and only briefly – if he should ask Peter when last the lustrous affair with Officer Parkman had taken place, and if he was any good in the sack, though in not so many words.

He settled on a whopping, "I don't think Parkman is interested."

"In what, exactly?" Peter asked, managing to sound naïve despite his knowing expression.

"In your clothes," Sylar replied casually, and flashed him an unconvincing, psychotic smile.

"Let heaven, let heaven and nature sing..."

Peter grinned slyly. "He's coming, so, yeah,"—he bent his arm back and pointed a thumb over his shoulder—"this is your last chance to bail on the party if you're really that afraid of going in there..."

Sylar laughed at him. "Oh," he said, laughing between words, "I am so not afraid of going in there."

"Pssh," Peter smirked, waving a hand at him, one that would have slapped him had they stood any closer together. "I had telepathy less than a week ago, and I know how afraid you were that Matt might try to trap you in a nightmare again should you screw up."

"I—"

"You were even thinking of new places for him to stash your body," Peter said, disbelieving, "like under the basement floor, and of the potential dream-themes, like it being Christmas every day in a world that's been taken over by zombies."

"That is not true," Sylar said, knowing it wasn't. "You left-out the important part where the zombies are composed of dead people we knew."

"You mean the people you killed," Peter whispered inaudibly, scoffing and looking to his right, away from him.

Sylar felt his eyebrows narrow. "You know," he said, and broke into a fit of sarcastic laughter. "I may be unaware of whatever it is you just said, but I still didn't like the way you said it, and I think I will leave, because really, who wants to go,"—he turned halfway around and kicked the candy cane down—"to some stupid Christmas party, anyway!"

The front door opened.

Sylar added, "Especially a stupid Christmas party hosted by a sadistic fuck like Matt Parkman!"

"A-hem," Peter muttered, and said nothing more.

"Joy to the wall, the killer's come, let it receive her hell," Matt sang, observing as Sylar spun around and went into attack mode. "Janice paid a lot for that cane, Sylar..."

"Cleary," Sylar said, arm extended and finger pointed. "But was it the kind you smoke or the kind you walk with?"

Matt frowned at him, while Peter ceased him by the wrist and wordlessly instructed him to pocket his hand. However, Matt remained unimpressed.

"I don't allow weapons in my home," he said with a smile. "At least ones that don't belong to yours truly."

Peter didn't want to watch his friends argue. He would think of a way to lighten the mood. "...merry Christmas!" he said cheerily, clapping his hands together.

Matt and Sylar both remained unimpressed, eyeing Peter as if he had lost his mind.

Peter didn't notice the stares, as he was too busy picking up a box. "I brought this for you guys," he said to Matt, standing and holding both hands out along with the presents, which were wrapped in shiny red & gold paper. "One's for you and Janice, and one's for little Matty." He smiled brightly, elbowing Sylar without breaking eye-contact with Matt.

Sylar huffed. "Oh, that's right," he said, a set of presents floating up from the ground and into his grasp. "I admit I brought gifts, too." He offered them to Matt, who emitted the sigh of defeat.

Matt rolled his eyes and said, "Fine, you guys can come in," before turning his attention to Peter specifically. "You know I have no problem with your being here, but next time, I want you to either come alone or get my permission before you bring your plus one."

"Alright," Peter agreed, smiling and strolling forward, through the doorway.

Sylar's mouth was still gaping. What Matt had said to Peter... it had been so damn rude, and instead of punching him in the jaw he had skipped merrily into the house as if he were walking on sunshine.

Sylar recalled a time – not so long ago, it seemed – when the shine of Peter's hot temper had burnt brighter than the sun. Go figure, Peter just had to go on and get nice again, a mystery Sylar hadn't solved and desperately wanted an answer to.

"So," Matt began while tapping his fingers against the doorframe, both eyebrows raised suggestively and a sly grin on his face. "Are you having second thoughts about the party?"

"No," Sylar said, frowning. Matt wearily stepped aside and allowed him to enter.

Janice was in the process of taking Peter's coat for him. "So nice of you to bring something along for Matty, too," she said, hanging his coat on the rack nearby. "I'll go put the gifts under the tree." She turned to look at her husband. "Honey, why are you still standing at the... oh, I see..."

"He followed Peter here," Matt replied gravely, a look of peculiar dread on his face.

Sylar continued to frown. "I did—"

"We know," Janice said under her breath, before wordlessly instructing him to come inside so she could gather his coat and get it over with.

"...not," he finished, and with a clear lack of enthusiasm, walked in her direction. "I know how to take my coat off, by the way."

She moved to stand behind him. "No, please don't trouble yourself," she said, shaking her head and aiding him in the removal of his coat. "Here, let me take this for you..." The coat fell to the floor, after she had intentionally dropped it there, of course.

Sylar couldn't have cared less. He felt wounded, miserable and unwanted, but he didn't care.

Meanwhile, Peter was mingling with other guests, all of whom were slightly disturbed by Sylar's presence at the very least.

"Are you sure it was a good idea to bring him here?" Mohinder asked, taking a small sip of eggnog while watching Sylar, who had already relocated to the darkest, most depressing corner of the room.

