Chasing Tomorrow

Sylar had never thought to appreciate the pristine condition of everything back in Parkman's mind prison until he was cursed with a wobbly shopping cart sporting a squeaky front wheel. The thing rattled along like no one's business, swerving too loosely around corners and rolling away on its own if ever he accidentally let go of the handle. He regretted sneakily choosing the "easiest" job (pushing the cart) over lifting the groceries from the shelves. If he'd known what a task this would turn out to be, he'd have graciously offered it to Peter.

As it was, Sylar squeaked his way along the isles in stride with his friend, both men slightly jumpy and uncomfortable swarming through the mass of other shoppers. And this was a smaller store, too, one they'd deliberately chosen so it would be more quiet and they'd be less likely to be recognised. Or intimidated. It was the strangest feeling to be doing something so glaringly... domestic in this realm which Sylar had terrorized and conquered just yesterday, to them. It was almost embarrassing, despite the fact he'd shopped with Peter many a time in their city. It must have been the outsiders changing things, he decided, and vowed to set out on the right foot today.

However, it wasn't just rehabilitation that was the problem – the city was still reeling in the aftermath of the revelation of abilities. Peter and Sylar tried to keep their heads down and look as innocent as possible, but it was difficult not to notice or be affected by the news when everyone was whispering about it and Claire's face was plastered over every newspaper and TV screen they passed. "Miracle Girl!", "Indestructible Girl!", "The Face of the New World?" jumped out at them constantly, along with congratulations and encouragements for other evolved humans. And of course the occasional themed article headed "They Are Among Us...".

"They're acting like we're aliens or something." Peter grumbled, busying himself in the freezer section while Sylar rolled his eyes at a printed interview with a "witness" claiming "they're lizards beneath the skin!". It was irritating, yes, but mostly just ridiculous. It didn't bother him that much, truth be told, but he could tell Peter was still coiled like a spring and had yet to burst. "Is it that hard to believe we're just people too?" He grunted. Then grunted again with more effort. Only then did Sylar notice he was struggling to lift too many cartons of a particular, honeycomb ice cream he had an unhealthy addiction to, and which he had subsequently corrupted Sylar with a while back.

"Try not to let it get to you." He soothed, ducking to help Peter with the precious cargo. "Besides, I'm sure little Claire is more than enjoying all this attention..." He straightened with a fair share of the cartons, then hurried after the fucking cart before it strayed too far without him.

"She did not just do this for attention." Peter stated promptly, expressing through his glare that that was the end of it.

"No. Not just..." Sylar hummed, turning his back on yet another front page story about Claire that floated past in someone's basket. It featured one of the new batch of professional photos she'd obviously had taken last night: styled and painted to the nines, lit by dramatic lighting, splattered in artfully placed blood, and with no doubt her real ribs sticking through her torn skin, she looked every bit the new, shiny celebrity that she had become overnight. Peter could claim all he wanted that she'd done it solely to help the world, and it wasn't that Sylar didn't agree to an extent... he just wasn't as blinded by affection as his trusting companion was. And he also didn't think quite so highly of the former cheerleader.

( )

The pair weaved in and out of the aisles, avoiding the eyes of passers-by and steadily filling the increasingly disobedient cart. They tried to act casual, but couldn't help but marvel at the little details like unfamiliar faces, like children, like music on the radio that kept unfolding around them. It was odd having to make way for other people besides themselves, finding some shelves empty or someone standing in the way of what they wanted, but in its own way it was quite... nice. To be in the midst of it all. It had been so long that Peter had almost forgotten how much he liked to be around people, and as long as nobody moved too quickly or spoke too loudly, he was happy to watch them and absorb the many stories and emotions bubbling away inside this one hub of everyday human life.

Overall, it wasn't so bad being back. His favourite part of the morning had transpired almost as soon as they'd entered the store. A little boy was struggling to reach some marshmallows on a high shelf, and without even hesitating Sylar had helped him, smiling and gentle and softly-spoken. Peter had been winded by the memory of a future long lost, of seeing an alternate version of his friend cutting waffles for his young son... Sylar also happened to be dressed similarly to how the man in the future, Gabriel, had been. Minus the glasses and apron, of course. It touched Peter's heart even more than he would have expected. After, when Sylar had caught his smile and pushed him to reveal what was so amusing, Peter kept his thoughts to himself and said nothing more than "that was nice of you." But he had buzzed off the moment for a good four aisles or so. So had Sylar, he knew.

Peter was rummaging around the depths of the juice fridge (pulp for himself, smooth for Sylar, he ensured) when they experienced the first sign of conflict so far – two men passed by, arguing vehemently. Peter minded his own business and didn't listen in, just winced at the noise and at the men's broken relationship, but when he turned to dump the juice into the hefty cart, a visible change had overcome Sylar within seconds of his back being turned.

"Hey... what's up?" Peter asked quietly, taking in the guy's raised shoulders, soft eyes and peaked eyebrows. He told himself not to jump to conclusions and assume the worst about the end-of-the-world scenario, but somehow he doubted that had caused this precise reaction. No, this was something else.

( )

The arguing men – brothers, Sylar assumed, judging by their physical similarities and the way they had clearly rehearsed this dynamic for many years – disappeared down a nearby aisle, but their raised voices and passionate exclamations continued to reach his ears long after he lost sight of them. For a moment there he'd actually felt good being back in the real world. Happy, even. He'd almost felt like a normal human being and not a reformed killer with an ocean's worth of blood on his hands. He'd even been comfortable enough to venture forth and help that kid with the marshmallows, and the rewarded look of admiration and the knowledge that he'd done something good had been more than worth it. Now that happy reverie had been rudely pierced by the blade of affliction when it sliced past, and Sylar was cruelly reminded of his own mistakes one more time out of thousands.

One mistake, in particular: Nathan. It was always Nathan.

He met concerned eyes and felt only worse. He remembered how Peter had looked yesterday, how happy he'd been, even while he had been processing the words... then the hurt and fury that had ripped away that happiness at the most inopportune moment. He remembered the pain in Peter's voice, then the edge to his gaze and the toughened armour he'd worn for most of the night afterwards...

"I just realised I never said sorry." Sylar confessed quietly, seeing with another stab to the heart that Peter had finally remembered to get him smooth juice this time. Bravely, he forced his gaze to hold Peter's, ready to watch him crumble in realisation all over again if need be. It was just vitally important he get this out. "About what happened yesterday... what I said... and then the wall broke and the carnival happened and everything else and I forgot to say it..." He tapered off when Peter's expression shattered. The smaller man blanched and his brow hardened, exactly the way he had looked standing before those familiar bricks last night just minutes before the wall broke. "I just, I didn't mean to. I wasn't thinking -"

"Just... don't. Don't remind me." Peter's voice lowered and he held up a hand to cut Sylar off. Clearly this was still a sore subject, so Sylar obliged and merely hauled the shopping cart down the cereal aisle in Peter's wake without saying another word.

