Simpler Times, Right?

Weeks. It had been weeks now, and this was all they had to show for it? It was embarrassing! It was pathetic...! It was better than nothing, really.

Noah Bennet stood alone in the underground room with only his thoughts and pitiful prizes for company. The walls and door were reinforced of course, but it would take more than that to shut out the sounds of a multi-million dollar corporation functioning at all sides. Cool air clung to him, not so cold that he could see his breath, but just enough to ensure that prized pencil wouldn't fade from paper.

The collage of drawings before him was as pristine as it had been upon retrieval from both Peter and Sylar's now vacant apartments, but had yet proven to be much worth the effort involved in the raid. Noah scowled over the many depictions of the future pinned across the full length of the wall, split two thirds to one: the right side incomprehensible faces and places and scribbles; the left scenarios that now made perfect sense. But only too late. Only afterwards.

What good was this foresight if he could never utilize it with enough time to make any difference?! Sure, sometimes the heads up was useful, and more than once had granted him and his new team the element of surprise, but that was only sometimes. It wasn't enough. The agent's eyes absorbed the illustrations of his many recent failures, of all the times he'd arrived only to miss the party or catch a fleeting glimpse of two identifiable men evading capture for the hundredth time. The bank; the park; the theatre; the rig (always a sore spot); the up the country; down the country; all over the place – it didn't matter how hard he tried, he could never catch them. Peter and Sylar, now Renautas' top fugitives, were always one step ahead, goddammit!

Noah sighed and ripped the latest page off the "future" pile, the smaller of the two, and added it to the "past" collection. The memory was still stinging in his mind vividly enough to recognise it here, foretold in black and white: himself from behind watching two men fly up into the sky, their shrinking forms captured through the lens of Noah's glasses.

There were already so many failed attempts at catching the duo... the sensation reminded Mr Bennet of a previous mission of similar intent. He remembered a broken young artist and dozens of paintings of Claire and her highschool Homecoming. He remembered Isaac Mendez struggling to help, the feeling of worthless desperation as the countdown commenced towards what might have been the end of his daughter's life at the hands of an unstoppable man with unquestionable power... Chasing the future with insufficient means was hardly an agreeable way to command an investigation. Noah hadn't forgotten that in the end it had only been luck that had derailed Sylar's plan back in Odessa and spared Claire's life. Well, luck and a brave young man named Peter Petrelli.

Backing away from the wall to take it in all at once, Noah sighed again. The guilt over his last interaction with Peter had faded a little over time, but it never sat comfortably enough to ignore. Noah knew he had only been trying to do the right thing in bringing in two dangerous fugitives, but he also now knew that Peter had thought he'd been doing the right thing too. Just as he always did, just as he always had done. It shouldn't have been such a surprise to discover that his motivation wasn't mind control or manipulation to end lives, but honest, truthful goodness to preserve them. But as for Sylar's involvement... well. There was certainly something going on there with his morality, even if it was too unsettling to dwell on for long.

There were more important things to think of anyway! For example: Noah still didn't know how Peter and Sylar managed to appear everywhere they shouldn't be, like they had at the oil rig. How they knew classified information and details that only a restricted number of agents were privy to. Painting the future could only show so much... Of course Mr Bennet couldn't rule anything out, not with a lifetime behind him of dealing with superhuman abilities and their untapped potential, but deep down each new, unexplainable situation only served to increase the weight of Angela's warning in his gut.

When would these vigilante stunts become something... more? What if the men were causing these disasters just to look like heroes? How would Noah know when things took a turn for the worse...? The scary thing was, even if they currently were trying to use their powers for good; Peter and Sylar were much stronger together than they were apart.

It was going to hurt when Renautas eventually caught them... if they caught them... before the most powerful known evos could do something truly catastrophic. Noah hadn't had the chance to speak to either man face to face since the nasty incident at the oil rig, to clear the air a little. Or even, maybe, apologise. But what could he say anyway?! 'Sorry I almost killed you both and blamed you for blowing up the rig. I was wrong, I know that now. But it doesn't make a difference, I'm still taking you in and dragging you apart before you destroy the world. Now please come quietly and make my life simple...'

Simple. Right. That would be the day. If Noah's life was simple he wouldn't have to be juggling the fallout of Angela Petrelli's botched plan, trying to appease the rising tension between civilians and evos and be holding onto Claire no better than he had after she'd jumped from that Ferris Wheel and ignored him for weeks on end...

The world's advocate for evos certainly wasn't impressed by the influx of hate and fear concerning her subjects. Or by Noah failing to quash it. Damn it, Angela... she'd said if things had gone according to her plan, evos would never have been associated with the "technical failure" at the oil rig. But here was Noah, all this time later, struggling to even begin to clean up the mess of her oversight! He couldn't stop fear of evos from infiltrating the world, couldn't catch his priority targets, couldn't sleep due to the rise of his coffee intake and he couldn't even get his daughter to tolerate him anymore! It's fair to say that Noah Bennet was definitely in need of a miracle. Or a secret weapon. Or a luxury vacation.

The middle-aged man was snapped out of his troubled reverie by the mechanical ba-bleep of the door unlocking from the outside. He fixed his expression before turning his back on the wall of drawings that he was sick to death of by now.

The door slid open and a watery, bald man poked his head inside. "Bennet?"

"Stevens." Noah greeted with a tired smile. It was actually nice to be joined by someone other than the taunting ghosts of his two captives, even though Noah knew he should be using time alone to problem solve.

"I think we got one." His subordinate crossed the room with an advanced, glowing tablet in his hands – a Renautas staple. Noah set-in-his-ways Bennet still didn't much like using them, but if he was caught with his preferred, ratty pieces of paper and stickers in this place he'd likely get demoted. Agent Stevens looked briefly over the wall of stories while Noah busied himself with the profile glaring at him from the tablet screen, expecting nothing more than another dead end. But he was wrong.

Name, ability, credentials – all irrelevant. Because Noah knew that face, even though he'd never met the man before.

Dark skin, strong build, not afraid to get his hands dirty to get the job done... This person was one Noah had seen a dozen or more times but never in the flesh. Never as anything more than a character drawn by two prophetic artists.

"Good work, Stevens..."

As the cogs began to whir inside his head, he didn't even need to look back at the wall to confirm the man's identity. He was the missing piece... the secret weapon... a slice of the future that could potentially, finally, tip the scale in Noah's favour.

He smiled again at Agent Stevens, this time hiding delight behind a calm facade.

"...Bring him in."

( )( )( )

The late Spring sun smiled upon Central Park West, a golden evening sheen that flattered everything it touched. Tall buildings looked even grander in the light, the sidewalks cleaner, the road friendlier in a peaceful descent to another extraordinary day in this extraordinary world.

There weren't many pedestrians about: a few wandering down the block, some floating through the skies, an older black man ambling his way across the street carrying a take-out bag in his arms... He was alone, but apparently happy to be so. He paid no attention to the people flying overhead, just calmly crossed the road to the large glass doors of an apartment building where he was jostled by a passing speedster. The man stumbled but only reaffirmed his grip on his cargo, smiling gently at such a sight being caught out in the open on such a gorgeous hour as this.