Peter smirked. "You know," he replied, unconsciously accepting a Santa cookie from Hiro, "you're really not one to talk, Mohinder, especially after he saved Molly again the other day."

"I do know," Mohinder said, earnestly, "but I also know a lifetime of atonement can't right the wrongs of his past, and anyway," he shrugged, "it's only a matter of time before he snaps all over again. We all know that."

"You actually don't know that," Peter said with a sigh. "Giving him a chance... it would help him so much more than it would hurt you."

Hiro smiled. "Maybe Peter is right," he said, and then searched the room with his eyes. "Oh no, Sylar is putting presents under the tree! What if they are bombs, or body parts?"

"Hiro," Peter said, and stomped the floor with a foot. "Don't say things like that!"

"He's probably right, Hiro," Ando said between bites of cookie. "So maybe we—oh no, he's doing something to the punch bowl, maybe he spiked it with poison instead of gin!"

Peter shot him a glare. "Ando, the only thing he did to the punch was get a cup of it."

"...oh," Ando whispered, while Mohinder laughed at him.

Later, things had somehow managed to progress from bad, to worse. For Sylar, that is.

As he continued to stand in the darkest, most depressing corner of the room he'd been able to find, he realized things had now progressed from worse, to worst.

People were singing, dancing and drunk, two of which Sylar had no interest of participating in and one of which he was incapable of being.

"Hi," Noah said.

"Hello," Sylar said.

"So," Noah said. "Have you spoken to Claire lately?"

"No," Sylar said. "I haven't."

"That's good," Noah said, and took another drink of whiskey.

"I guess," Sylar said, and took another drink of wine.

"So," Noah said. "What are you up to these days?"

"Not much," Sylar said. "You?"

"This and that," Noah said.

Sylar and Noah continued to watch and observe; their backs to the wall and their ankles crossed, neither one paying the courtesy of so much as a glance to the other. They seemed robotic, which could easily be explained by Noah Bennet's secret agent ways and Sylar's cool response to what was obviously an informal method of interrogation.

"Hey there, boys," Rachel said, spinning around with a bottle in her hand. "Noah, when are you going to leave the dead alone and rejoin the living?"

Noah shrugged. "When the dead are no longer walking, I guess."

"Excuse me?" Sylar gritted his teeth. He finally turned his head to look at Noah. "I've never actually been a corpse, but you have!"

There was a brief silence. Rachel found the joke's truth somewhat amusing, and tried to mask her humor by taking another gulp of beer.

Noah took a moment to clean his glasses, as though he wanted to remain completely nonchalant. After he had put his glasses back on, he turned, held up his drink, and – with a smile on his face – emptied its contents unto Sylar's head.

Sylar continued to stand, unmoving and unblinking, while the liquor soaked his hair and coated his face. First thought? I am going to kill him. He knew, however, that he could not allow himself to retaliate in any way, not with actions, or words. Instead, he chose to leave Noah in favor of the nearest available bathroom – one that didn't have a passed-out Ando on its floor.

"Rockin' around the Christmas tree have a happy holiday," Janice sang, microphone in hand as she danced around the tree.

"That's my wife, yeah!" Matt took another drink straight from the wine bottle. "Yeeeah!"

"Yikes." Mohinder shook his head. "It appears someone's had a bit too much... thankfully I know how to control myself." He turned slightly in his chair to look at the man seated next to him. "Say, your place-specific notations seem to demonstrate an effort to maintain a sense of reality and a sense of identity while in transit, as if your identity and sense of control are at risk, as if you were, like a Star Trek character, being "beamed" from one location to another, with your molecular reconstruction at the new location less than certain..."

"I'm going to get a cookie," Hiro replied.

Sylar heard the door slam open. He knew who it had to be. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to see what you were up to!" Peter said, before he ran into the room, tripping over the body on the floor. "Ow..." He rubbed at his shoulder, although it hadn't been impacted during the fall. "Hey, what's... oh-oh my God, Sylar, you killed him!"

"No, I didn't," Sylar grumbled. "The alcohol did."

"Oh," Peter whispered, and stood from the floor. "Shouldn't we help him?"

Sylar shook his head barely. "Good idea. You fetch the water, and I'll get the bucket."

"Good idea," Peter agreed, as he ran out the door to get that cold water without a bucket to put it in.

Sylar stared into the bathroom mirror. "Kill me," he said, appreciating the tragic irony of it all. "I hate this party, I hate my so-called "friends" and I most certainly hate Christmas."

"Do you, now?"

Sylar turned to his right. "Who are you?"

The elderly man shrugged. "Just another guest who's trying to enjoy the party."

Sylar studied him. The man appeared to be around the age of seventy; he was about five foot nine, medium build, his hair grey and short, though longer around the eyes, which were hazel. His choice in attire was odd, as the year was 2011 and not 1911...

He hadn't been lying, however – he really was there to enjoy the 'party', if that's what it could be called.

Huh, Sylar thought, he's probably Parkman's great uncle or some random in-law.

He looked back to his right with every intention of asking the man who he was, though by then he had already disappeared from view.