( )

The memory alone was enough to make Peter feel sick, and he'd much rather tuck it away and never recall it again if he had the choice. He'd been caught so off guard, been so embarrassed, so angry... angry enough to cast a downer over what should have been the ecstatic moment they finally reached their impossible freedom. When it came down to Nathan... Sylar had known better. It didn't matter anyway, not now that so much had changed so fast. That part of their lives was over now, and the dark stain of the encounter had been overwritten by the wondrous experience of freedom, saving the world, and using Lydia's ability on each other to clean up the few straggling titbits they didn't already know about the other. Peter had actually forgotten the argument until Sylar had gone and kicked the shrapnel back into his face.

He despised the reminder, because even though Peter had lost his brother long ago now, Nathan was a wound that ran directly through him like a blade to the heart and would scar him forever. He hated remembering that his friend Sylar was the same person who had stolen his brother from him, although he could never really forget it. Sometimes it was easy to pretend it had been someone else entirely, a villain who had since died and disappeared from the face of the Earth entirely (which, in a sense, was true), but really he remembered every detail too well. He also knew how badly Sylar wanted to change, how hard he had worked at it, how truly remorseful he was. All Peter could do was take him as he was now and not who he used to be, as much as it ached of disrespecting Nathan's memory.

Sylar's past was set and it was how he lived from here on out that made the difference, and Peter had only to close his eyes and recall the sensation of Sylar's soul writhing inside his own core to make it all better. His trust in the ex-killer and the bond they had formed over five years of isolation together were enough for Peter to forgive. He'd never forget, but eventually he had realised it was possible to still love Nathan with every inch of his heart and feel affection for Sylar at the same time.

Peter clenched his jaw and called upon the glorious memory of Lydia's ability to fold the pain away until it only throbbed dully beneath the surface. It wasn't comfortable, but it was a small price he had long since learned to pay when it came to his unconventional friendship with his brother's murderer. "All that's behind us now, anyway. Fresh start and all that. Right?" He said gruffly, letting the telltale squeak of the wheel behind him inform him that Sylar was following.

( )

"Right." Sylar concurred, trying and failing not to get swept up in visions of the humiliating argument that had transpired between them. The look on Peter's face... surely it would haunt him forever. "I am sorry, though."

There was a tense silence, filled only by the constant soundtrack of the damaged wheel, before Peter broke it with a small murmur. "I know."

Right then, he was reminiscent of the hurt and wounded man who had come down to the wall to make amends with a hastily wrapped version of Pillars of the Earth, and Sylar longed after what could have been instead. What would their last night in the dream have been like if they hadn't argued beforehand? They should have been cheering and laughing when the hammer finally broke unrelenting brick, but instead... well. At least the book had patched things over, even though it had been Sylar's fault in the first place and he didn't feel deserving of such a thoughtful gift. But in the end Peter had still come to the wonderful conclusion of forgiveness, no matter what had come before.

Those arguing brothers again stormed past the end of the aisle, and both Peter and Sylar flinched. Thank god that wasn't them. Sylar felt more grateful than ever that his only friend happened to be the most forgiving person on the planet. Including a planet housing billions of other inhabitants.

As if just to confirm this point, Peter ducked to a shelf and returned with a challenging twitch of an eyebrow and both arms full of some disgusting looking, brightly coloured crystallised sugar in a box. Instantly he was warm and friendly again, changing the subject, a familiar friend that Sylar cherished in the wake of the afterglow of hurt that was still fading from his features. "You'll never know until you give them a try." Peter chided, impressively managing to balance the boxes atop the mountain already piled up within the cart.

"I'm not eating that." Sylar wrinkled his nose, stretching across the smaller man to retrieve a single box of his trusted cornflakes instead.

"Y'know what? After a couple of years or so, maybe they'll start to grow on you..."

( )

Peter smiled in response to Sylar's disgust and ungraceful lunge to rescue the cart before it bowled a hole through the shelves in a desperate bid for freedom. He chuckled to himself while the other man enacted a failed game of grocery-Tetris as if it was the most important thing in the world that the cart be neat and organised. For a moment he actually forgot about everything else that was pushing in on him from all sides, bursting him apart at the seams, and this could have been any other day of the endless ones that stretched out forever behind him... until his overplayed ringtone sounded for the millionth time in less than a day, and instantly his hackles rose again.

Prepared this time, he hissed angrily into the phone. "What part of "leave us alone" don't you understand...?"

"Nice to hear from you too, dear."

At once Peter's stomach jolted and a surge of childish adoration ran through him. It was the last thing he'd ever imaged he'd feel in this particular circumstance, but to him it had been years after all, and an instinct so natural, so human, was impossible to suppress. "Ma! I'm so sorry, I thought you were... never mind." He didn't care about her many past sins right then. In that moment, he was only a child and she his mother, who's kiss he'd longed for in empty, lonely nights when the world had been cruel throughout the five, long years of undeserved punishment. And it was as simple as that.

"Someone unwelcome, by the sounds of it." She said shortly.

"Sorry." Peter repeated, entirely too happily in light of his mistake. "It's great to hear from you! How are you -"

"I'm fine. It's you I'm concerned about." Peter grinned at hearing her voice for the first time in far too long. She sounded brisk, displeased and entirely ready for business. She hadn't changed a bit.

"I'm okay, just laying low right now."

"The carnival – did Sylar...?"

"Yeah." Peter glanced across at the man in question, unable to suppress a smile or the pride still surging in his chest when he remembered what Sylar had done last night and how many lives he had saved. He'd made it look so easy. Currently, though, he was still struggling with the groceries and trying not to look like he was listening in to this conversation. "He saved Emma. He saved everyone! Well, Claire and Hiro had something to do with it too, but -" Sylar shied under the attention, and Peter's smile warmed more.

Angela sharply cut him off, and for the first time Peter could hear her TV babbling faintly in the background. "And where is Sylar now?"

He cringed under her tone. Yes, she really hadn't changed. His initial excitement was faltering now the novelty had worn off, and he suddenly remembered that Angela was in league with Noah. That was worrying, but he crooned back gently to convey that everything was alright and she shouldn't get angry. "He's here with me."

( )

Bathed in the early afternoon sun, swathed in multiple silk sheets and embroidered throws in her plush bed, Angela bolted up straighter. Her half finished espresso almost slipped from her fingers as she pressed her telephone harder to her ear. "Peter, please tell me you're not planning on playing best friends with Sylar...?" She feared she already knew the response.

Peter answered sincerely, innocently, the way he'd used to while growing up when he tried to worm his way out of getting into trouble. "We're not playing anything."

