Author's Note: Doesn't matter that I'm literally in a different country right now. Nothing can keep me offa this site!
That's my 'cool' way of saying GREETINGS FROM CANADA. Camp is lovely, my job flows continuously smooth, and I've never had so much bloody exercise in my life. All in all . . . Well, life is great. So, of course I had to go and write another angst-y thing. Because . . . celebration?
So, here we go, back into my Criminal Heroes 'verse. This is officially a sequel to "Time," although it's only a oneshot. I recently got through Season 3 of Heroes (again) and kinda started to think about all of the crap poor Peter went through in those episodes — and I wanted to give him someone to talk to, someone to listen to, and someone to take in his pain as he has done for so many other characters. Enter Spencer — the little genius went and tapped on my shoulder and was all like, "Let me handle this one." So, of course, I had to do it. This was written largely on my iPod, so forgive any weird line breaks or uncaught grammatical errors; I would never intentionally publish garbage, I solemnly swear.
Not sure what's coming next. I've been slowly developing an idea for a Criminal Minds AU kid!fic about (who else?) Spencer and Derek, but thusfar, there's only a few lines to back up that title. We'll see what happens. And there's another oneshot in the works for this particular storyline, where Reid finally gets to meet someone special of Peter's. *Squees* No promises on a timeline; my internship keeps me busy at all hours. But they'll come . . . eventually.
Warning: MAJOR spoilers for the third season of Heroes (like, so many spoilers that you can basically get a summary of all the major events in the season from this little beauty). Some spoilers from Season 3 of Criminal Minds, but mostly things that anyone who's ever watched past the second episode would know, anyways. Some corse language sprinkled in for fun, but . . . well, can't help myself. I love when Peter curses. *Shivers* And drama ahead, WOOTWOOT.
Disclaimers: Are we talking OWN as in the Oprah Winfrey Network, or own as in 'to possess?' . . . *Sighs* Either way, nothing's mine; I'm just having some fun with my boys.
Review if you want, don't if you don't. What more can I say?
So sorry for the long-ass AN. Many apologies. Now . . . enjoy!
"With Brotherhood"
It was chilly in the apartment. Empty, too. And dark. But not so dark that nothing could be seen.
A small stack of books lay scattered on the floor, and a pair of shoes sat neatly folded at the edge of the rug behind the couch. The coffee table had been freshly wiped, the go-bag by the door was packed, and the scent of Lysol permeated from the kitchen. As always, everything in Spencer Reid's apartment was meticulously cleaned and carefully placed, ready for the genius to wake up in the morning and begin his usual routine.
And yet, interrupting the relative peace that the BAU's youngest member had managed to instill in his one remaining sanctuary, there came a loud banging on the door.
On his couch, where he had fallen asleep reading, Spencer's eyes immediately slammed open, and the man jerked around, carnal instinct telling him to detect the source of danger before proceeding.
His eyes landed on the door, and it took a moment for the thought to register in Reid's head.
I should answer that.
Creakily getting up, the genius stretched out one long leg, and jumped when something fell off the couch, and hit his foot.
Biting down a yelp, Reid bent over swiftly to examine the thing.
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The genius smiled as he picked up the heavy tome.
Of course, it was a story he had read many times already, and could obviously recite from memory – but nothing quite beat the feel of a good, solid, heavy book in his hands, and Reid often took an unknown pleasure in perusing the pages of his old favorites. Sherlock, of course, being one of them.
And, as Morgan would occasionally joke, what protagonist could be more like Reid than the socially awkward, determined, mal-content detective of the pre-computer centuries?
Rolling his eyes, Reid gently placed the book back down on the table, and turned back to the thing that had caught his attention in the first place.
The knocking hadn't stopped.
Mumbling things that only someone far more awake would have been able to understand, Reid stumbled over to the door, and pressed his eye against the peephole.
Suddenly, he was wide awake.
Peter.
Not moving back from his vantage point, Reid blindly moved his hand towards the handle of the door, hissing slightly when he came into contact with the hot metal – it sizzled against his skin, and the genius flinched, pulling back his hand and he fisted it, biting back another sound.
After a few seconds, the sting in his hand subsided. And Reid reacted without fully thinking.
Clutching the burning knob in his hand once more, the genius slammed open the door before him inhumanly fast, ripping his hand away the second the hinges acted.