Sylar shrugged idly and went back to cursing himself in the mirror.

"Hey, Sexlar—I mean—Sylar. You enjoying the party?"

"Yeah, it's great."

"Good," Janice said, walking away before Matt appeared in the doorway.

"Hey." He pointed at Sylar. "Hey. Wait a minute, wait-a-minute. Are you trying to screw around with my wife outside of my body, now?"

"No, I—"

"Yeah, that's exactly what you're doing!" Matt walked inside and slammed the door shut behind him. "Oh, I am going to send you back to hell, a worse hell... one where "pleasing yourself" doesn't exist."

Sylar's blinked at him. "...I..." Shall say that I, "...really didn't do anything. It was Ando."

"Oh," Matt sighed, disappointedly. "Well, I'll give him a break, since there's probably a rational explanation that I should wait to hear before I go digging around in his brain."

"I know," Sylar said, dragging a hand back through his hair as he passed Matt and walked out the door, "that I would like to bury your brain in a mixture of blood and bleach. Huh... now that's what I call pleasing myself."

It was time for the presents.

"Oh, this one's from Hiro!" Matt held the box up in his hands, shaking it. "I wonder what it could be."

"It could be a totally cool Star Wars action figure, I'll bet!" Peter said, and began to clap his hands.

Sylar replied, "It could very well be a copy of the Care Bears movie on blu-ray."

Matt opened the box, clearly excited at the thought of what he might see. "Woah!"

Mohinder chuckled. "Spare everyone the suspense, Matt. What is it?"

"It's a copy," Matt said, holding the item up in the air, "of the original Star Wars trilogy on blu-ray!"

"Wow," Sylar said, "I didn't see that one coming."

"Really?" Peter tilted his head slightly. "Huh, me neither."

"And this next one," Matt said, picking up a larger box of navy blue topped with red ribbon, "is from Noah Bennet! I wonder what it could be."

"Hmm." Peter stared at the package from across the room. "It could be a household appliance?"

"Definitely," Sylar agreed. "C'mon, coffeemaker for the win..."

"It's a... wow," Matt held up the object for his wife and friends to see, "a Heckler & Koch PSG1!"

Sylar blinked. "What the..."

"Hell," Peter said. "I don't even..."

"No," Sylar said. "This isn't happening. Huh. Son of a..."

"Bitch," Peter said, although he hadn't actually seen the person who was responsible for the spilt drink on his shirt. There weren't any mirrors around.

Sylar frowned. "I was going to say gun," he said to Peter, and shoved him.

Matt walked several yards across the room. "Thanks, Bennet," he said, shaking Noah's hand, "I always wanted a sniper rifle."

Noah chuckled. "Yes, well," he shrugged, "I originally brought a coffeemaker, but at the last minute and after few drinks decided I could do better. So, I gave you the gun I used on my last job."

"Huh." Matt fiddled with the gun in his hands. "Did you do anyone in with it?"

"I normally wouldn't feel inclined to answer that question," Noah said, leaning forwards and lowering his voice to a whisper, "but yes, I did in someone with it, and... hey, you remember that one "friend" of Angela's? The annoying one who..."

"...what do you think they're talking about?" Sylar whispered, forming a suspicious look.

"Seriously, Sylar," Peter shoved him in the side, "they're not talking about doing you."

Sylar stared at him, unblinking. Silently, Peter said, "Okay, I guess that didn't sound quite right..."

"Onto the next one!" Matt picked up another of his presents. "This one's from, let's see... Mohinder! I guess I should've known, what with the wrapping's compass pattern. Anyway, I can't wait to see what's inside!"

"A love letter," Peter whispered inaudibly, though his chuckles, on the contrary, were very audible.

Sylar scoffed. "Mohinder wouldn't know how to give a decent gift," he said, watching as Matt began to unwrap the (somewhat) literally encompassed present. "It's probably something like a book on quantum physics, or some old, dusted antique."

"Holy..." Matt held up the unwrapped present. "It's a new laptop! How awesome is that?"

"It's boringly 'awesome'," Sylar said, after he had turned his back on the crowd gathered around the Christmas tree. "This is a waste of my time."

"Wait, what?" Peter set his drink on the nearest available surface, a disc rack of some sort, and looked up at Sylar worriedly. "You're not leaving, are you?"

Sylar took a drink, of vodka. "Yes," he said cheerily, raising his glass to a toast and drinking the rest of its contents. He wouldn't receive any effects, but a guy could dream. "I am leaving, because the only sense of credibility this party has is in the sense that's incredibly boring, not to mention a tactically fortunate way for Parkman to get a bunch of gifts and rub it in our faces."

Sylar felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, from Peter's hand. When Sylar began to walk away nonetheless, he heard the whisper, "At least stay until he gets to your presents..." He paused in place, contemplative. Every situation always had its ups and downs, but this stupid party... there wasn't anything good – much less fun – about it, and so what if he had brought gifts? Matt would only find a way to turn it into a joke, for everyone...

"Oh, wow," Matt held the item up in the air and began to dance, "it's some sexy holiday lingerie for my wife! Ando sure knows how to give a guy a gift. Thanks, Ando! Ando? Say, where is he?"

