Like Broken Glass

Sylar's whole being was stinging painfully. The fading currents of electricity, the winter's air slapping his face at high speed as he'd flown and Bennet's demoralizing accusations were all rolling tremors through his tense frame. Not to mention he had always hated hospitals.

Thankfully, for an immortal specimen like himself, the building spawned no fear for his own health anymore. It was everyone else, though, that bothered Sylar now. He wound his way quickly through the bustling corridors of Mercy Heights with his head down, determined to both avoid being recognised (no doubt Bennet probably had his face plastered over every news station by now!) and to forego the sight of ill people and the sickly, red substance that he had encountered far too much of in his lifetime.

Quite like a church, Sylar felt, this place was much too virtuous for a defiled being like himself to step foot in. Murderers and villains shouldn't be allowed to walk freely through these corridors where lives were perhaps most sacred and in their most delicate state, a haven for the sick and wounded where the angels and carers would try their honest to god best to save every endangered life that needed them. Sylar suspected, although he tried his best not to entertain the thought, that he'd likely ended more lives single-handedly than any doctor here had saved throughout their entire career. It didn't exactly help to ease today's congealed lump of guilt that was now so heavy it was beginning to bruise. It was so much harder to keep his head above the swirling current of his past when confronted with the stark fragility of mortality, and when reminded of how he had used to thrive in the melody of plucking free threads of life like a harp. Even within this very building.

Sylar tried not to recall his last encounter within these walls but it was impossible once he had roused the thoughts... his venomous intentions to crucify, the crack and agony of steel spikes piercing his skin, the memory of his now best friend's tears as he looked into his dead brother's eyes for the last time...

The hospital was buzzing with an inferno of sound: weeping, yelling and various pieces of machinery squealing off-pitch and out of sync – nothing at all like the meticulous consonance of a quiet watchmaker's shop. Clearly the aftermath of the disaster at sea had caught up to the rest of the world in the time Sylar had finally managed to locate the correct building from the unfamiliar point of view up above. A loud commotion ricochetted off the walls further ahead, and so he followed the flurry of sounds like a man walking willingly to the gallows. He would have preferred to avoid the heart of the storm, but there was only one guess as to where an empathic paramedic would be...

Sylar had no choice. Peter could very well be in danger thanks to his known association with a wanted criminal. For all the amazing things that came with having a friend, the feeling of having an external weakness that could be used to manipulate him was utterly terrifying. It was still new, holding that responsibility for someone else, and Sylar didn't recant his old, ingrained thoughts on the idea: that even if he was always alone, at least it meant nobody could hurt him unless he let them in. It had been an encouraging thought to a destined loner, but Sylar wasn't one anymore.

It was awful to think it, but perhaps maybe a teeny, tiny little benefit of this whole afternoon was Sylar getting the chance to be the acting saviour, the knight in shining armour galloping in to save the damsel (oh, how Peter would love that...!) and riding them both away to safety. And that was exactly his plan here today, minus the helmet, lance and steed of course. It was both thrilling and petrifying to have to be the brave one when it would be so much easier to ask his friend for help in his abused, bashed state, but what good was a rescuer unless they were brave? It was also scary for a much simpler reason – not because this was the first time he'd save Peter, for it wasn't, but because this would be Sylar's first proper good deed since he'd escaped Parkman's prison as a new man. He was now so much more than a solitary vessel that could lift its shields and be practically impervious to outsiders and their weapons. Now he had to protect not only his physical being from harm, but every extension of himself... and if Sylar had to dive right through the vortex of pain and injury to reach him, so be it.

Pain... injury... the oil rig... nausea rolled through him for the dozenth time that day, doubling all the nastiness from earlier. Of course most of it was due to the poor victims of the disaster as he passed them by. But some of it was also due to Noah Bennet's ambush. So someone dies, and everyone automatically assumes it was Sylar, do they?! ...Okay, he deserved it. And it was hardly a change in tune (it was just Bennet's style) but was it really so ridiculous to hope that he'd ever be left to his new life without his past constantly biting at his heels...? Yes. Obviously so.

Sylar huffed loudly through his nose, accidentally causing a passing nurse to jump and send him a wary glance. Hurriedly composing himself, he collected a calm, controlled air instead of publicly losing his head over the incident back at his shop. His anger was ebbing with every passing second, leaving him only feeling pathetically hollow now. As much as he tried to convince himself that it didn't: it did hurt to have been so harshly reminded of the world's perception of him. Idle dreams of saving innocent lives and carving out a place for himself in the hall of heroes were now shattered by the events of this afternoon. Noah didn't have evidence of Sylar doing anything! But that didn't mean he was going to stop pursuing the monster. The determined, resilient and rule-breaking man was not a favourable foe, and Sylar didn't even want to think of what sorts of nasty alternative plans he was most likely cooking up this very second. Currently, Sylar had a head start and the advantage of flight, but he knew from failed past attempts that outrunning a problem was nevera permanent solution.

At best he had a couple of hours before everything was swept up in an unrelenting tornado, casting him back into the familiar, condemned life of an outlaw. No time to rest, no place to call home, no semblance of a normal, balanced routine to speak of... perhaps it was just as well that Sylar excelled at that lifestyle.

His wishes had been granted, alright. Even if it wasn't necessarily what he'd had in mind, and even though it wasn't unfolding in the most opportune of ways, it was pretty safe to assume that the days of hunching over a workbench for hours at a time were soon to be left in the past. One way or another.

Cries and whimpers and barked instructions were growing ever louder with each hurried step that took Sylar deeper down the rabbit hole. Once, he had prided himself in being capable of almost everything: godlike feats and impossible power that no mere mortal could ever dream of possessing! But now... Never had he felt so useless as when walking through this corridor of broken, dying and dead people. He had betrayed them, failed them in their time of need. And he could only imagine how terrible the most sensitive, wrongfully-penitent man on the planet must be feeling right now...

It was with that thought that Sylar held his breath and took the plunge into the packed, bustling chaos of the emergency room.

Like an invisible overseer, he stood apart from the mess that tumbled and weaved its never ending pattern around him. No matter where Sylar looked he was met by gruesome, harrowing sights of mayhem and despair. Doctors, nurses and EMTs swarmed around the stream of too many stretchers that just kept coming, pouring in like a river of bodies being passed from under-staffed hand to under-staffed hand. Civilians who had refused to leave were gathered and crying in the corner, finally given up on by the nurses who had five times their usual workload to attend to and knew their words would make no difference anyway. Multiple TV screens were broadcasting the horror that was now literally seeping into this room, the stench of those flames permeating the air miles from their source.

Thankfully, Sylar caught no mention of himself on the news, and nobody paid him any attention. Although probably that could also be pinned down to there being too many people crammed into the compact space for him to make an impact anyway. They were all rushing, fighting and swaying to do their best to help others through this ordeal... but after watching the scene unfold for a long, tense moment, Sylar discerned that Peter Petrelli was not amongst them.

Once the smell of clothing burned into skin became too sickening, Sylar turned his back on the madness and ducked into the nearest inset off the main room to catch his breath and settle his stomach. How the hell could Peter willingly spend all his time here?! Then again, Sylar thought with another perfectly-timed dollop of guilt, Peter hadn't spent countless hours of his life up to the elbows in warm, flowing blood as victims died slowly at his hand. So it was unlikely that the sights and smells would regurgitate quite the same unpleasant reminders in the little hero as they had the former killer.