Stepping in front of the swinging wood, Reid came fully into view of the hallway. And there, with the faint glow from the emergency lamps being the only light in an area that had long ago seen midnight pass, he took in the appearance of his best friend.
Previously long black locks had been trimmed down to an inch's length, leaving the infamous ebony eyes of Peter Petrelli fully exposed, and just as intense as always. The crooked smile that had so often warmed Reid's heart was nowhere to be seen, and Peter leaned against the heavy block of the doorway as if it was the only thing quite keeping him up. The scent of alcohol seeped from his dark button-down shirt, and his jeans were torn.
Reid stared, drinking in the bedraggled appearance, utterly at loss for words.
Peter was one of the only people who could do that to him.
For a few seconds, Reid just stared. The heavy, rhythmic sounds of both men's breathing was the only noise in the hallway.
And then, unable to take it anymore, " . . . Peter?"
No response. Instead, before him, the raven-haired man continued to stare, looking right through Reid as if he weren't even there, mind obviously so far away that he didn't seem to hear anything – not even when the genius called him for a second time.
"Peter?"
Still no reaction. Peter's eyes were bloodshot, and the bags beneath them made it look as if he hadn't slept in a week. Shadows clouded his irises, and his pupils were so small they were nearly invisible.
He looked ill. Sickly. Almost as bad as he had just months ago, when the two men had begun reconnecting, building back their relationship after nearly a year of silence.
And Reid felt that same terrified pummeling in his heart as he took in the wrecked form before him.
"Peter?"
He stepped forward, hand extended, and gently clapped his friend's shoulder.
Immediately, Peter flinched back from the touch, eyes jerking out of their daze and snapping to Reid immediately, defensive and ready to attack.
Reid jumped slightly, a twinge of regret and nausea filling his stomach at the reaction.
Peter had never been scared of him.
Reid raised a hand up, covering his mouth, and blinked. "Are – P-Peter, are you – ?"
"I can't do it anymore, Spence."
Oh, god. His voice.
The comforting, kind lilt that had always made Peter's words come off with a bit of a laugh was nowhere present. That soft tone, the one that had been Reid's solitary comfort for years as a child, the deep tenor that had always brought a rush of welcome to him in their later years . . . none of it was anywhere to be found.
Peter's words were deep, hoarse-sounding, crushed of their usual underlying joy. He sounded winded, sickly . . . and wrong. Wrong.
Not at all like the friend Reid had long come to love. Not like his brother, his crutch, his closest personal ally.
Not like Peter.
Barely even human.
Well, not that he was, technically, but . . .
Reid shook his head of the thought as Peter spoke again.
"Spencer, I . . . I don't know how to do it anymore." His words were pleading, and for the first time all evening, Peter's eyes locked onto Reid's, hitting the genius with all of their power, so much emotion that he gasped.
"I can't . . . I just – it's . . . Spencer, I don't know anymore."
Reid spoke tentatively. "Peter – ?"
"My mom," the raven-haired man suddenly cut in. "My mom, she – she told me something – and then – th-then because of my dad, Nathan – N-Nathan." He stopped, the pain in his voice making him choke slightly. "Claire. Oh, Claire."
Peter swayed slightly where he stood, and Reid, alarmed, rushed forward, catching his friend's shoulders and anchoring him firmly into place.
For a moment, they stood like that, Reid supporting the frame of his childhood partner, and Peter clutching back, breathing harshly, eyes clouded with ghosts of a past Reid knew nothing about just then.
"I don't know who I am anymore, Spence."
The words were barely audible, and Reid's heart twinged at them. Oh, Peter . . .
"I'll make some coffee," was all he said.
Soon, the seraphic smell of freshly ground beans sifted through the apartment. And as the brew percolated, Reid guided Peter into his living room, and sat the man down onto his couch.
His friend let himself be guided blindly, and made no protest when Reid covered up his shivering frame with a blanket.
In fact, Peter didn't move or make a single sound again until Reid handed him a huge mug of hot, steaming coffee, the same color as melted caramel.
"Cream, no sugar," Reid confirmed gently, folding his lanky frame to sit down too.
Peter mumbled something that might have been a thanks, and clutched the mug tightly. But he didn't take a sip. Instead, he laid his forehead against the rim of the cup, and cast his eyes downward, searching the floor.
