Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Peter groaned, his eyes fluttering. He didn't want to open them just yet.
He had been dreaming again. Not an important and prophetic one--at least, not a dire one, he hoped--but a dream where he had been at one of Nathan's stupid fundraiser, dressed in one of those ridiculous suits again...
He turned over onto his back, not remembering when his bed felt so uncomfortable.
He squeezed his eyes shut when a bright light hit them, even closed. He had left his lights on again. He couldn't really remember what had happened last night, but his head hurt. Had he gotten drunk?
He turned on his side, and the bed still did not feel anymore comfortable.
He reached up to grab the pillow. It seemed to have gotten away from him in his sleep. His hand felt around...but there was nothing there.
And the texture of the bed was off. It felt more like...
A carpet.
He groaned again, trying to sit up.
His muscles were crying out in pain, as if he had just been out jogging all night. Why was he in pain? Shouldn't he have regenerated if that were the case then?
He was still in his apartment, it seemed. He didn't remember coming home last night, but apparently he did, somehow. He hadn't even bothered to get dressed for bed, either. He was still in his street clothes.
He was in his living room, and he surmised that he had fallen asleep on the couch and had probably rolled off at some point.
There was another groan, and this time, it wasn't from him. Rather, it seemed to come from a close distance from him, perhaps a few feet away.
He froze, looking around.
It seemed to be coming from the kitchen, behind the small counter. It seemed male, and he quickly guessed that perhaps this person was just waking up, too...
Something didn't seem to be right.
"What...?" Peter heard the person ask, his voice muffled by the counter. It seemed so familiar. Was it...Nathan?
Peter raced over there, seeing a hand grasp the ledge of the counter. He grabbed it, helping to pull him up.
His heart nearly stopped cold as he saw who it was.
"Sylar."
"Peter."
Within an instant, both reached out, using their telekinesis against each other.
Peter felt his windpipe being crushed, his telekinetic strength weakening as his regeneration power became his primary power. He looked around, sending an unused tea kettle that had been resting on the stovetop flying, making contact with Sylar's head.
Sylar fell to the ground, quickly regenerating from the wound.
"What're you doing here?" Peter asked, watching as Sylar focused on sending the books from the bookshelf at Peter.
"Stop playing stupid, Peter," Sylar replied as Peter deflected the books, sending them back toward the serial killer. "You were the one that brought me here."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Peter told him, sending a shock of electricity at Sylar.
Sylar fell backward, skidding toward the door.
At the chance, Peter turned invisible.
Sylar looked up, not seeing Peter anywhere in sight. He smirked, picking up the sugar bowl with his mind. "Come on, Peter. Don't want to come out and play with your long-lost brother?"
"You're not my brother," Peter spat. "You never were."
He spun toward where Peter's voice had been, throwing sugar toward it with his mind. It fell to the floor. "So. 'Mommy' told you about that, huh? Well, maybe her and 'Daddy' had been lying to you, too, Peter. Are you so sure that you're their son, too? After all, you've never really fit in with the rest of the Petrellis. You're father being a cold, manipulative bastard, your self-absorbed brother, and your mother being a cold-hearted, lying bi--"
"You son of a bitch!"
All at once, it felt like a train had hit him. As he crashed to the floor, he realized that Peter had tackled him. He heard something shatter in the distance, and vaguely, his mind registered the noise as the sugar bowl.
Peter threw a punch, hitting him square in the jaw. In the process, he became visible again. Sylar threw Peter off with his mind, sending Peter flying across the room, hitting the wall loudly. Sylar telekinetically stood him up against the wall, pressing Peter's face into it.
He turned toward the kitchen, getting a butcher knife out of the knife holder. It sailed across the room, stopping less than an inch from the back of Peter's neck: the base of his skull.
Sylar smirked.
"I never thought killing you would be so...easy," he told him. "But here we are. And in your own apartment, too. But that's irony. Of course, once this knife is removed, that pesky little regenerative ability might just come back. But then again, once I have your powers, it won't really matter. I'll be stronger than you."
"I don't think so," Peter replied, and Sylar felt something sharp on the back of his own neck.
Peter had gotten another knife, it seemed, and was now pointing it at the base of Sylar's skull.
Damn.