Peter. Just think of Peter. Peter who was going to be rescued here today whether he liked it or not, and who was the only thing in this world that could lessen even an ounce of the remorse from Sylar's twisting gut. He had to tell him – he had to warn him before the pursuers got here!

It was only then that Sylar properly took in his new surroundings. It seemed he had conveniently stumbled into an information desk of some sort, which he gladly allowed to encourage him. "Excuse me?" He approached the woman busying herself in a drawer and cleared his throat, but his voice still escaped him a little huskily. "I'm looking for a paramedic who works here: Peter Petrelli? Can you tell me where he is? It's really important that I speak to him."

As the woman finished up with the drawer, Sylar buried his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking on his feet in agitation. Hopefully he didn't look like a murderer haunted by memories of his past violence. Hopefully he just looked like a normal guy shaken by the goings on around him... Despite himself, Sylar peeked back into the heart of disorder, eyes darting around every person in the vicinity. Still no messy-haired, hazel-eyed Petrelli in sight. In fact, he didn't recognise a single face in the crowd, which only added to his paranoia. Anyone at any time could be working for Bennet or whichever shady figure was signing his cheques nowadays. They could be here already, watching him. They could have already gotten to Peter...

Swallowing his rising fear, Sylar shook himself and turned back to the woman before him. Who hadn't even bothered to acknowledge his existence. "Hey!" Impatient now, he banged his hands too harshly on the desk. "What the hell d'you think "important" means?! I need to – oh! ...Emma!" Caught off guard, Sylar tried to adjust his expression into one of polite surprise when the oblivious woman finally looked up at the trembling desk.

Emma too, like everyone else within this building, was flustered, but her face broke into a pretty smile when she recognised him. "Sylar." She greeted, and suddenly the man in question felt awful for snapping at her. Now he understood that she hadn't ignored him out of rudeness. Just like Peter had told him far too many times: she was a lovely woman, and Sylar found his smile very quickly became genuine. It was strange, but Emma Coolidge always seemed to exude a sense of calm and trust whenever Sylar met her. Which hadn't been too many times since the carnival, actually, but he was immensely grateful for that ability of hers right now. Not her ability ability, of course. Unless her power actually did have something to do with the pleasant aura that seemed to float around her? Perhaps... The power to draw people in, keep them calm, make them trust you...? To possess that one would be the solution to a lot of Sylar's problems, that was for sure. Wonderfully though, he felt not even the slightest inclination to kill this gentle woman in order to get his hands on such a treasure.

His hammering heart was slowing and for a moment he forgot what had just happened back at his shop. Having a normal interaction with someone who didn't hate him or wasn't out to kill him was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise smothering afternoon. "What are you doing still behind a desk? I thought you were going back to Clown College?" He asked, trying to adjust his stance to come across as casually leaning on the desk instead of having just been caught taking out a tantrum on it.

Emma shrugged her shoulders with a sad, but not self-pitying, smile. "Next year. Hopefully. Until then there's nowhere else I'd rather be." Of course. Sylar remembered now: she'd applied to medical school and been rejected, Peter had said. Peter had also said not to bring up the topic. Shit. Sylar rocked on the spot, becoming restless and anxious once again now he'd gone and put his foot in it. Thankfully, Emma graciously swooped in with a change in subject. "What can I help you with?" She prompted, signing some words as she spoke.

The sudden reminder of why he was here in the first place nipped harshly at Sylar's conscience. "Uh... Peter." He repeated, gently this time, suddenly aware of his pronunciation. The way Emma watched his mouth when he spoke made Sylar want to slow down but he knew it was unnecessary, not to mention condescending, to change how he acted with her due to the fact that she was hearing impaired. "Have you seen him? It's really important."

As Sylar gestured back to the ruckus in the next room, a flicker of sadness caught Emma's features. She leaned around Sylar, but the man kept his feet planted firmly so he wouldn't be tempted to look back again and have yet another ghastly wound or spilled bodily liquid of some sort stamped across his vision as more fuel for his nightmares.

"He was here a minute ago, running all over the place..." Sylar didn't even need to be looking at the scene at his back to read it all clearly on Emma's face. She shook her head, sitting back in her seat. "I'm sorry, it's been crazy here since the... well –"

"It's okay..." Sylar nodded briskly. He didn't need to hear it said aloud. At least Peter was or had recently been nearby, even if he was probably killing himself to tend to as many patients as possible. Sylar shouldn't have been surprised in the slightest, but actually hearing Emma's confirmation made his throat constrict painfully. Who would have thought that one not-so-little explosion miles out at sea could cause such trauma back here...?

Sylar dragged his mind out of the pit it was threatening to wallow in. So what now? He really ought to wait for Peter in the emergency room, he supposed. Time was precious, after all. But he didn't even know how long it would be before the paramedic happened to cross his path. And the watchmaker didn't much fancy the idea of standing face to face with the aftermath of destruction when it was all too real, too close and too horrific instead of this muted sense of distance beside a friendly, non-violent acquaintance...

Bailing out, Sylar rounded the desk and pointed to the drawer Emma had been struggling with before. "You need any help with that?" He waited until he had her attention before speaking, having made that mistake before. "Of course I'm not as highly qualified for the job as you are, but I can try my best..." Sylar's smile faltered a little when Emma's eyes narrowed, blinking at him as though he were crazy. Now that was a look he was used to, although it generally hadn't been deserved for simply volunteering to help with paperwork.

She studied his face for a long moment, and he was certain she was going to call him out on his avoidance. Instead she only wheeled her chair over to make room for him beside her, hiding a subtle, understanding smile. Sylar thankfully dropped to his knees to help with her task, put at ease by her discretion.

Apparently a file had been returned with its pages haphazardly thrown in, and it needed re-arranging and to be placed in the correct section in the drawer. It was rather tedious work, but tedious work was hardly unfamiliar to a watchmaker, after all. And this was decidedly more pleasant than his usual isolated set-up where sometimes he'd go days without speaking to another person. Occasionally the loose end of Emma's earphones would swing into Sylar's line of sight, distracting him, and he felt privileged to be one of the few people to be in on their true meaning. Being included in a secret was still a novelty to this man – that was something that people did with their friends, not that weird Gray kid who sat in the back of the class actually doing the assignment, nor the fearsome Sylar who was clearly evil and had no soul or humanity left to speak of. For the first time, Sylar wondered if Emma wasn't just a friend of his friend... he wondered if maybe she was his friend too? He had saved her life, he certainly enjoyed her company, and she didn't seem to be resenting his. If anything, she seemed to be pleased by his presence, and that simple fact felt... well... unbelievably good.

Chancing a peek at the woman beside him, Sylar saw that she wasn't even looking at him. She wasn't on her guard or wary of his proximity in the slightest. He caught and tamed his smile before it spread further: she was very sweet in a beautifully humble way, and honestly, he could understand why Peter liked her so much. For he knew that Peter did like her. He obviously cared about her enough to have fought endlessly for five years to break free from their prison to save her after all, although he hadn't mentioned her name much since then... Obviously, Sylar wasn't jealous. Just because he'd had only one friend, ever, didn't mean Peter was the same. And he didn't resent the guy's social circle expanding by another person or two, if it really had to. It was just... thought provoking is all.

Sylar allowed stray musings to wriggle into his consciousness as he quietly collected and sorted his papers in alphabetical order. He wondered if Peter even knew Emma that well. As far as he was aware, the pair had only had a few brief conversations... five long years ago. At the time it had been more than Peter had shared with anyone in a long time – but in the grand scheme of things, that was nothing at all to base a friendship around. Some people just clicked, though (not that Sylar would know this first-hand), and the pair seemed to have at least a few traits in common. The hospital, for one thing, good natures, for another... As Sylar had thought himself multiple times already just today: Emma was trustworthy, pretty and kind, and there was nothing for a soft-hearted empath not to like about her.