Reid allowed the silence. Peter had always been private, almost as reserved as the genius himself. When he was ready to talk, he would talk – but trying to force anything out of the man only put him off, and Peter would shut down so fast and so permanently that any reason for his visit would be utterly useless at that point.
"Nice book," came the words suddenly.
Reid started, and looked around, seeing that his friend had caught sight of Sherlock Holmes.
He shrugged. "I, ah – my art dealer's looking for a first edition, but I found this one at a used bookstore a few weeks back. I just – " he gulped "– I had the strangest urge to reread it tonight. Someone quoted him at the meeting."
Peter's eyes shot up at the word meeting, locking onto Reid's, probing. "How did it go, Spence?"
Reid fought not to purse his lips. He always had to remind himself that Peter was different from the BAU, that he asked only because he cared about his personal safety and self, not because it could affect the way he did his job. And even though the genius's first instinct was to hide his struggling addiction behind 'movies' and 'sick days,' he knew, deep down that it would be okay to talk about it – that it was a good thing.
That even, somewhere deep inside, he wanted to tell someone about it.
So he spoke. "I'm doing alright . . ." He faltered slightly as the man before him raised an eyebrow, but quickly caught himself. "No, really. It's been . . . well, I mean, with work and my new classes and – " he forced himself to stop before he started a ramble. "I'm doing great, Peter. Better than in a long time." As he said it, his hands clasped, and the genius winced at the remaining ache from the door handle earlier. Peter frowned at the expression, and then looked at Reid's fingers. Seeing the red, he immediately deflated.
"My telekinesis . . . Oh, God, Spencer, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to lose my cool – "
"It's nothing," Reid immediately cut in, guilt cramping up his stomach. As ifPeter needed anything more on his mind tonight, by the looks of it. "I'm all good, see? Just the coffee . . ." His voice trailed off awkwardly, and eventually, the genius looked at the floor, unable to pretend for much longer.
Peter eventually nodded, and went back to probing the depths of his coffee.
Reid was hesitant to say anything, but . . .
"Peter?"
The other man made no movement. "Mm?"
Reid inhaled, and barreled through. "Peter, I – you came to me. You're here. I mean, you . . ." he stopped, trying to collect his thoughts.
"Peter, what's wrong?"
The other brunette didn't react again for a moment, continuing to clutch his drink so hard that his knuckles were turning white.
Suddenly, Peter slammed the mug down on the coffee table, slopping his drink over the edge and hissing slightly as the hot liquid made contact with his hand. He jumped up and raked his fingers through his hair – an old habit that Reid had long ago learned meant his friend was in distress.
"That's the question, isn't it, Spencer? What's wrong. What's wrong?" Peter barked out a harsh, bitter laugh. "I don't even know where to begin. It's everything. My brother – my fucking, godamned brother, of course – and his fucking campaign. And my mom, she's just – she's lost it, of course – because of dad, always dad, always that bastard, him and everything he's done to this family – and Claire and me, too – "
Reid reached up, grabbing a hold of Peter's hand, and waited patiently until the erratic man would look at him again.
"Peter – Peter, please. Please tell me – let me help you. Let me try. Please."
Peter chewed his lower lip for a second, and then gave a single nod. He dropped onto the couch with a small rush of air, and wrapped his arms tightly around himself, protective.
"Nathan got shot."
Reid covered his mouth, knowing how devastated his friend must be; there was no one in the world he cared for more than his brother, and Peter was an empathetic person and gentle soul anyway.
"Peter – "
"I was the one who did it."
Reid's eyes widened, and he stared at Peter. What?
Peter met Reid's eyes briefly, and then he looked away again, blinking rapidly. "I shot him, Spence. I – I mean, I didn't, it was – it was a sort-of version of me, one from a different timeline. The . . . the future." He looked up, and saw the confused expression Reid was failing in hiding.
"It was the time-traveling, Spencer. Some . . . some me – I came back from the fucking future, and – and I – I – "
For one horrible moment, Peter lost his voice, And then it came back in the form of a barely-repressed sob.
"I shot my brother, Spence. I nearly killed him. Nathan."
Reid couldn't quite suppress the inner part of his mind that was already in overdrive profiling the situation.
"Why – Peter, why – ?"
"I don't know. I mean – I m-mean, I sort of do. I told myself – I mean, the other Peter told me – that Nathan's press conference was going to change everything. Ruin the world, he said."
"Nathan was having a press conference?"