Inside, catching the way the sun glinted off polished white marble, the man reminded himself once again how lucky he was to live here. Sometimes it's the little things that make life great. He returned a smile from the doorwoman who hurried to hold the door open for him. "Beautiful evening, Mr Devaux."

"That it is, Peggy."

Mr Devaux's shoes tapped cheerily against the marble floor on his way to the elevator, which opened for him immediately. The climb to the top of the building was slow but pleasant, merely a chance for him to stop and appreciate the smell of his dinner wafting out the bag in his arms and the heat of it warming his chest. He hadn't been able to hide a secret smile for almost a good half hour now. He really was incredibly lucky to be here.

It was only when the elevator closed behind him and he was almost to the door of the apartment that Sylar shape-shifted out of the form of "Charles' brother" and back into himself. His smile carried over the transition, refusing to fade even when he struggled with the key while trying not to drop his dinner. It only grew larger when he shouldered his way inside the most luxurious place he'd ever been so lucky to call his own. Or, well, half his own.

"Honey, I'm home..." He chuckled, ensuring to close and lock the door securely behind him. After kicking his shoes off he padded through the rich, airy penthouse in his socks; the polished mahogany interior shining in the fading tips of sunlight. It was still as awe-inspiring as the first time he'd crossed the threshold, starry-eyed and disbelieving.

"Guess what?" He continued. "I was walking behind a group of people... and I happened to overhear them talking about our little stunt last week in Chicago." That closed-lipped smile broke across his face freely for the first time since eavesdropping on the unsuspecting group of New Yorkers. "They used the word "heroes"..." He raised an eyebrow modestly, delightedly, still grinning. Just the memory of it was still spreading warmth through Sylar's veins, adding a spring to his step as he practically danced into the front room. "Makes a nice change. And who am I to correct them if they -"

He cut off. The smile all but disappeared from his face as he processed the sight of an art studio where the living room used to be. The rug had been rolled back, the silk couch with its fine upholstery pushed against the walls, crisp white curtains were now flecked with paint, and every other surface was littered with paper, brushes, and the entire damn spectrum of coloured gloop. What was an immaculate space a few hours ago now looked almost like a bomb site... if said bomb had been a giant paintball.

"Peter!" Sylar snapped, annoyed, his eyes landing on his roommate's multi-coloured, guilty expression. "You said you wouldn't!"

"I know, and I'm sorry." Wiping his paint-splattered hair out of his paint-splattered face, Peter Petrelli stood from scrutinizing his latest prophetic painting. "But he keeps showing up everywhere..."

"That's because you keep painting him everywhere."

Sylar didn't even bother looking at the subject of Peter's art. He was already sick of the guy's face – the same one Peter had been predicting continuously for over a week now. That was it, just a man, nothing more: no useful information, no hints of a location or scenario or in fact anything at all that could merit his appearance other than the fact that he kept inviting himself onto the canvas time and time again. What else was there to know? A man: dark skin, strong build, looked pretty nasty to come up against in a fight, but that wasn't news. Peter was almost obsessed with the guy, meanwhile Sylar would bet he'd recognise him a mile away by now.

"How do you always manage to make such a mess?" He eyed the coloured footprints drying on the floorboards, the same colours that conveniently happened to be dirtying Peter's bare feet.

"It's a gift."

Sylar rolled his eyes as he made his way across the open-plan space to the kitchen area. He dumped the Chinese food on the marble top breakfast bar, thanking God that Hurricane Petrelli hadn't hit this part of the room yet – he'd just cleaned in here!

Lured by the fragrant scents of dinner no doubt, Peter appeared at the opposite side of the island while Sylar set out the boxes and chopsticks. The watchmaker's happiness had just taken a hit to the gonads alright, but the prospect of food and companionship was enough to save it from fading entirely. Sylar wanted to snarl at his former friend for getting paint on the clean surfaces, but Peter was exuding cheerfulness like a light from his skin and Sylar still wasn't used to that novelty. He couldn't stay mad for longer than a few seconds.

In the temporary break between Matt's dreamworld and moving in together, he had actually almost forgotten how hopeless Peter was to co-exist with. He never cleaned up, cooked horrifically coming from an Italian family, and generated an obscene amount of mess whenever Sylar turned his back for even two seconds. Thankfully the pleasure of his company was usually enough to compensate for all that.

The man in question leaned his painted elbows on the counter and twirled noodles onto his chopsticks, tearing his gaze from the other room. "I think it's gonna happen soon, but... I still don't know what it is." He shovelled a tangle of steaming food into his mouth.

"It's called a vacuum cleaner, Peter. It's what grown ups use for this thing called tidying..."

Peter laughed around his mouthful before tucking in heartily to his meal. More of Sylar's good mood trickled back to him. They leaned over the counter together and ate their meals in company with the news channel on TV and the crackling of the police scanner nearby. There didn't seem to be any stations currently running a story on the two mysterious evos who kept cropping up all over the country, or any recent trauma worrying enough to distract said evos from a well-deserved wind down. So for now, the devices were just background noise. Awake, alert, as ever.

Sylar scooped up some egg fried rice from his carton – delicious – while subtly looking over the smaller man from up close. Peter seemed totally engrossed in his dinner: his expression pleasantly relaxed while unaware of the scrutiny, bare feet tapping to no music as he worked away happily at getting as much sweet and sour sauce on himself as was humanly possible. Sylar just barely managed to conceal a fond smile behind the motion of chewing.

Peter hadn't been this at peace in months. Not since before they broke free from their shared mind prison, to be precise, and Sylar had missed that. It was the helping people thing, he knew: running around the country averting disasters and saving lives like something out of 9th Wonders was not only taking a positive effect on the recovering villain, no. Hero duty was the world's best high, no doubt about it... only, no matter how strong the hit, the adrenaline still wasn't enough to numb all wounds. Especially recent ones.

As much as he relished it, Sylar knew Peter's positive attitude wasn't entirely genuine. Although it did seem to be taking more of a rooted effect as time passed, it was partly a deliberate attempt to convince them both that everything was fine inside him. Since the rig, the guy had barely mentioned his estranged mother or the broken relationship with his niece that they both knew was eating away at him, or even the crew members they hadn't been able to rescue. Sylar hadn't forgotten what they'd been through that day – far from it – which meant there was no way in hell that Peter had for even one second. Miss Bennet popping up on every newspaper or talk show for her ongoing press tour wasn't exactly helping things in that area, but Peter had taken to shutting off the TV now when she came on. Sylar chose to see this as an improvement.

The first week and a half after their last encounter with that girl had been... very different to now. Sylar hadn't been that amount of worried for Peter's mental state since the early days in their dream prison. The sensitive man had been broken, really and truly, by the events of that afternoon out at sea. He blamed himself, as Peter Petrelli was born to do, and on top of suffering the thousandth betrayal of his mother, was the closest thing to depressed as he had been for years.