But did Peter know what foods she hated and what to make her on a bad day? Did he know how close to tiptoe in fights or in play before crossing The Line? Would he scavenge the city for her favourite book if she were to wear out her old copy...?

It was a light pressure, a barely noticeable tingling sensation in his navel, that drew Sylar's head up to peer over the desk the very instant before yet another stretcher was wheeled into the hospital. One that, this time, was followed by a head to toe wave of relief on Sylar's part. Whereas spending time with Emma had been an agreeable distraction, nothing could ever match the unique sensation that always accompanied setting eyes on Peter Petrelli after a prolonged absence.

( )

"Hey, it's okay, Jimmy. Look: we're here now -"

"Don't... go..."

"I'm not going anywhere, I'm right here, okay, buddy? I'll be right here until the nurses come to get you. They're gonna take real good care of you, alright?" Peter rested a badly shaking hand on his patient's non-wounded shoulder, being careful not to be painful or heavy, but merely a comforting presence. By some miracle his voice came out steady, and he even managed a reassuring smile when Jimmy's dazed, bloodshot eyes found his face.

"Al... alright..." Jimmy wheezed, trusting the professional with everything he had. His face scrunched up in pain behind his oxygen mask, and while it was unpleasant to watch him be in discomfort, Peter knew that Jimmy was one of the lucky ones. Thankfully he had gotten away with mostly smoke-inhalation rather than the life-threatening burns that covered almost every other survivor recovered so far. "My... my frien...ds..."

"Hey, they're gonna be fine, alright? You need to concentrate on you for now, Jimmy. Can you do that for me?" Peter gently squeezed the ageing man's shoulder as his heart hammered painfully, knowing that it could well be minutes before a nurse came to retrieve this stretcher at the rate things were going in here.

"I r...ran with them... too hot... I got lost..."

"I know, I know, you told me, remember? It's okay. Just relax, we've got a great team out there. Your friends are gonna be fine..." Peter insisted, although he knew it wasn't true. He knew that amongst the group of people discovered in that section of the rig, Jimmy had been the only survivor.

He continued to soothe his patient, hoping to come across as encouraging and sturdy on the outside, while internally he was collapsing in on himself. With every assertion and false reassurance, his very foundations crumbled and shook at such deception. How the fuck had he used to do this?! He'd been fooling himself thinking he was getting better at work! Really, the sad truth had finally come to light: he was only a useless, bumbling fool playing at doctor – for in the face of this emergency, the first full-scale one since his return to reality, Peter felt his training and old instincts trickling away like water through his fingers. He should have been helping the most when so many patients needed his medical care, but instead he had only come to realise just how much he couldn't do anymore. He was out of sync, just couldn't remember how it all should work: he knew the protocol, but somehow it just refused to be put into practice, no matter how hard he tried.

There was nothing he could do for Jimmy, for Elizabeth, for Ian or all the others and their burns and gaping wounds. While flight had been the perfect ability to have in order to get to the site of the accident as soon as the call had come in, it was no help whatsoever now. Peter's only tools for this trade were hollow words and false hope, a lie to postpone the inevitable moment when Jimmy would come to hear that wait, sorry, none of his friends had made it home from work after all.

Peter was supposed to be a hero, but what good was that when all he could do was lie to these poor people in the most terrifying moments of their lives while their whole world and body had been blown to hell...?

( )

The sight of him alone made Sylar's chest ache. Even from the other side of the room, he knew exactly what his friend was experiencing in that moment. He could read it from his body language, the tension in his back and the way his movements were weighted and careful as he fussed over an older black man on a stretcher. Pleas for help practically wafted from his smaller frame, and Sylar knew he was the only person who could answer the call.

The initial relief at finding his ally hadn't faded in the slightest, but it was marred by even more guilt. With one glance he could see just how heavily this scenario was impacting the easily-bruised empath. Peter was deathly pale, his face glistening with perspiration and featuring dark shadows around his eyes. He was covered in soot, dust and other people's blood, and by the looks of him he hadn't slept in a week – however, he stood strongly and sturdily, braving his way through the day like always. Sylar knew Peter had been having trouble sleeping in the bustling noise of the city and that he was finding each day a challenge amongst the chaos of New York, yet still he got up bright and early, day after day, and poured his soul into this place... He was a strong little man, that was for sure.

Although the gruesome sight of Peter's bloodstained appearance was on par with the others he'd seen in this place so far, Sylar clambered up from behind Emma's desk, signalled his departure and let his feet carry him across the dreaded room he'd been so pointedly avoiding. Somehow it wasn't as difficult to venture forth into the noisy, pungent sea when he had a trustworthy beacon to guide him onwards.

( )

"We'll take him from here..."

The loud voice by Peter's ear startled him, but he quickly recovered himself enough to aid the two nurses in getting Jimmy's stretcher rolling down the corridor. Breathing heavily, he gripped the bar of the bed with white knuckles until he was dismissed, then watched the poor guy's face until he was wheeled out of sight. Then, and only then, Peter finally succumbed to the pins and needles numbing his limbs and backed into the nearest wall, hiding from sight behind the slight cover of a medical shelving unit.

He peeled off and disposed of his soiled gloves before rubbing a hand over his face. Shit... it didn't used to be so difficult. He felt physically drained to the point of collapse, traumatised by the scene at the rig and haunted by the smell of burned flesh that would surely linger in his senses forever. It just kept going. It was all so noisy, so brash, so constant, and Peter hadn't stopped moving for one second since taking to the skies in the direction of the ocean. Fuck – so many people had died today for no reason, and he couldn't even help the ones who hadn't!

Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, Peter let his throbbing eyelids slide closed for a brief, vital, ten second respite – and that was all the time he would allow himself. Images danced against the pulsing darkness and his aching eyes stung from exhaustion alone and it would be so easy to slide to the floor right here and now and wish to disappear from it all... so easy... he was so small anyway, so helpless, just a nuisance really... maybe it would be best for everyone if he were to just stay out the way...?

Suddenly, with a lurch of his heart, Peter knew he'd been caught hiding. It should have been another mound of stress to add to the overspill, but instead – with a wondrous, spine-tingling shiver – he felt the lid of his internal pressure valve lift before his observer need even speak a word.

"Just look at you..."

Peter's eyes snapped open and he hauled himself off the wall, clearing his throat and extending a hand. "Sylar..." He coughed, allowing that significant face to settle the hysteria thriving within him like water over a fire. Thank god... someone who understood... someone who he didn't have to pretend with... It felt like months since he'd last seen this man, but at the same time only minutes, and Peter doubted he'd ever been more relieved to see the figure who had used to haunt his nightmares in a different life. Everything: from the black, pointy-toed shoes (the very same ones he'd worn throughout the duration of their shared sentence, Peter was certain) to the fact that this morning he had willingly picked out the sweater Peter had got him, was comforting. And the empath wouldn't have been able to refrain from touching even if he'd wanted to.

He grabbed onto Sylar's sleeve the second they met, squeezing gently into the crook of his elbow. Just that simple indulgence that Sylar always allowed him was enough to unwind a great deal of the lead knot that used to be his internal organs.