Neither moved, at a stalemate.
Then the phone rang.
Sylar smirked at Peter. "You gonna get that?"
"Go to hell."
After the fourth ring, it went to the answering machine.
"Hey, it's Peter, leave a message."
"How original."
"Shut up."
The speakers filled with static, and a faint voice was heard in the background, too difficult to make out at first. Then, all at once, it seemed to be two people talking, both at the same time and saying different things, each too difficult to make out.
"I think it's for you, Peter."
"Don't even try, Sylar. And shut up."
As Peter concentrated more closely, dividing the two voices, he could make out what they were each saying.
"Peter? Pe...Peter, can you hear me? Oh, God. Peter? Pe...Peter, can you hear me? Oh, God." The voice was unmistakably Nathan's, repeating over and over.
"You all right, brother?" The voice was unfamiliar, and seemed to have some kind of accent, perhaps Scottish. "I think he's hurt...You all right, brother? I think he's hurt."
"What is that?" Peter asked Sylar. "A trick?"
Sylar smirked. "You tell me. You gonna put the knife down, Peter, or we gonna have to do this the hard way?"
There was a sound of keys jingling near the door, and both pairs of eyes darted in the direction. There were two indistinguishable voices coming from behind, one male and one female.
As the door opened, the woman giggled at something the man said. Upon opening the door, they looked at the mess.
"What the hell happened here!" Nathan shouted, pushing the woman back outside. "Stay back. Jesus Christ, we go for groceries and find you guys at each others' throats already! Put the knives down!"
Peter looked at his brother curiously, not wavering his hold on the knife at Sylar's throat. "What...what are you talking about, Nathan? After what he did to Claire, to everyone...he's a killer!"
"What the hell are you talking about, Peter, he's your--"
"Daddy?"
There was a creak of floorboards, and the three turned toward the source. There was a little boy, perhaps only two or three, standing in his pyjamas, looking between the three.
"Oh, my God," the woman said, storming in and hugging the boy to her. "Sweetie, go back to bed. Your father is just being an idiot. Go."
She kissed the boy on the forehead, watching as the little boy turned and went back to his room. She turned toward the others, her hands on her hips, her blue-green eyes blazing with anger.
"Just what the hell were you thinking? Using your powers in front of my son?" She looked between the two, but neither said anything.
She walked up to Sylar, locking eyes with him. Peter could feel the knife at his neck begin to tremble. He turned toward the serial-killer, noticing that he had paled considerably. Hell, even Peter was scared.
The woman stood on her tip-toes, until she was level with Sylar's eyes. "Well?"
Sylar said nothing, instead looking back at her with wide-eyes.
"What?" she asked him, still seething.
"Y-you're dead," he stuttered, and for once, Peter saw him as Gabriel, not Sylar anymore. He was vulnerable, it seemed, scared.
"What?" She was still angry, Peter could tell, but taken aback by what Gabriel had said.
"How...?" Gabriel stammered. "What the hell's going on here? Who was that boy in there, why the hell are you alive, and why am I not supposed to...kill Peter?"
Her eyes seemed to soften considerably. "Did he have another relapse?"
"That explains it," Nathan said simply. "Thanks for keeping him in check, Pete. Just next time...try not to break as much stuff."
Peter stayed quiet, not sure how to answer, but figured that maybe silence was best. He could gather information better. Maybe he was in the future...?
The woman touched Sylar's arm gently, smiling. The anger seemed to dissapate. "Gabriel...you, Peter and I live here. Peter's your brother, Gabriel. That boy...he's our son, Gabriel. And...I'm your wife."
"Wife?" Gabriel asked, confused. He paused, before rolling his eyes, his coolness and evil coming back. "I'm not falling for your stupid tricks. You must've got an illusionist. Like Candace. Good job, Peter."
He raised his hand to grab the woman, still pointing the knife at Peter's neck and vise versa, but the woman raised her hand to stop him.
"Let me explain! Please!"
He stopped, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Her grip on his arm tightened, though not too much. "Do you know who I am, Gabriel?"
He looked into her eyes, searching. There was something that he had recognized, a sparkle that he had always seen.
"Tell me my name," she pleaded.
He lowered his voice, his eyes locked onto hers.
"Elle."