Peter swallowed tightly. "He – I mean, me, too – I – well, he and I, both of us – decided that after everything that happened with the Company and Sylar, well . . ." He blinked, gearing himself. "We decided to go public about . . . about our abilities."
Reid's jaw dropped. "Peter – "
The other man raised his hand. "I know, Spencer. I know. Not our decision to make, completely irresponsible, irreversible, life-changing for almost 23% of Earth's population . . . Believe me, we considered all of it. Every last little thing." Peter sighed, running his fingers through his hair again. "But we didn't care. At the time, it seemed like the best thing that we could do. It wasn't our right, no – but then, in the end, it didn't fucking matter, did it? The decision was taken out of our hands."
Reid's hand reached out, and gently gripped Peter's in a comforting, anchoring grasp. He took in a deep breath before speaking again.
"Did Nathan – did he live?"
Peter nodded, eyes locked once more on the floor.
Reid asked the next question with a tentative tone. "Does he know?"
Peter shook his head numbly. "I can't tell him. I don't know how."
Reid furrowed his brow. "Are you going to?"
He hoped the concern in his voice overpowered the disapproval.
Peter shook his head again. "We're not speaking anymore."
Not speaking anymore?
Reid opened his mouth to speak, but Peter beat him to it, cutting in smoothly.
"After his . . . well, after I . . ." Peter cleared his throat. "When Nathan was in the hospital, he sort of . . . sort of found his religion again." Peter scoffed. "Said God had saved him, and he wasn't going to 'forget it.' I dunno if you watched the campaigning on TV, but it changed pretty rapidly."
Reid shrugged. He hadn't watched the campaigning anywhere, mostly because their team had been so busy that he'd been on cases while the majority of it was happening.
But he had heard about Senator Petrelli's new angle.
"He got really political, went into the VP's back pocket, started this whole secret squadron fo ex-Feds . . . he said part of his mission was to 'round us up,' . . . us being the people with abilities."
"People like Claire?"
"No." Peter blinked a few times, trying to hide the shine his eyes had taken on. "He gave Claire a pass. Everyone else was gathered up, though."
"Everyone?" Please, please don't mean what I think you mean.
Peter's shoulders dropped their defensive stance. "Me, too. I was on the first plane out to some Gitmo he'd had secretly built for us."
Gitmo? "You mean he – he – ?"
"Yep." Peter nodded his head, bitternesss visible in every fiber of his being. "Prison, torture, interrogation . . . whatever the bastards wanted from us, they had permission for. Our own little special version of Hell, just for the heroes." He spat the last word out in disgust.
Reid's voice cracked, horrified. "B-but you didn't – H-How – ?"
"Claire. She snuck onboard and saved us. Crashed the fucking plane, made my dear brother look so very unfortunately incompetent, but . . ." Peter's lips turned down. "Somehow, I can still sleep at night."
Reid studied his friend. No matter how casually Peter tried to lay it on, he knew that the man must be devastated – by his brother's betrayal, and their subsequent falling-out.
Nathan was Peter's hero. Always had been.
God. He must be crushed.
"Peter," he started, and then stopped. What could he say?
A single tear carved its way down the raven-haired man's cheek. "Spencer, I – I just . . ." He swallowed. "I thought Nathan was the last other person I could trust. The only other one I needed and loved. He knew – he knew everything – and he had all that I could give, and still he – he . . ."
Reid leaned in, and wrapped his arms around his friend. He said nothing, simply trying to let his presence be enough.
Against his shoulder, Peter let out a hash, shuddering breath. "I had nothing else," he said, his voice muffled against Reid's clavicle. "I couldn't burden you, and after losing my mom . . ."
Reis started. "Angela's . . . Angela's dead?"
Peter shook his head, hands hanging limply on his lap. "She . . . she's fine. Well, alive, I – I mean. I guess so. We haven't been speaking, either."
"Peter," Reid murmured, cradling his friend's head in his arms, "What's going on? First Nathan, and now your mom? What happened?"
Peter gave a long, shuddering sigh, and Reid could feel the other man tensing.
Suddenly, Peter straightened up and, biting his inner cheek, looked Reid right in the eyes.
"Spencer . . . it's Sylar."
His insides froze.
Sylar.
That name.
Sylar.
That man.
It's Sylar.
Those memories.
Sylar.
Oh, God.