Then, one day, everything was different. They rescued an older woman from a mugger and, like a switch being flipped, Peter was himself again: smiling, touchy-feely, affectionate Peter Petrelli with a seductive, secret sense of humour tucked away inside for special occasions – not to mention a penchant for ignoring any rule that got in the way of justice (such as no painting on the good furniture). The transformation had been too sudden to be authentic, but Sylar was far too grateful for the attempt to call Peter out on it at the time. Or later. Or even now.

Sure, he knew they ought to air these issues rather than let the empath keep it all inside: pretending there wasn't a problem was not the best way to handle such a traumatic ordeal as his whole life splitting at the seams... but Sylar had no clue how to go about doing that. He couldn't bring himself to drag the dark thoughts to the surface just when Peter might have actually been moving on. And, honestly, he just liked to see his friend smile again. Too much to ruin it.

( )

Peter tried to push away the uncomfortable feeling about the most recent muse of his paintings and just savoured the sweet and sour chicken and his friend's proximity. The food really was very tasty, hot and mouth-watering and just what he needed after an afternoon of trance-induced painting on an empty stomach.

It was rare nowadays to have a moment of downtime such as this. When someone had just been saved and there was a path blocked out ahead but still time to regroup and just simply enjoy the space between missions together. Renautas' latest foiled attempt to capture an unsuspecting victim (this time a homeless pyrokinetic kid) was sitting snugly inside Peter's chest, feeding him sweet, sweet purpose like nutrients to a baby. Yes, it had been exhausting and stressful at the time, but knowing they'd spared the kid from an indefinite prison sentence was more than worth it. Even another narrow escape from Noah Bennet and his team hadn't done much to tarnish the satisfaction of yesterday's success.

He looked around the beautiful rooms of the apartment through the lens of contentment. He'd always liked it here. It reminded him of beautiful Simone Devaux for more than the awful way she'd died – instead, of the time he'd fallen in love with her. It reminded Peter of Simone's father Charles, the man's kind eyes and unwavering faith when nobody else had believed in him. It reminded him of a time when he'd been sure that only good things happened in the world, and that he was going to get out there and start making a difference. It was... nice, to be close to the point where those feelings had began. To remember why he'd started all this in the first place.

Not to mention the penthouse was the best hideout they ever could have asked for. It was perfectly sized – not too big, not too small – homey and warm, familiar, a safe haven ready to help when he'd needed it most... just like its previous occupant. The lingering sense of Charles Devaux, a friend, a trusting figure who Peter had loved more than his own father, comforted him. He didn't much like the dishonesty of their living arrangements, but Peter was sure that Charles wouldn't have minded he and Sylar pretending to be his brother staying in the otherwise vacant apartment. The Company wasn't using it, Simone couldn't exactly accept her inheritance, and as far as Peter knew, Ernest Devaux still lived in England and wasn't planning on moving in anytime soon. It was almost meant to be.

Sometimes he wondered if Charles had anything to do with the building keeping them hidden so spectacularly. As a patient, Peter had used to admire the man's... ability... to always seem to know more than he let on. Even after his death things just... worked, around Charles. He left a positive imprint in every part of his life, like he had within his young hospice nurse who'd needed some choice words of wisdom before growing into the man he was today. And actually, Peter liked to think that the pleasant vibes within these walls were Charles approving of his and Sylar's plight. It would be just like him. And it might have been the main reason Peter loved to call this place home.

"So..." He started shyly, feeling a flush warm his cheeks as he caught Sylar's eye. "They called us heroes?"

"No. They called me a hero. You were the sidekick."

"Oh." Peter's face fell. "Maybe I should try different coloured tights?"

"Go with green. They'll bring out your eyes." Sylar smirked and poked around his take-out box for another helping.

Peter snickered and popped a chunk of chicken between his lips before speaking with his mouth full.

( )

"Hiro's getting sick of me calling."

Sylar watched with amusement as the other man struggled to even so much as feed himself without making a mess. He chewed neatly enough, but chased a noodle four times around the box with his chopsticks before securing it, along with splatting a hefty drip of red sauce on the sparkling counter top. Sylar forced himself to ignore it.

"That's noble of him. The man with all the time in the world can't spare a few seconds now and then to lend you his ability?"

"He didn't say it but I can tell." Peter insisted, jabbing his chopsticks across the counter.

"I bet you're over-thinking it."

"He told me my mother's been trying to contact him."

This temporarily derailed the rest of Sylar's assurance. Oh. Angela snooping around wasn't too encouraging, even if they were lucky it had taken her this long to catch onto their method of working from hindsight. The nasty reminder of the woman who currently headed the "silent treatment" list was not very welcome for either man.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that." Sylar said, catching the badly hidden tendrils of dismay leaking into Peter's expression. "You know how honourable and desperate Hiro is to 'save the world'. I doubt he'd rat us out." Sylar chuckled for Peter's benefit and finished his mouthful, slightly comforted by this knowledge even if the little man didn't seem to share in that.

Sylar was still enjoying this newfound camaraderie with the time traveller. Funny, since his favourable words of advice back in that alley, Hiro had suddenly become endearing and not the annoying little speck of a man he'd been since delivering a bleak, terrifying glimpse into Sylar's demise once upon a time in Texas. Currently his and Peter's new cell phones held only each other's numbers, the best take-outs' in the event of an emergency or a lazy day, and Hiro's. It was a weird circumstance to have him included within this tight-knit circle of trust. Who would ever have thought it would be a comfort to have Hiro Nakamura as one of very few accomplices, morals and all? Not Sylar anyway.

Speaking of morals...

Partly to change the subject, partly to stop putting off the deed, Sylar pushed himself to his feet and headed back through to the impromptu gallery. "Remind me someday to train you how to eat, Peter." He scoffed, stealing a piece of the other man's sweet and sour chicken on the way.

The paintings were still wet, artfully done as always and probably very, very useful. Especially in the wrong hands. "You done with these?" He called back to the kitchen, catching Peter's sad nod. It was difficult not to feel bad when lifting and igniting the sheets of paper with electricity, when removing all trace of the prophecies, but this was a necessary sacrifice.

What if they had to leave in a hurry and Renautas found all the pictures, essentially a map of his and Peter's whereabouts for the literal foreseeable future... al over again? Clearly their last batch of drawings were the tools behind Bennet's often miraculous timing these past weeks, and Sylar kicked himself every time he remembered their glaring mistake. They couldn't afford to be so clumsy a second time and Peter knew this! But it still didn't stop him from painting.

( )

From the kitchen Peter could smell burning paper mingling with the Chinese food. He didn't watch his latest masterpieces turn to ash. It didn't hurt too much, though, it wasn't like the paintings were strictly necessary anymore now that he and Sylar were going back in time to undo trouble before it even came to pass. The art was more like insurance, like homework or note taking before crashing into an exam with only the basic idea of the subject in mind. Peter had never been any good at exams. Jumping into crazy situations and having to improvise on the spot, however...

Sylar's footsteps proceeded his return and the pair continued to eat in a comfortable silence, broken only, as always, by the sounds of the TV and police scanner nearby. Peter tuned in just to catch the closing lines of yet another report featuring the unidentified "evo vigilantes" who had taken the country by storm – a favourable one this time, which was always a pleasant surprise. He smiled to himself.