( )

"The explosion! I was there! I was one of the first people on scene... God, Sylar it was awful..." Peter gushed, his large eyes darting around the corridor for any eavesdroppers. From afar, he could possibly have seemed like just an average, tired paramedic... if he wasn't clinging onto Sylar as if his life depended on it.

The poor guy looked even worse up close: driven to the point of tears, all worked up and trembling, hair limp from all the times he'd brushed it back and eyes shadowed from lack of rest. A fresh surge of sympathy roared to life within Sylar at the sight of Peter's tired visage and hollowed cheeks, and the knowledge that he'd inadvertently walked in on him while he was trying to catch a second of much needed time out. He wanted to say something encouraging to lighten Peter's burden, but not if it meant he'd be lying.

"I know..." He struggled to voice the next part, the worst part, but the silence was filled before he even had much time to hesitate.

"There were so many of them... those people... and I couldn't – couldn't do anything!" The little man continued to knead Sylar's elbow with his fingers, playing him in a tune that eased them both ever so slightly. He'd looked so proficient when tending to that guy on the stretcher before, his true anguish only visible because Sylar knew everything about him. But now that these words were finally tumbling forth from his heavily-bitten lips, withheld distress was beginning to brim along his lashes.

Peter didn't even seem to care why Sylar had randomly turned up at his work in the middle of the afternoon – he was just grateful to see him, it seemed. The watchmaker hid his sizzling emotion from his face, dreading stomping all over his friend's temporary solace with the nasty issue of Noah Bennet. If Sylar wasn't fully aware that the youngest Petrelli member was much hardier than he looked, he would have feared that the news would have physically defeated his fatigued body. No, it was the emotional side he had to worry about. He didn't even know how to put it all into words.

So instead, Sylar stuck to his earlier plan and did the only thing he knew he could to help his friend in this moment. He clutched for Peter's free hand and grasped it tightly, comfortingly, despairing at the cold, clammy skin of his companion. "Use regeneration." He urged matter-of-factly, as if it was only a suggested pick-me-up and not a desperately needed lifeline.

Peter's eyes widened, his slight confusion at the sudden touch clearing up instantly. "Hey – hey that's brilliant!" He enthused, cradling Sylar's hand in both of his own before closing his eyes in concentration, unspooling the ability from within Sylar and feeding it into himself.

The pair stood facing each other in the busy corridor, holding hands in the midst of the vague mass of other people while the subtle golden light caressed their touching skin.

Sylar breathed more easily as he witnessed colour rush into Peter's cheeks, the darkness around his eyes fade, and warmth flood the man's skin. Good. Now he could go another few weeks in the state he liked to run himself before needing another sip of the elixir of life.

Peter let out a gruff gasp at the sensation, then didn't hesitate for even a second to appreciate his now impeccable health. In an instant his hands were gone from Sylar's, he swiped up something from the medical shelves beside them, and then he was stalking down the corridor with his usual bandy-legged gait and a second lease of life that was evidentially going to be put to good use. Perturbed, Sylar hurried to catch up.

( )

"Wait – Peter...!"

Peter checked to see his friend was following, but never slowed in his new mission. There were still too many victims per staff member, and so too many stretchers just sitting about until someone got a second to see to them. He allowed himself only two seconds to decide on his destination before heading directly to the nearest victim – a kid who must've been no older than twenty, and who was disfigured by a fresh, raw burn that tore all down the right side of his face.

"I need to talk to you..." Sylar interjected at his back, but Peter didn't reply while he summoned the courage to continue his current, and probably not very smart, plan. Everyone else was definitely too busy and distracted to notice what he was doing, but that wasn't even the reason for his pause.

Steadily, he readied his newly-recovered scalpel. Ever since his journey to the future he'd tended to avoid such tools and the unpleasant associations with torture and his own beloved niece. Even now he was hesitant, drawing back on Claire's visit that afternoon and how fast she was growing up... but this wasn't about him. Or Claire. Pushing on through the fear, Peter lofted the scalpel and sliced it down the length of his palm. The blade burned and he groaned, trying not to remember that same pain carving his chest, then quickly got to work before the wound could start to heal.

Disobeying one of the most important rules drummed into him on the job, Peter pressed his open wound onto the broken skin of the young man and allowed his blood to transfer between them. Please work... please work... he wasn't even sure if this was an effective way to perform the transfusion, but under the circumstances it was the best he could do.

( )

Momentarily, Sylar forgot about the importance of what he had to tell Peter. He watched in silence, both curious and appalled by what the guy had just done... until the injured kid moaned, shuffled slightly on his stretcher and the burn on his face microscopically – but noticeably – began to repair itself.

Peter let out a triumphant breath of relief beside him, and before Sylar could even get another word out – he was off again. It was oddly intriguing to watch the paramedic hop around more waiting victims, calling the conscious ones all by name and slicing his veins open for them all again and again without hesitation. Sylar tailed him silently, watching the diluted, third generation repairing blood take effect at each bedside Peter visited. It was humbling to observe such diligence, selfless in a way that Sylar knew he had never been himself.

He had never seen Peter at work before. He had seen him work of course, five years alone was bound to result in some breaks and bruises (some accidental, most intentional), but being the patient and watching the patient were very different experiences, Sylar quickly realised. It took until Peter's sleeve was stained red and dripping that the primary emotion sitting inside his chest finally confessed it's name to the ex-villain... pride. He was immensely proud of his friend, his Peter, Peter the healer, Peter the hero who put so much into the world and expected nothing whatsoever in return.

Everyone thought of Peter Petrelli as the gentle, doe-eyed dreamer who had never done anything worthwhile in his life. Sylar suspected that Angela was no where near as proud of her own son as he was of his comrade, he was pretty certain that Noah Bennet thought of him as pliable and weak, and knew from memory that even Nathan had only seen a kid brother who always tried too hard and failed miserably in every task he undertook. None of them knew the real Peter. They never even bothered to look past their false perceptions and see that, really, he might just outshine all their expectations.

Nobody else seemed to realise how precious he was, how unique. A "hero" like The Miracle Girl could pose for pictures and shake a few hands to get all the praise and adoration that her stupid, blind fans could possibly throw at her. But in Sylar's opinion, the most admirable deed was one committed not for fame and glory – but for no personal gain at all. It was why the concept of "heroes" had always evaded him, why the idea of that title still daunted him so, as tantalising as it was. All he could do was have faith in his capacity to ever really be so brave when the time came for him to prove himself.

Apparently nobody else but Peter would share this faith with him, if today alone was any indication. Already they were lining up with their rotten vegetables and pitchforks and, of course, the first in line of the opposition was none other than ol' Horn Rimmed Glasses, himself.

( )

"Peter, please, you need to listen to me..."

Shit. The blood wasn't working as well as it did on Claire, or Sylar, or even himself, and it was a fraction of the effect that Peter had once watched a pure batch of the stuff have on his brother's burned and distorted face – but at least it was doing something. Once more he pierced his skin with the sharp blade, then clasped a hand over an open gash in an unconscious patient's chest. He waited for only a second, long enough to see the man rouse just slightly, before wielding the scalpel again and moving on to the next stretcher, the next charge, his next duty -

But before he could reach it, he was tugged back roughly. "Peter!" Disgruntled by the jostle, Peter finally shook himself out of his tunnel vision enough to meet his friend's wild, worried eyes. "We have to leave." Sylar stated, the words sharply jabbing Peter's already aching cranium.

( )

"What? Why? What're you talking about...?" The look on the guy's face burned another mark on Sylar's conscience. He looked so startled, so horrified, as if Sylar had just said the most terrible thing in the world. Oh, if he only knew.