Sylar called out, "He's in the bathtub!"

"Hey, who said—oh..." Matt held the lingerie close to his chest, frowning at Sylar from across the room. "Someone needs to go check on our friend to make sure Sylar didn't leave him in a tub of ice minus a kidney!"

"Oh no!" Hiro shouted, after he had teleported into the bathroom, before everyone began to run for it.

Sylar and Peter remained as they were; they stood perfectly still, while their friends and acquaintances scurried around them in an effort to get to that bathtub.

"If you did anything to him," Mohinder said, running past the two before he looked back over his shoulder, "Sylar, I will kill you!"

Sylar sighed, hopelessly. "See what I mean?"

"So," Peter looked down and shuffled one foot against the floor, "did you do it...?"

"That's it," Sylar said, and shoved him hard. "I can't believe I allowed myself to be talked—no—coerced into this idiocy, and there is no way I'm spending so much as one more second here!"

Five minutes later, he was still there. He hadn't received an apology – from anyone – though Ando received a hoard of affection from everyone, except Sylar.

"That "Christmas surprise" you promised me had better be extremely impressive..."

"I told you," Peter said, smiling, "that it definitely is..."

"Huh." Sylar looked away in a moment of contemplation. "I wouldn't have believed you as I do, but after lie-detecting you as I did, it would seem you believe it... I can't help but be curious, I never knew my ability to lie-detect would find any truth in a person's assumptions."

"Well, I'm sort of a black and white thinker, too," Peter said, shaking his head slightly while chuckling softly. "But without the relative, we wouldn't have the absolute, right?"

Sylar shoved him. "I'm not in the mood for Socratic Method, Peter. Maybe later."

"Peter!" Janice said, holding a star in one hand while pointing up with the other. "The star fell from the Christmas tree, and the ladder's in the closet, so... would you mind giving us a hand?"

Peter gave Sylar a pat on the back, shoving him forward. "Sylar can do it!"

"Nah," Matt said, and lazily waved a hand in Sylar's direction. "I don't trust him."

"But I can't fly right now," Peter said quickly. "I, um... my power mimicry doesn't work when I'm trashed."

Sylar furrowed his brow, leaning forward and down. "Hey," he whispered into Peter's ear, "I know you're not trashed, but what is your current ability?"

"Oh, it's,"—Peter slapped him on the back before red electricity sparked to life—"this!"

"Aaah!"

Slam.

Shatter.

Boom.

Ando sat up on the couch. "Whoa," he said, rubbing at his forehead while looking around the room. "Did I actually sleep through the end of the world...?"

—l—

Peter eyed him nervously. "Sylar, I'm really—"

"Stupid." Sylar scoffed. "Yes, I know that."

"I was going to say sorry," Peter said, frowning while he attempted to shove Sylar, who was quick to step away.

"Oh, I know," Sylar said sarcastically, exhaling a deep, dramatic sigh. "At least we didn't burn the place down, right? Oh—that's right... we did."

"Sylar, I—"

"And now you've managed to talk—no—coerce me, again, into going to another of your silly, pointless Christmas parties."

Peter shot him a glare. "It's not like anyone's holding a hacksaw to your neck," he said, turning his back to Sylar and stepping away. Peter dragged a gloved hand back through his hair, throwing an arm out to side before spinning around to face him again. "You know," he continued, irately, "I am so sick of your pessimism and of your lame "analyzing before acting" approach, ugh! The only times I see you smile with so much as an ounce of humility or optimism are those where something really bad has happened that makes you feel needed!"

"Ah, I see," Sylar breathed. "You want to have that conversation again. Well, guess what? I don't."

"That's too damn bad," Peter said, laughing in a slow, sarcastic manner. Sylar then turned his back, but no, he didn't have that right—not with Peter Petrelli.

Needless to say, Sylar was caught a little off guard when the snowball – aided by telekinesis – hit him in the back of head, which made him wonder why he hadn't seen it sooner. No one crept up behind the most powerful of them all to touch them before running away and throwing the snowball, unless that person was a stubborn little empath with power mimicry.

Sylar shook his head vehemently, though it wasn't entirely out of anger. He wanted to get that damn snow out of his hair. "Peter," he said, dragging a hand back through his hair and ruffling it, "you really need to learn how to face your problems like an adult who doesn't need a weapon or an ability to feel like one. Furthermore, you should stop creating problems just so you can get off on solving them later."

"Sylar," Peter said. "Turn around."

Sylar turned, rolling his eyes and sighing as he did.

"...fuck you," Peter whispered, less than a foot between them as he glared into those dark and dangerous eyes with his own.

Sylar closed his eyes, knowing this was it – this was inevitably the point wherein Peter would punch him in the face with the full intention of punching his lights out. But the swing never came. Slowly, Sylar opened his eyes, curious as to when Peter's strike would occur and of what methods would be used.

"You," Peter hissed, the glare in his eyes turned deadly, "don't have the right to talk to me like that, to treat me like I'm just another person who screwed you over, when I have done everything in my power and more to try and help you."