So Noah hadn't been exaggerating. After his call she had given her son the benefit of the doubt, but clearly that had just been wishful thinking.

( )

"Listen to me very carefully when I say this, Peter: Sylar will only get you into trouble. Yes, he saved Emma, but that does not make him a good person. I already told you – one isolated act does not make that man a saviour! He will only lead you into danger!" There was a steel edge to her voice, ricocheting loudly out Peter's end of the line to where Sylar could likely hear every word.

Peter narrowed his eyes as he listened. He knew she wouldn't understand if he tried to explain about their mind prison or the fact that he felt he hadn't spoken to her for the past five years of his life. Unlike with Noah, raising his voice with Angela Petrelli was a different matter. This needed a different angle. "You have to trust me, okay? Nothing bad's gonna happen with Sylar. It's Claire you should be worrying about." He lowered his voice in case the name drew unwanted attention from passers-by.

"Of course I'm thinking of my granddaughter. But you are my son, Peter, and I have to think of your safety first."

Despite what seemed like rare, genuine concern for his well-being, Peter was already growing increasingly irritated by their conversation. Clearly she wasn't going to listen to anything he had to say if it clashed with her opinion. Like talking to a brick wall: arguing with Angela Petrelli was less productive than swinging a sledgehammer at an unbreakable, mental barrier for five years had been. What should he have expected, though? All those days he'd missed her, regretted being so cold towards her – even after all she'd done, because she was his family, and family stuck by one another – seemed stupidly naïve now. Of course he still loved her. But back in the mind prison behind the soft, forgiving lens of distance, it had been a lot easier to forget about the dark stains hidden inside this fateful woman.

Steeling himself for a repeat of that morning, Peter spoke as calmly as possible. "I dunno what Noah told you, and I understand that it's... complicated." He heavily over-summarised. "It was... difficult for me too, at first. But it's true – Sylar's changed, I swear. He's not gonna hurt me, he's not gonna hurt anyone. Okay, I trust him. And if you won't believe that, then just respect it. Please." He doubted he had the strength to repeat the entire conversation he'd had with Noah, or to challenge his mother on an issue she felt strongly about. Truthfully, he couldn't really blame her for doubting him and hating Sylar so "soon" after his continued horrific plights, but Peter wasn't about to go down without saying his piece, either.

"How do you expect me to respect a murderous psychopath who just killed my son...? People don't change. Especially not men like him." Angela griped, and Peter felt the old wound of Nathan tear open painfully for the second time in five minutes. Of course, for Angela, her son had died weeks ago. But for Peter it had been years since he'd last seen his loved and lost big brother.

He let his eyes once again travel across to where Sylar was still avidly trying not to look like he was eavesdropping. The echo of the man's soul, his hopes, dreams, secrets and insecurities still lingered within Peter, tugging at his empathy. And he knew for sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his mother was wrong.

( )

Sylar was forced to admit that he'd well and truly re-arranged the contents of the cart as much as he could. Normally, he'd have started in on a carton of that honeycomb ice cream right about now, but seeing as he recalled that was most likely frowned upon in this world, instead he just patiently waited while pretending to be examining the items on the shelf beside him. Spoons... fascinating. Really though, his stomach was housing an army of butterflies and his heart was beating loudly in his chest. It was almost how Sylar would have imagined it felt to be invisible and hear what people said about you, but better because Peter wasn't confiding this in the freedom of privacy. He was being this reliable beside him on purpose. Sylar didn't look forward to all the closed doors he would come up against in his new life, but he could definitely get used to having someone fight in his corner!

In a little gesture of goodwill, he smiled to himself as he made one last arrangement to his meticulous packing. He rotated two cereals around so that his own would get home squashed at the corner, and Peter's many boxes of diabetes could remain intact.

A familiar, stocky gait approach at his back, then Peter appeared beside him, standing so close that the little man's shoulder brushed Sylar's arm. Sylar was grateful for the contact, and knew that Peter had merely needed the closeness, too.

"I'm not gonna argue with you, Ma." He said clearly. "I'm telling you: he's not dangerous anymore. You saw yourself in the dream: he's a hero."

Quite possibly glowing scarlet, Sylar turned his face away as Peter continued to defend him so spectacularly, hoping the little man wouldn't see the delighted grin slapped over his features. He allowed this brazen appreciation to tickle the tender spots of his ego, then accidentally locked eyes with a workman standing over a shopping cart nearby.

Oh.

He'd know that look anywhere, could practically smell it in the air... fear. Shit! It was blatantly obvious by the way the guy was staring that they had already been discovered on their very first morning of normalcy. But how...? Then Sylar tuned into the full picture: the man's newspaper sitting atop an eight-pack of beers; the way Peter was rather obviously expressing the words "dangerous"and "hurt" in reference to him; and the way the workman's wide eyes continued to swivel between Sylar and Claire's glossy portrait on the front page as he pieced the puzzle together.

Killer instincts flared to life within Sylar, and he knew from experience that the workman was seconds away from either screaming for help or flat-out running away. He knew he ought to do something, but instead just stood stupidly and watched it happen, knowing his amateur reaction was pathetically giving him away even more. Torn between laughing it off or just quickly disposing of the problem the old fashioned way, he was caught between indecision. All it would take was one little twitch of a finger to make this issue disappear... but he wasn't that person anymore.

Thinking fast, Sylar's intelligent mind went to work trying to fix the situation through a different method, but before he could even do or think anything useful, it was too late. The workman looked around nervously, jabbed a hand accusingly at Sylar... and then the very same packet of spoons Sylar had been admiring earlier silently whizzed past his shoulder all by themselves, only to be caught in the workman's outstretched hand.

A second of shock. That man – he had – him too...?

A bubbling concoction of relief, surprise and a silent connection with this man warmed Sylar from within. The smile he gave came to him easily, and the one received in reply genuinely touched him. They shared a mutual moment of secret understanding before the workman nodded, spared a curious glance at Peter, and then clunked on his way leaving nothing but a trail of dusty footprints behind him.

Okay... Sylar had to admit that maybe Claire's glory-hounding "stunt" had done at least one thing worthwhile in growing everyone's awareness of people with abilities – that included others like themselves. Never had he imagined he'd bump into someone with a power in the store of all places! But it was a nice surprise, a fun experience, and one he would have to fill the oblivious empath in on later.

( )

Refusing to rise to the bait this time, Peter allowed his mother to end yet another disapproving lecture before hastily changing the subject. "Did you call just to tell me off, Ma?" Today, he doubted it, although that wasn't an uncommon occurrence.

( )

"No." Back in her bedroom, Angela sniffed and briskly re-arranged the covers over her midriff. She caught a glimpse of the TV screen playing the now iconic clip of a Ferris wheel and a blond figure plummeting from the top again, before she cast her eyes away, ironing out a crease in the sheets with her fingers. "I've been trying to sleep. To dream. But, rather understandably, I've been unable to relax."

