Author's Note: It's so funny . . . I've been promising to get around to doing this since what feels like the beginning of forever ago . . . and even though finals technically aren't over (not even close, alas!), I just woke up today and knew that I was ready. So, here we go.

This story is from the same Criminal Heroes universe from my story "Leap of Faith," so you might wanna give that one a look-see before starting this thing – there could be references at some point. Since the show's time frames overlapped a bit, consider this story to be around the end of the second seasons for both series. There'll certainly be allusions, so it might be best to be somewhat aware of all the big things that went down in those times.

Hmmm . . . Oh, right. This is not slash. I have no problem with pairings and all of that fun stuff, but as delicious as all of my favorite boys are, I can't hook any of them up with each other. No. Peter and Spencer are just friends in my world, and Sylar is just a very sexy antagonist.

Anything else . . . Nope. Let's do this! Eek, I'm so excited!

Warnings: This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of Heroes. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of Criminal Minds.

Disclaimer: Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy.

Chapter One: No Choice

By all means, Spencer Reid was not a disorganized man.

He was intelligent, precise, and hyper-vigilant. In fact, some would go so far as to call him a fussy, finnicky neat-freak.

Normally, the young doctor would be well-groomed and well-prepared, as would be the other aspects of his life; his schedule, his notes, his attire – and especially his apartment. Reid felt clam when things were clean.

However, had anyone been allowed into the man's apartment recently, they quite simply would have been shocked to see the state that his place of living was in.

Everything was in disarray. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sinks, the cupboards looted and not holding nothing but the large collection of sugar packets and coffee that made up the young genius's typical diet. The hundreds of books that Spencer had collected over the years were, instead of being filed alphabetically on the shelves all around his living room, tossed haphazardly into stacks with no particular order; many of the piles had started to gather a thin film of dust, having not been touched since being placed in their respective spots several weeks ago. The bookshelves, meanwhile, had become home to piles of clothes, an eclectic mixture of washed and dirty garments, all shoved messily, layer upon layer, onto the wooden boards. Reid's closet, then, was almost totally empty, except for a small pile of blankets in the very back, where a human-sized dent broke across the middle of the fabric. The only light came from a small nightlight that had been plugged into the outlet nearest the closet door, where Spencer Reid himself was currently fiddling with the tiny bulb, attempting to re-ignite the small fluorescent glow.

"Damn it!" he yelped suddenly, pulling back his thumb and examining the damage.

Just a cut, he adominished himself, popping the finger in his mouth and trying to focus on something else. Don't be so –

– "You're all weak!" –

Violently, Reid shook his head free of the thought before the memory of Charles's voice could fully reach him. Tobias had been months ago, he reminded himself for what felt like the thousandth time. You have nothing to worry about, you –

– "You're a liar!" –

No, Reid forced the words from his head. He wasn't there in the cabin with a delusional murderer, he was here in his apartment, he was safe, he was fine.

Reid bit back a bitter smile as he glanced over to the pile of blankets that had become his bed over the past two months. Just fine.

Sure. He was just fine with the fact that his nightmares had returned with a vengeance ever since Georgia, violent and terrifying to the extent that he would often wake himself up with his own screaming. Just fine that he kept thrashing around in his sleep until he would roll out of bed – which, in time, got to be so irritating that he'd taken to sleeping on the floor, if just to avoid all of the bumping and bruising.

It was certainly fine that he had had to run to the store several weeks ago to pick up a nightlight. Just fine that he had stammered something about his 'son' needing one, while the cashier studied the bags beneath his eyes and nodded knowingly. Just dandy and good and fine that he was still dependent on something like a glow-in-the-dark light, when he was supposed to have outgrown something so childish years ago.

He actually had, for the longest time.

But Tobias Hankel changed that.

He changed a lot of things, Reid reflected as he plugged in the new bulb, ashamed at the wave of relief that flooded him when it clicked on and casted a faint glow around his room.

A lot.

Sighing, Reid walked quickly back into the kitchen, grabbing his gun and phone from the table before heading back to his . . . closet.

