Author's Note: School, my dearies, is back in all of it's horrible wonderful glory. For cereal . . . We're on Day #4, and I've already got a research paper started, weekly quizzes, a menu-restaurant plan to design by December, and LAB after LAB of slicing up meat carcasses and preparing 'gourmet' food . . .

I'm loving it!

Still tired, though, so there was no way for me to get this done earlier in the morning. As it is, I'm just waiting for my class to get started in a few minutes while I made the last edits. This isn't my favorite chapter, but we're finally getting towards the end . . . After so much whump, I'm a little lost. I have to stop torturing Reid . . . ? What to do?

Meg. I'll figure something out. in the meantime, here's some more delicious Peter, for your viewing pleasure! (and, well, my fantasies . . .)

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 Twenty-One: Anger, Pride

Peter had walked out of the station immediately, desperately, a pounding sense of purpose making his strides longer and more rapid.

The further he got from those two federal agents, and the sooner, the better. He knew that they were trying to find Spencer, and that was why he had done what his friend asked and informed them of the Bennetts (kinda . . . ) – but it didn't mean he had to stick around and wait for them to eventually bumble their way to an answer and a location – no, not when he had more and better tools at his disposal that would help him find his pseudo-brother quicker and more safely.

Really, what would be the point in that?

He stepped out onto the road, marveling for a just a second at how little traffic that there was in the afternoon – especially compared to New York.

Peter sighed. New York. Would he ever get to spend time there normally again? He had always promised that, one day, he and Spence would take a week away from their respective dream jobs and just go bus-hopping around the city, exploring anything and everything that struck their hearts.

You'll still do that, his inner voice chided him, after you've gotten Spencer back. From Sylar.

Right. Sylar.

Where was he supposed to begin?

Derek Morgan and Aaron Hotchner watched with matching scowls on their faces as the pale and exhausted form of what had been their best source of information slipped past them and outside the stations doors.

It was only as the glass slid smoothly shut behind him that Morgan finally exploded. "Damnit, Hotch, can't we find something to pin the guy into staying here?!" He slammed his hand against a wall.

Hotch looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "On what grounds?"

"Fucking . . . Hotch, I don't get a good vibe from him; something is wrong with that guy, and now we're just letting him go."

"What gives you a bad feeling?"

"I don't . . . he's off, Hotch. His emotions switch from furious to smug every sixty seconds, he didn't even flinch at some of the stuff we told him . . . And he knows stuff – way too much, things that he shouldn't."

"You're talking about the 'Penelope' thing?"

"Well, how would he have known? I know I never said Baby Girl's name in front of him. And his whole knowing-how-to-find-Reid-here?"

"He did say he has a friend who's good with computers . . . "

"I just . . . I don't like it, Hotch."

"Then before you go charging in with the cavalry, get some proof. Have Garcia look a little further into his past, and see what you come up with. I don't care for him either; I'll support you, Morgan. In the meantime, though, our main focus is still finding Reid." Hotch looked over at Morgan, his eyebrows raised. "Can you remember that, or do I need to call in the rest of the BAU?"

Morgan swallowed tightly, the anger on his face quickly morphing into a loof of very forced self-control. "I'm good, Hotch. Fine. Let's get this bastard and help Reid. Then . . ."

Placing a hand on his subordinate's shoulder, Hotch nodded. "Only then. Come on, let's conference in the other room."

They walked across the police station rapidly, now even more on their mission to save their friend and partner.

Somehow, he had wound up back at the hotel room.

Invisible once more, Peter had slipped through the crime-scene tape unseen, of course, and was now stopped over the floor, thoroughly examining under the bed.

The CSI-sweep had done their job incredibly thoroughly. No matter what Peter was looking for, there appeared to be nothing in the room; the small bloodstains had been wiped away, the fingerprints that had previously dotted every surface had vanished, and there were no hairs or fibers anywhere. No mess.

As if no one had ever even been there.

Pulling a hand frustratedly through his hair, Peter swept his eyes over the stripped bed and re-shapen chairs and table. There was something here. There had to be.