Sylar raked his fingers through his hair, gathering courage, and launched into the tale in one breath. "I just got a visit from Bennet and his merry men." Confused, Peter blinked as Sylar brandished his arms in frustration. All of the insult and anger he'd managed to forget rushed back all at once, tripping up his tongue. "He's saying... he's saying that I did this – the oil rig – he tried to take me in, he shot me with darts! I managed to get away but he said he's been tracking us!" If it was possible for words to ring out while subsequently being swallowed by the surrounding ruckus, Sylar would swear it happened when he next spoke. "And that means he's going to come after me... and, and you too."

Like ripping a band aid off too soon, too harshly, and waiting for the deceptively "healed" wound to start bleeding again, he watched anxiously as Peter took his time to catch up with the full scale of Sylar's statement.

"What?" A shadow of a frown marred the empath's brow. "Wait what? Noah Bennet?!" He narrowed his eyes as he tried to process the information.

"Yes, Noah Bennet! How many trigger-happy has beens do we know?"

"Hold on – Noah came to your shop claiming you -" Then Peter choked off as the full scale of the issue finally seemed to wallop the air from his body. "...All those people...?" He whispered, impassioned eyes shining again. Sylar couldn't bring himself to do anything other than affirm Peter's fear with a nod of his head. "B... but why's he saying it was -"

"Why d'you think? Because he wants an excuse to take me down!" Fearing rejection or a full-blown meltdown, Sylar grabbed onto the smaller man's arm, forgetting about the bloody sleeve until he felt it hot and wet underhand. For some reason, it didn't disgust him quite as much as the blood of everyone else in this place did, and he found it reasonably easy to ignore in order to aid his friend as the guy's fears cascaded around him.

( )

Things were all moving too slowly now, as if the hectic speed of the day so far was now being contrasted out of spite. Wasn't one major disaster enough for one day? Did it really have to get worse...? Sylar's words were still formatting inside Peter's head when the watchmaker continued, his fingers five throbbing pads of consolation. "We have to run, Peter. We have to leave this pretence of life behind us before they catch us!"

"...They...?"

Sylar sighed, as if catching a slip-up too late. "Yes. Bennet mentioned something about a new company -"

Peter's stomach only plummeted further. "Renautas... yeah..." He hissed, letting it all hit home, clunky and sore. 'All legal'?! 'Help evos integrate into the world'...?! Total bullshit. Noah was just up to his usual tricks, hiding behind the safety of a false corporation, a public mask for the deeds they were really committing behind the scenes! Even if it was under the guise of "helping people", since when was ambushing an... an evo and shooting them with darts for no reason 'legal'? Which then opened the prospect of Renautas – corrupt after all? Primatech would be child's play in comparison to this new, secret company who had feelers extended to almost every corner of the Earth already. And what about Claire...! Who had just skipped off to them today, naïve and hopeful about her new job...

Suddenly, Peter realised he wasn't breathing. For all he knew, maybe it was only the regeneration that was keeping him standing. Sylar's hand on his arm was the only anchor to the present moment, otherwise Peter would have easily thought he was slipping down the familiar path of his reoccurring nightmares.

"But why would Renautas frame you? Why now?" He croaked, kicking himself back into gear and fixing his head on straight for the reality of the situation. So far, the cause of the rig's collapse hadn't been determined, and with a sinking feeling, Peter suspected that it wasn't going to be a natural accident. Even if that was to be the choice story fed to the public.

( )

It was still as wonderful as the first time. That trust. Peter's absolute certainty in him. The usual struggle with how to compose those feelings battled within Sylar, but now was not the most opportune time to dwell on them. Not when both he and his only friend were still standing here out in the open as wanted men.

Casting a glance around them, Sylar started backing out of the emergency room, tugging a conceding Peter along gently by his wrist. "I don't know." He said bluntly, forcing his steady voice not to betray him. "But Bennet could be here any minute. He could use you to get to me, so we have to get out of here before -"

Rather too harshly, Peter pulled his arm free, staggering a little. "I can't leave!" He exclaimed as it finally sank in, looking around the chaos that was still flowing fully through the building. Fuck, Sylar knew that look. It always preceded a lost cause on his end. "I have to help these people!" Spurned on by his own words, Peter hastily got back to work, shedding his blood again with no reservations.

"Let the doctors take care of them -"

Peter moved on from a whimpering young woman to the next unattended stretcher. "The doctors can only do so much!" He confessed, keeping his voice low likely out of respect for his co-workers. "At best, all these people will be scarred for life – that's if they even survive! But a few drops of myblood can stop that from happening!" Another victim was wheeled past, this time crowded by hustling staff members. Sylar averted his eyes once he caught a glimpse of the charred, bark-like scales shrouding the arm of the patient – the worst so far – but not before he saw Peter clasp the hand in passing. And if Sylar wasn't mistaken, the burn looked a little less severe when he chanced a peek after the retreating stretcher. "The moment they leave this spot, I've lost them." Peter said, burning his defiant gaze directly into Sylar's. "If I run away now, someone might needlessly die, or someone who will be disabled for life could have fully recovered if I'd had five seconds with them!"

Well, shit. Of course that was going to be affective. There was no way for Sylar to demand or force Peter to leave now without aiding in the disastrous fates of innumerable people, and god knows he'd done enough of that already. It was emotional manipulation, in its purest form, true, yet still Sylar resented it. It wasn't fair, he hated the way he would now come across as heartless and selfish for simply trying to preserve himself and the only other important thing in his life. So much for a knight in shining armour.

Here he was, stumped for the countless time by this little Petrelli's obsessive need to never run away from a mission he'd devoted himself to! Peter's obstinate nature really was a trait that Sylar admired... but not in these times when it came back around to bite him.

"Fine. Stay here. But what're you going to do when Bennet comes for you? Huh? Throw a stethoscope at him?" He snapped, a mess of guilt and worry and endearment twisting together inside of him, spilling forth in the backwards facade of condescension. This was not how rescue missions were supposed to go!

"How about I tell him what I think of him...?" Peter mumbled, busying himself over another abandoned stretcher. Sylar trailed him from just an inch away, suddenly very aware of every millimetre of distance in this huge, over-populated world.

"Don't be so idiotic, Peter." Sylar knew that he'd be alright. He could more than look after himself if need be, and really he pitied whoever tried to confront him down a dark alley. But nobody would ever notice someone dragging this little man off in the midst of all this hubbub and the thought turned Sylar's insides to ice. He wished he could properly emote his concern, but under the strain of everything going on at once, he found it so much easier to just mask his fear with derision. "I know more than anyone how dangerously ignorant you are, but do you really think you can outmatch this – this Renautas thing...?!"

( )

Peter allowed the provocation to wash over him and roll down his shoulders without leaving a mark. It wasn't particularly nice to endure, but he was well aware that Sylar's antagonising was really just care. It was touching that his friend was worried enough about him to get into such a state, but Peter knew he couldn't turn his back on his current duty here to run off into the sunset while things were still so far from okay.

Now settled into the routine of these unconventional transfusions, Peter found his body working almost on autopilot while his mind continued to sway dizzyingly. It was all far too much to absorb in such a short time, but he somehow managed to muster up an only slightly-transparent semblance of calm. Pausing in his administrations, Peter tore his attention from the woman's wrist under his hand to lock eyes with Sylar's bright, exasperated eyes. "He can't hurt me. Alright? Not with this power."

"Actually he can. He can shoot you in the head long enough to sedate you, apparently. He was very specific about that."