"We've been over this before, too," Sylar said, sounding calm and unfazed. "I never asked for your "help", so don't get onto me for being the result of your actions."

Peter's mouth fell open. Strangely, his shock appeared to have trumped his wrath. "Idiot," he whispered softly, and brought a hand to his mouth, shielding it, attempting to better mask his shocked appearance. The silence continued awhile longer, and finally, he turned around and stepped away.

Sylar gritted his teeth, mentally cursing himself for feeling as guilty as he did. "Peter, I... I am sor—" Whap. "Eeh!" he screeched, taken completely off guard and aback... when his back hit the cement with a crack.

"Ugh!" Peter spread the fingers of the hand he had used to punch Sylar, rubbing the soreness out with the other. "Serves you right..." He then shook his hand, waiting for its feeling to return fully, while he glared downwards to where Sylar had landed, at the base of the stoop.

What a long and unpleasant fall for the hero to take, Peter thought. "...so I shouldn't be smiling right now, huh?"

The front door opened.

"What's with all the—oh, I see." Angela smiled. "So good of you to come, Peter, but where is he?"

Peter, for a moment, seemed bedazzled by his mother's inquiry. He wasn't a shape shifter in disguise as himself, though after a few more seconds had passed, he realized what she had meant by "he".

Peter stepped aside. "Oh, you mean Sylar?" he asked, gesturing to the bottom of the stair steps while she gave him a nod.

She was nodding out of approval. "Lovely."

"What?" Peter said.

"It's lovely that you're here," Angela said, placing her hands on his shoulders before she titled her head up, kissing him on the cheek. "Now, do come inside. It's chilly out here and we don't want you catching a cold."

"Alright," Peter said with a smile.

Sylar, who was still at the bottom of the stoop, placed the flats of both hands against the pavement and made a failed attempt at pushing himself up from the ground. In the midst of the fall, he had managed to twist an ankle, fracture his spine, and shatter an elbow. And he had broken his left index-finger.

"Peter," he said through his teeth. "That was—not relatively—but absolutely uncalled for!"

Peter averted his eyes. "...I'll meet you inside," he said quietly, and walked through the doorway.

Angela chose to wait out front, standing at the top of the stoop while she watched Sylar put himself back together. He eventually stood, straightening out his coat on the spot, and then meandered slowly up the stairs; he sort of resembled a guy who had hit his head and later awoke after having lost consciousness, or, better yet, a wondering idiot.

When he reached the top of the stoop, Angela was there to greet him with that smile of hers, a sly smile that had always managed to speak more dangerously than words.

"Merry Christmas, Gabriel," she said, smiling still. "Are you aware of what time of year this is?"

He blinked at her. "Don't tell me you've been drinking, too."

—l—

"Oh, come now, certainly you remember that one Christmas, Peter."

"How old was I?"

"You had just turned seven, the year before Nathan entered the navy. Oh, he and your father chopped the most glorious tree that year!

"That's right! Hey, and Nathan gave me all of that baseball stuff... I really didn't have clue how to play, but then again he always let me win at that age when we pitched against each other..."

"Remember the way he would hold you up in his arms, so you could put the star on the tree?"

"Yeah... I do... I can't believe it's been just over two years since he..."

"Technically he was killed in April of that year, dear..."

"I wonder who's fault that was, you two."

"I... I'm gonna go get a drink."

"I think I will as well."

"I'm not finished with mine yet... but I am now! So I'll go get another, too..."

"I'm going to look in the medicine cabinet and see if there're any mind-altering substances on hand."

Sylar shrank in his chair, while Peter, Angela, Claire and Gretchen walked away.

"...damnit," Sylar whispered, staring at the floor. Angela's little Christmas gathering was by far worse than Matt's; his had been completely and utterly ridiculous to the point of sheer lunacy, but hers... it was wholly sad and depressing to the point of sheer misery... not only for Sylar, but for all of the others who were there.

All anyone wanted to talk about was Nathan Petrelli. Sure, the subject would manage to divert itself at times... before it inexorably led back to Nathan Petrelli. Funny enough, everyone was doing well to hold their tongues regarding the circumstances under which he had died. Instead, they all chose to talk of what a wonderful brother, husband, friend, father, pilot, attorney, special, son and senator he had been.

Over, over and over again.

"Merry Christmas, Sylar..."

Sylar turned in the armchair. "Hi..."

Heidi stared blankly at him. "You are the man responsible for my ex-husband's death, aren't you? I know he was said to have died when his plane went down, but... more than a few people in his special circle have told me otherwise..."

Sylar huffed, "Yes," and rubbed at his forehead. He didn't want to lie his way out of this, not when so many knew the truth about who he was now, about what he had once been, and so, with an earnest sigh, he said, "Yes, I did it, I killed Nathan Petrelli."

"Ah," Heidi said, toasting her glass to him for some strange reason or another. "Hey, I want you to look right over,"—she pointed to Monty and Simon—"there. Do you see those boys? Yes? I suppose you know those are Nathan's children."

"I-I..."

