Honey & Ice

"It's not Sylar."

Peter had stated it as if it was the most insignificant thing in the world. But then again he'd never been a good liar. Noah watched as the younger man handed the phone back to him, stiffly shouldered past and continued working. Or at least tried to give off that impression in the chaos that was finally showing signs of ebbing around them.

The paramedic hovered about the emergency room, either attempting to look busy or genuinely unsure of what to do next in the wake of such a disorientating body blow. Noah followed him, unable to suppress an inkling of sorrow at the other man's distress. He was cracking, like a building struggling to stay standing as it's vital bricks were smashed away. Yet when he spoke again his voice was strong, and it was only the doubt in his eyes that betrayed the belief in his own words.

"That could be anyone." Peter gestured to the phone held loosely in Noah's hand, the video still flickering on the screen. "Alright? It's not him."

It couldn't have been more obvious that he was covering for his... acquaintance. And heavily avoiding the facts that were spelled out clearly before him in black and white. Noah held less than one shred of uncertainty about the identity of the man caught on camera, for while the video wasnot of the best quality, it was enough. This footage, coupled with his team personally monitoring the killer's actions, not to mention a very credible source, all blatantly screamed one thing and one thing only: Sylar was guilty.

And Peter knew it too. The news must have hurt him, of that Noah had no doubt, but here he was still defending the honour of a man who didn't deserve an ounce of it. It was that same part within the youngest Petrelli son that the elder had known exactly how to play so he could get away with anything and everything in his brother's eyes. It was a shame, really, that in a grotesque, twisted act of fate, the man who had ripped that figure from Peter's life seemed to have stepped into his shoes to take over abusing him right where Nathan had left off.

The assignments where personal feelings were involved were always the toughest, but thankfully Noah did still possess a shadow of decency for situations such as this. He knew the plan, knew the importance of drilling the ugly truth home within Peter, and fully intended to do so. But that didn't mean he took pleasure in hurting the guy who had saved his daughter's – and his own – life more than once in the past. So Noah spoke gently, although he didn't have to.

"Sylar left his shop today. Disappeared off our radar just before the explosion." Peter stubbornly ignored this, instead settling on stopping beside one of the few stretchers that were still littered around. Then he hesitated, and for a second the seasoned agent's training flared and he was sure the kid was about to draw a weapon...! But no, he only lifted something to his palm that came away bloody, then pressed his hand onto the patient's wounded neck.

Regeneration...? Noah made a mental note to take that into account for later.

A gruff reply came from Peter's turned back. "That doesn't mean anything. He could have gone anywhere."

"Precisely. He could have gone anywhere." Noah could practically hear Peter's teeth grinding as he moved swiftly onto another stretcher. So this was how he had been spending this pivotal day? When Sylar had been causing the mess that Peter was now so valiantly trying to clean up, even after he knew the truth? "You know as well as I do who's on that footage. And you're right, I'll admit it – killing hundreds of people like this is not his usual style. But blasting through innocent lives to get his own way? That's a different story. He was never going to stay chained up like a pet for long, you should've known this better than anyone -"

Peter turned on him then, hurt welling up behind his eyes. "Why is it so hard to believe that he's the person he says he is?! Huh? People change, Noah!"

"...In my experience, never for the better."

The words lay there, thick and spoiled for a moment before Peter held himself up straighter. Despite this festering war building between the two men, there was true empathy in the youngest's eyes then. "Then I feel sorry for you."

And suddenly Peter wasn't an accomplice to Noah's primary target right then, or this wounded, brotherless mess of a person standing before him now. No, he was a lonely and isolated man with an empty fridge and an even emptier life, sitting beside Noah and waiting for a safety deposit box simply because he'd helped out when nobody else would. It was bizarre to think how much things had changed since Noah had advised Peter to consider some life changes those months ago. It was easy to say the guy wasn't shutting himself off from human interaction anymore, which would have been a positive thing... if he hadn't latched onto the worst possible person to be his saving grace.

"It's good that you went out there and made a change in your life, Peter. It's healthy to have friends, and if it was my advice that -"

Peter scoffed, running bloody fingers through his too long hair, apparently not for the first time judging by the dirty, sticky state of it. "I never set out to befriend Sylar of all people! I haven't forgotten what he's done! It's just..." He broke off, looking around the dissipating hysteria in the room as if re-evaluating his defence in the light of this fresh news. "...It's complicated. Okay? I didn't go looking for it. It just happened." The unapologetic look shining in those eyes reminded Noah very strongly of the boy's mother when she refused to justify her actions. It was easy to forget sometimes, but presently Noah was it clearly: Peter definitely was a Petrelli through and through.

This unbelievable partnership was an itch that Noah couldn't get rid of, one that bugged him like a splinter digging only deeper with the passage of time. He had mulled it over more than a few times since the rather clumsy phone call the morning after the Carnival, and now he was seriously entertaining the thought that some form of telepathy or mind control was at play here. It sounded far-fetched, but it was a hell of a lot easier to accept than this sudden, magical friendship that had formed out of nothing, and was the only other rational option he could think of apart from perhaps Peter and Sylar having had a secret thing going all along? There was just no other sensible foundation for this iron-clad fidelity that was wrong on so many levels. If Peter was brainwashed, then what happened next wouldn't be his choice, or fault. But if he wasn't... then he still deserved more tolerance than Noah would normally give a mark.