Reid could feel his heartbeat speeding up, his pulse racing like a rabbit beneath skin that had gone ice-cold and snow-white.
He blinked, finding the effort to do so tremendous, and just the act of sitting there upright taxing.
Sylar.
Sylar.
Sylar.
"Spencer?"
The word was familiar, the voice more so . . .
But the sounds didn't register with the genius at first. Instead, they bounced around his head, clanging back and forth between his ears, paining him almost as much as the twisting in his stomach, the sudden rush of nausea in his gut.
"Spencer?"
He was there, in his living room, with Peter . . . and then again, he wasn't. He was there, in some other room, so far away, with the man formerly known as Gabriel Gray.
He was lost.
He was terrified.
He was sick, he was captured, he was going to die.
He lost. Lost. Like it was a game.
Game over.
"Spencer!"
Harsh hands clawed at his neck, and he jerked back, biting down a yelp.
Suddenly, Reid blinked, and it was gone.
He was back on his couch, in his home, with his best friend by his side – a man whose eyes were currently dancing in fear as he clutched the genius like a lifeline, struggling to capture something before it was lost.
Reid opened his mouth, and let out a small whimper.
Sylar.
He whispered, voice barely audible.
"Sylar?"
Peter nodded. "He – he found me, Spencer. All of us – my family, too. He was . . . he was with my mom, when we finally met face-to-face."
Reid nodded dully. "Yeah, . . ."
He was trying to focus, truly he was. But even the name Sylar had him dropping into a tempest of spoilt memories; the echoes of screams, the pain, the pungent scent of fear radiating off of his body . . .
"Yeah . . ."
Peter shot him a strange look. "Spencer?"
Reid violently shook his head, re-orienting himself back to where he was – where he wanted to be. "I'm sorry, I – I'm just – sorry! – I'm fine, what were you – ?" He cleared his throat, and looked at the ground, trying to collect himself.
"S-Sylar? W-with Angela?"
He heard the slight rustle as Peter nodded his head.
"How? I – I mean, just – how?"
Peter swallowed. "I don't know, Spencer. They never actually got around to telling me that part."
"They?"
"My mother . . ." Peter started, and then stopped. He paused for a second, and then opened his mouth to speak again – but nothing came out.
He huffed a small sigh, and tapped his fingers rapidly.
Reid watched this, a curious expression on his face.
Peter chewed his cheek for a moment, and then his dark eyes met Reid's caramel-colored ones, and he finally seemed to find his voice.
"My mother told me that Sylar was – w-well, is – is a, ah . . ." He blinked rapidly. " . . . a son. Her son. She told me that . . . that I have a second sibling. A brother. M-my other older brother – t-that she gave up for adoption, y-years and years ago."
Reid's heart stopped.
"I call him family in that he and I share flesh, blood, and parents."
"My mother was not my mother – and my father was still no one important. Biologically, though – I was nearly a perfect match for Angela and Arthur Petrelli's very special genetics. And for those of their two sons – Nathan and Peter."
"It's almost Biblical."
All those months ago, in that little room in Odessa . . . Sylar had told him that he and Peter were brothers. Had told him that their genetic code was a nearly-perfect match.
But Reid had brushed it off, choosing to believe that Sylar was simply trying to mess with him in yet another way. He hadn't even told Peter about the incident, he had been so convinced – and yet, here was the man he called family before him, confirming exactly what the Sylar had said.
Good guys weren't supposed to agree with the villains.
He looked back at Peter. "Are you sure – ?"
Peter shook his head despondently. "I'm not sure of anything anymore really, Spencer. I mean, it's Sylar. Sylar. How can we possibly – ?"
He cut himself off, and stared at his friend hungrily, desperately.
"We can't be – right? I – I m-mean, right?"
Reid shook his head. "I couldn't say, Peter."
Not I don't know.
Peter's eyes shone, and when he looked at his oldest friend, there was no small amount of desperation in his gaze. "Spencer . . . Spencer, please. Please, you have to help me. I don't – I don't know what to do anymore. It's . . . It's too hard. It's killing me."
One thing Spencer had always admired about Peter was his courage – that astute, binding bravery the raven-haired man had that seeped from every bone in his body, every fiber of his being.
Nothing, short of death or disfigurement, had ever kept Peter Petrelli down.
But this . . . in all the years the two had known each other, Spencer had never quite seen his friend so pained. So lost.
It wore on his heart.
