A/N: I wrote this as a Christmas present for my friend Lissi. It is my first attempt at fan fiction for a very long time. Set during/just after the events of episode '0.07 '(as I think it was called...).

-Except Me-

Showers, Peter Petrelli thought as the hot water hit his body and blood started swirling around his feet, could solve many of the world's problems. It was what he had said at the hospital many times and had seemed to help all his patients. It was what he had told himself again and again ever since he was a boy. In fact now that he thought about it, all the times in his life when he had felt upset or angry – when Nathan had sneered at his report cards as a child, when he had skipped the prom at sixteen because he had no date, when Nathan had told the world about his brother's 'suicide attempt' – the first thing he did when he came home was to head to the bathroom, strip, and attempt to let the pain wash away down the plughole.

The pain refused to go so easily this time though. Peter was fairly clean now; there was no more blood on his body at any rate. But the aches from earlier today still hurt, and a horrible throbbing sensation had developed in his left temple – he hoped bitterly that he wasn't getting a headache. A headache was the last thing he needed.

But he could cope with that – physical pain. It was not as though he was mortal anymore, or so it seemed. He was supposed to have died today. The sort of pain that was eating him up inside right now though, that was agony. The terrible, sickening feeling of powerlessness against that monster who called himself 'Sylar' had been bad enough, but it was nothing compared to horror of seeing… well, the surprise that had been waiting for him on the ceiling.

The strange thing was that he wouldn't have minded if Mohinder Suresh had indeed been the last thing he had ever seen.

It had been in a taxi, he reminded himself, the first time they had met; a typical New York yellow taxi, complete with beaded seat covers. After just a few moments of conversation with him, Peter had become aware that this was no ordinary taxi driver – this was an intellectual taxi driver. He smiled faintly at the memory of the incident. Seeing mostly only the back of Mohinder's head, he had not been able to appreciate just how – he hated himself for admitting this now – handsome the stranger had been.

They had travelled on the Subway together as well, standing so close, their faces just a foot away from each other's. Mohinder had mostly just stood thinking, as seemed to be a habit of his. Peter did not mind. He looked – nice, that way. Peter's insides seemed to squirm a little at the thought, even now. Why should he think that way, about another man no less? He could not help it, these feelings had just come spilling over out of nowhere.

I wonder what Nathan would think? He wondered idly. No doubt his brother would be furious with him for deciding to pursue a homosexual relationship so close to Election Day. The press would have a field day if they found out, too. But what if he didn't chase Mohinder? What would happen then?

We go on with our lives. Nobody finds out, nobody is any the wiser. I fall in love with a woman, maybe he falls in love with a woman. Maybe not. Everybody wins, anyway.

Except me.

The telephone rang just twice in the dark apartment before the geneticist answered, certain that this would finally be someone replying to one of his calls about their powers. Normally he would have been eager to answer questions, to discover more about them and what they could do, but today he just felt tired and in a state of horrible and confusing loss. It was not even as though he had known Peter Petrelli very well, but to witness anyone's death… that had gotten inside his head and the image of his pale, lifeless body haunted him.

It had been heartbreaking to break the news to Mrs Petrelli, but even then the news had not sunk in properly. He had been more stung by her reaction than by the death. Mohinder supposed that he had still been feeling numb. Now however, the truth had finally begun to hit him. Peter was gone.

Why should he really care, he had asked himself. Why should the death of that young, quiet, moody, striking… Mohinder shook his head. He had to stop thinking about him like this. Ever since he had come back to New York, all he could think about was finding him again. He had had the strangest dream last night, actually, about them alone together – but that had meant nothing! Nothing at all, he told himself, as he raised the receiver to his ear.

Before he could say anything, he heard a very familiar voice at the other end. Despite the shock he felt, despite every icy feeling that ought to have crept up his spine at the sound of a dead man's voice on the end, Mohinder Suresh smiled.

The End