Mr Bennet heaved a great sigh. "You should know that if you stand by him... you'll be implicated. Who you are won't matter, not to my employers. And I won't be able to help you for old time's sake." The young man turned away again, seeking out another means of distraction in the form of someone else needing his help. He was trying to act like he wasn't affected by this conversation, Noah knew because that was his own choice tactic in a similar situation, but any idiot could see an empath's unbidden, true emotions frothing beneath the surface. They might be difficult to perfectly pinpoint and might refuse to freely spill forth, but that only succeeded in scalding the host internally. "I have to take him in."

"Then get some real evidence."

Ah, denial. Except this man's draft of the stuff was tainted. He was only following the motions, evidentially lying for someone he didn't even believe in anymore because he didn't know what else to do.

Swiftly moving on from that dead end (the hazy security footage was more than enough to incriminate Sylar to the right people anyway), Noah employed the next stage of his game plan. "Where is he? If you tell me, this doesn't have to turn into something worse than it already is."

"I thought you've been spying on us? Can't find him yourself?" Peter asked scathingly, worry and question thinly veiled beneath the accusation. Remarkable, although convenient – even after what he now knew, Peter still cared for Sylar's well-being. Now thatwas something that Noah couldn't identify with in the slightest.

The emergency room was emptying steadily. The stretchers had sufficiently dropped in number, the flow of them had almost run dry and the backlog was finally being addressed by the exhausted, stressed-out staff members. Soon, Peter would have no excuse not to look at Noah, and have nothing in the vicinity to distract him from the painful words he was trying to shake off.

"We lost him, actually." Noah said calmly. "He's quite a skilled evader."

"Well I dunno where he is." Another transparent lie. Just as expected. "And even if I did, d'you really think I'd tell you?"

"No." Which, in the end, was exactly the point. "I know you and Sylar think of me as the bad guy here -" It was almost hilarious in its irony. "- but there's no need for you to get caught in the crossfire of this whole mess."

Peter made as if to respond, probably arming sharp words in Noah's direction, but the pair fell still as two nurses hurried over to relieve the current stretcher Peter was attending to. The paramedic looked lost for a second without another perceivable means of escape, and as the place was now too exposed to continue his secret miracle healing, he was forced to confront Noah face to face once more.

"Can't you see I'm only trying to help you, Peter? You don't need to be involved at all." The company man said slowly, quietly, as to avoid unwanted eavesdropping.

Wheels squeaked on the linoleum as more stretchers retreated, and the crowd of non-emergency patients and bystanders was still wailing and babbling nearby. But somehow, when Peter spoke in a low, gruff tone, not one syllable was lost in the surrounding noise.

"Because I'm just a mindless pawn to be played by everybody else? You? Sylar? My mother? Is that it?" A frown decorated his brow and he crossed his arms firmly over his chest, holding himself together by force by the looks of it. "Look: I appreciate the heads up, but I don't need your help. I can take care of myself, Noah."

"...And Sylar?" Sure enough, Peter faltered once Noah had planted that seed. "You'll take care of him too? Harbour a killer and faithfully clean up his mess? That doesn't sound very like the Peter Petrelli I know."

Slowly, the empath turned away yet again, devastation pouring through the cracks in his failing armour like steam. Noah half expected another angry retort, or lie, or a defiant glare to end all glares, but instead Peter only hesitated long enough for few, quiet words before roaming shakily down the corridor in search of more damage to salve. "Then maybe I'm not who you think I am anymore."

As Noah allowed Peter to make his exit for now, the other man's last statement resonated through him like an off-tune twang of a guitar. It was uncomfortably jarring, although it probably wasn't intended to be as much. Noah suspectedthe words were lingering with him, the insinuation of them, because they were almost an exact echo of the same thing Sylar had said back in the musty watchmaker's shop. It was a leak of a shared identity crisis that the two men seemed to be under the impression of: 'I'm not that person anymore'. If that was true... who were they then? And what the hell was the missing piece to this infuriating puzzle...?

Pushing through that disjointing thought, Noah adjusted his company agent persona to re-assess the situation from a professional standpoint. Fine, if Peter would willingly choose Sylar, even after knowing what he'd done today, so be it. Mind-control or not, nobody was going to dissuade Peter Petrelli from a mission he'd set his heart on. He was a grown man who could make his own decisions, and so it was was only fair that he live with the repercussions of them. Which, if nothing else, definitely made the next part of Noah's job easier.

( )

Once all the victims from the explosion had been appropriately delivered to their next place, be that their final or temporary, Peter still had to keep moving. He had to be busy. He had to stay here because as soon as he stepped outside and the real world hit him, nothing would ever be the same.

It was hours later when Hesam finally convinced him that he needed to get out of the building. Like a reluctant dog being pried from the beach when he wasn't ready to go home, Peter grudgingly agreed that he had to leave sooner or later. This wasn't an ordinary day when he could work over indefinitely, or as long as he physically could (which, under his current ability, could be days at a time) and nobody would miss him elsewhere. Tonight was different, and Peter hadn't been able to shake the awareness for one second since Noah's unpleasant visit that someone was missing him right now. Someone he wasn't even sure he wanted to face.