She suddenly shouted, "What the hell do think you're doing here, anyway? In his house, around his colleagues, his friends, his family? You have some nerve coming here, but that's Peter Petrelli for you – always trying to find that tiny piece of goodness in something bad, and you'd better sure as hell hope that things stay that way, because if not for him we would all see you to your fucking grave!"

Silence.

Everyone was watching. And Sylar was speechless. Ridden with guilt. Suffering. Again.

"Don't you have anything to say to me, you piece of shit?" Heidi asked, and then spit in his face.

Sylar closed his eyes. "I'm... really sorry for what I did, Hei—Mrs. Petrelli..."

"Oh?" She tipped her glass, pouring its contents out unto his head. "This is a token of my appreciation for that heartfelt apology you gave."

"I'll drink to that!" said one of the guests. Sylar recognized him as that man – that same, funny looking old man – the one he'd momentarily come across at Matt's Christmas get-together... but what was he doing here, now, at Angela's party?

His hair still receiving its wine wash, Sylar didn't take any more time to contemplate the issue. Given the circumstances, it... really wasn't a good time...

He made no attempt to retaliate against Heidi, not with actions, or words... even when the silence was shattered by the sound of cheers intermingled with ongoing clapping, he chose to do nothing and remain as he was... nothing...

The military veterans seemed especially pleased with Heidi's performance, as did the politicians. Others such as, well... Angela, Claire and Peter (as well as Gretchen) watched with gravely blank stares, as if they didn't know how to feel about the situation.

Peter exhaled a short, audible breath; his hands fisting at his sides before he ran forward, to Sylar... After he had reached "center stage", the room fell relatively quiet. Of course. Everyone was willed to mess with a murderer who no longer murdered, but no one would mess with the empath who remained empathetic.

"Peter," Heidi said with a sigh. "I'm sorry, but I can't bring myself to understand why—"

"The why's not important." Peter snatched the empty glass from her hand. "Or the how, much less the was, when or where. What is important is the now, and the who, and now," he threw the glass to the floor, "I am angry."

Heidi stared at him, looking to Sylar and back to Peter again. She shook her head side-to-side, as though she pitied him, knew something he didn't. She, however, did not want to argue – not with Peter – and thus walked away, making sure she was careful to avoid the small shards of glass littered atop the hardwood floor.

The majority of the guests went back to their prior engagements, despite the majority of their engagements now being conversations which focused entirely on "the guest who really had murdered Nathan Petrelli". The guests – most of the guests – were still talking about him. They were no longer staring straight at Sylar, but talking about him nonetheless... Bad stuff, he knew, such as how they would torture and kill him in some sickeningly sadistic way if they could.

Or, maybe they actually were planning on it.

"Sylar," Peter said finally. "Maybe... you should go..."

Sylar was quick to say, "I'm not going anywhere." He knew it would be better if he was to leave, but he also had to remind himself he wasn't a coward. The guests at Matt's Christmas party were slightly unnerved by his presence, though not once had he been asked to leave. At this party, the one he was at now, he had already been told to leave a number of times...

Just not by anyone known to him.

It was clear that, in this brave new world, "they" knew who he was and what he had done. If they hadn't known the details of Nathan's death before, surely they would know now, and as the rumors were further confirmed, more people would come to learn of the villain Sylar had been before he had become a hero.

"Sylar," Peter repeated softly. "Are you alright?"

"Stupid..."

"What? I didn't catch that one."

"Nothing." Sylar elicited a long breath. "I'm fine. Really. I've taken my justifiable beatings and infinite admonishments for years, Peter... so it's nothing I'm unfamiliar with..."

Peter sighed, momentarily turning his head while rubbing at his eyes. "But this isn't fair," he said, and looked back to him quickly. "This is Christmas, it's supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year, a time when people put aside their differences and come together for a greater purpose, and..."

Sylar rolled his eyes, forcing out a chuckle or two. "It's... not a big deal," he said slowly, and Peter gave him an empathetic look. "No, I'm being more than serious when I say it's not a big deal to me. Christmas... it's nothing more than another day on the calendar, and I've never expected it to be anything better."

"Just better?" Peter raised an eyebrow. "Normally you would say you never expected something to be better or worse, so I know something's up... I'm going to guess you have your share of bad memories related to the holidays..."

"Ugh," Sylar groaned, standing from the armchair as another sigh escaped his lips. "I can't believe this..."

"Believe what?"

"Believe that, in all of our years together, both in and out of my nightmare, we never once had an in-depth conversation about Christmas."

"Of course not," Peter said, voice monotone. "You're much too busy talking about philosophy and psychology to bother talking about the stuff that really matters."

"It's called deflecting, Peter."

"Yes, deflecting me... and you just tried it again!"

"Fine," Sylar said, unable to think of anything better to say. He supposed the best he could do in the situation was to silence himself, relocate to the darkest, most depressing corner of the room and remain there until the party was over.

"I really hope you're not thinking about finding some dark and depressing corner to campout in until this thing is over."

Sylar averted his eyes. "No," he replied, and then gave himself a mental slap for having allowed his stare to wonder. Broken eye-contact was a dead giveaway of dishonesty, he knew, one it didn't take a sociopath to figure out.

