Title: Partners

Author: Bluehawaii

Pairing: Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray/Peter Petrelli

Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes

Summary: The Company sets out to find and employ more people, starting with Peter and Gabriel. As the years go by, they team up to help. Eventual Petlar. Both are around 17 years old.

A/N: Ignore the rubbish summary, hopefully the story is better. The Petlar won't happen until later on, as I must get the plot out the way first.

Also, I was tempted to name it, Partners (In every sense of the word), but decided against it in the end. Please read and review.

Chapter 1

Peter Petrelli was use to his cries of 'I'm home' falling on no ones ears, but his own. He knew all too well that the two words echoed as far as the kitchen, but got no further. He also knew his pair of black tattered trainers would sit on their own, by the door, for quite a while before another pair joined them. None of this, however, stopped his daily routine. Everyday he hoped for a surprise, maybe a new ending to the story he had read every night since his early childhood. Though, deep down he had readied himself for disappointment.

Following the routine, he left his bag where he would find it tomorrow morning, and ventured over to the blinking red light on the phone. Without looking, he went to press the play button, but before he did he searched for the notepad that was usually within reach of the phone.

Where he found it, on the other hand, was decidedly not in reach.

It was rare that Peter ever saw his brother, Nathan, relax. Even at Christmas time, he always had something important on his mind. Other times, whenever he had completed the reason he had visited, as it was rarely a social thing; during the goodbyes, he would stand next to Peter, place his hand on his head and comment on how little he had grown since the last time he had seen him.

So as Peter stood in the foyer of his parents so-called mansion, he realised he had missed one of Nathan's uncommon drop-ins. But instead of leaving disappointed he left with an action that proved he was in a relatively good mood.

Next to the phone, there was a huge mahogany cabinet, containing expensive things Peter had never dared to tamper with. Cluttering the lower shelves were an assortment of books that, due to their proximity to the expensive things, he had never read. Resting precariously on the top was the notepad.

From where he was standing, he could clearly see the chairs neatly lined around the dining room table, and with a quick stretch on his tip-toes, Peter found he was quite a few feet too short.

Flicking his gaze over to the chair again, he debated with himself whether to do this the hard way, involving manual labour, or the easy way, involving a lot more fun.

In the end, the bored part of Peter's mind won out. With a slight smile pulling the corner of his mouth up, he stood as close to the cabinet as he could without actually touching it; and pushed his toes into the polished wood flooring. He rose to the balls of his feet, but then he rose further. Peter closed his eyes as he slowly crept higher. When he eventually opened them again he did so to see the notepad sitting a few inches from the tip of his nose. Peter reached out, being careful not to knock anything. With it now safely clutched in his hand, he let himself slowly lower back down to solid ground.

Never once did the smile leave his face, during the tiny flight, and when he spotted what had been hastily scribbled on the front sheet, a grin replaced it.

In Nathan's, somehow, graceful scrawl, Peter stared at the word 'cheater'. Nothing was hidden behind the word. There was no cryptic message with it; just simple, playful banter between brothers and Peter found he couldn't stop grinning. With the crooked smile still plastered on his face, he flipped over the sheet and went to continue with his routine.

He was in the midst of jotting down a phone number of someone his mother desperately needed to call back, when the doorbell rang. Luckily, that had been the last message, so Peter put the notepad back in its original place, then walked towards the door. The first thing he noticed, upon opening it, was the unusual horn-rimmed glasses the man on his doorstep was wearing. He was sure he had seen them before, but couldn't recall where.

Peter was brought out of his train of thought by the man deciding to speak up.

"Peter Petrelli."

It was not question; this man knew who he was. Knowing this, Peter still felt the need to answer him.

"Yes?"

Over the man's shoulder, he could see another man, leaning with him back to one of the tinted windows of a black car.

"Me and my friend here work for a company designed to help people like you."

Nathan often referred to them as 'these things we can do' whereas Peter liked to think of them as abilities, something a bit more positive.

"We know what you are capable of, Peter. And I'm sure you have lots of questions and I would like to answer them for you."

Peter had to fight down the urge to jump up and down on the spot and the excitement bubbled in his stomach. No one outside him and Nathan had ever acknowledged these gifts before and Peter wasn't sure how to handle it.

"If you'd like to come with us, we could explain it a lot better."

Now, Peter knew better than to get into cars with strangers but how often do you wake up with the ability to fly. At the moment, the sheer bizarreness of the situation was winning over the logical decision; and since Peter felt he knew this man, he wasn't a total stranger. These facts made following the man to his car seem less stupid.

The other man said nothing as he moved from his position, leaning on the car, to open the door. Nor did he utter a word when Peter politely thanked him, before climbing in. The new car smell was still prominent, but Peter noticed a hint of something else underneath it, something bitter.

Not for the reason of safety, but more of a subconscious novelty, he reached for his seatbelt. He could hear the mumbled voices of the two men through the door. Both of them turned their backs to the car as they started talking. After the fourth time of grasping at air, Peter huffed noisily and turned in his seat, determined to find his seatbelt.

Finished with their conversation, the two men pulled open the driver and passenger doors.

Instead of finding the flat surface of the roof of the boot, behind him, Peter found nothing, a space in its place. Giving up in his quest to find the seatbelt, he twisted round, on to his knees, to peer over the back of the seats, into the boot.

Both men had settled into their seats, by now, and the man in the horn-rimmed glasses, after turning on the ignition, glanced at the rear view mirror. He watched Peter sigh as an annoyed look flitted across his face and he twisted around in his seat.

What Peter saw made his eyes widen. A boy, around 16-17, his own age, lay battered, bloody and bruised in the back. His shirt and sweater vest untidily covered his form with spots of already dark, dry blood dotting them occasionally. The boy's hands had been hurried tied behind his back so he uncomfortably rested with his knees drawn up and his face planted into the floor. As Peter drew closer, he could see the large gash over his right eyebrow, still oozing the crimson liquid. The boy's dark hair fell over his face, obscuring the little patch not covered by the carpeting and blood. Peter reached over with a trembling hand to brush the strands aside.

Suddenly this whole thing didn't seem like such a good idea.