But now the time had come when he could hide here no longer. Destiny waited for no one, and so currently Peter strode through the hospital corridors with a change of clean clothes in his bag and a lead weight in his heart, walking with the determination of another mission. He always hated using the showers here, but today called for some sacrifices. Yet the showers weren't the first place he headed. He was such a mess after today's shift, and the blood, sweat and gore coating him externally was the least of it. Fuck, everything was going to shit, just as he had been dreading all along...! Another Company pulling all the strings from the background; innocent people dying in swarms; Peter being forced from his life and hunted like an outlaw for something he wanted no part in... Or at the very least, being "implicated" by Sylar's -

No. No. Not Sylar's. He might now know anything for sure, but as long as there was a sliver of hope to be found then Peter would cling to it avidly with both hands. He shouldn't just believe Noah Bennet, king of lies,over the best friend he'd ever had. No matter how familiar the man on the video looked or what Noah had said or what Sylar hadn't. It wasn't fair to jump to conclusions before even giving the guy a chance to defend himself, and so until then Peter would try so fucking hard to retain his judgement, even though the dread was swallowing him whole and rendering him shaken and light-headed.

Upon collecting his belongings from his locker, Peter had been greeted by many missed calls and texts from Sylar himself (some as recent as within the hour, which was reassuring even if Peter still wasn't sure whether to be sick with relief or fury). Of course... there had been a message from Noah too, featuring an attachment. This one Peter didn't open. He didn't need to. The sight of that tall, thin figure with the dark coat and telekinetic precision was still playing on a constant loop behind his eyelids anyway.

Rubbing his grimy face with his hands, he backed up against the wall to avoid being jostled by more human traffic. The urge to stay and help tugged at him... but he knew he couldn't procrastinate any longer, so just pushed onwards through the labyrinthian corridors of the hospital with great difficulty. It would be dangerously easy to split along the edges from the inside out, but Peter fought with all the resolve he had left not to break down.

Why couldn't things just be simple... silent? For one day? An hour, then? Was it too much to ask for a break now and again to gather his senses, even before his frail pretence of a day to day life had been blown to smithereens by the big bad wolf and his army? The treadmill of life was spinning far too fast for this stumbling man but he knew if he slowed even slightly he'd fall and so there was nothing left to do but to keep running harder and faster and longer and let himself burn and fail and break because giving up wasn't even an option.

The only consolation were the few, brief, secret moments to do absolutely nothing. The moments that nobody else knew about.

It felt like forever before the door came into sight at last at the end of the corridor, and for the first time all day Peter gratefully slipped inside, not bothering to turn on the lights. Bathed in the thick, cool blackness and finally divided from the muffled racket of the hospital, he sank back against the closed door and let out a breath that made his legs go weak. God, he'd needed this. It was awful that he couldn't go a day without it, but right then he didn't care, he was just so grateful for this escape that belonged only to him. There wasn't long to hide though. He had but minutes before the world would find him here.

In the dark, the solitary silhouette trudged the well-worn path through the shelves and boxes to the back wall of the closet. The cold, rough brick met his fingertips and calmed him instantly, reeking of a time past and a distant world that he could never again reach. Was it wrong to yearn for the place that had imprisoned him for years? The place he had spent every day fighting to leave? During his sentence, Peter had never imagined that he'd actually long after the tranquil streets spanning the expanse of Sylar's mind once he lost it. But in hindsight, he regretted not even appreciating the situation for its full potential. Now it felt like a lost vacation of sorts that he hadn't noticed at the time, a blissful escape from all the chaos and lies and rejection that had filled almost every moment of the past few years of his life. How ironic, Peter mused, that he'd lived more ordinarily inside a dream than he ever had in life.

Now the closest thing he had left of that retirement was this closet. This was his place, the one he used in times of need, the safe place to hide where nobody else would have to share his pain. In here there was no one to impress, no one to disappoint and no one to hurt him. It was just Peter. Alone. It was the best re-enactment of the serenity of that dream that he had, a guilty pleasure that he knew he shouldn't want but also couldn't bear the thought of giving up even though he knew this was the last time he'd visit. He couldn't come back here. Not after today.

Sylar. The lifeline of him was too precious to endanger, but the rope was already fraying from Peter's end. He didn't want to ruin everything they'd built between them. He wished after the blissful ignorance and unquestionable trust he'd held for the man only hours ago, or at the very least to postpone the inevitable! Because even though it turned his stomach, and even though it tested the boundaries of Peter's steadfast morals – he knew that if Sylar had been involved in the disaster of today... he still didn't want to let go of him.

But he had to be strong. He had to be brave and fight for those poor souls who had been taken from the Earth too early today. He had to put on a display to hide that he was falling to pieces, and he had to confront the one person he had trusted more than himself, even if it hurt like hell to do it. He had to say goodbye to this quiet, safe haven amongst shelves and boxes and medical equipment because he couldn't return once he took the plunge into the jaws of the future that were gaping wide below him, waiting.

So Peter closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, imagining that strength and courage were seeping into his body along with air. Then he put his faith in falling, as he always did, and pushed himself off the wall, soaring over the edge of the unknown and into fate's hands.

( )( )( )

Fifteen. Sylar had recovered fifteen bugs from around Peter's apartment: some in the light fittings, some in the air vents, some beneath the bed and even one in the bathroom for fuck's sake! They were strewn everywhere they could possibly be, taking advantage of the recently refurbished place to hide amongst the mismatched armchairs, the shelves and even the rug that was supposed to make this hideout more cosy and homely than it had been previously. It wasn't a huge leap to assume that Sylar's home would be blemished with them too. The only comfort he could glean from the scenario was that at least the devices only captured audio. The thought of his and Peter's private conversations being snooped in on angered him to no end, but he didn't think he'd have been able to handle it if they'd been filmed too.