"So... you don't know what's gonna happen?" She could hear the disappointment in her son's voice. He was looking to her for guidance, trust, a novelty she knew she didn't deserve after all she'd put him through, but would cherish all the same. Unfortunately, this time she couldn't grant him what he craved.

"I wanted to warn you to be careful." Angela's voice was clipped, successfully suppressing the fear she felt roiling inside. "Watch what... company you keep. We don't know who to trust yet, so I suggest you be wary of everyone. Look after yourself, Peter." It was a pointless thing to say, for when had Peter ever looked after himself? But he was her only remaining child, her baby, and all the humanity she had left in this world. She would never, ever just lay down and do nothing if she was in danger of losing him... "And for goodness sake try to be sensible." She added, barely holding back the'for once' at the end.

( )

Peter breathed out a little huff that tickled Sylar's collar due to their continued proximity. He continued to wait as an outsider on this conversation between mother and son, and happily just watched Peter's face as he enthused his point, awash with so many emotions, as ever.

"It's alright, Ma, you don't have to worry about the future! We... uh, I'm going back to fix it. Once I get a hold of Hiro, I'll stop Claire from ever jumping -"

"No! You mustn't." Angela's voice was clear now that the phone was so close, and Sylar gave up his pretence for good and just listened in this time.

"Wh... why not?" Large, worried eyes turned to Sylar then, and so he gifted a little encouraging smile Peter's way, returned only by the empath's arm pressing harder against his.

( )

The feeble plan Peter had been clinging too all morning slid from his slack grip, and he listened to his mother crush his only hope with a heavy heart. "Because out of every foreseeable future I've seen, every time abilities have been revealed to the public, this is the best case scenario. Going back might jeopardise everything and make it all so much worse."

"So I'm supposed to just sit here and do nothing?"

"Yes." She stated matter of factly. "Until the dust settles and we find out where we stand."

"But what about last time? With Dad? After what we went through to stop all this from happening...?!" Even to his own ears Peter sounded desperate and incapable, pleading for help from the woman who wasn't about to give it. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of all the subtle connections between that lost future and the way this present seemed to be unfolding... his stomach twisted even thinking back to Sylar helping that boy with the marshmallows. Okay, it was just some random kid and not Sylar's son, but the similarity between the two versions of the man wasn't lost on Peter.

"The future is fragile, always has been, always will be. If just one thread in the tapestry breaks, the entire design is changed forever. This isn't the timeline your father nurtured, and all we can do is hope it stays that way. Just promise me you won't push this, Peter. It's much too dangerous."

Giving in was something Peter had never been good at. He chose a path and stuck to it, ran the full length of the thing even when the bridge collapsed or the paving stones threw him up and over mountains. No matter the struggle, he would fight until the bitter end. This time, it wasn't just about him, or what he wanted. This was literally the fate of the entire world he was playing with, and unlike his niece, Peter would ensure to think of everyone his actions could possibly affect before putting his own desires before everyone else's.

"...Okay." He agreed reluctantly, practically feeling the surprise bounce off Sylar at his side.

The stunned silence on his mother's end of the phone was more poignant than vocal surprise could have been, and Peter hated his forced predicament even more. "Thank you. Keep in touch, dear."

Having gotten what she wanted, Angela was now readying to leave. A part of Peter longed to keep her on the phone just to hear her voice for a little longer, no matter the words she was saying, but the other part knew better. "Catch you later." He said quietly, hanging up feeling like he'd just ran a marathon and finished last.

( )

"You're actually going to do what she said?" Sylar asked dubiously. He didn't think he'd seen Peter relent before, ever. It was extremely surprising that it was on such an important problem that Peter was so adamant about correcting.

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" The little man sighed, defeated, and lifted one corner of his mouth in a valiant attempt at a smile.

"You think she's right?"

"Well, she knows more than any of us." Conflicting morals and trust battled away behind wounded, hazel eyes. "I mean, yeah, of course I wanna fix it! But even if I could find Hiro... she's right. It's too dangerous if we get this wrong."

"But what if she's lying? I seem to remember she has been known to dabble in deception now and then..."

"What if she's not? Yeah, she's lied, she's hurt people, she's done bad things. But she's not the only one." There was a brief, awkward pause. "And she has helped to save the world more than once, Sylar."

The look on the guy's face right then had to be most similar to a time in his childhood when Peter and Nathan had asked their mother for new bikes one Christmas. Of course Nathan had hoped, but he'd also known they'd be lucky to get a family heirloom from some stuffy uncle or other that wasn't locked away until they were "responsible enough" to even see them, let alone something actually fun. But Peter... of course, little Pete had been adamant right until he'd opened every last gift, and searched every last closet in the house for any stowaways, that Angela hadn't been lying when she'd promised them the bikes.

Sylar knew that Peter had missed his mother over his prison sentence, and that he was already preparing to forgive her every misdeed out of love alone. But while Sylar had changed and wanted to look at the world past the jaded eyes that had haunted him for years... it hadn't made him stupid. "She also conspired to blow up New York City. And her own son." He said pointedly.

He watched as Peter's expression fell, the exact same way it had that bike-less Christmas day long ago. "I just wish there was a way to make sure, y'know?" He shrugged, trying to play it off as no big deal, but Sylar could see how much it was hurting him. Through re-lived glimpses from within the other man's soul last night, it wasn't difficult to imagine the frustration and guilt he must be feeling, how trapped and useless with no discernible escape from the cage of hopelessness that had woven itself around him.

Then a sudden inspiration hit. "Well then, aren't you lucky you're friends with a pre-cog...?"

( )

Sylar almost sang the words, chirpily dragging the dead weight of the cart to the stationary aisle. Peter followed obediently, questioningly, and after a few seconds of bustling around in a shelf, Sylar's voice floated back towards him.

"And aren't we lucky that you happen to be..." Then he wheeled around, two new sketchbooks and a packet of pencils in his hands. He lowered his voice. "An empath? That way we can work twice as quickly." He loosely slapped down the new items atop the heavy cart and lifted his eyebrows to encourage the brilliance of his new idea.

Peter bit his lip in thought, catching the paper before it slid off the pile. He flicked his eyes back up to meet Sylar's, speaking aloud as he caught up. "We're gonna paint the future?" He liked that idea. It seemed a lot more reliable than trusting his secretive mother or just sitting around waiting for the world to end. At least this way, they'd see for themselves. He let Sylar's plan fully process, feeling hope begin to seep into him comfortingly.

"Technically we're going to draw the future. Afraid they're all out of canvas and oils."

Peter ran a hand thoughtfully over the sketchbooks. "Is this from Matt?" He asked of the ability, joining the dots on an old conversation that had come up a few times during their many long days spent behind that damn brick wall.