A beautiful penthouse, good food, a trusted ally, and the strongest sense of purpose that he had ever known... It was terrifying to acknowledge it, but really, deep down, Peter knew that this should have been the most at home he'd ever felt in his life. That's not to say it was easy – anything but – however no Petrelli thrived without a challenge.

But then why did things still feel... out of place?

It wasn't the same as it used to be. Before Matt's basement. Everything was different now, everything had changed. Peter still felt like an outsider to this world he'd forgotten, felt wretched for how he'd left things with Claire, couldn't contact her without putting himself and Sylar at risk of getting caught, and no matter how ridiculous it sounded... he missed his mother terribly.

It was such a stupid thing. To be a grown man who's mother happened to be the evil queen who'd destroyed not only his own heart, but those of hundreds of other people too, and to actually miss her despite that. Hiro's mention of the woman had disturbed raw emotions anew, and what Peter suddenly wanted more than anything else right now was a hug from Angela Petrelli. He had just reconnected with her after five years apart and, until the rig, hadn't gone more than a week without speaking to her since the carnival. He missed the smell of her perfume. The feel of her hand on his face. They'd always had an affectionate relationship (between the fights, of course), but Peter missed her touch more now than he had for years behind that unbreakable wall.

Was it pathetic of him to wish he could see her, to understand why she'd done what she did? To make her realise that he wasn't a terrorist, that he was only trying to do good? To wish she wasn't a murderer or an evil mastermind behind almost every scheme he had encountered over his lifetime? It sure felt like it.

You can love someone even if you hate the things they've done... it was the part of him that allowed Peter to forgive Angela time and time again that was now urging him to try and patch things up with her. Or at the very least give her a chance to explain her actions. He desperately wanted her on his side but more importantly – he hated the thought of her being isolated in that big, empty house so soon after the loss of Nathan. But he wouldn't come crawling back. Not this time. He just couldn't forget what she'd attempted not only in regards to himself and Sylar, which was bad enough, but to the hundreds of people and their families affected by the oil rig.

The disaster of that afternoon was branded like iron against Peter's skin, a mark that still hurt and reminded him each day to do better. Every crime stopped, unstable ability reigned in or accident salvaged in recent weeks was a step in the right direction towards the ever-distant horizon. The people he hadn't managed to save were tattoos scarring his heart and because of them, for them, he was determined to do more than was possible for as long as he physically could. It was a hell of a responsibility, but one that could never fill the bottomless chasm of Peter's fractured conscience.

As for Claire, as for Noah, as for Angela... hard work and a smile were the only remedies. They were the only things Peter knew that could help keep the pain at bay, so hard work and a smile it would be. As long as he kept moving, as long as he acted on instinct, then there wasn't time to think about everything else. And sometimes, like just now, he actually felt close to alright.

( )

"You ever think of packing it all in?"

Sylar almost choked on his rice and swiped his hair back, meeting Peter's eyes in disbelief. Where the hell had that come from?! Then warmth spread across the empath's face, letting Sylar in on the game.

"We could go live back in the '90s when everything was simpler." Peter added, prodding his noodles uselessly. "Get bowl cuts and rent VHS tapes on weekends?"

Sylar chuckled. "Are you kidding? Can you picture me with a bowl cut?"

The pair shared a smile before Peter dropped his eyes back to his dinner, visibly satisfied with the answer he'd got. So he wasn't going to stop? Good. Because Sylar wasn't either. True, this hero business sometimes seemed like a lot more trouble than it was worth (and that was before factoring in the wanted fugitives fiasco), but now that Sylar had had a taste of this lifestyle he couldn't imagine back-peddling to how it had been before.

He snorted, thinking how easy it really would be to run away with his only friend to the golden past. It wasn't the worst idea, actually. Maybe a solid retirement plan if the time ever came... "I can't imagine living the vintage lifestyle. No cell phones, no internet... overalls."

"Sure you can, it'd just be like back ho – back in Matt's dream. Minus the overalls." Peter peeked at him from beneath long, painted hair.

Sylar was still adamantly clinging to his good mood. It could fade as easily as the sunlight was currently, so he decided to let the guy get away with his Freudian slip. He said nothing and busied himself with more rice, his eyes lingering on a drop of sweet and sour sauce caught on the modest swell of Peter's lower lip. He didn't know it was there, on the numb side, lost amongst the many other splatters of colour decorating his face, and Sylar barely resisted the urge to point it out. He both loved and hated the way everything the other man did in his life had to be an adventure – he couldn't even eat boringly, or even without having to be babysat for fuck's sake. It was exhausting, like looking after a pet, sometimes. It was also amusing as hell.

He minded his line of attention when Peter again filled the gap in conversation. "D'you ever... miss it? Our city?" He was trying to sound nonchalant, a trick he had still yet to master. Then he shrugged, as if regretting starting this topic in the first place. "I dunno, it's just... I just miss not having anyone else to let down, y'know?"

"You mean having only me to let down?" Sylar teased.

"Yeah, I guess so." Peter breathed out a chuckle and was suddenly engrossed once more in his steadily emptying take-out box. "But do you...? Still think of it sometimes?"

The answer refused to leave Sylar's lips until Peter met his gaze again. As much as he thrived off this crazy roller-coaster ride that they were experiencing now, it would take much more than a few weeks of adrenaline-fuelled heroics to overwrite the past eight, turbulent, torturous and intense years of his existence. Much, much more.

The reformed killer sighed and swallowed, not bothering to hide anything from his features because Peter would find it anyway. "You know I do."

The tail end of a noodle disappeared into faulty lips before they lifted at the working corner. The smile was one of understanding, a winsome gesture that made the drying paint on Peter's face catch the light and that drop of sauce on his lip sparkle. "Simpler times, right?"

The sensation that accompanied this reminiscing was one that Sylar couldn't decide if he liked or not. It was never comfortable looking back on what he'd left behind, for better or worse, and for a moment he couldn't comprehended why Peter would do this to him. The battle for morality, crushing loneliness, the tough forming of the most fucked up friendship ever to exist... it was certainly different than running for their lives and being branded terrorists by the biggest bully in the world, anyway. Simpler times, indeed.

Choosing to just avoid the topic rather than finish it, Sylar leaned over and helped himself to another piece of Peter's meal, just to teach him for breaching these sensitive waters. "You really are terrible at this." He chided, gesturing to the state of what had once been an immaculate counter-top.

"Yeah?" Peter asked, bright-eyed and looking as innocent as innocent could be.

"Yes."

"And you're not?"

It all happened too quickly to anticipate: the empath's face glinted with menace, he swiped his hand into the spilled red sauce, and suddenly the sticky substance was being smeared all over Sylar's chin. Peter laughed and sucked his fingers clean while Sylar recoiled and scrubbed at his face, horrified to be caught in such a state.

( )

Well, that ought to teach him for being so patronizing. Peter watched with amusement as Sylar tried and failed to wipe the sauce away like a cat frantically grooming itself; this invincible superhuman who has bested by the mere suggestion of incompetence in something so mundane as eating.

Even if everything else was impossibly different now, and Peter was still re-learning his way around the big, scary world, at least one thing was still the same... he couldn't have been more grateful to have this person with him, the only constant that he'd ever known in his life.