From his present viewpoint of sitting straight-backed and cross-legged on the couch, the tangle of wires and microphones stared up at Sylar from the new coffee table, ugly and mocking. It was dehumanising to be spied on like some godforsaken animal or criminal or worse! Although that was probably the point – 'evos' weren't humans, right? At least according to the world.

Evening was slipping into night, and by now Sylar was well and truly paranoid. He had scoured almost every inch of the place and was certain he hadn't missed another hidden microphone, yet he couldn't shake the sense that someone was still watching him. Someone was still listening. He hadn't said a word aloud since finding the bugs, just in case, and after conspicuously staging his escape had ensured to tiptoe around the apartment as quietly as a ghost. Throwing Bennet off his scent by openly flying out the window, only to sneak back in wielding a different face and the spare key Peter had given him would all be pointless if the disembodied ears caught him out anyway.

It had been hours. Perhaps not the longest hours of Sylar's life (there were a lot of those to go around), but somewhere within that bracket. It was impossible not to worry for his friend; for his safety, for his mental state... for his loyalty.

Sylar was trying so hard not to become that person. The one who waited up, unable to concentrate on anything due to panicking themselves into a heightened, hyper state that would take days to pass and imprint upon everyone else in the vicinity, no matter how many times they apologised for getting back late... He wasn't going to become his mother. Although the time he'd missed the bus after school and had to walk home for miles was hardly a fair comparison to this current situation.

Poor Peter. He'd already been floundering so much before today, what with still being out of sync with the rest of the world. Back behind that wall, they had both assumed (Peter had never actually said it of course, although it wasn't hard to interpret) that out of the two of them – it would be Sylar who would have more trouble adjusting if they finally got back. But that wasn't the case in reality. At first it had been nice to know that he wasn't going to be left alone in this sense of disjointedness while Peter skipped perfectly back into things with his family and work friends... but now it had passed the stage where he should be getting better, and Peter was only descending further. It was seriously worrying, especially after witnessing the guy at work – Sylar had always imagined that although he struggled there, it was worth it. After today though, he wasn't so sure anymore.

That last glimpse of him back at Mercy Heights was playing on repeat through Sylar's troubled mind. He had been so different than normal. Fractured. Ever since they'd broken free of Parkman's basement, the Peter Petrelli Sylar had come to know and care for hadn't quite been the same. Understandably there was a lot going on right now, but even then, Sylar worried for his only friend. Where was the guy who would never dream of turning away from someone begging him for help or attention? The optimistic young man who deliberately saw the best in every situation...? Peter had the most glorious, goofy laugh. In an odd way it didn't suit him at all, but at the same time couldn't possibly be replaced with another sound now that Sylar had been lucky enough to catch the illusive prize. Peter was ridiculously self-conscious of it (on those rare occasions he accidentally let slip more than a chuckle, that was), but the unique sound never failed to make anyone nearby smile, even if you were trying your damned best to stay mad at him! Sylar missed that laugh. He hadn't heard it in weeks, and never at all with his own ears outside their shared dream. It seemed impossible that those deep, happy hiccups could live within the tormented man at the hospital today.

Of course Peter was still Peter: doing everything in and beyond his power to help other people despite the personal repercussions. But that wasn't all there was to him. There was that other side, the young, playful, shy side that retreated when tickled and only shone brightest in the safe confines of privacy. And a giant wall around the enclosure of a city had sure been private enough. Nathan had known that Peter well: the man who would rock sheepishly on his feet when putting himself out there, the brother who loved to tease and toy with him in front of important friends and colleagues, the young nurse who had laughed upon being gifted women's shoes after graduation... It had seemed bizarre, at first, to liken those memories to the sole other inhabitant sharing Sylar's empty city. But then, over time, he had gotten so used to that part of Peter shining at the forefront that he had almost forgotten what it had been like to know him as only reserved, angry and wounded. And there had been unpleasant, whispered reminders of that today.

There was no ignoring it – Peter was suffering greatly. Sylar knew why though. He was an immensely intelligent man after all, even before adding to the fact that his intuitive aptitude and head-to-toe knowledge of the other man provided him with the best insight out of anyone else Peter knew. The empath was hurting so badly back here in the real world simply because he was too caring. Too good. He opened his heart up for everyone without meaning to – he couldn't help it, it was just how he was – and in the same way he had let an infamous killer into his heart, Peter Petrelli couldn't shut himself off if he tried. He was too receptive of everyone around him, and that outside force suddenly jumping up from literally one to several billion all at once was bound to be overwhelming.

Surely there must be a limit to the amount of third party pain someone could take upon themselves before they collapsed under the strain? Peter had already been fragile after five years away, where his hardier exterior had softened in the absence of reality. And instead of taking some time to simply settle in first, the little idiot had launched himself from the deepest depths of retirement back into a lifestyle that was too rough for him, too brutal and uncaring of the cracks peppered across his form that needed tender, loving care first. Or at least a tightly wound bandage to prevent any more damage being done. Still though, Sylar had tried to advise him against it, so it was hardly his fault that Peter was failing and taking his stress on out the only person who actually cared about his well-being!