( )

"I haven't tried it yet, but it's not much different from that artist's ability. What was his name again? Ian?"

"Isaac." Peter corrected, recalling the name with a visible guilt that ran parallel within Sylar. "Isaac Mendez."

"Right." Sylar cringed, thinking that he should have perhaps been more thoughtful before addressing one of his victims so carelessly. "I guess we should be grateful that Matt managed to bullshit himself this ability from the planes of Africa, hm?" He chuckled. "Shame it wasn't his telepathy that rubbed off on me instead..." That was still a tender bruise. The reminder that he had lived out weeks of his life packed away inside Matt Parkman's head was not one likely to bring up thoughts of unicorns and rainbows. However, at least one good token had come out of that torture, and while Sylar would have much preferred telepathy to pre-cognitive painting, he wasn't going to complain too much about it.

Peter blew out a deep breath, making up his mind. His puffed cheeks slowly hollowed again as a transformation overcame him and a determined smile drew up the working corner of his lips. Seeming to glow with static electricity, he stepped up to Sylar so close their chests almost touched, so close that Sylar could practically taste the anticipation rolling off him.

Sylar raised an eyebrow, fighting back a self-satisfied grin at his genius. The empath blindly reached around behind Sylar, and when he retracted his hand it was laden with a couple more pads of paper, just in case. Then he nodded, a tiny asserted motion, and matched the excited glint in Sylar's eyes with one of his own.

"Okay. Let's get to work."

Rejuvenated, this time the pair barely noticed all the news reports and articles and phony pictures of Claire Bennet The Idol as they passed. Instead they had a plan to keep themselves busy, or at least a general direction to head in for now. Sylar praised himself and his grand idea, his triumph in cheering up his friend, and their success in surviving their first trip out in a crowded place without getting into any kind of trouble at all.

Together they pushed their supplies towards the exit, buzzing with purpose: their eyes bright, their arms touching, the squeaky cart bulging – before remembering at the last second that they still needed to pay for things in the real world...

( )( )( )

Nerves fluttered inside as Peter retracted his hand from Sylar's forearm. The borrowed ability shivered as it spread into his skin, settling snugly and within easy reach. Even though he hadn't possessed it for years now, the prescient power was familiar and reminded Peter of way back at the very beginning of it all, the first time he had painted the future by completing a prophetic painting of – who else? - the very man currently sprawled out on the worn and beaten rug beside him.

The floorboards were hard and uncomfortable, but as Sylar's table was far too small to house the many blank sheets of paper they might need, Peter had insisted that the floor was the next best surface. Currently, he was lying on his stomach, all his empty pages splayed out before him to make things easier later for his trance-inflicted self. Meanwhile Sylar, in contrast, shuffled upright with his legs folded and had neatly stacked his paper into a tidy pile to the side.

( )

Pencils poised above the paper, the two men glanced at each other for one last, shared confirmation. "You ready?" Peter asked, his voice a little croaky.

"Yep." Sylar dipped his head in an exaggerated nod and clicked his fingers towards the paper in a 'what are we waiting for!' manner. It was an attempt to maintain the rush of excitement he'd felt while they'd been setting up, but really though, the thought had only now properly occurred to him: they were going to see the future. And it might not only entail the truth about abilities. There was a little hesitation on Sylar's part, the tiniest fragment of doubt that was slicing into him like a steel splinter... he might not like what he saw of his future. What if it didn't pan out the way he hoped...? What if he... reverted?

It was too late to back out now, though, and the fate of the world was possibly counting on this. Not to mention his friend's sanity. So he prioritised his feelings the way he had perfected over his many lifetimes, and pushed those thoughts as deep into the recesses of his deft mind as they would go. Then lowered his pencil to the paper.

Before it could make its mark however, another warm hand touched the pencil, stopping it, in order to prevent the ability from taking hold.

( )

Peter craned his neck to get a proper look at Sylar's face. His questing gaze was met with another bright grin, and his suspicions were instantly confirmed. Peter could feel Sylar's hand shaking a little where their skin brushed, and could read the uncertainty swirling in the depths of his dark eyes. The empath's conscience ached, and he could practically still taste the pain eroding inside this man's heart.

"Hey, no matter what we see, no matter what we draw... I believe that whatever the world holds for people like us, you have a good place within it. You've done so well already, Sylar." He readjusting his hold from the pencil to his friend's hand, squeezing just slightly with his fingertips. "You're only gonna do better. Alright?"

This time the smile that played on Sylar's lips was genuine. Small. Grateful. "Thank you." He said simply, but Peter could tell the worry was still coiled around the man like chains.

He lifted his hold on Sylar's hand and let out a dry chuckle to ease the tension furling in the air. "Besides, the future can be changed, if you want it to be. The tapestry isn't set in stone... or... whatever it was my mom said." He screwed up his face in thought, wishing just then that he had inherited a natural talent with words, like every other member of his family had done. "Just... don't worry. I have faith in you." He added quietly with a reassuring nudge of his elbow to Sylar's knee, and a proud smile that was mostly in his eyes.

Sylar's grand eyebrow slid slowly up his forehead and his lips turned up at one corner. "Trust me, Peter. I didn't go through eight years of redemption in order to throw it all away the moment we get back here." He sounded confident, even if most of it was bravado. With a returned, playful push to Peter's shoulder, the former killer closed his eyelids and turned his attention back to his paper, took a deep breath, and opened opaque, glassy eyes to his first blank canvas.

Peter watched the ability take hold of his companion, feeling chills run through him by association. It was just as eerie to watch now as it had been the last time he'd watched someone do this. He squirmed on the thin rug, trying and failing to get as comfortable as possible, before following Sylar's lead, closing his eyes and allowing the tantalising fingers of prophecy to lure him under the depths of his subconscious...

( )

Pencils scoured across paper for indiscernible minutes: slow, steady, swooping strokes spiralling into frantic, fevered, frenzied scribbles. The two artists worked side by side until the shadows had shifted clean across the room and the sleepy, winter sun had rolled itself up in stars and clouds for another long night of slumber. The day had slipped away into evening by the time the pencils slowed and human sound broke into the apartment for the first time in hours.

The first thing Sylar was aware of when he came to was pain. He grunted and couldn't stop an embarrassing cry ripping from him when his entire body burned and locked in place. Fuck – this was why he'd wanted to sit at the table and not the floor! While he waited for the cramp to disintegrate every muscle in his body, Sylar took the time to look around himself. The room was thick with darkness, the air thin and cold, and the streetlamp outside the blinds cast severe strips of orange across Sylar's new paper carpet.