Peter bristled a little at that knowledge. He supposed it was true, and the ramifications of that weren't very encouraging. Releasing an irritated sigh, Peter shook his hair out of his eyes and moved on to the next patient. Sylar followed obediently, right up in his face like he always was when riled up. "Noah's not gonna charge in here and shoot me in the head in the middle of the emergency room." Peter stated from beneath raised eyebrows, hoping it was true.

For just an instant, there was a flicker of a disobedient laugh at the corner of Sylar's mouth. But then it was forcefully shoved back in light of stronger, more raw aggravation. And more than a little hurt. "So what's you plan then? What about me? What do I do while you're running around here playing Florence Nightingale? Or don't you care?"

"Of course I do!" Peter sighed again, stretched-out and stressed and drowning under so much responsibility. Sure, Sylar was Peter's source of reassurance. But Peter was also Sylar's. Long ago they'd learned to both depend on the other, and to deal with the consequences of having to hold each other up rather than to lean all one's weight into a single, crumbling tower of stability. It seemed that Peter's turn of being looked after had run its course for the evening, and while he was currently in no state whatsoever to be making important decisions, he knew that Sylar badly needed that from him right now. "Listen: go back to my place, wait for me there. I dunno when I'll be done but I'll try to get back to you as soon as I can, alright?"

Sylar actually snorted. "Back to your place? Right. You mean the most obvious hiding place in the entire world...? That's a good one -"

"Well I dunno!" Peter finally cracked, rounding on his friend in annoyance and swiping his hair out of his eyes before remembering his hands weren't exactly clean. "I don't have a plan here, Sylar! I'm just trying to do as much as I can, when I can. What d'you suggest...?"

Sylar's lack of response wasn't entirely useful.

Trying in vain to wipe his hands clean on his uniform, Peter shouldered his way past the taller man and stubbornly continued in his plight. It might be unorthodox, but for the first time since starting back at work, Peter finally felt useful. Fuck protocol – bleeding into other people might be messy and clumsy and wrong on so many levels, but at least it was doing something productive! He wouldn't stop Sylar leaving if he wanted, but Peter wouldn't. He couldn't. Not when every single second and every single drop of blood could save someone's life.

Of course he understood Sylar's worry (and of course he was worried about the guy too), but everyone who knew the former killer was well aware that he wouldn't be taken down easily. He was the Strong One, the Resilient One, the one who nobody had ever managed to hold for long, at least on the outside. Yes, he was rightfully frightened, and Peter ached to be able to help everyone at once... but it just wasn't feasible. The choice was not one he wanted to dwell on, but when stripped back to the simple fact of the matter: Sylar would be alright for a few hours more, Peter was sure. But these people on the other hand... he physically couldn't drag himself away from them. Let Noah come if he had to, because Peter could even use the opportunity to call him out on a few things anyway...

( )

Sylar had known from the second that spark had flashed in Peter's hazel irises that he was going to lose this argument. That didn't make it any easier to accept though. He watched miserably as Peter Petrelli soared around his patients like an angel gifting life, reading from him the underlying fear and shame that the man refused to spit out into the open. Under any other circumstance, Sylar would have been inclined to feel abandoned after trying to do something noble. Except this time, while angry, he honestly couldn't fault the guy for wanting to do everything he could after witnessing the horror of the explosion. It wasn't that Peter had chosen them over him, of that Sylar had no doubt, because Peter never chose one person over the other – instead his care was constantly flowing out of multiple outlets at once, just in varying degrees of volume. It was an enviable skill, one Sylar was yet to come across in anyone else. However, it was also rather inopportune, such as in this particular circumstance when the primary outlet was not pointing in his direction.

Grudgingly, he was forced to accept that there was nothing he could do or say to get his friend out of this building, save telekinetically carrying him through the air, kicking and screaming. Sylar toyed briefly with the thought, just for the fun of it, to knock Peter down a peg or two after so easily winning their disagreement and shrugging off Sylar's valiant attempt to rescue him. But it would only be a petty means to assert himself.

His blood was still burning as it thumped through his veins, pulse elevated by the palpable pressure of the day's events. It was tempting to blatantly refuse to calm down, refuse to happily dance off and await the other man at his apartment like some lovesick pet or housewife. Normally at this stage of an argument, Sylar would storm away to lick his wounds while Peter fermented, both men unwilling to admit defeat until later. Normally Sylar would walk out without a backwards glance, sticking to his guns for the whole hog. But this time, there was so much more at stake than two men's fragile egos.

"Peter?" He called after the other man, annoyed to hear it sound a little whiny. To his credit, the paramedic did look back, and Sylar noticed the very moment his defences lowered in the absence of direct conflict. "...Get home safe." With those words all the hot air flowed from him, deflating his anger into disgruntled compliance.

Peter's eyes softened and he nodded, both accepting and returning the words in the same motion. Damn it, Sylar always hated leaving him. Even when there wasn't the danger of an unknown Company thrown into the mix. He could feel the same thought radiating his way from the other man, which was at least a little comfort in the wake of his epic fail. Sylar hadn't thought this heroic plan through properly, clearly, and until now he hadn't even entertained the thought that he'd have to leave this hospital without Peter. What if Bennet did come for him? Or something worse happened? It couldn't bear thinking about. At least Peter's track record of annoyingly bouncing back from any obstacle Sylar threw at him was something of a reassurance. This wasn't exactly his first rodeo.

For a prolonged second the two men stood entangled by the unspoken words tainting their gaze, until yet another wash of wounded bodies were wheeled into the room, severing the silent conversation. With only a slight hesitance, Peter turned and disappeared into the throng of the commotion, leaving Sylar alone once again in the depths of this human tide.

He quickly fled the pungent, crowded place, caught Emma's small smile on the way out, and stomped his way to the fateful rooftop of Mercy Heights hospital. 'Go to my place' – please! That would certainly be the first place Bennet would look for them. It was probably bugged by now – no – probably had been for weeks already! The thought sickened Sylar as he climbed the stairs on legs that steadily lost feeling. Surely it would be asking for trouble to hide out there for god knows how long before Peter finally pried himself free from his beloved work and came home what could be days from now...?

The rooftop was exactly the same as the last time he'd stood here. As Nathan. Chills rolled down his spine at the recollection, and he wielded his irritation at Peter against the painful other feelings that were nagging at him. The air was crisp and cool, the most beautiful substance in the world in the wake of the stuffy corridors downstairs, and Sylar drank it in gladly as he considered his exit strategy, trying to put his intelligence to good use here.

The smart thing to do... would be to disappear right now. Before anyone could get a handle on him. He used to do it, and in fact: in the old days, Sylar would've been long gone by now. This stupid 'rescue attempt' had only endangered him more and wasted so much time that could have been spent escaping! This was exactly why Sylar had no friends! So they couldn't hold him back and possibly get him killed – or as close to killed as he ever could be.

His survival instinct was screaming, begging, persuading him to just cut his losses and run now while he still had the chance...! Instead, he lifted off into the sky and willingly set out across the skyscrapers for the world's dumbest hideout (and probably his own capture). Because Sylar, the master of disguise, the immortal man, the famous Houdini, would rather gamble with his freedom than run away without Peter.

( )( )( )

He lost track of time. Hours or minutes could have passed in the constant whirlwind of disaster, and all Peter could do was try not to dwell on Sylar, or Renautas, or an unforeseen bullet to the brain while immersing himself fully in his duties to the best of his... ability.