Distracted by these thoughts, the watchmaker unconsciously spooned up another mouthful of the honeycomb ice cream he and Peter had bought together on their first day back in reality. It was surprising that there was any left in Peter's freezer (Sylar had finished his own batch embarrassingly quickly), and he did feel a little bad for helping himself to it – straight from the tub too! – but not bad enough to stop. Truth be told, Sylar wasn't even sure if he liked the taste that much, or just the soothing connotations of sharing the stuff many a time back in the mind prison. The ice cream had become a symbol in its own right: a peace treaty, a white flag offered when everything else was getting too much and they had both needed a moment just to chill and breathe. Which was why it was extra shocking to discover that Peter hadn't eaten it all yet; surely he had well and truly needed it these past weeks of newness and rehabilitation? Unless he was saving it for Sylar to visit? Hopefully, because then this sneaky snacking wouldn't be so dishonest.

Upon stumbling across the stuff while checking the freezer for more spying equipment, Sylar had told himself he wouldn't eat much of it. But as the hours had rolled by and his nerves had only intensified, he had carted the tub back and forth from the freezer to nibble just a little bit more and more until there was far less than half a tub left for Peter. Well it was his own fault for taking so long to get back here anyway!

Sylar frowned and scooped another chunk of cold, sugary therapy into his mouth, just out of spite. Then felt awful. He felt the creamy goodness melt almost instantly and wished the ice could numb his heart as well as it did his tongue. None of this was Peter's fault. He hadn't asked for any of it: the explosion, another Company invading his privacy, to be dragged down with Sylar simply for standing by him despite what he'd done... All Sylar could do was pray to a God he wasn't even sure would dignify him by noticing that today's events hadn't tipped the little hero right over the edge for good. If so... it would be all his fault...

With a soft thud from nearby, Sylar's continued cycle of worry and anxiety was halted in place of his attention honing in on the front door. He'd thought he heard... but maybe it was just wishful thinking. Another few seconds passed in agonizing silence as Sylar swallowed his ice cream as quietly as possible. Then – yes, there it was again – shuffling footsteps approached outside. Unlike the others that had sounded since Sylar had been hiding here in the dark, these ones didn't pass by. And then a key scratched in the lock.

In an instant Sylar was on his feet, the ice cream tub abandoned and electricity flaring in his palm, just in case... Then with a sigh of relief he dropped both the ability and his defences as Peter Petrelli rounded the door properly. Thank god. At fucking last.

"What took you so long?!" Sylar demanded, aware that it came out needy and more than a little snappy. He strode across the room, deliberately softening his tone. "How are you? What happened back there?" He added thoughtfully, suddenly and guiltily thinking of Peter's feelings above his own. He must be spent after taking care of the oil rig fallout for hours, but at least he had made it home in one piece, had washed the blood and gore away, and looked to be in a considerably better state than when Sylar had last laid eyes on him. Exhausted or not, he sure was a sight for sore eyes!

However, Peter recoiled as Sylar approached, giving the taller man pause. Only then did he look beyond his blinding relief to notice that something was very wrong here. No...

( )

He must have said it countless times over the years, but right then Sylar's words rolled memories of the famed Kirby Plaza through Peter's core. 'What took you so long...?' He closed his eyes briefly to chase away the vision of that night, the taste of danger in the air and the fear that the villain had implanted within him. He wasn't that man anymore... he wasn't. Or at least Peter was desperate to convince himself that.

The guilt suddenly dripping from the Sylar's frame didn't do much to help, though. "Peter? What happened?" He asked again, although this time his tone had slight nasal twinge to it, a flicker of fear running through.

It was even more painful to think on now that he was face to face with him, but Peter forced himself to look the man in the eye. Rage, terror, regret and compassion all warred within him at once, making it impossible to decide on which feeling to settle on. He dug a shaking hand into his pocket to retrieve the fateful video Noah Bennet had sent over and shoved the phone into Sylar's chest, beyond the capability of talking.

Reluctantly, Sylar caught the phone, absorbing everything on screen and mirroring through his expression the clip that Peter didn't (and couldn't bring himself to) watch again. He recalled it along with Sylar's viewing, trying to remain as impassive as possible while his heart tried to push its way free from his chest and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. A man clad in a long black jacket and a baseball cap prowled through a corridor lined with pipes and billowing steam; glided up a set of stairs, knowing exactly where he was going, then crossed a metal grate walkway that stretched out of frame on either side; and with his face partially shielded under the brim of a hat, still stalking on those long legs, the man swished his arms through the air with perfect practice. It was a skill well-honed and as one with his body as an extra limb, as strong as his will and as destructive as a wrecking ball that tore pipes from the walls, ripped up the flooring and peeled back layer after layer of valuable, dangerous foundations to reach the unstable core within –

Peter didn't want to believe what Noah had said, what his eyes were telling him. Like feeling the agony of a broken limb but hoping it's not really that bad despite the bone piercing through the skin, he was afraid to examine things too closely and have his worse fears confirmed. Maybe, if he didn't look for a little while longer, regeneration would have taken over and made everything okay...?

"Tell me that's not you." He pleaded. It was fury that was strangling his vocal chords currently, furrowing his brow and boiling him alive inside like acid. He was sure it was fury. Or at least something else very easy to confuse it with.

( )

"What?" Sylar hissed, hoping he had misheard through his blood pounding in his ears. Hoping somehow that this goddamned fucking video hadn't ruined everything. Was it already unsalvageable? Was his fate to be decided without his knowledge and at the hands of some grainy, insinuating security footage?! No, no, no! This wasn't how it was supposed to go! He'd just spent hours waiting desperately to see this man again, but this was to be his reward...?

"Tell me. That's not. You." Peter repeated, his voice stronger this time although it was more fraught with emotion, more laden and prone to breaking.

