They laid together until evening, neither suggesting they part. For Sylar it was novel and bizarre, but so, so soothing. Anytime he moved, he was caressed. Peter asked for nothing for the attention, contact, or kind touches he bestowed on Sylar. Sylar did not think this was how anyone would have responded to the situation – he'd murdered Peter days before and attempted to rape him yesterday. He didn't expect any mercy because of the abilities involved. He wondered if such forgiveness was unique to this man – a power that drugs and captivity couldn't strip away. It made him entertain foolish thoughts about soulmates and bonding and try to remember what the psychological term was for forming strong attachment under circumstances of extreme stress. There had to be one, he thought. It was a common enough phenomenon, documented repeatedly among soldiers and disaster survivors. Knowing that it was normal and natural made him sad to think this affection would end as soon as they were free. He'd lived his whole life in one or another form of oppressive captivity, though. He wouldn't stay in it, not even for the way he felt towards this other man now.

When dinner came, they finally disentangled. Sylar called out to the guard who had pushed the trays through the slot at the bottom of the door, "Hey. Tell your boss who likes to watch that we'll give him a show tomorrow." There was silence, not even footsteps away. The woman was listening. "Have him send me some lube." The woman snorted. Sylar let the flap shut. He brought the trays to the table, which they pulled over to Peter's bed so Peter could use it as a chair. Sylar sat in the remaining chair.

"A show?" Peter asked.

Sylar shrugged. He adjusted his chair so his back was to the viewport. "That camera out there? You've seen it?" Peter nodded. "He turned it off each time we did it. He doesn't want others to see what we're doing. And he gets off to it."

Peter nodded slowly, glancing past Sylar, over his shoulder, probably at the camera. He put his hand up to one side of his mouth, casually holding the roll that was part of the meal. "He'll be alone. No backup. Okay. But he'll be out there and we'll be in here."

Sylar tilted his head. "People will do all sorts of unwise things when they're hungry for something. We'll just have to see what happens." Peter grimaced. Sylar added, "I don't like going in blind, either. But our options are limited."

Peter glanced past him at the floor under the window, where the remains of the smashed chair still lay. "We could fight."

"And we may yet," Sylar answered, finishing off his shallow bowl of mystery stew. He regarded his plastic spoon for a moment, but decided it was inferior as a potential weapon compared to the pieces of the chair.

The guard took the trays away. No lubricant was provided. Peter leaned against the viewport and waited until the far door clanged shut. There were other inmates in similar cells, but the sounds from them were muffled at best. They knew of them mainly due to hearing the guard make stops along the way to delivering or removing the food trays. The lights clicked off a few minutes later, just like they had the night before. Sylar finished washing his hands as Peter turned and went to his bed. A moment later, Sylar turned at the sound of Peter's mattress hitting the floor. "Peter?" There were a few footsteps before the sound repeated. Both mattresses were on the floor now.

"Come to bed," Peter said quietly, his voice now coming from closer to the ground.

Sylar took two short steps until he found the edge, then knelt. Peter had put the two thin mattresses abutting one another. "Together?" Sylar said uncertainly.

"Yes."

"How do you know I'm into this?" Sylar said with amusement. He arranged himself anyway, deeply pleased to have human contact offered the entire night through. It made him feel safe, even though he knew logically that was both irrelevant and inaccurate.

"They haven't been giving me injections."

Sylar mulled that over. "And?"

He heard Peter pull in a deep breath. "I know how you feel."

"You mean that literally." Sylar was silent, thinking about that. The day made more sense, except for one thing. "But why do you care?"

Peter's fingers found his forearm. "Because that's what makes me human."

All of the killings Sylar had perpetrated, all the blood on his hands, came back to him suddenly. He was into the double digits now and it had barely been six months. He didn't deserve this touch, this kindness, or this care. He pulled away. "I'm a monster, Peter."

"I know you're not." There was such certainty in Peter's voice that Sylar stopped. He even moved back until he felt the tips of Peter's fingers stir the hairs on his arm.

"You said it yourself, Peter. I hunted down a fifteen year old girl."

"I think we've both had a thorough demonstration of how these abilities can drive us to do things we wouldn't normally."

"Such as give me a second chance?"

Peter's hand wrapped around his forearm, pulling it back to where it had started. "I'm giving you a second chance, yeah. But it only counts if you give yourself one as well."

'Some blood doesn't wash away' was on the tip of his tongue to say, but it seemed … rude to say that to someone who was insisting it did. And … Sylar would be lying to himself if he pretended he didn't want it to be true, that he wanted to turn his back on what he'd done and figure out another way. He didn't want to work at the bank or the newspaper or the pharmacy or whatever place his mother thought he should be other than at the shop, surrounded by his ticking beauties. He missed it – the shop. It had been his life, his routine, since high school. It was familiar and safe. It wasn't normal or boring. Even if he barely made enough to cover the bills, he'd enjoyed it. It was the one thing he got from his family that had felt right.

He shut his eyes. He felt miserable. He felt sick. He didn't know how to go back to being that person he'd been before Chandra came into his life and changed everything with his promises and betrayal. He'd wanted to be special, and he was (he knew that), but here he was in a prison cell being forced to do unspeakable acts for the titillation of his jailer. Peter's hand rubbed his forearm, then Peter scooted forward and looped his arm around Sylar's shoulders. Sylar felt tears in his eyes for the second time today. He let them fall unheeded. A warm arm held him. Peter's nose brushed his forehead. They slept.