He was fondly contemplating pretending there was more sauce on Sylar's face that he was missing, therefore driving him crazier with it, when the TV next door barked a sudden eruption of breaking news into the penthouse. And playtime was officially deemed over.

Standing up with hands gripping the edge of the counter, both Peter and Sylar fell still and silent, listening. Reality crashed violently upon them in the form of a hold-up robbery that had just transpired at the Linderman casino in Las Vegas. Around twenty assailants had broken in and held the place at gunpoint, overpowering security, killing two people and injuring another five along the way.

Sylar looked sadly at his unfinished dinner, but Peter's appetite had suddenly deserted him in the thrill of adventure. Butterflies had infiltrated his stomach and he could feel instinct setting itself into gear. This was what frightened him, but it was also what he lived for. It was what he craved...

"Back to the daily grind." Sylar hummed, wolfing down as much food as he could while Peter pushed off from the counter and set off hunting for his phone.

"I'll call Hiro..."

( )( )( )

Mixed voices, vibrant music, artificial beeps and bops and ping-a-lings; a crowded venue, musical chairs, drunk businessmen and tourists and cheaters... the place was exactly the same as Sylar remembered from Nathan Petrelli's memories. Neon blue strip lights framed the walls of the main floor, casting a sickly, synthetic glow over the table games and slot machines. Beautiful women sauntered through the crowds, carrying drinks to the regulars and seducing orders out of anyone who dared hold an empty glass. The atmosphere was one of an impending wild night, and the lack of windows made it impossible to tell it was really only late afternoon outside the Linderman Casino.

Rather longingly, Sylar thought back to the glorious evening he'd just left behind – one that was starting over again back in New York City right now, outside the perpetual night of this casino. But the show must go on. Despite the festivities exploding from all angles, the main floor was packed with guests but still surprisingly empty for this hour, thankfully. Less people meant less potential casualties. It meant more space to seek out a suspect or twenty.

Casually, Sylar lifted a stout glass to his lips and wrinkled his nose at the burn of alcohol hitting his throat. He didn't even like rum. He'd never liked anything alcoholic really, even when he had used to be susceptible to its effects, but this particular, golden beverage might only have been for the slight kick that he might need for this mission...

And of course it was all for show. Beside him, Peter pretended to sip from his gin and tonic as if it was lethal – spoilsport – but at least it was better than holding nothing at all and sticking out like a sore thumb amongst this crowd of other charlatans.

The pair stood nonchalantly against the casino bar, overlooking the gaming floor with eyes slipping steadily over the tables and slot machines. From the outside they didn't look like time travelling fugitives visiting from an hour ahead. In fact, they looked very much at home in this expensive establishment: two stunning young men in fitted shirts and shiny shoes, each nursing an overpriced drink while prospecting where next to blow their cash.

Of course Sylar didn't notice the appreciative glances sent his way from passers by. And he definitely did not adjust himself into a more flattering angle for their gazes. It was just... freeing is all, to be outside without wearing the facade of someone else's appearance. And he also (never having been a vain man) couldn't help but revel in openly being himself before this location would no doubt fill with Renautas agents led by their relentless scout leader.

He dropped his eyes to his companion, now polished and almost unrecognisable as the messy artist from dinnertime. He looked the part alright; well-dressed with his hair pushed back for once, in a way Nathan had been much more familiar with than Sylar. The neat style made Peter appear considerably younger than the noble, strong man he had blossomed into since growing up through those dinner parties with Arthur and Angela's many rich friends. Right now, it was almost difficult to remember all the shit the guy had endured over the past few years.

Peter hadn't wanted to waste time getting dressed up before coming back here to undo a tragedy that had already passed... time being the operative word. However, once Sylar had finished washing every last drop of sweet and sour sauce away he'd managed to persuade the guy they'd need to blend in to get further than the bouncers. He had to admit he was quite impressed with the speed and quality of the transformation of his friend. But nothing in this world is perfect.

Sylar couldn't help but chortle. "Missed a spot..." He subtly reached for a surviving splodge of paint that had somehow gotten itself lodged behind Peter's ear, and wiped away one of very few remnants of an over-written future. What the hell had the guy done earlier? Rolled in the stuff?

Peter impatiently rubbed at his ear while never taking his serious gaze off any guest who could be the bad guy they were looking for. It was all business for him, yet Sylar couldn't help but enjoy the costumed, infiltration, make-believe aspect of a mission such as this, before the real thing kicked off. He'd always liked this part: sort of a starter course to tease his appetite, if you will, and he was currently ravenous to get started on another fresh chance to do something good.

He and Peter hid in plain sight amongst the bets and wins and losses, the tears and laughter and drunken profanities, two heroes itching to preserve it all. It was hardly the toughest job in the world to blend in for now. It didn't even matter that the casino's cameras would catch their faces because their identities were still unknown to the public – plus, in a minute there was going to be a hell of a lot more for the staff to deal with than the possible evo vigilantes from the news... and by the time Renautas claimed the footage, they would be long gone.

So for now Sylar discerned there was nothing much to do but scope the perimeter, pretend to drink, look incredible, and wait.

( )

Peering over the rim of his full glass, Peter could feel that same thrill of adventure consuming him from head to toe. It tingled every nerve ending along with the awareness of his current power to control time and space itself. The ability surged reassuringly beneath his skin – his own insistence. Sylar had wanted him to take regeneration for battling twenty gunmen, but what good would that be if he couldn't even get close enough to do any physical damage with his fists? So Peter had won that argument, and he was grateful for it.

Even if not for the compromise: constricting, fine clothing wasn't the most comfortable attire to wear for fighting.

It might have been his current ability, or maybe it was all in his mind, but Peter would swear he could almost feel time moving around him like flying grains of sand in the air. He was aware of every second passing by while he pretended to drink and Sylar pretended not to be lapping up the attention of staring gamblers. True, he didn't know the exact time that the shooting had taken place here, but surely by now they were justified to get things moving?

Once Peter felt the minute hand on his watch hit twelve once more, he dropped his untouched drink to the bar and turned to face Sylar. "Maybe we should split up -"

He was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a barmaid, drawn to his empty hands like a moth to the flame. "Can I get you a drink, cutie?" She flashed him a dazzling smile, an unexpected arrival that instantly made Peter tense in discomfort. "Seems like a crime for such a handsome man to be kept wantin'."

Peter croaked stupidly, suddenly unable to control his voice and wishing he was anywhere else but here. "What? I, uh..."

It seemed silly to freak out at the slightest sign of socialization, but he hadn't held a conversation with anyone other than Sylar for weeks, aside from reassurance while saving someone's life. And he hadn't been charmed by a beautiful woman since well before the five years spent in the dream. There just wasn't time to fraternize when on the job, and aside from working... well, it was safe to say that Charles' apartment had been sorely lacking in visitors lately.

It startled Peter to suddenly realise that he was close to forgetting how to act like a normal person around strangers. He just didn't know how to react, caught so off guard by this woman when his mind had been in mission-mode. Then somehow he managed to force a smile, hoping his condition wasn't as worrying as it seemed. "...I'm fine, thanks."