His heart leapt into his throat at the sight: scrawls, scratches and doodles spread out over an immense blanket of pages surrounding himself and the dark figure of Peter, still drawing, at his side. The unknown lure of destiny was terrifying and he couldn't tear his eyes away although he didn't even want to look. Thankfully it was too dark to make out the images clearly, but from what Sylar could see already, there was a lot of future to come.

Then he suddenly noticed he was holding one of the drawings, presumably the one he had just completed. He could discern a dark human figure in the middle of the page, but nothing more. At once his first thought was to wake Peter so they could look over everything together. But then a small voice piped up in his head, making him hesitate. Maybe he had roused first for a reason? To be the first to see any possibly incriminating prophecies and have this little window of opportunity to do with them as he pleased?

He was over 90% sure that his future wasn't going to be one bloody and destructive enough to rival his past... but that small, venomous notion, doubt, was impossible to ignore. He couldn't shake it away, no matter how strong his motivations to be better were. Fear was the strongest flavour running throughout the waterfall of his emotions, loudest spoken and so much easier to hear than the quiet certainty of hope, as was the unfair nature of insecurity. He wanted to be good. He wanted to be a hero from now on. But Sylar had long ago learned the distinction between what he wanted and what actually happened in life. It wasn't a nice thought, but it anchored its claws into him all the same.

Telling himself that he wouldn't dispose of any such artefact anyway if one were to arise (really, he was just scoping the perimeter...), he lifted his newest masterpiece into a beam of the streetlight, his hand shaking slightly, to see... not himself.

A betraying sigh slipped past his lips before he could contain it, and he basked in the fuzziness of relief dabbing the perspiration from his temple. Sure, this was only one picture – one of many – but the absence of his own face on the page was enough to recollect Sylar's scattered confidence. He squinted in the poor light, trying to recognise his subject depicted in the abstract, caricatured style. A man. Tall, imposing, black... Rene. Reflected a hundred times over in a mirror. The man was hardly the most harmless person to be haunting the future, but he didn't seem to be doing anything too dangerous, in any case. Besides, even The Haitian was a more welcome sight than a once-again-murderous version of himself.

This time Sylar did wake Peter, leaning over on complaining joints to gently shake the man's shoulder.

( )

"Peter?"

The voice lassoed him like a cord around the waist, drawing him out of the rush of visions and dreams and back into his body where he still lay on the cold, dark space of Sylar's floor. "Wh...? What's...?" Peter mumbled groggily, regaining his senses. Then his voice was rushed out of him in a choked gasp when vicious pain bolted through his spine, elbows and neck.

He heard the chuckle beside him in the blackness, and knew even without seeing the other man's face that it was twisted into a self-satisfied, 'told you so' smirk. Sylar sat silently beside him in the dark until Peter's eyes adjusted and he managed to push his aching body into some semblance of a sitting position.

"How long were we out?" He grunted, stretching his neck from side to side and agreeing internally that Sylar had been right when he'd suggested the table for this exercise.

"Hours, I presume."

There was a slight lilt to Sylar's tone, and all at once Peter was whacked in the gut when he remembered what they'd just done. As he apprehensively scanned the ground around him, Sylar creaked to his knees and waded to the nearby lamp, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow.

Blinking in the light, the pair wordlessly went about sifting through each and every picture from the pile. Most of them were similar: Peter and Sylar, they assumed, standing together against a variety of backdrops and scenarios. They were decidedly... tame. The occasional ability was visible here and there: electricity, fire, flight, but nothing world-ending as far as Peter could see. His shoulders relaxed millimetre by millimetre as he poured over the map of the future, and felt Sylar's do so too. But it was far from over.

His blood continued to pound in his ears every time he moved onto each new page, absolutely certain that this one would depict the entire planet cracking in two... but none did. Instead he was greeted by odd, jumbled sketches that didn't make much sense out of context, as the future rarely did, unfortunately. Claire was there, more than once. So was Noah. Matt Parkman, Angela and Rene cropped up consistently, along with some unfamiliar sights: a tall woman who Peter didn't recognise, wearing a bun and strict business suit; a deserted beach that stretched out far into the horizon; some sort of structure in the middle of the ocean; a girl surrounded by beautiful flowers and butterflies; two bright stars side by side in the sky; an old woman with long, grey hair; a crowd of people atop a cliff, lit by the setting sun; and, amongst it all, numerous logos, banners and posters that all featured the same, foreign word.

"That word keeps coming up... "Evo"? What's that? What's Evo?" Peter asked, narrowing his eyes to ensure he read it correctly.

"I don't know." Sylar mumbled, rifling again through the pages. "But whatever it is, things don't look very apocalyptic to me..." He slid over one of Peter's own drawings, showing a busy street with people showcasing their abilities, yet still co-existing peacefully in what looked like safe, normal lives within the rest of the population. "It seems like things are going to be... okay."

Sylar looked down at Peter with hopeful eyes and the empath finally felt himself start to give in to the truth that was literally spelled out before him. He let a smile possess him, relieved, exhausted and very nearly giddy. "Yeah." He nodded, catching the delighted glint to the other man's smile and recalling the pointed lack of any exposed brains, blood or violence in the drawings surrounding him. He wouldn't have been able to stop the pride from seeping into his features even if he'd wanted to. "Yeah, looks like it."

( )

No end of the world, no apparent kidnapping and restraining of specials, everyone actually living in harmony... it all seemed too good to be true. Sylar tried not to include his healthy, killing-free future in that bracket – that part, he was more than willing to accept as it was. But as for everything else... maybe it really would work out well? The painter Isaac's paintings had all come true, he remembered. So had the one Sylar himself had painted of his showdown with Peter in Kirby Plaza. So what that Sylar had never become president, as his other painting had foretold? He had come incredibly close after all, and for all he knew maybe that was what he'd painted all that time before?

It really did seem too good to be true, and it was only natural to be a little wary... but for Peter's sake he hid any shadow of hesitation from the outside. "So are you satisfied?" He asked fondly, knowing that even as Peter himself had procured physical evidence to believe, he still wasn't going to give up on his original plan easily.

The little man rubbed at his stiff shoulders, his eyes continuing to roam over the predicted timeline while he chewed his lower lip rather harshly. The flushed, damaged flesh slid free from his teeth at the same time the trepidation flowed out of his body. He twitched his head – possibly a nod of assent – but never vocally expressed it.

( )

He supposed he really should wait and let things play out for the meantime. His mother's warning echoed in his head, and he wished he could truly believe that the world was going to work out perfectly, the way he had used to dream for with his entire heart. She'd said this was the best outcome she had ever seen. Was it really possible they might just have stumbled down the easy path for once?

In response to Sylar's question: no. No, he wasn't satisfied. But he didn't really have a better option.

"So what happens now?" Peter asked, feeling his heart chip around the edges when the realisation sunk in. There was no longer a mission to conform to, no mind prison, no empty apartment across the hall from this one for him to inhabit... and no excuse for two grown men to spend every waking moment together now that they were back in the real world. Already, Peter dreaded the thought of going back to his old, lonely apartment, but he would never invite himself to stay at Sylar's home.