It dawned on him slowly: first the faintest touch of an idea, then the nasty fingers of doubt running down Sylar's spine, and now those claws were earnestly ripping apart his ribcage. It shouldn't have taken as long for the realisation to fully bloom, but it did... Peter blamed him. Peter didn't believe he'd changed. All the promises and beautiful declarations of trust and faith didn't hesitate to disappear at the slightest test of will...? One accident, one disaster, was all it took to throw everything else away? Just like good ol' PC Plod had thought the night of the carnival – it seemed that the monster was damaged goods, too filthy to ever be capable of more, no matter how much he swore he could do it!

Sylar felt his walls draw close around him in a weak attempt to preserve himself. He didn't have to justify his actions or his redemption! And if Peter was going to wound him in this way, he'd damn well better come out and say it to his face! Playing dumb, trying to ignore each breath searing his chest, Sylar still stupidly grasped onto the hope that he had misunderstood somehow. He narrowed his eyes at his companion's distressed face and pushed the incriminating video roughly back into Peter's stomach in return, somehow managing to keep his voice contained. "What are you implying?"

( )

"Did you do it?!" Peter barked, falling above a level tone for the first time.

Sylar closed his eyes for a fraction of a second as if to compose himself instead of yelling. "I'll admit that guy looks quite like me, but aside from the fact that the quality is shot to hell for a start – do you really think I flew out into the sea and killed all those people today...?"

"Did you?!" Peter demanded again, forcefully stowing his phone. His hands were shaking so badly that he curled them both into fists at his sides, although it wasn't a prelude to a fight, like so many that had gone before. It was only a means to try to re-direct the overbearing current of vehemence back into himself instead of letting it break the surface.

"...How could you even ask me that?" Sylar growled, mortally offended. His anguish rebounded back twice as strong in Peter, but it wasn't escaping his notice that the other man was evading the questions very similarly to how a guilty man would. Yet he still couldn't possibly set his heart on one conclusion until he heard it himself from those lips. Maybe he was wrong? He hoped he was wrong. Maybe Sylar genuinely was upset at the suggestion...? Please let it be so.

"You left your shop today." Peter clenched his jaw, trying to keep himself in one piece. "Why?"

"I –" Sylar stuttered, taken aback by the unexpected change in direction. He took a second to think, then threw his arms to either side. "I went to get coffee! I was gone for five minutes! You know our place on the corner of –?"

"Noah said his team lost track of you." Peter cut over him, chasing away memories of many hours spent with Sylar in the mentioned cafe with hot drinks and steamed up windows protecting them from the harsh world outside. Both here and in a lost one. "He said you disappeared."

"That's because they probably only looked for me down dungeons and dark alleys!"

"Sylar! Please!" Peter begged through gritted teeth, heaving in air through his nose and trying to keep from shouting or, even worse, bursting into tears after such a strenuous day. It was impossible to come across as strong when he knew his eyes were betraying him, and that Sylar could read him perfectly. "Why won't you just answer the question?!"

"Because!" Sylar scoffed, raking a hand through his raven hair while his eyes searched wildly for an explanation... an excuse...? "Because I... I can't believe you'd really trust Bennet over me."

Shit, that one hurt. Just like Sylar knew it would. Unable to form a reply, Peter chewed his tongue and dropped his sore eyes, catching sight of an open tub of honeycomb ice cream sitting on the couch. His open scars cracked through him only deeper upon realising he'd unwittingly broken their rule. He'd started a fight around their time-out ice cream. Mostly it saddened him to ruin Sylar's intentions, but at the same time he couldn't help but wonder if the man had put it there on purpose to delay what he knew was coming his way.

( )

"Does none of it matter?" Sylar continued, his lips thin in offence and brows struggling to commandeer his old mask of authority. "Everything we've been through together, how hard I worked at this? Or is it really that easy to just throw it all away the first time someone points the finger...?"

It was difficult to stay high enough above the swell of hurt to employ a buffer of dominance, and his attempts to come across as only miffed and condescending failed miserably. Peter didn't answer, just glared up at Sylar the way he'd used to back in the early days. He'd used to throw that look frequently: a combination of sorrow, pain and utter revulsion in his gaze, one that subsequently came across as someone not to be messed with... and a damaged man who's heart had just been broken. Sylar had used to despise it with a passion – not even due to the hatred directed his way (which, admittedly, he wasn't a big fan of), but because it always succeeded in making him feel awful for putting that look there in the first place.

It took a prolonged, agonizing second before Peter opened his mouth to reply, but Sylar interrupted him, all at once unable to hear the justification of his ugly past working against him at every hurdle. "I've said I'm sorry already! A million times! What more will it take, Peter? I'm sorry – for everything! For you, for Claire, my mother, your father, Nathan –!" Shit. It just slipped out. Ever since the last few hours before the wall had broken in the dream, Sylar had been careful not to mention the elder Petrelli's name. The memory alone of the last failed time he'd tried to apologise for slitting the politician's throat (although, yes, perhaps rather insensitively) was enough to increase Sylar's shame and remorse only more.

The empath shivered like he'd been slapped across the face. "This isn't about Nathan." He growled. But it was the lower, subdued tone of voice that told Sylar that yes, it was about Nathan in some part. Peter had been thinking of his brother, and thinking of the killer who had stolen him from this life. Sylar cursed himself for being so careless and letting that name escape him. Because it would only remind Peter even more what he was capable of.