"Peter," he began, not altogether sure of what he would say, "it makes no difference."
The other man shot him a confused look, and gritting his teeth, Spencer continued on. "So maybe DNA calls you family. Maybe the chromosomes crossed over, and your genes make you two siblings. It doesn't matter."
"It does – " Peter protested, only to be interrupted by Reid shaking his head.
"No, it doesn't," Reid re-asserted. He had to get this out, Peter had to know.
"What is family? Parentage? Brotherhood?" Reid hated the way his voice trembled on the last word. But he shook it off.
"They're words, Peter. Just words. Titles that we give to people to try and evoke some semblance of significance, something to give meaning and order to our lives. When, in fact, the only thing that means anything are our feelings. Our emotions – the way people care about one another, for one another – their ability to give and receive love. Family means nothing if there's no heart involved, Peter."
Peter looked at him appraisingly, and Reid continued, trying to keep his breathing under control. "So what if Sylar is your mother's son? He has a title. He has something that you're legally obligated to call him, and some genomes that you share. But he doesn't have your heart, Peter. He doesn't share memories with you, or know what it's like to have your embrace on his worst day. He's never been fixed by your words, or helped by your humor. He has nothing but a word and a passing glance, and that's it. That's it. He doesn't know you, he doesn't remember you, and he doesn't love you." Reid swallowed tightly before finishing.
"Maybe he's your sibling, fine. But he is not your brother."
Through it all, peter had only watched his friend, never uttering a word. And when Reid had said all that he'd had to say, Peter took a moment before he spoke, so quietly that the genius strained to hear, even in the quiet apartment.
"He saved my life."
Reid blinked, his pulse speeding up. "What?"
Peter took in a breath, bracing himself.
"Twice."
There were no words.
Reid stared at Peter, and the other man did his best to pretend he wasn't being stared at. He shuffled his hands together, and sighed at the floor.
"Twice?"
Peter nodded. "Twice, Spencer. I don't – I have nothing."
Reid bit his lip, forcing himself to remain composed for this. "Did he – I mean, you're right – so – how?"
There was a long, loud silence before Peter answered.
"The fist time," his friend started slowly, voice hushed, "was right after I . . . I got back. My mom had just told me the news about – ab-bout Sylar, and I was really confused . . . and I had to leave." Peter sighed, and the shame woven in his voice was clear. "I – I pulled a location out of my mother's head – someplace called Pinehearst. She warned me not to go – begged me, really, but I – " he swallowed "I was just so angry, and I went anyway. There . . ."
Peter trailed off as his words became more and more choked-sounding, and he scrabbled at his throat, gasping faintly as he fought down the memories.
Reid leaned in, alarm written all over his face, but Peter pushed him back, shaking his head frantically. The blood drained from his cheeks, and as his breathing became harsher, Reid's panic rose.
"Peter!" He called, desperate to do something. Again the genius made to get up, to find help – anything, really – only to be stopped by the firm grip of long fingers on his elbow.
" . . . Fine . . ." his friend choked out harshly, the word sounding wrong in that voice. Reid shook his head, but Peter only tightened his grasp. "Fine. Spence, I'm . . . fine." Another harsh breath, and then, "Okay?"
Reid stopped fighting the touch, and looked over his friend critically. "Peter," he started.
The other man shook his head. "No, Spence. I'm sorry. I was – I, mean, I . . . I just . . . sorry. But really, I swear I'm okay. I just . . . don't like thinking about it."
Reid sunk back onto the couch. "Thinking about what?" he asked dreadfully, sure he already knew.
Peter stared into his coffee mug. "Sylar was ordered to kill me. Pinehearst was a hospital, and I wasn't really . . . welcome, there. Found that out pretty quickly." He chuckled a bitter laugh that sent shivers down Reid's spine.
"And when my . . . when . . . the man running the place ordered Sylar to kill me . . ."
"What did he do?" Reid asked quietly.
Peter blinked. "He threw me out of a seven-story building."
Reid's lip dropped. "He – he – what?"
Peter swallowed, a thin layer of composure and his own minimal pride the only thing keeping another tear from falling.
"We were on the top floor of the Pinehearst Hospice. My – someone told him to end it. And . . . and he used his telekinesis to break the glass with my body. And I fell."
Reid's head was swirling in the confusion. "You . . . I thought you said he saved your life?"