He always slept with his gun, now – for safety. It was illogical, and the genius knew that –after all, if someone were to sneak up on him while he was dozing, his slow reactions and poor aim would render his sidearm completely useless. But he couldn't help himself; having the cool steel of the barrel tucked into his hands was the only way he could get to sleep anymore.

Well, the only way without the assistance of a particular controlled substance, anyway.

Reid shook his head again, setting the alarm on his phone. No. You don't need it, you don't have to take anything, you just need to get some sleep.

Right, he scoffed to himself, already in inner turmoil as he prepared to lay down. Get some sleep – the all-day coffee should make it take an extra three-four hours to actually get to sleep, and then the nightmares will wake you up after thirty minutes . . . then toss in the shakes from cravings, and it looks like you'll only be going to work with an hour of so of REM.

But then, he'd gone into the BAU with far less.

Reid dug down into the thick comforter he'd placed on top of his little nest, and tried to drown out his mind. He didn't want to think about work tomorrow, about how he was going to be subjected to yet another day of his friends, and their worried looks, and their suspicious glances, and their just all-around knowing.

Because Spencer Reid was certain that, even if none of them had said anything about it, they knew.

They knew about his nightmares. They knew about his fatigue. They knew about his uncertainty, his reluctance, about how his stomach would turn every time he saw a photo of a victim these days.

They knew about the drugs.

"No-oh," Reid moaned into his arms, distressed by even the thought of that. They couldn't know. He had been much to careful – he only shot up at home, over the weekends, and he thought he did a god job of keeping his temper in check.

Of course, there had been that one incident with Emily, just a few weeks ago, when he'd been snappish, unresponsive, and, in general, quite rude. He knew that he had put their newest agent on-guard with his behavior, and he was working to rectify that, being ever more polite and quiet at work.

Unfortunately, when he had been going for even a few days without the Dilaudid, it made it harder and harder to pretend that things were okay with him. Because they weren't.

But then, Spencer Reid had always been quite good at pretending.

About to drift off, Reid was understandably irritated when his phoned beeped loudly, and swiped it up, praying that there wasn't a case. He glanced at the screen.

1 New Message from Peter Petrelli.

Frowning, Reid closed the phone and slid it over by the wall. Just Peter again, he thought, angry and confused once more as he thought about his best friend.

Strike that, his ex-best friend. Who he hadn't spoken to. In nine months.

Well, actually, it wasn't that he hadn't spoken to Peter; Peter hadn't contacted him in close to a year, despite Spencer's many attempts to reach out.

And now, here he was, having repeatedly texted and called and left messages for the young doctor over the course of the past half month.

The thing was, though, that, after forty weeks of silence, suddenly Spencer didn't want to talk to the man he used to call brother.

He didn't want to talk to anyone, anymore. The only one he told his problems to was a small, clear bottle as he would prep a fresh syringe.

Speaking of which . . .

Reid forced his thoughts away from the cold, quaky feeling in his stomach, and tried to focus on something else, on anything else. He was making yet another vague attempt to quit and get clean, and he'd gone almost three days without using. Not much, but it was further than he'd gotten in a long time, and –

his phone beeped again.

2 New Messages from Peter Petrelli.

God damn it, leave me alone! Reid thought, agonized, as he once more shoved the phone away, and burrowed deeper into his pile of blankets. For someone as sensitive and good at reading people as Peter always claimed to be, why couldn't the damn man see that Spencer didn't want to talk to him?

I'm never going to get to sleep like this, Reid reasoned with himself, thinking longingly of the small, clear bottles and unused needles hidden behind his bathroom mirror. I wouldn't need to take a lot, just small enough does to get to sleep – I have work tomorrow! He justified with himself righteously, his inhibitions already lowering at the thought of a sweet, wonderful high.

Somewhere deep inside of him, Spencer's conscience was screaming that this was a stupid idea, that he had to be surrounded with profilers pretty soon, that he was already on the verge of success, as far as ridding his system of the narcotic was, that –

– that his phone chimed once again, alerting him to yet another text.

3 New Messages from Peter Petrelli.

I really have no choice, Reid told himself in a desperate attempt to remain logical, even as he slammed his phone shut and turned it off, before making his way to the bathroom.