No... no... Sylar could feel it all slipping out of his grasp already. He was losing everything in slow motion, and only getting more desperate to reclaim what was rightfully his! What he'd fought for so passionately despite a troubled, difficult redemption that was bound to waver at times and had now become as much of an obstacle as the fucking hunting and killing had been!

( )

Peter tensed as the tall man lunged at him and roughly grabbed his hand, before holding it flat over his heart, like last time. "Use Lydia's ability! See for yourself!" Sylar encouraged, but the paramedic tugged his arm free from the pleading warmth of Sylar's.

He shook his head, suffocating around the lump in his throat. "No." He said clearly, quietly. "I wanna hear you say it. We're supposed to trust each other." Trust wasn't really true if it relied on an ability, Peter believed, and once more Sylar's grand gesture was tainted because he was aware of that. All the same, Peter wouldn't be able to stand the uncertainty of needing to read this man's soul every time he said or promised something, and so he channelled forth the resilient traces of hope and affection from within his palpitating heart. He ignored his hammering pulse and the fact that he couldn't feel his body, and laced his words with all the conviction he possessed. "Tell me you didn't hurt those people..." The last words escaped him breathlessly. "...And it'll be enough."

( )

It shouldn't have been so surprising – after all, Sylar had lived his entire life being doubted by everyone who knew him. It wasn't a new occurrence and he knew this wouldn't be the last time it happened over his immortal years. It dug at his gut though, to have it come down to this with Peter Petrelli of all people. Shouldn't his efforts be enough on their own? Did he really have to stoop so low as to swear his innocence out loud?

Trying not to sound as wounded as he felt, Sylar spoke slowly, ensuring that nothing from his statement could be lost in translation. "I did not. Hurt those people."

Yes, it was the first time he'd said so aloud. He did realise that now. But it wasn't through avoidance. He had been foolishly holding onto the hope that maybe, just once, he wouldn't have needed to defend himself in order to not be blamed for the crime. Of course, it only hurt more because Peter was justified in his doubt – Sylar would never forget his own past, and he knew and accepted the consequences of his actions, but it would never get easier to live with. It was his own fault that his word was so flimsy, and that was the worst pain of all. Recalling the stench and sights of the emergency room and all those victims shook Sylar from head to toe, because he knew he could have done so much worse than what had happened to them if he'd wanted.

"I haven't hurt anyone. I was in my shop all day except for getting coffee, I swear. I had nothing to do with that explosion." Sylar forced as much truth and promise into his words as he could muster without turning inside out in desperation. The rest of the world could hate him, could turn their backs on him and wish him dead if they must... but not Peter. Not him.

The room buzzed around the two men, and if there were any remaining Renautas bugs then whoever was listening had sure landed on a goldmine of vulnerability and weakness among the ranks. But for the first time since arriving in this now confined, warm and decorated apartment, Sylar didn't care at all about being spied on. Not when his only friend was still standing there regarding him with that expression that would stall even this murderer's heart.

In an odd moment of rarity, Peter Petrelli was impossible for Sylar to read just then. His forehead was dimpled in a frown, his jaw tensing repeatedly and his eyes swimming with a multi-coloured concoction of too many emotions at once. It was a visible war that played out across those fine features; a balancing act along the razor's edge of decision between forgiveness or punishment. He hovered there for a prolonged moment, his destination still infuriatingly unclear and every stretching second picked loose another stitch holding Sylar together. Until, finally, the young man fell gracefully from his perch, dipped his head and sighed out all his fury, accusation and fear in one hollowing breath. "...I'm sorry."

The steel anvil lifted from Sylar's chest when those two glorious little words were husked into the air at long last. And when Peter lifted his face again, those eyes were so achingly sad and tired that Sylar could feel how badly the empath had wanted to believe him all along. It still fucking stung that he hadn't though. "I'm sorry." Peter repeated. It had gotten way too close right then, and although the blame was now ebbing away almost visibly in the air, Sylar couldn't shrug off the insult that was still prickling along his skin like poisoned needles.

It felt strangely similar to returning from the brink of death (a sensation which, unfortunately, Sylar had plenty of experience with) to feel the ground shifting back into place around him when all had so nearly been lost. Peter might have chosen Sylar in the end, but it didn't feel like much of the triumph it should be in light of such accusations. The paramedic waited quietly, wordlessly begging for reassurance like a magnet desperately enticing the half that Sylar held close... but the scorned man wasn't sure if he should grant Peter's wish yet or not. It still felt a little soon. Let him earn it first.

Just to test that thought, it seemed, Peter's face suddenly creased and his bottom lip jerked in a renewed wave of distress. Voice trembling, he tripped back a few steps and raised a hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry, okay everything's just falling apart an- and it was all so crowded back there and I didn't... couldn't help them all! Then Noah he, he said these things – and I didn't know what to believe... I didn't want to – I know what it means to you and – I'm sorry. Alright? I'm... sorry..."

And just like that, Sylar relented. He pushed his unfinished anger away for now in light of a more important matter here, because what this struggling being currently needed wasn't to feel guilty for blaming someone for a horrific deed they'd had no part in. What he needed was a friend. Sylar sighed as if Peter was getting into a state about nothing, and reached for him, allowing that invisible force to draw him towards Peter's demanding half of the magnet at last. "Shhh..." The other man didn't flinch this time, and Sylar couldn't ignore the relief washing over him when Peter welcomed the hand comfortably cupping the side of his neck. It was a consoling gesture, a whisper of Nathan's brotherly manhandling but with most of Sylar thrown in. He was careful not to remind the sensitive guy too much of his lost brother, but to only press the right buttons that would appropriately unwind him. And close, intimate touch in privacy such as this was a must have.