Peter shoved him, though to a considerably lighter degree than any of the previous times he had shoved him that night. "Well," he began, staring into Sylar's eyes whose stare remained fixated, on his. He didn't forget what he had intended to say, as he had never figured out how to finish that sentence in the first place.

"Well," Sylar said. "Which someone clearly isn't."

"I should hope you don't mean me," Peter said with a frown. "Or yourself, for that matter. You can joke about serious stuff like that for only so long before you start to believe it."

"Whoever said I was joking?" Sylar muttered, dragging a hand back through his wet and sticky hair, further disheveling it in the process. He all but ignored Peter's discontent expression, and gave his hair another quick ruffle as he stood from the armchair.

Peter huffed. "Now where are you going?"

"I'm going to find the darkest, most depressing corner of the room," Sylar said, walking in the direction of the open mini-bar, "after I obtain a ridiculously hard drink so I can pretend to be incapable of coherent conversation, before I retreat to that corner right over,"—he pointed to the darkest and most depressing corner of the room—"there, and eavesdrop whilst pretending I'm unaware of all the stuck up, overpaid cheats, crooks and liars at Angela's Christmas 'ball' who are mingling over how much they'd like to see me die."

Peter looked down, eliciting a deep sigh. "Alright," he said breathily. "Whatever makes you content, I guess..."

Sylar turned on his heel. As he walked away, he whispered, "I'll be 'content' when Christmas is over..."

It was time for the presents.

"Oh my," Angela said as she clapped her hands together a single time. "I never expected this evening would have such an amazing turn out. It's simply wonderful to see all of you gathered here, and thank you ever so much for your generosity..." She looked back over her shoulder, at the mountainous collection of gifts. "Yes... thank you all, indeed..."

Sylar remained in the corner, frowning at her from a distance.

Angela shook her head delicately. "My, whatever shall I do with all of these gifts?"

A number of people shouted, "Open them!" before everyone joined in and began to cheer her on.

"Kill me," Sylar whispered, and turned around. Now, he would be unable to see anything with the exception of that dark, depressing corner of his life.

Angela placed a hand over her heart. "Thank you, thank all of you, for being here to remind us all of what the holidays are really about, and that's the importance of friends, family, and the happiness we feel when with them during this most magical time of year." Her expressions took on a more rueful tone. "While we all wish Nathan could be here with us... I'm sure he is here – in his own way – to celebrate with his family and friends, all of whom loved him dearly, especially my youngest son, Peter..."

"Ugh," Sylar groaned, and knocked his forehead against the wall.

"Peter," Angela called out, while everyone's eyes began to search the room for him. "Peter, dear, don't forget – you were born at eve of Christmas Eve for a reason..."

"Yes," Sylar breathed, knocking his head against the wall again. "Two days before the best day of the year and two days after what the Mayans predict as the worst day in history."

"...so you could enjoy twice as many presents," Angela finished, a smile on her face while she shook her head slightly.

However, as everyone continued to look about for wherever it was Peter had gone to, they realized he wasn't in the room.

He had better not have bailed, Sylar thought, not without me, anyway, especially after all of that Christmas talk he's forced me to listen to...

"Gabriel."

She had better not be talking to me, he thought, not when she's turned this so-called "Christmas gathering" into some kind of memorial service for a man I killed...

"Gabriel," Angela said again, more loudly than before. "Would you be so kind as to go upstairs and politely ask Peter to come down?"

Sylar rolled his eyes, and slowly turned around. Everyone was staring straight at him, like they wanted to kill him... Maybe his assumptions were jumping the gun a little on "kill", but at the very least it appeared they didn't feel his presence was desirable, much less appropriate.

He blinked at Angela from across the room. "How do you know he's even up there?"

"Trust me," she replied, smiling, "he's up there."

Oh no, I don't trust her, he thought, glaring at her from across the room, and she has that look on her face, that damn smile of hers... as if she actually thinks I'm stupid enough to think this isn't one of her post-precognitive dream schemes...

He raised an eyebrow at her. "What else is up there?" he asked, looking around the room and holding his arms out at his sides. "Did you get some of his friends to go up there and wait for me from behind the nearest door with a hacksaw?"

"Don't be ridiculous." She smirked, raising her chin as if to look down on him. "I merely thought that, since you claim to be such a good "friend" of Peter's, you wouldn't mind asking him if he would like to come down and open his gifts. If that's too much trouble for you, by all means, send a text-message."

People began to laugh.

Claire sighed, handing her drink to Gretchen. "I'll get him," she said, shaking her head as she began to walk forward.

"No," Sylar waved a hand dismissively in her direction, "that really won't be necessary, and seeing as I've been waiting for Peter to turn his back long enough for me to find the darkest, most depressing corner of the room in the darkest, most depressing room in this mansion, well," he shrugged, "I suppose I shouldn't pass that chance up."

He once again ignored the undesired collection of stares, though it was difficult. The colossal crowd of onlookers parted like the Red Sea shortly after he had taken his first step in the staircase's direction. Hands fisted at his sides, he continued to walk forward, although as opposed to a staircase he felt he was walking to his last gate; this probably served as the explanation for why he was walking so tall.