Peter's voice was soft again. "He did. He threw me through the window, and I was falling . . . and falling. The wind was so loud in my ears, and everything was freezing, and right then, I knew, Spencer. I knew I was going to die."
Peter sighed. "But I didn't. Sylar . . . Sylar used his power – that same power – to stop me from hitting the ground hard enough. I got the breath knocked out of me, and some bruising, but . . ." he barked out a small laugh. "I'm alive, Spencer. I'm alive."
"Because Sylar saved you," Reid finished, exhaling hugely.
Chewing his inner cheek, Peter nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, he did."
For a split second, there was a ghost of a smile on his face, and then it disappeared; Peter raked his hands through his hair, distress catching in his voice. "But how can I think that? How can I – how can I just be okay with him for all of that. Because you're right, Spencer – he's still Sylar. He's still the same guy who attacked New York, the same guy who stalked me." Peter looked up, his eyes shining. "He's the same guy who tried to kill you, Spence."
And he was. Reid knew that, and it relieved him slightly to know that Peter still remembered that enough to be bothered by it. It meant that some offset of Stockholm Syndrome was off of the table.
But it didn't stop the confusion that was seeping from his friend's voice.
"I just – I'm so conflicted, Spencer. I'm supposed to hate this guy. F-for more than a year, that's been my driving purpose in doing nearly everything that I've done. B-because Sylar will hurt someone, or did hurt someone, or tried to hurt someone. It's just been this constant thing." Peter stopped, trying to find the words.
"And now, I think about him, and the anger dissipates to confusion. This is now the same guy who spared my life, and saved my mother's. The one who let Claire get away alive, even though he had the power and the time to kill her. The one who killed my father for me."
Reid jolted up. "What? Your father?"
Peter's lip twitched. "I told you that Pinehearst was a hospital center. My dad . . ." he looked around, voice catching slightly before continuing to speak. "My dad's been living there in deep undercover for a years. Everyone thought he was dead, even my mom, and . . ."
"And now?" Reid prompted, none too eager for the answer.
"Now," Peter said, chewing on his lip, "Now he's actually gone. I – I thought I would have to – h-have to k-kill him, but Sylar . . . Sylar stopped the bullet. Said he couldn't let me become a murderer. And then . . ." Peter gulped. "Then he killed d-dad himself."
Oh.
"Are . . . are you okay?" Reid didn't know whether to move closer or not; Peter had long had issues that he hated to discuss with the former Arthur Petrelli.
Peter started to nod, and then shook his head. The empty coffee mug slipped from his hands and shattered on the floor, creating a loud enough noise that both men jumped in their seats. Peter stared at the shards of glass, sounding lost as he spoke.
"I don't know what anything is, Spencer. I – I just . . . there's happiness where there's supposed to be mourning, and affection where hatred used to spawn. I feel like every emotion, every thought I have is nothing but a farce for some other feeling. I'm glad someone's dead. That's not even human. What's wrong with me?"
Every note of desperation shattered Reid's heart further as he watched one of the people he cared about most shatter right before his eyes.
"I mean, I – "
"Peter, nothing is wrong with you."
Both men looked surprised at Reid's voice cutting in, and when large, black eyes scrutinized his face, Reid almost stopped talking.
But he could see the tremor in his best friend's posture, the scars in his eyes that would never show on his body, and Reid knew he had to go on.
"But I – "
"No," Reid interrupted, holding up a hand in command.
He had to go on.
"Peter . . . Pete – nothing is wrong with you. Nothing. This feeling – these – these mixed emotions about someone who's swung from one end of your world to the other, simultaneously causing pain and giving comfort, always there and never around, well . . . it's a mess. And – and your feelings, I mean . . ." Reid bit his lower lip, trying to think of the words. "It's just . . . it's normal to feel confused. Lost. It's so normal, it's okay."
And then, against all of his best judgment, crossing every line of every boundary of every comfort zone he'd ever had, Reid cupped the back of Peter's neck and look straight into his eyes.
"I understand."
Beneath his fingers, the racing pulse of his best friend pummeled on, throbbing and burning almost as potently as the look in Peter's dark orbs. But the taut pull of the skin under his palm, the thin, tight layer of muscle and soft black hair began to loosen. And Peter let out a big sigh.
"I knew you'd understand." It came out as a sob, the words barely decipherable. "Of course you do. You always do. Always. Spencer . . ."