He knew he had to go tonight, or he probably never would. But he didn't want to leave Sylar. In fact, he was pretty sure he'd forgotten how to live without him.

( )

"We do what we've been fighting to do for years, Peter." Sylar enthused, cocking his head slightly to watch the simple truth hit his friend for the first time. "We live." He grinned. Peter's astounded expression didn't disappoint. "I'll bet the world will always be in need of its best, super-powered paramedic. World peace or not."

Said sort-of-former paramedic cringed slightly under the praise, trailing his fingers shyly through his hair. "And watches are breaking every day, right?" The pair smiled together, unable to really process that the moment they had talked about non-stop for their shared eternity was now upon them at last.

It was bizarre. More bizarre than saving Emma and therefore a whole carnival of super-humans had been. But it was amazing in its potential. Sylar hadn't really had a solid plan for life beyond the wall – honestly, it had only been in the later years that he had even come around to Peter's insisting that there even was a "beyond" – but he knew where he was going to settle down, all the same. At least temporarily, which was the only condition that made it okay in the first place. Ironically, the normalcy of the job that he'd used to detest was now it's greatest appeal. It would provide a low key, quiet place where Sylar could stay out the way of the entire Claire fiasco. And of everyone else, until things died down.

Both men's smiles ran their course, and Sylar busied himself by gathering all the sheets of paper so he wouldn't do something incredibly selfish like ask Peter to stay. He was well aware of the man's closeness at his back, of his familiar scent and natural place within this apartment, within Sylar's life. He was also aware of those kind eyes burning into him, and the guy's reluctance to do what they both knew he had to.

It wasn't returning to his old watchmaker's shop that terrified Sylar about moving on with his life. It was the knowledge that Peter was going to leave him. It wasn't forever (he carefully, gratefully, collected the many depictions of himself and this man side by side in the predicted time to come), but after going so many years surviving around the sounds and presence of this other human being – fearing every time he lost sight of the guy that he'd never see him again – actually letting him walk away tonight was a torture Sylar didn't want to endure. He would never hold him back, though. Not anymore.

Demanding that Peter not abandon him would only trap them together once again, for he knew Peter would stay if Sylar were to so much as whisper it. But if they didn't quickly sever the knot that was binding them together so closely, they would never be able to survive the amputation once the wound had grown deeper. They had to learn to stand on their own two feet again, not to shy away from the independence they had both individually excelled at perfectly well for thirty years thank you very much, before a certain telepathic cop and his heavy-handed ability had changed everything. It was slightly humiliating for Sylar to admit to himself that he couldn't even remember how he had used to survive by himself, back in the day. For he was no longer the lone ranger he used to be, the sole hunter, the lonely predator above all other specimen that had needed no one and nothing but his power. Now, as cringeworthy as it was to think it, he was but one half of a whole.

Peter was so good to him... better than Sylar could have ever hoped for, better than he knew he deserved. At the very most, he would have been grateful to be merely tolerated after what he'd done in the past, let alone forgiven, or even liked! It was only out of sheer selfishness that Sylar didn't turn Peter away for his own good and the memories of every single soul he had ripped from this earth. Their murderer didn't deserve to receive such kindness. However, not everyone was as self-sacrificing as Sylar's merciful friend, and he knew there was no way he'd ever be brave enough to turn away for good from the only thing keeping him strong. Luckily, judging by the prophesies literally within his grasp, he wouldn't have to.

He wanted Peter to have the freedom he had resiliently fought after for so long with that titanium resolve and almost as strong sledgehammer, more than he wanted to keep him within his eyesight. Well, okay, definitely not more, but he knew it was the better thing to do, and in order for them both to grow and evolve, he would stubbornly refuse to be the shackle around his companion's ankle.

Instead of just flat-out locking said companion in here with him, Sylar just bit his tongue and dived into the task at hand, stretching ever so slightly too far to reach the furthest pages rather than distance himself even an inch more from Peter.

"Here... budge up." The words were spoken quietly, then paper crinkled as Peter crawled over to help with the task, stopping a little too close for them to actually have an optimum range of arm movement for tidying. It was hardly a job for two people (already Sylar knew that Peter was going to ruin his system) but it wasn't the mess of paper that he was really helping with, anyway.

As the duo worked silently in a content routine, Sylar's eye caught yet another portrayal of himself and this other man beside him, immortalised on paper. Together they stood proud, united, despite Noah Bennet and Angela Petrelli's earlier attempts to "rescue" Peter from his evil clutches. No matter how much it stung to receive their scathing remarks or to hear them trying to corrupt Peter's relationship with him, it seemed that, for once, Sylar was going to come out the better in this situation.

The empath's elbow knocked his briefly as he scoured the floor, simply helping Sylar with a chore so minimal, here on his hands and knees beside him while they rocked together on the precipice of their shared future. It didn't matter that much to Sylar if that future was to unravel within the boring, unspectacular walls of a shop or hospital, as long as he had one at all! One with a friend... with Peter. He smiled.

( )

Nothing had changed since he'd been here last, yet Peter knew he'd lived another life in that time. His old apartment was dark and lonely, a hollow, empty shell for the hollow, empty man he'd been when he had left this very room only yesterday... technically. The air smelled familiar, felt clean and rich to breathe... but it was all wrong. It should have been musky and stale, and dust should have been cloaked over every untouched, forgotten surface. Instead, the place was far too perfect, too quiet, to step back into after moving out what felt like over two years ago.

Of course, the city wasn't quiet, but the blatant absence of another, familiar gait shuffling around nearby or across the hall wrapped around Peter almost claustrophobically. For the first, true time since breaking free of Parkman's mind prison he felt very small. And very alone.

Peter closed his eyes and leaned his weight against the door, shutting it solidly behind him and taking a long, tired breath. He dropped the bags holding his half of that morning's shopping trip, deciding to put it away later, and rubbed his hands over his tired, stubbled face in an attempt to chase away the discomfort facing the city alone had imposed on him. Hopefully he just needed a few days to fall back into his old ways. Hopefully it wouldn't take too long to get to grips with being further away from Sylar than he had been in years. He sighed, opened his eyes and pushed himself off the door, making his way through the vacant space that was supposed to be his home.

Never one to have been afraid of the dark, Peter had never before bothered with shadowed corners or hidden insets in his life. Yet tonight he caught himself moving silently through the apartment and peeking behind doors, just in case. This world was inhabited after all, and the living posed a much greater threat than the non-existent, he'd come to realise.