I need to sleep. I need the rest. The break.

I don't have a choice.

He kept telling himself that, his eyes never leaving that of his reflection and he prepared a needle, tied a tourniquet around his arm, and prepared to lower and release the drugs into his system.

In the brief second before he pushed the plunger, Reid's eyes cringed up, always ashamed at himself for what he was doing.

But he had no choice.

Outside of the modest apartment building where Spencer lived, there stood a man whom no one could see. That, of course, was because Peter Petrelli didn't want to be seen, and had rendered himself invisible as soon as he's come within a block of his old friend's home.

Peter hadn't moved in some time – he was waiting for someone to open the door so that he could sneak in behind them and make his way up to Spencer's place. And, in the meantime, he was watching the windows carefully, searching for even a glimpse of his buddy as the night wore on.

He saw that there was a light on coming from Spencer's apartment, and he could even see shadows moving around. But, when he sent a text message to Reid, there was no answer. The second and third ones had been ignored, too.

I wonder of he's just sick.

Peter clenched his eyes shut, and tried to envision his mind stretching out like a blanket, going to encompass the mind of his oldest and closest friend. He forced his focus to stay oriented on just the young genius on the second floor, and patiently waited, attempting to hear Reid's thoughts.

It was . . . nothing.

Damn it, Peter sighed, looking up. He had read many people's minds before, with relative ease – it was one of his favorite powers – but it was only when attempting to delve into the conscience of Spencer Reid that he experienced any trouble.

Well, him and Matthew Parker, Peter recalled, thinking about the cop who could also hear minds; when the two had attempted to get a reading on one another, it had been incredibly painful.

But, somehow, Peter didn't think that his problem was with Spencer being able to read minds, too; after all, if his counterpart could, then surely Reid would have been able to see that Peter had been trying to contact him not out of selfishness, but concern. Surely, he would know that he was in danger, and Peter was just trying to help.

But maybe not, Peter reasoned with himself, as he crept silently towards the building, following a little old woman who he recognized as Spencer's neighbor.

Spencer was always smarter and more mature – but emotionally? Guy's a train-wreck.

The darker-haired man smiled lovingly at that thought. Train-wreck or not, Spencer was one of the most important people in the world to him, and he couldn't let the kid be in harm's way. He had to protect his brother.

Which, Peter reflected, as he came up outside of the bright red door to Peter's apartment, would be a lot easier if he would just pick up the phone and talk to me!

Frustrated, Peter ran his hands through his hair (a nervous habit he had picked up from Spencer himself) and dialed his old friend's number, listening for any sound of ringing coming from the apartment.

Nothing. He was sent straight to voicemail.

"Hello, you've reached the number of Spencer Reid. Statistically, did you know that the odds of you actually connecting with me by phone are less than 36%? But, if you're determined to make contact, leaving a detailed message with your name and phone number can push that percentage to almost 62%, and I will get back to you as quickly as I am able. Thank you for your time."

Peter might have rolled his eyes, but his heart quickly warmed at the sound of his friend's voice – god, he'd missed him. Peter clicked his phone shut without leaving a message, and settled down on the floor, careful to remain invisible as a young couple went strolling by and nearly hit him.

I'll talk to him tomorrow. When he leaves.

I really have no choice.

Further away, outside of the same building, a much taller, more muscular man stood leaning against a bus stop sign, having watched as the form of Peter Petrelli had arrived, disappeared, and had presumably walked inside the apartment complex.

He wasn't exactly sure, but his research told him that dear Peter was visiting his dear Dr. Reid.

The man sneered, thinking vaguely of ending this all tonight, of going in and getting that man who had made his life miserable for so long, now.

I could finish it tonight – just one more – he thought excitedly, before cooling calm and reason settled over him, drowning out the thoughts.

Sylar always did like to be calm.

Patience, he reminded himself. Patience. He has more powers, and he's on guard. Stick to the plan, and soon, Petrelli will be gone, and you free.

Casting one last calculating glance at the building before him, Sylar breathed in hugely, and then out, finally completely relaxing.

He turned, and walked away into the night.

He would wait.

He really had no choice.