He was so deep in concentration (trying his best to settle Mr and Mr Mills so he could subtly hold onto the couple's hands long enough for his blood to take effect) that the sound of a non-injured voice calling from nearby caught him completely off guard.

"Talk about a busy day at the office, right?"

Peter jumped around on defence, heart leaping into his throat and absolutely anticipating a full-on ambush in the midst of countless witnesses despite the line he'd span for Sylar earlier. But instead he was only greeted by a hot plastic cup being pressed into his palm and an amicable clap to the shoulder. Too late, Peter tried to downplay his startled reaction. "Hey, man." He acknowledged, forcing a grateful smile in response to his work partner's kind gesture. He hadn't seen him since the call had come in for the rig and they'd been divided by the hectic schedule.

"When d'you last eat?" Hesam asked, taking a swig from a matching cup of his own. Avoiding the question, Peter turned back to Mr and Mr Mills, only to see their stretchers had finally been recovered. And that the gashes on their skin were fading around the edges. Thank god. "I'm serious, Pete. You need to take a second to chill."

Hesam's eyes on his face drew Peter's awareness tightly back onto himself for the first time in what felt like hours. However, a quick glance at the clock on the wall revealed that it had barely been thirty minutes since Sylar had left. Christ, it was going to be a long day...

"I'm fine." Peter insisted. True, his physical ailments were no longer an issue, yet now that the evasive caffeinated substance he'd been craving all day was finally within his clutches, it couldn't harm to take a few seconds to enjoy it, right? Technically speaking, they weren't supposed to drink on the job – but Peter needed the coffee and couldn't afford a proper break, and so drinking it as quickly as possible would have to suffice. "Thanks, though." He added, gratefully glugging the scalding liquid with only a slight wince at the pain that tore at his tongue and throat before regeneration kicked in.

( )

Despite the shit show of a day, and having far from a reason to laugh, Hesam couldn't help but find it amusing to witness yet another of these weird little things that Peter Petrelli could always somehow get away with but nobody else could... His own coffee was barely cool enough to sip, and the tingling on his palm told him that Peter's was definitely the same temperature, if not hotter. Yet here he was, downing the drink as easily as if it were water.

At least the guy didn't look like death warmed up anymore. In fact, he suddenly looked as if he'd impossibly slept three weeks in the half hour since Hesam had last caught sight of him in passing in the corridor. That, there, was another of those unexplainable mysteries about Peter: like that humble smile that held a thousand secrets; like how he could work so many shifts in a row without collapsing; like how he had somehow got to the oil rig ahead of everyone else although they'd left at the same time and he hadn't been in any of the vehicles...

Eyes roaming over his partner now, Hesam tried not to look as concerned as he was. Peter was covered in far more blood and gore than he should have been, and Hesam knew for sure he'd skipped out on all his breaks – even before that rig had exploded. A coffee was the least he could provide, easier (apparently) to swallow than advice or probing questions that never did any good anyway. And so coffee had been his chosen olive branch, a brief exemption for the floundering man who might be in need of it.

Any fool could see that Pete hadn't been the same these past few weeks. You didn't need to be his partner on call to witness it. Something had clicked within the man, something had changed... or rather, the world had changed and suddenly Peter's was thrown up into disrepair.

Hesam was about ninety five percent sure that Peter was an evo. Of course, he hadn't voiced this aloud. He didn't condone the people who were ratting out their friends for their fifteen seconds of fame or whatever, and it didn't even matter to him. When it all came down to it: Pete was Pete, no matter what species of human that happened to be. It would make so much sense if Peter had a superpower though, answer so many open questions and tie up those loose ends that had driven Hesam mad over all the time he'd known the man. He had always had a secret life on the side, and now the Iranian finally had his suspected explanation to all these secrets: Peter's odd behaviour since Claire Bennet (the guy's niece of all people!) had revealed evolved humans to the world; his association with his brother's shooting and miraculous recovery; his public, news-worthy disappearance after the "comet" incident above the city a few years back... the few, lengthy absences over the years were all taking on a new meaning under this now unobstructed gaze.

Hesam watched as Peter finished the final dregs of his coffee within twenty seconds of his first sip, then coughed and wiped his mouth on a sporadic clean patch of his bloody sleeve. Any other time, Hesam might have been tempted to quiz the other man about his miraculous devouring of a freshly-brewed beverage, but now was not the time for it. Jokes and teasing were laden today, held down beneath the weight of the crisis at sea that was still ongoing through this building like a stampede.

And so he just patted Peter's shoulder again, a quiet, understanding sign of comradery. There was no question that Peter was going to dive right back into the thick of things, but unlike him, Hesam wasn't gifted with the resilience of a thousand men. His very normal, human form needed a rest now and then before continuing with this job that he loved. He would have liked to invite Peter to the cafeteria with him, but when had that offer ever been taken up on?

Heading to set off, Hesam flashed a consoling smile. "Take it easy alright, man?"

( )

Peter caught the last drop of hot coffee as it ran down the centre of his lip, feeling the burn shrink instantly in its wake. "You've got this." Hesam added. "There's nobody else here does a better job than you."

It was either the caffeine, the kindness, or simply the light human touch that did it, but suddenly Peter felt much more equipped to face the rest of the day. Somehow he could breathe deeper, stand up straighter, and if he stretched far enough his fingertips could scramble at both sides of the gaping crevice within his sanity. It was something as small as a few short words with a co-worker that reminded the empath that he really wasn't alone here. He wasn't the only person trying to save lives, even if his blood was (probably) the only thing here that could reverse the damage done to them.

The deep, murky waters began to ebb away, and Peter felt himself flush under the praise of another. Praise that was always a treasured rarity, but he couldn't begin to express how much Hesam's words meant to him right then, when he had needed them most. Peter smiled in return, a genuinely thankful gesture the likes of which he hadn't felt in what felt like far too long (had it really only been this morning when Claire had visited and he'd actually felt half alright...?).

For the briefest moment, Peter felt the faintest touch of a revelation haunting just outside his perception, almost within reach, almost within focus... that it really didn't have to be the World and Himself. He almost remembered what it had been like before... back when he had belonged in this life before Matt Parkman had raped him of his place within it. Peter had used to be capable of great things – he had stood up to his father and stopped his deluded scheme, he had saved New York City from exploding, he had saved a young cheerleader from a deadly predator! The Company had been troublesome, yes, but he had overcome it more than a few times. Why should Renautas be any different...?

As if in response to this thought process, before another word could tumble past his lips... Peter accidentally looked over Hesam's shoulder. And locked eyes with one Noah Bennet.

( )

There he was. Typical. Out in the open rather than slipping away into hiding like the other one. That was why Noah had taken his time to get here – he knew there was no sense rushing things.

Despite himself, the agent felt a tiny spark warm him, for old times' sake. Peter was so predictable. Always too stubborn to back down from a confrontation, so sure that he was in the right of every predicament. He was astoundingly like his mother in that regard. However, very unlike Mrs Petrelli, it seemed that Peter had been more than a little emotionally swept up in the consequences of Sylar's latest, despicable deed.

It was a shame, in a way, that Noah knew he was about to shatter this empathetic young man with what he had to do next. He had never particularly enjoyed being the bearer of bad news, but when it went hand in hand with possibly destroying the cretin that had once been Gabriel Gray, it was a fair sacrifice to pay.

Noah waded his way through the mess of the emergency room, untouched by the waves of desolation that seemed to part to make way for his large presence. He never once broke his eye contact with the frozen, caught-in-the-headlights gaze of the paramedic before him. And didn't at all regret his call to venture forth alone, without his team behind him as a back-up. He wouldn't need them for what he was about to do. No. This needed a more... personal touch. Delivered man to man by a well-known acquaintance...