"'Kay, I'll be around if you change your mind, hon." Peter tried not to notice Sylar's raised eyebrows as the barmaid smiled again and strolled away without even so much as asking him if he wanted a drink. Then tried to recapture his train of thought from before in hopes of derailing the response he could feel stewing inside the taller man.

"What were you so eloquently saying?"

Peter cleared his throat, pretending to be scoping out the games floor so he could turn his face away. "I think we should split up and look for these guys now. Twenty armed assailants can't be too hard to find, right?"

"Maybe you should go ask your girlfriend if she knows anything? She was nice by the way. Can't really see it, but..."

Peter promptly pushed off from the bar, looking everywhere but beside him. "Just go look over at that side." He instructed, leading his sniggering companion further into the main games floor. He made to separate from his friend, but before he could take more than two steps he was promptly grabbed back.

"Wait."

"Why? What is it?" Peter stopped, looking around in rising panic.

"Be smart this time." Sylar reprimanded, trying to fend off a touch of a disobeying smile. "No stopping time if you're touching a civilian, no grabbing an assailant until we're sure it's the right person, and try not to get dragged into a dark corner by a mob of drunk people."

Peter nodded, spooked at just the memories. "Right."

"And try and have fun. Remember, we're "heroes"." Sylar smiled, clapped his friend's arm and then veered off through the table games in search of any prospective culprits. The empath watched after him before shaking himself into gear with a thrilling lurch in his gut. It was on. It was now or never.

Scouring this half of the room, he weaved his way through tables and slot machines, fortunately left to his own devices this time as his eyes swarmed over every person in sight. Young and foolish; old and beyond caring; fun-loving; uptight and regretting it; the first timer; the seasoned gambler; all different ages, different races, all from different walks of life... it was impossible to tell which of these people were planning on hurting seven people here today.

Peter was on edge, preparing Hiro's ability like a trusty umbrella against a burglar, ready to use at a moment's notice. It would only take a second to stop time, and seconds were currently putty in his hands. They were his weapons, his tools, prepared to yield to his every desire but he held the urge at bay for now. The tension was frightening, like it always was when the future hung in the balance, but that was just a symptom of saving the day. It made Peter work harder, push himself further, and he recalled the same sensation overwhelming him back when infiltrating the oil rig and vowed to do better. Sure, it was frightening. But it was worth it, in the end.

He could feel adrenaline teasing him, begging to crash over and consume him but he refused to let it. Instead he walked the fine line along the razor's edge between anticipation and the point of no return, driven mad by the building pressure but relishing every moment of it...

( )

On the other side of the room, Sylar worked parallel, mirroring this same trajectory. Prowling like a hunter after his prey, he slipped through crowds like an effortless shadow. He could have gone undetected if he'd wanted (so what if it had been a while since he'd last exercised that most handy of skills, he was sure it wasn't lost to him), but he'd gone to all the effort of dressing up for this occasion. So today, he chose the path that crossed as many eyelines as possible, just for the hell of it.

Every so often he would be treated to a glimpse of the youngest Petrelli family member in the distance through the congested isles of gamblers, intent in his work and practically dripping with concentration. Sylar couldn't help but smile to himself at the sight. Trust Peter: as soon as the countdown began it was all work and no play, no time for fun until everything was taken care of. He did have a point of course, there was no good playing when people's lives hung in the balance (a mindset that had taken years for Sylar to grasp) but didn't he realise there could be enjoyment involved in the process of a mission and not only afterwards?

Sylar ghosted behind a game of roulette, his attention briefly caught by the slowing wheel and the only two men at the table. One, a wealthy politician by the looks of him, with a hefty mound of chips at his side; the other, a worn tourist who appeared close to tears, clutching onto his last chip with white knuckles. It only took a second to conclude that the politician was tipping the odds in his favour with his will and a dance of his fingers. A silent song that Sylar knew very well.

So he was using an ability to cheat at gambling? What a pathetic waste of such a gift. Clearly he didn't even need the money, which meant this was all an ego trip. The guy was all grin and blinding teeth, an easy smile that only accompanied self-assurance. All at once chills swarmed over Sylar at the unwelcome reminder of one Nathan Petrelli.

The dead Senator's memories were hazy to recall nowadays, a salvation that Sylar could not be more grateful for. Yet for the first time in weeks one rose to greet him, unbidden: Nathan, possibly sitting at this very table, cleaning out his opponent without even batting an eye. It was all in spirit of the game... the other guy had known what he'd signed up for, nobody had made him bet the money for his flight home... And when Nathan's security had escorted the loser away, Sylar could distinctly recall the arrogant man pondering over splurging this money at once or adding it towards the funds for re-decorating the beach house...

Back in the present, Sylar barely hesitated before twitching his index finger, merely suggesting an alternate trajectory of the ball's landing. He then moved on with his business, lips curving when the tourist's cheer of delight and the politician's stunned silence rebounded after him.

Who said there had to be no play when working...?

But then that thought was shot to hell in the next instant. Because Sylar would swear he just saw... no...

( )

Twenty suspicious people... twenty suspicious people... as he'd said earlier, it shouldn't be too difficult to spot a conspicuous group, right? No: the hard part was trying not to look obvious or scare them away in the process.

Senses alert, nerves tingling, Peter reassured himself with having Hiro's power ready and waiting as he searched, like thumbing over a primed and sharpened weapon before drawing it...

A scream from his left almost made him jump, re-affirming the hold on the handle of his ability. There were more screams, then cheers, then laughter: roughly two dozen very pink, very drunk women were falling over a ring of plush couches and two tables worth of empty glasses, tucked away in one of many secluded alcoves stamped along the walls. Just a bachelorette party. Should it be worrying that the gunmen didn't seem quite as intimidating as this...? Heeding Sylar's earlier warning of drunk mobs, Peter smiled at the women's glee and made to hurry past before any of them noticed him.

But in the process of backing away, he bumped into a young Chip Runner, sending countless small, plastic discs clattering to the floor. Burning under the spotlight of attention, Peter dropped to his knees to help her crawl around the carpet for them, apologising profusely. He cringed and reached for a far chip, flicking his disobedient hair back into position.

But everything else in the entire Casino was wiped from existence as his eyes landed on a tall man rounding the slot machines.

...It... it was him...!The man from the paintings! Peter was sure of it! He'd seen that face enough times by now – how could he not recognise him?! Forgetting all about the reason he'd come back in time in the first place, he just couldn't stop staring as his foretold vision slowly but surely lumbered across the games floor.

He was big, in height and in muscle, decked out in what was probably a designer suit, briefcase and earpiece, and could have easily passed for casino security had he been wearing an identifying logo. Maybe he was with the police? Or maybe he was a private bodyguard for one of the guests? Peter couldn't guess, and in the end it didn't even matter because he was the guy and that was enough, and suddenly the twenty armed assailants didn't even mean anything at all. He could feel it fluttering in his gut like wings: this was the reason he was here! Even if this man had nothing to do with the shooting – if he was important enough to show up in prophetic paint than he sure as hell was important enough to follow!