He breathed in a big, shuddering breath, and Reid nodded, conveying his understanding. He only made a small ooph as the other man buried his head in Reid's shoulder.
Peter clung to Reid's form as if it was the only thing keeping him steady, trembling as he was encircled by warm, familiar arms.
"You're the only family I have left, Spence."
It was muffled, but Reid still caught the sentiment. He smiled sadly, the expression unseen, and gently rubbed a circle into Peter's shoulder, saying only, "Ssssshhh . . ."
There was a faint shifting, the attempt of his friend to shake his head against the genius's shoulder, and Peter pulled away, looking straight into Spencer's eyes. "No. No, Spence, I mean it. You're it. My father . . . he's gone, j-just like always. And my mother wants nothing to do with me right now, not anymore . . . and Nathan . . ." He gave bitter, acidic chuckle. "Every member of my biological 'family' has wanted me dead, or tried to have me killed at least once now. Fucking hilarious." He actually grinned a ghostly rim ace at that, and his eyes locked onto Spencer's. "Biology sucks, am I right?" He paused, catching his breath.
"You're the only real family I'll declare. Ever."
The level of disdain in Peter's voice was frightening in its unfamiliarity, but Reid said nothing as Peter struggled to come up with the words, and then shrugged them off. Instead, both men looked at each other, saying a million things in their shared expressions without uttering a single word.
"I mean it. You're the last one, Spencer. My lifeline, my friend, . . . my brother."
Reid opened his mouth to protest, but Peter barreled on, refusing to let formalities get in the way of what he had to say. Not again.
"It's like you said earlier, Spence. Words have no meaning, not without actions to define them. Titles are worthless, nothing at all when compared to feelings, and – and memories, and the love that you can have with someone. I don't give a shit if Nathan or Sylar are the ones who share some fucking blood or DNA with me. None of that – nothing – any med test could show would make the slightest bit of difference to the fact that you, and you alone, are my brother. You're the one I laugh with, and you're the one I want to see. You're the one who's saved my life a million times over, and you're the one I'll be seeing until I figure out a way to die. You," Peter said, voice cracking with emotion, "You are the only one I love, Spencer. You're it. Everything. All of it. The end."
Reid blinked, overwhelmed with the washes of care, concern, affection, and devotion overtaking him bit by bit. He could feel his carefully-constructed composure beginning to fade, and deep down, he knew that this was the moment in which he and Peter took the final step together – the moment where he could forever bind the two, or push his friend back to the family that had abandoned him at every turn.
And maybe it was because he didn't want to be yet another of the fractures on his friend's oft-broken heart. Maybe it was because he felt exactly the same way for this sibling he had never had, and somehow, Peter had just put all of those unbidden thoughts into words, and so into perspective. Maybe he was scared, or lonely, or some combination of both. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was selfishness.
No matter what the reason, the next words out of the BAU's youngest agent were not the gentle urging of his friend to forgive and forget, too see reason or the light, or to move onward and upward.
"I love you too, Pete." Reid swallowed tightly as he spoke, drowning the tiny ball of doubt caught in his throat.
"Brother."
The smile that overtook Peter's face was one that Spencer hadn't seen in so many years, and every micrometer of it made the words worth it.
Because Spencer did mean it. Peter was his best friend – always had been, always would be. Somehow or other, for better or for worse, the two were together forever and always, their fates intertwined by the meddling of too many lives to count.
Reid shoved every thought out of his mind, and focused on the man before him. Sighing, releasing every bit of tension in one long breath, the genius stood up, dragging his friend with him.
"C'mon, Peter. Let's get some rest."
The other man nodded, and together, the two walked out of the room, arms around each other's shoulders. Just before Reid passed the kitchen, he set his coffee mug on the counter, and flicked off the light, descending the apartment once more into darkness.
It was still chilly. But not so empty.
Not anymore.
Author's Endnote: On the 'heating' thing . . . technically, since telekinesis involves impairing and enhancing the very atoms with which things are made, technically it could involve super-heating and super-cooling objects it's used on. That's how they explained it in Heroes, and I'll consider it canon. No use now, but that little factoid will be important in my next crossover.
And again, sorry about all of the Heroes spoilers. I feel like no one ever gave Peter a chance, and he needed a break. Good thing Spencer's always there to pick up the pieces for him. *Grins*
See you lovely folks next time, I hope!