As he pondered, his thoughts turned again to Spencer. Even when trying to quell his fears, trying to morph the bad feelings in his gut to a sense of purpose, or even of rage . . . Nothing Peter was doing was working. He missed his best friend, and he was scared for him. There was nothing more to it.

He had to find him. See him. Touch him. Make sure he was okay.

Sighing deeply, Peter pulled up the image of Spencer in his head, and called out with his mind, slowly lowering the mental shields Claude had helped him build, trying to get a reading on Reid.

It hit him like a bus.

Suddenly, there was a ringing in Peter's ears, a pounding that felt as if it was rocking and pounding his skull. No ordinary headache – Peter barely had time to think before he took one step forward, doubled over, gasping, as an unseen wall of force slammed into him out of nowhere.

Rocked to the side, Peter tried to lift his head up, but was hit immediately with another wave of – something.

It wasn't air – it couldn't be air – because Peter could feel a flutter of something that had knocked him over. But, even on his knees and staring at the floor, Peter's extra-sensitive senses told him that he was alone in the room.

For a moment, Peter scrunched up his face and wondered if he was having some sort of stroke – even though the medical training in him exclaimed that it wasn't the same symptoms, he felt light, tingly – as if thousands of little bubbles of carbon dioxide were trapped just below the surface of his skin, clamoring to break free, pushing against his muscles and aching in their persistence.

And through the pounding in his head, Peter could feel something else.

Fear.

But it wasn't his fear – what was there for him to be afraid of?

No, this was like when he would read stories sometimes, and be scared about something happening to the prince fighting the dragon. This was distant, equal parts safe and terrifying in its intensity.

This terror was borrowed, it was not his.

And then, just like that, he knew.

"Spence."

Speaking seemed to break the spell. Just as quickly as the feeling had come, it ebbed away, leaving the young man thoroughly shaken on top of his confusion and fear.

"Spence."

Saying it aloud, he knew, would have no real point. His best friend was gone, taken somewhere by a psychopath hell-bent on revenge and thus far out of hearing range.

But Peter couldn't help it. His instincts had always been to protect Reid, to sift and shield him through the crap life always seemed to be sending the young genius's way.

He knew that the man was somewhere, scared and in pain, and that, at this very moment, something was happening that had his pseudo-brother more terrified than anything else. The pulsing, twisting strand of unspoken emotions was still feeding into him, giving him a clear idea to what Spencer was going through right now.

Of course, the little string of feelings were only a shadow of what the real Spencer must be going through – but it was more than enough to set Peter's teeth on edge.

He swallowed tightly, and, trying to keep his own temper in check, gave one more glance around the room.

Nothing.

Just as much nothing as there always was.

Falling back on the bed, Peter closed his eyes, and tried to do as he had been instructed by Claude all those months ago.

"Shut up, go blind, and open your mind. That's when your powers are strongest, pipe cleaner."

Okay, Peter thought. Okay. He could do that; it was quiet in the hotel room, and, more than that, he was alone. It was a little bright for his taste – native gray-sky-loving New Yorkers didn't fare so well in the cheery air of Texas – but a quick flick of his wrist took care of the blinds in the room.

Now bathed in darkness, Peter breathed slowly, deeply – some sort of yoga-reminiscent attempt to open his mind and let nothing exist but all of the powers within his super-mutated DNA.

It was when the air was perfectly still, when his solitude was absolutely complete, that Peter could feel a very light, sensual buzzing just beneath the tips of his fingers.

The electricity, the phasing . . . and the radiation, he knew.

The slight throbbing in his head let him know that his telekinesis, telepathy, and memory-manipulating powers were lying around, waiting to be used. The heavy thud of his heart kept his fantastic healing abilities in check. He breathed in slowly, deeply.

Relax. He relaxed.

Breathe. He breathed.

Forget. He forgot.

Another breath in.

And, after a few minutes, Peter had completely detached from reality. There was nothing in the space with him, and it was as if his mind had been stripped of itself, was completely clean and empty and fresh and open. Peter was . . . extended.