All of these strangely familiar faces... he could almost feel the wall Peter's resentment had built clawing at his subconscious... but with a new architect behind it.

"Damnit," he whispered, after Claire had made the surprising move of stopping a random guest from pulling a gun on him, while Angela smiled that smile at him, before he passed the gigantic Christmas tree and began to walk up the stairs.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he couldn't help but glance in the nearest window's direction... debating on whether or not he should make a break for it, while he still could, but... no, Peter would never let him hear the end of it.

Sylar checked the master bedroom first. He didn't really think Peter would be in there; he only wanted to see the sort of set-up Angela Petrelli slept in. However, he quickly realized she no longer resided there; she still owned the Petrelli Mansion, but had lived in that insanely-small (for her) apartment for over two years.

Oh well. Nothing about her bedroom had struck him as impressive, anyway. He had expected to see some dressed-down version of a sex-dungeon/torture chamber, only to be met with a bedroom which had resembled a bedroom. As if Angela could be so boring; he would check the room again later, more thoroughly, and...

"...I'm not interested in Angela's bedroom," Sylar whispered to himself, eyes shifty. He supposed—no, knew—that he was only looking for an excuse to leave Peter alone, for he knew where his little empath had to be...

Second door to the right, straight on 'till mourning... In other words, Nathan Petrelli's childhood room...

Damn, Sylar thought, double damn, why do these overtly-dramatic things always happen to me?

"I hate Christmas," he whispered, standing outside of the partially open door to Nathan's old room. He could hear Peter in there, though he really had known Peter would be there prior – that's just the way it was, the way it had always been; Sylar could feel when Peter was near, as long as he was thinking about him... these days, it seemed Peter was never too far from his thoughts...

Sylar paused outside of the doorway, peeking through the crack in its hollow.

"Nathan," Peter said, silently, "this time of year especially I can't help but think of you, wondering if Ma's right, if you are watching down on us... and it makes me... so sad... just to, you know, look back on the good times we shared around my birthday, and Christmas, knowing that they're gone..."

Sylar felt horrible, more horrible than he had already felt. He recalled a time which didn't seem like so long ago... his nightmare, the nightmare he had shared with Peter, and the way Peter would do this—talk to Nathan, like he was really there—and it worried Sylar, inexplicably enough. He had never been one to "reach out" to the deceased, pray to them, or whatever it was... but in his book, talking to a person who wasn't there was one step away from developing a dissociative disorder.

"I also feel bad for another reason." Peter chuckled. "The obvious one, because, hell... somehow I don't think you'd appreciate the fact that I've allowed the guy who killed you to... take your place, in some way," he whispered, staring down at the framed photograph in his hands. "I don't know, Sylar's the farthest thing I have from a brother, yet at the same time, the closest... my closest friend, fucked-up as that is, but... I no longer resent him, and that's exactly why I resent myself... I resent myself, because—and I can't believe I'm about to say this—but really, I... I..."

He sighed and said, "I only wish I didn't feel guilty for being so ashamed of my own feelings..."

That was it, as far as Sylar was concerned. Someone else could tell Peter to come down and open his damn presents – Sylar was leaving – he was leaving right now.

What did Peter know, anyway? What did he think he knew? It didn't matter what he thought, for he had thought wrong.

He had no idea what Sylar had genuinely gone through, what it was like to look back and realize something worse; to look back and really mourn, not only for the good times lost, but for so much more...

Sylar looked up at the starry night sky, recollecting, projecting and regretting. This moment was bound to have snuck up sooner or later – everyone had known that – though where it had rooted from... he didn't know. Surely it had nothing to do with Christmas.

He prepared to step forward, the last step he would ever take, he knew. No one – not even an immortal – could survive this.

With his luck, though... maybe he would...

"Huh," he muttered, before taking a quick peek over the edge. It was long way down. "Maybe the fall won't kill me for sure... though if it does, surely everyone will feel horrible for the way they've treated me... and if I survive, they'll still feel horrible, so," he nodded, "it's a win-win situation."

He inhaled a deep breath of air, spreading his arms out at his sides. Softly, he said, "You were right, Peter," and went on to whisper, "Life really is a lot like death, as it does happen to everyone, whether they want it to or not... in some way, at least... Quality of life is more important than longevity, anyway..."

The single step he then took was followed by the beginning to the end of a long fall.

A permanent solution to a temporary problem... The meaning to it all; love, life... really... who gives a damn? Some things just are, and it's knowing that they are real that matters, not knowing how they work...

As he fell, he heard the foreign whisper in his head, "Only someone who refuses to accept what is real creates that which is not..."

"Help me!"

What?

—l—

A/N: I'd reeeally appreciate reviews if some of you guys & gals can find it in yourselves to drop(gift? xD) me one. I worry that since Heroes was cancelled there aren't as many readers/writers left in the fandom, but... I'm sure that such a great show still has its wonderful fans and fandom followers! :D

Anyhow, hope those of you who made it this far like the fic enough to consider reading the remaining two chapters... I'll try my best to have the next chapter up before Christmas...

Early Merry Christmas!