...If only Peter could stop gaping like an idiot and get his stunned thoughts, body and ability to play nice. He was still sprawled out on the itchy carpet, one arm stretched out towards the chip that he'd never reach, when the muse from his last twenty paintings disappeared into the sea of slot machines.

Kicking himself, he scrambled to his feet, gave a hurried apology to the poor Chip Runner and set off through the grid of machines with his heart pounding in his throat and his ability slipping a tantalising hold over his body, just in case...

( )

There was no way this was a coincidence. True enough, Sylar could recognise that guy a mile away, after all! There was no mistaking him.

Instinctively he knew that the mission had just kicked into second gear, and that he had to do something about it now. However, he didn't think it wise to attack or apprehend a suspect until he was surehe was a suspect... what if, on the off chance, Picasso here was one of the good guys? It was unlikely, and Sylar's initial judge of character had rarely been wrong in the past... but there had to be better options than kickstarting a fight in the middle of a crowd. Maybe he should try to approach the guy first and take him to one side or something?

It sounded like the sort of thing Peter would come up with, which tickled Sylar, but it also sounded like the sort of thing he himself would usually dismiss as foolish and asking for trouble. He wasn't sure what to do about this prophesised man popping up at the scene of a crime (electrocute him? Lock him in place?), but there wasn't time to dwell on all the options.

Starting in the direction of the dark man, Sylar cleared his throat even though he was too far away to be heard. "Excuse me –"

The subject of his introduction suddenly locked eyes with Sylar. Even from the other side of a loud, ringing queue of gamblers and machines. He stopped walking, raked his gaze up and down the watchmaker's form, and then his face flickered with the faintest trace of a smirk. Regret spilled over Sylar at the exact second the other man's briefcase thudded to the floor, and he knew he'd been wrong before, that he should have listened to his own advice, and that underestimating the enemy was just asking for trouble.

Defensiveness rushed to Sylar's fingertips in the form of his trusty abilities, and he surrendered to the lure of them as the gunman tightened his hold on the pistol in his hand and raised it into the air. Oh, he had no idea who he was dealing with...

( )

Until now, Peter had never realised that a casino could substitute so well for a maze. The place was huge, there were tons of machines that all looked the same and he suspected he might have wandered in a circle in his hunt of the illusive man. He didn't even know what he was going to do if he caught up to him! Grab him? Accuse him? Take him to one side and talk things over gently –

BANG!

Peter flinched as the unmistakeable sound of a gunshot ricocheted behind him. His heart dropped and he span on the spot, lost amongst identical betting machines and the beginnings of a confused, terrified crowd.

BANG!

Another shot rent the air from a different location, and this time the crowd erupted into screams and stampeding feet. The second bang ran right through Peter like a blade, chilling him to the core. Shit! No! It wasn't supposed to happen! Fumbling for Hiro's power, he hurried to get a grip on himself and halt time before things spiralled out of control –

But all at once he was hit by a growing, overwhelming swarm of civilians fleeing the gunshots. People rubbed past at either side, therefore embedded in the radius of Peter's ability were he to use it now. Flustered and confused, he tried to struggle free but there were too many of them! So he had no choice but to speed up his initial hunt, ducking past machines and fighting against the tide of people invading his fragile space. Warding off the sense of claustrophobia, he despised himself for being so stupid and abandoning the whole reason he'd come back here in the first place! He should never have followed that other guy when there was something else so crucial needing his attention!

Finally, he opened the dam on his emotions and allowed welcome adrenaline to coarse through his veins and take the pressure off slightly. The urge to stop time or teleport in order to get a picture on the scenario engulfed him further, but he was still sandwiched on both sides by fleeing civilians brushing against him, and had learned that lesson the hard way. So – fuck! – he couldn't even use the ability he'd thought would void any loopholes in the plan! He was, as always, too stupid, too slow and too useless!

But wait – Sylar! There was still Sylar. A commotion was definitely unfolding up ahead (the other gunmen, Peter was certain). Only two shots out of twenty different guns had gone off so far, which must mean that some of them had come up against a particular tall, dark and powerful hurdle. Gratitude for his partner in crime gave Peter the strength to finally break through the evasive end of the crowd, to his relief. Almost tripping on these stupid formal shoes, he caught himself stumbling to a stop in the centre of a graciously empty aisle of machines to catch his breath.

Only... it wasn't so empty upon second glance.

Breathing deeply, Peter straightened and pushed his now tousled hair off his face. Only to find himself standing in the path of a tall, masked man and his gun.

His heart jolted and his throat wouldn't let him emit the curse that passed his lips, then everything was a flashing, bleeping, multi-coloured blur and Peter found himself huddled behind one of the slot machines just as a bullet THWACKED off the other side. Holy shit...

He was trembling, from the rush of adrenaline, he chose to tell himself, and gasping in unsteady breaths. You'd think that after weeks of non-stop heroics a guy would get desensitised to this kind of thing! Funny... regeneration was starting to sound like a pretty good idea, after all...

Rooted to the spot, Peter looked wildly about himself while recovering his focus and hearing. There were two security guards lying on the floor nearby – either unconscious or worse – a sight that made Peter sick to his stomach. How hadn't he noticed that happen?! And how organised were these guys to have taken down security before even open firing?!

Another shot accompanied another deafening echo in the metal at his back, this one definitely from a closer range than the last one. Fuck, focus – focus! Peter closed his eyes and tried to concentrate and even his breathing. So security were out. Which meant it was all down to him and Sylar. No big deal. They'd done this kind of thing before...

He wished that could be more encouraging than it was. He hoped Sylar was doing okay.

Another bullet hit the machine, then another, and another as the attacker honed in on his target. Ten steps away... five... two...

At last the man rounded the corner of the now destroyed machine – but there was nothing where the outmatched smaller man had been just a second ago. The gunman stood, confused but for one instant before the teleporter popped into being right behind him.

"Guess again!" Peter growled, grabbing onto the shooter and knocking the weapon from his hand.

Sure, he hadn't exactly been banking on getting himself into a fight such as this, but now that he had he was going to finish it; running out on battle was not in Peter's blood. He was going to make a difference to the future, even if this was to be his only input!

The paramedic wrestled his arms around his opponent's neck from behind, bending him backwards and constricting his airflow. The gunman grunted and thrashed around, clawing large hands at Peter's arms and head, but the little man refused to be dislodged with all the strength he possessed. The enemy was considerably bigger than Peter (a fact he had yet to notice before engaging in fist to fist combat with the guy), but it would take a hell of a lot more than that for him to be put out of action so easy! The gunman wrenched his upper body forward, almost bending double, and subsequently lifted Peter's well-dressed feet clean off the floor – but still he wasn't swayed! He endured scratches to his hands, wrists and elbows and muted blows to his face as the two entangled men staggered around the flashing neon aisle of casino games.

The paramedic found himself strangely grateful for all the hands-on practice he'd had at defending himself over the past few years (what else was to be expected when trapped in an empty world with nothing but an enemy and a lot of unresolved issues?), but whereas he was perhaps now too familiar with Sylar's fighting style and moves, a new opponent apparently posed new challenges. And new surprises.