( )

It was funny how underplayed this was compared to thoughts of a hold-up hostage situation that Peter had allowed to run away with him, and how ridiculous the tough, scary figure he'd been distorting in his mind seemed now that Noah Bennet was actually walking towards him. Of course he was dangerous, formidable, and not the best person to piss off on a good day... but he was also kind-of-extended family, and used to be a sort of friend. Noah's sudden arrival had been shocking, yeah, but now that that impact was fading, Peter wasn't frightened of him in the slightest. Right then he felt only contempt for the man.

"Peter. Fancy seeing you here." The words were gently laid out in that ever-motionless tone, the one that, from the outside, could almost appear kindly. Noah sidled up behind Hesam, wearing half a smile and half a smirk, and tapped the Iranian on the arm. "Give us a minute would you? ...Good man."

Peter looked silently after Hesam as he retreated with his coffee and that curious, don't-ask-don't-tell expression that he'd taken to wearing a lot lately. Well, there went a perfect excuse not to turn this conversation ugly...

In the absence of a friendly witness, Peter felt his hackles instantly rise. He turned his back on this unwanted visitor, quickly busying himself with more patients, even as he was unable to pull his attention away from the ominous man at his shoulder. "I know why you're here." Peter stated, cutting right to the chase.

"Is that so?" Noah asked lightly, amused, and tension only rolled further over Peter like an inescapable cocoon. How dare he act like he'd done nothing?! When his employers were either using this disaster to their advantage, or had caused it for their own means...?!

Fighting to keep from shouting, Peter pointed a finger at Noah's chest. "You can say what you want! You and your company can pretend you're "helping people" or whatever – but I won't believe a word you say, Noah!" He spat, haunted by the after image of the shaken, hurt expression on Sylar's face when he'd stood exactly where Noah was standing now.

The middle-aged man expressionlessly let Peter vent, as obstinate as always and only serving to increase Peter's scorching emotions. After suffering through so many turmoils today alone, he was really not in the mood to play nice in the face of adversary.

"How could you blame all this on an innocent man? This was never his style anyway, even at his worst! Does this really scream "Sylar" to you? Huh?!" Peter seethed, his armour only fracturing more as he dropped his eyes back onto the victims of the attack. It was true: since when did the consistent M.O. of a habitual serial killer suddenly develop into mass-murder of non-specials for the gain of no ability or power at all?

Even if it were to somehow sound more believable than the desperate sham of an excuse that it was, Peter still wouldn't even fathom the idea that Sylar was involved in this disaster. No. He knew that man inside out, and while Peter might be crap at his proper paramedic procedure, and crap at masking his emotions the infuriating way that Bennet could always effortlessly do, his one feature that would never fail... was his loyalty.

Bennet's head tipped sadly and he sighed, wiping at a crack in the lens of his glasses. "Well it seems like you've already made up your mind about the whole ordeal, Peter."

"Yeah. I have." Peter bit out, feeling very much like he had back in school when standing up to a bully on the victim's behalf. Really, there wasn't much difference. That's what Noah was – a bully. All talk and manipulation, because he was lying and only pretending to be more powerful than he really was. "And nothing you say is gonna change my mind."

"Think back, Peter." Noah spoke slowly. "You must know he hates working in that shop. He's been desperate for a way out for weeks, and then look what just conveniently happened to set things in motion again. In all his accusations of blame, I'd bet he never once even denied it, did he?"

Peter glared with a steel gaze through those infamous spectacles. Refusing to entertain Noah's attempt to sway him, he stood his ground with all his might. He was preparing for a fight, ready to scrap right here in the middle of his workplace if need be, because he was far too wound up and worn and crumbling under the weight of every single victim's pain – including Sylar! – and the man responsible for that could very well be standing here before him!

But Noah just sighed again, conceding defeat. That, however, Peter wasn't prepared for. "Alright." The older man said, rocking back on his heels and slipping his hands into his pockets. "Don't listen. Watch." And suddenly a phone was being thrust under Peter's nose.

He stumbled back a little, regaining his balance. What the hell...? It took only a second for the insinuation of the device to filter through, and Peter almost knocked the thing to the ground in disgust. He wasn't even going to dignify this with his time! But then Noah raised his eyebrows, and that signature, calm voice curled out tauntingly like a snake's forked tongue.

"If you're so sure of your... friend... what're you afraid of?" He lofted the phone enough so that Peter could see a black and white grainy image dancing in his peripheral vision.

He didn't want to look. He didn't want to see whatever bullshit trick had been crafted to challenge his viewpoint. But Peter's core, his very centre, that same old loyalty,had been called into question. So, grudgingly he grabbed the phone and set his eyes on what appeared to be security camera footage of a man blazing his way through iron corridors.

And then Peter's blood ran cold.

It was the final knock to his being, the one so harrowing that he couldn't withstand it anymore, that drained all feeling from his body until he was nothing but pulsing heat behind traitorous eyes. It was a trick, he assured himself. An ability of sorts, a shape-shifter at work...! But... a shape-shifter wouldn't be able to assume a stolen appearance while simultaneously using telekinesis with that telltale, deadly precision...

Oh god... Peter had been so sure. But now... thinking back... Sylar had never actually said the words "I didn't do it". He'd been saddened by the injured, yeah, unfathomably guilty... and Peter had never even thought to ask himself why. Had he been too blind? Too trusting...? Again? Everything within him rushed towards denial, towards faith and hope and affection winning out. That had always been his first reaction to everything, after all. However, this sensitive man's sensitive core had been bent out of shape one too many times by Gabriel Gray to take this stab wound lightly.

There was that dull ache in the pit of his soul starting up again, starting to claw and rip and tear at the fabric Peter had over-stitched back together over the years of constant betrayals. It threatened to hurt like it had when Peter had first felt the creeping realisation that his mother was yet again at the foundations of another deception, the worst one of all: the death of her own son; pressure was bruising the cauterized wound that his father's 'death' and 'resurrection' had seared into him; it was that same old incision that Nathan had began way back when he'd thrown his younger brother under the bus to protect his campaign. Peter Petrelli knew that feeling far too well not to place the beginnings of it now... it was the unseen trauma that only accompanied being used by someone he cared deeply for.

He tried to swallow past the lump in his dry throat as he watched the dark figure on the screen bestow his abilities like a dreadful gift upon the interior of the oil rig. He wanted to believe the connection he'd felt binding him and his friend together, to be as sure of himself as he was just seconds ago before this footage had shattered his perception like a crack in broken glass, to ignore his eyes and head and heart all telling him he'd been wrong all along!

...But he couldn't. He'd know that man anywhere. The one who had chased him through highschool corridors. Who had sliced into his skull and left him for dead. The one who had been his only lifeline in an otherwise dead, empty existence. The one who had ravaged an oil rig out at sea and obliterated innocent lives with the expert ease he'd always possessed.

There was no mistaking him. It was Sylar.

A/N: Phew, now there's some food for thought X) Let me know what you think, as always, and I hope you thought this chapter was worth the (really long) wait!

I know I always say it, but at risk of sounding like a broken record: I'm sorry for such a delay between updates! DX It's not my choice, I can promise you. Damn real world is throwing off my groove...

Don't worry though, I am still writing, just not at the pace I want to. There absolutely will be more story to come, as soon as I can physically write it and get it up here hehe :P