After securing the entire apartment, he shouldered his way through the double glass doors to his bedroom and dropped down heavily on the edge of his bed, resting his pounding head in his hand. Last night's pathetic attempt at sleep was really taking its toll, and Peter had to physically force his eyes to stay open. He was slipping, but it felt like cheating to give in and drop off for the night while he still hadn't done anything useful in the wake of Claire's decision. The mattress was firm and spongy, most definitely a lot more comfortable than last night's sleeping arrangements, that was for sure! Yet somehow the thought of Sylar's creaky couch was a much more inviting prospect than sleeping in his old bed for the first time in far too long.

So this was it, then. This was how it was going to be, now. It seemed he had been thrust head-first back into a life he'd forgotten, stumbling to catch his footing and left to figure everything out the hard way. While the thought of once again being able to save people every day was an uplifting one, he feared he couldn't remember the routine of his job. One that didn't involve sledgehammers and a brick wall, anyway. Like going back after a five year leave of absence, the prospect was daunting, terrifying, and overwhelming. The world would just expect him to slot perfectly back into a mould he'd outgrown – he couldn't tell anyone why he was out of sync with the flow of emergency, why he was so jumpy at the loud sirens, or why he'd suddenly forgotten how to drive the ambulance... nobody would understand. Nobody would know what he'd been through since they'd last met.

His sleepy fingers found their way into his pocket of their own accord, and before he even really noticed what he was doing: Sylar's recently added contact was up on the screen of his phone, his thumb hovering a hair's breadth from calling. It wasn't too pathetic, right? To let Sylar know he got home safe? To see how he was doing all the way over there by himself? Even just to hear his voice..?

With another deep huff of breath, Peter chucked the phone carelessly onto the mattress beside him before flopping back on it himself and rubbing both hands over his face again. Flying to Los Angeles, being trapped in a mind prison for five years, flying back across the country to New York, battling a deranged terrakinetic man, reading every letter of the script of someone else's soul, shopping in a busy store for the first time in years and drawing the future all day was combining into one hell of a weight on Peter's shoulders. His spine, neck and arms felt tense and rock solid after lying in the same position on that stupid, thin rug for so long, and not for the second time since waking he regretted turning down Sylar's advice on posture-aiding arrangements before jumping straight into a drawing marathon the way he had done.

The future... all the drawings blurred past Peter's hazy vision like an old film reel. He cracked his eyes open and reached a heavy arm for his phone once more. He scrolled through his contacts again, not for Sylar, but once again for the only person who could fix things before they unravelled too far. ...He wondered if this call would finally be the time that Hiro would answer. Probably. Peter hesitated, conflicted, caught by the salvation of the world literally at his fingertips.

The pain firing through his limbs was a stark reminder of his afternoon and evening's venture, as were the memories of sketches that he wouldn't be able to block out if he tried. There was no arguing that the future did look decidedly promising, but still Peter was reluctant to drop all hold on his part to play in fixing everything. All it would take was one tap of a button and his choice would be made for him. If Hiro answered now, after every other attempt at contact had failed, surely it was a sign...? Destiny...? And if not, then at least Peter had tried, which was saying more than simply rolling over and playing dead, turning a blind eye and pretending to live his old life as if nothing had changed...

Long seconds ticked past while Peter blinked weary, aching, scratchy eyes at the too bright screen of his phone, mulling it all over. Hiro... Hiro... the four letters swam in and out of focus as exhaustion threatened to claim him at last, but still Peter refused to allow it until he had made his mind up. His heart was telling him to call and save the world before it even got hurt in the first place, just to be safe. But his head, the lesser-acknowledged part of him, was putting up a good fight for once.

Releasing a trembling breath, Peter's eyes slid closed and he dropped his phone to the mattress once more, without ever forcing destiny's hand. In the end, wasn't it better to trust Isaac's foresight in accordance with Angela's advice? To trust Claire's decision, and Hiro's absence, and Sylar's reassuring words...? All he could do was hope so.

Giving in for real this time, it took no time at all until Peter fell sound asleep where he lay shivering: all alone in his dark, empty apartment, curled up on top of his old duvet fully dressed without even having managed to unlace his boots.

( )( )( )

The tide was calm for a while. A brief, wondrous reprieve where everything was smooth and calm and tranquil... then something changed. There was a chink in the chain, a man-made ripple in the river of time, a thread was unravelled. A butterfly's wings were crushed underfoot. And the future re-wrote itself.

Destruction. Death. Disaster. The only things left on this charred husk of a world.

Oceans bled onto the land, crashing over homes and families with no remorse, no mercy. Hundreds of innocents were blasted apart by heat as the iron tower fumed and fell around them, spilling its lifeblood and suffocating its victims with smoke. Children cried as they were ripped from the face of the earth along with their classmates, in a place where they should have been safe. A conjoined, white-hot blast illuminated a city, wiping out millions of souls and baring the raw flesh of the planet. Flames rained from the sky as bodies disintegrated to ashes, the sun itself sent out tongues of fire to lick the surface of the Earth clean. Air was drained from existence along with every last sound, the planet now rendered just one endless stretch of blackness, lit only by the ravenous, red embers that consumed every last trickle of life left behind...

And then there was nothing. Nothing but two silhouettes almost invisible against the darkness. She knew instantly who they were without even having to look, but her eyes were held open against her will and there was no escape: the dreadful sight of these two immortal men left alone, the only inhabitants of a deserted planet that she had just watched them destroy. Together.

A tortured scream ripped from Angela Petrelli's throat as she woke, a sound unrecognisable from this woman who never showed weakness. But currently she was shaking, trembling, reliving the dream in nauseating waves over and over, clenching her manicured talons so tightly into her silk sheets that they threatened to tear clean through.

The charcoal walls of her heart cracked deeply enough to stab the core within, and for a moment this powerful woman felt tiny, helpless, overwhelmed by the curse she bore and the truth her vision had just bestowed upon her tired mind. But only for a moment. For as the smoke cleared she knew what she had to do to prevent her dream coming true. The right decisions were always the most difficult, but it wouldn't be the first time she would have to make a sacrifice for the greater good of mankind.

It would hurt, yes, but she had no choice. The entire world was at stake. And she wasn't going to let it die.

A/N: Okay, that was a long chapter - just as well I cut it in two! (The last chapter and this were originally supposed to be one, but omg it got far too long!) I know I always say it, but I mean it every single time: thank you so much for reading! It's annoying me how long it's taking between chapters, but I am trying my best :) I want to get the next one up quite soon, so please keep checking back for updates.

Also, regarding Sylar's painting the future: I figured that if Matt could "bullsh&t himself a new ability" after eating some animal dung and doing a little chant, that Sylar coming away with a souvenir from Matt's mind isn't that far fetched :P Looking at the brain to see how an ability works is how he gets them after all, and just because we didn't see him use it in the few episodes after Sylar left Matt's mind doesn't mean he didn't have it... X)