Peter adjusted his weight on this man's back, clambering to the side with the intention of toppling him at the waist – a particular delicate spot of Sylar's – but before he could even get firm footing, his attacker slammed what felt more like a baseball bat than an elbow into his ribcage. He felt his lungs crush, all the air was drawn from him in one cry and his arms let go of their own accord.

Peter fell backwards into one of the loudly chirping machines, the sharp angles of the thing stabbing his back. Suddenly the masked assailant was gone from his space, leaving the little man helplessly slumped into the machine, gasping and groaning in his wake.

It felt like bruises formed in seconds, blossoming from his sternum and spine down the length of every rib like ice forming over water. Peter's groggy perception of only pain and disorientation was pierced by a deep, grumbling voice, and he managed to focus on his masked assailant once more standing before him, with his gun back in his hand.

"You're not even worth all this..."

Before Peter could begin to interpret that statement, contain his racing heart or even as much as close his eyes and command time to stand still, the man took one step forward, eyes glinting.

Then with a whoosh, the gun was whisked out of his hand and splintered into a hundred pieces in mid air.

Peter could only stare and try to remember how to breathe as the owner of the gun then followed its descent down the aisle, spinning head over heels through the air with a rusty yowl of surprise. Then he blinked as none other than his only friend came hurrying into his view, a very welcome sight.

"Y'know what I just remembered? I still hate guns." Sylar scoffed to mask the upset that was filtering through anyway, and helped Peter to his feet. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'm fine. Thanks." He managed to grunt, massaging his aching chest with his hand. Screams and gunshots and running people were still sounding from every side, and the full scale of the casino came rushing back to him in a painful gasp. "The others -"

"I took some down already, there's more up ahead." Sylar's voice was steady, but his tone was inflicted with exhilaration, anger and worry.

( )

He couldn't understand how these guys had appeared so suddenly out of nowhere. How in the time Sylar had disarmed and knocked down the first guy, the one from the paintings, the whole swarm of his masked buddies had taken up shop around the entire floor. Did they all have invisibility? The ability to hide themselves under illusion? He didn't have the suitable time to ponder over all the variables, and it was maddening. But at the same time, he felt like a cheetah pelting across the open plain without borders or limitations, and every assailant he managed to hinder only increased the lifespan of Sylar's internal batteries.

The freedom of using abilities still generated the same heady buzz as they always had, and in moments like this Sylar couldn't remember how he'd ever lived without them throughout the entirety of Matt's punishment. He was only getting started here and was well and truly hyped from his few successful take-downs. It concerned him, though, that Peter seemed not to have had such a productive go at it. He observed his friend with soft eyebrows and a hint of sympathy.

"What happened? Why didn't you stop time?"

"I – I couldn't. There were people – too close..." Peter heaved, struggling to recover use of his lungs. Sylar ached to either tell him off for not doing so earlier, or force him to take regeneration now, but decided against either facing Peter's wrath or losing Hiro's power. "Then I had to stop him, this guy..." Sylar followed Peter's nodding gesture to where his latest take-down was sprawled ungracefully over the carpet.

So this was what had haunted Peter through all those paintings of the leader? This was what he had been trying to foresee? Sylar didn't like the thought that he'd dismissed the pictures as repetitive and boring now that he was in the thick of the event itself.

"Peter. I saw that guy from your paintings." He said darkly, anticipating a freak-out on his friend's behalf. "He was the one that started this."

But Peter didn't look surprised in the slightest, instead only frustration crossed his already pained features. "Damn it..." he hissed, wiping a hand over his face. His eyes searched around the disembodied voices of the commotion flowing all around before he stood up straight, concentration dousing over him. "We have to stop him. Where is he now?" The young man asked, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow in a way that could only mean he was preparing to stop time.

Sylar accepted the hand grabbing his forearm by moving closer to the other man, readying himself. "I put him down back at the craps table, it's the rest of them we need to worry about -"

BANG!

( )

Another gunshot – this one too close for comfort – made them both jump, and they turned to stare in horror as an older woman tumbled into their aisle and collapsed to the floor.

She screamed and clutched at her upper arm, blood spilling through her fingers and into the carpet. Her whines of pain threw Peter out of any thoughts of moving, and he knew at once that he couldn't leave her like this to go rounding up the assailants. She was alone, and hurt, and scared, Peter knew how to help her and if he didn't then she'd bleed out before anyone else arrived, so how could he possibly turn his back?! But he also couldn't just leave the gunmen to freely wreck havoc for much longer.

( )

There was only a split second to decide which path to take in changing the future; a split second in which both Peter and Sylar shared the same mind space as if they could hear the other think.

"It's alright," Sylar smiled, pulling free of his friend's hold only to grasp his shoulder tightly, reassuringly. Realistically there was only one way this had to go, but it was unlikely the little man would be the one to make the push forward. "Help her, then come find me."

He waited for Peter's conflicted nod of agreement, then crossed to the whimpering woman. "You're going to be okay, my friend here's going to look after you." He assured her, stooping to touch his fingertips lightly to her good arm. "You're lucky, I speak from experience when I say he's the best nurse you could ever ask for."

( )

The reformed killer looked back with a spark in his eyes, one Peter both envied and admired at once, then he stormed towards the heart of the fight with both fists shrouded in flickering blue electricity and was gone.

The empath watched his friend retreat with more than a little awe, impressed anew like he was every time the guy threw himself into these missions as if he'd always belonged in this role.

Peter only wished he could do the same. That he could be strong enough to help here and fight by Sylar's side. He wished that he didn't feel inferior for having to back out of the battle at the last second, or guilty for leaving the bulk of the work to his companion. At least temporarily, until he could get back out there...

Burying these thoughts, he hurried to his new patient and dropped to his knees beside her. He might not be able to fly, heal, use electricity and telekinesis all at once, but this he could do. The whole point of this lifestyle was to help people in need, wasn't it? And so help people Peter would.

A/N: Oops! I was writing to this chapter today when I suddenly noticed it was at THIRTY pages (yes! Again!) and I'm still not finished! So I just decided to split it in half – this update has surprised me by suddenly being finished and ready to go as soon as I put the break in, but of course I'm going to share it with you guys X)

You can think of it as part 1 of 2 if you like, but it doesn't have to be seen that way. The next half is very nearly finished so that should be posted within the next few days fingers crossed! I hope you liked this update, it's a LOT more calm than the last one, huh? At least at the beginning hehe. I think we all (Peter and Sylar and you and me) really needed a break from stress after the shitstorm of the rig, so I hope it was enjoyable. Let me know X)

I'm going to take this opportunity to oh-so-subtly ask you to go and check out my gallery of Petlar fan art – I'm not really sure if this is a done thing or not, but I made a new story just for posting my drawings over on AO3. It's called "My Gallery" and as FFN doesn't let me post links, you can find it on my page on AO3 if you search for "FieryEclipse" X) I hope that if you take the time to look it up you think it's worth it, I'll have many more pieces to come I'm sure. I've actually been working on a Tongues of Fire drawing with Yajanele from AO3, that I can't wait to share with you guys really, really soon, so please stay tuned!