Of course, some people called it 'mediating.'

With the thoughts from his mind stripped – or, at least, temporarily silenced – Peter found that it was with great ease he could call out into the world and search for his best friend, for any sign or sound of his Spencer.

Hello? He called out mentally, bringing to mind a picture of the aforementioned man he called his brother, and trying to remember to stay calm.

The feeling came suddenly, swiftly, and slammed into him with no warning. One moment, Peter was curled up on the bed, trying to get some feelings, and the next, he had slid off onto the floor, clutching his roiling stomach.

He hit the ground with a heavy thud – but the young man took no notice, anguished as he was.

There was still the fear, oh yes, still plenty of unmasked terror flooding through his system and igniting the tips of his toes and the ends of his hair. Fear was what was making him breathe right now, the only reason he wasn't collapsing –

– But, somewhere beneath that fright, in a place deep down, there was also a bubbling, boiling layer of rising anger. Why this, why again? It didn't stem from lack of understanding or a scythe of helplessness. This was pure, unadulterated fury, so overpowering and ready that the thought of it nearly brought tears to his eyes –

– and then there was sadness, acceptance and defeat, the idea that giving in was easier than trying to fight, to be brave. What good was being brave when his whole life he had attempted it, and it never worked, not with the ones who liked to play games –

– and then there was the fear again –

Peter tore open his eyes and sucked in a breath of air so huge he thought that his lungs might burst from the force of it. He jolted up entirely, banging his head on the floorboard as he rose, but neither noticing nor caring anymore.

Distractedly, Peter dragged his hands through his hair, barely noting that his entire body was damp with sweat – that he was, in fact, quivering with exhaustion.

All he could think about was what he'd just felt.

Well, not him. Spencer.

His extension had been successful. Completely at ease and aware, Peter had perfectly been able to reach his mind out and connect with his best friend's conscious. To enclose himself in the mind of a Spencer Reid beneath his thoughts – all the way to the core of his brain.

Peter had just never thought that it would be a scary place like that.

He was no foolish man – Peter knew that everyone had deeper emotions than they displayed. It was human nature. Of course Reid would have something bubbling beneath the surface.

But that fear had been real – not just tangible, but almost able to be tasted; alive, and strong, and almost terrifying in and of itself. And that anger . . .

Spencer was such a strong person – always had been – that Peter wouldn't have thought it possible for the man to have such . . . such hatred built up inside of him. Like a black, toxic acid that was eating away at everything that made him who he was, the man Peter was glad he knew. So much rage, all just boiling away so deep inside of him that Peter couldn't help but wonder, did I cause that?

God, he hoped not.

Somewhat fumbling, Peter tried to stretch his mind out again – not to encompass himself into Spencer's soul once more (and never again, he hoped), but just to give a listen to his thoughts. Perhaps his oldest friend was thinking something – or of him – in a way that might give Peter more of a starting place than this tired hotel room.

But, when he attempted to call out to Reid's mind . . . nothing. Nothing at all.

There was silence on the other end.

Peter squinted his face up into a frown, and shook his head, hard. Focus, he scolded himself, clenching his hands into fists by his sides, and trying to stay calm.

But again . . . nothing.

Where was Spencer?

Focus. Again, again.

And still nothing.

Spencer was gone.

Author's Endnote: I hope that little bit up there wasn't too confusing or anything? It wasn't Peter falling asleep, but more like a mind-meld off of Star Trek. See, I figure that he and Spencer are as close as two people can be, emotionally. And ever since that accidental connection over their dreams, the two of them have created a sort of . . . mental bond, I guess. Now, even though Peter's powers are the same as ever – no stronger, no weaker – he can feel and perform them on a more intense, stronger level with Reid, because of the bond that they share; hence, his being able to get more into the genius's thoughts, and quicker, and hence . . . well, I'm not going to spoil the end for you. Let's just say, keep this in mind, because it's going to play a HUGE part in the finale – which is just chapters away!

Still so pumped for that. Ya-ay. *Smiles*