( )

"Peter..." Sylar crooned, rocking them both a little as he re-adjusted his grip. His hand was large, soothing and cold from the ice cream, and Peter allowed his face to be tipped up by Sylar's thumb. He couldn't avoid the scrutiny like this, not when the taller man was so close that Peter could smell the honey on his breath. So he wasn't mad? He wasn't furious? He didn't hate Peter for what he'd thought...?

It meant so much, so suddenly, to have someone hold him, forgive him and care for him. Was so overwhelming that his voice ran away into hiding. Peter tried to clear this throat but found that he couldn't, instead he only waited anxiously as Sylar just watched him like he was the most sorrowful, helpless thing in the world. Sympathy – it was that emotion, not anger, not upset, that unmistakeably glinted in that gaze, condensed into its purest form and soaring right to the heart of the problem like an archer's precise arrow. Dark eyes, swimming with condolence, slowly roamed over Peter's blushing cheeks, his well-chewed and flushed lips, up the planes of his face to settle on the fateful spot on his forehead where that same man had once sliced open the skin with his finger. And then Sylar smiled.

"Apology accepted." The deep voice rumbled into the narrow space between them. "I mean, it's hardly the most moronic thing that puny little brain has come up with over the years..."

For a second Peter just stared. And then he snorted out a little puff of humour, grateful and appreciative of his friend's attempt to haul him back from the brink of a meltdown. Even at the expense of his own, wrongfully wounded, pride. It was an old tactic that Peter was very familiar with now: when Sylar would try to distract or interrupt an emotional outburst before it could take hold. In contrast to popular opinion, the 'merciless killer' didn't really like to fight. He didn't like raised voices or unstable emotion. It had taken a good few years of only isolation and each other for Peter to realise that. And the fact that Sylar was the only person who could always make Peter laugh rather than cry was just one more of the special, wonderful, unique little things about the man that he couldn't imagine losing.

A sudden bubble of relief swelled and burst inside the paramedic's ribcage – Sylar hadn't destroyed the oil rig, Peter believed that, and had gracefully forgiven the accusation that probably deserved much more attention than it had got. Which, all combined, meant he wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon. Good. Because Peter needed him desperately right now.

The hand by his face gifted courage, the magic essence of simple human touch revitalising Peter's starved, failed batteries. But it wasn't enough to untangle the heavy mass that had been steadily growing inside for weeks on end. Feeling suddenly very exposed under the magnifying glass that was now directing the beam of attention at him, Peter dropped his face to disconnect Sylar's intense, prying gaze. His blurring vision sought out the melting ice cream behind the watchmaker... tradition was tradition after all, it seemed. Peter didn't really want to be so weak, he didn't want to confess his fears and nightmares like a scared kid at a slumber party. He needed to.

After trying to ignore them for so long, the time had come at last for all the feeble lies and pretences to be recognised for what they were. Audibly, that was, because Peter had been aware since the beginning that Sylar had known the truth all along. The thought toyed with him then – maybe this had been the guy's intention when breaking out that fateful, honeycomb tub for him to come home to?

"I'm... I'm trying my best." Peter confessed croakily, chewing his tongue again and finding his hands fisting in the fabric at Sylar's waist of their own accord. "But it's not... not working." Blinking rapidly to chase away the pesky tickle behind his eyes, Peter found himself rooted to the spot, transfixed by the memories of today's evening hours and the burning heat of Sylar's palm beneath his jawline. He locked eyes with the man once again, taking strength from his presence. Sylar had seen him at his literal worst, in the darkest moments of his past. Yet here he was anyway, a friend, a confidant who had well and truly proved himself as trustworthy by now. Sylar wasn't the problem here – the problem was addressing this struggle directly for the first time.

"This job? This world...?" Peter's voice faded a little and he bit down on his tongue again. This was the very same fear, the coil of anxiety that he had stubbornly ignored every night and pushed on through every morning, determined that today would be better, today would be okay... He hadn't even admitted it fully to himself yet, for fear of never being rid of it again. But here, in the intimacy of his own apartment and his friend's strong hold, Peter found that the words he had been swallowing back down like bile for so long left him easily. "...I don't think I can do it anymore."

When Sylar spoke, it was with a definitive smile to his voice. "Then don't."

( )

He watched Peter blink and push his hair out of his face, struggling to process that unorthodox advice. "Quit your job." Sylar elaborated, his eyes crinkling at the outside corners. "Again."

Surely this wouldn't come as a complete surprise? It was spelled out so clearly, it was the natural order to right the warped path they had been following lately. Sylar was sure he hadn't been the only one spending his days thinking it over, forever waiting for the next stage to catch up with him. Regardless, he said it simply, easily, to hammer the point home as cleanly as possible within Peter's muddled, bruised mind. "No wonder you feel trapped in that place and that uniform – when you could do a hundred times more on your own."

"...You mean with abilities?" The little man breathed, as if the thought was just dawning on him for the first time.

Sylar confirmed it with a twitch of one grand eyebrow, as if it were as simple as that to just up and leave the routine Peter had been fighting so hard to build for himself. Which it was, really. It wouldn't even be the first time. He patted Peter's neck gently, watching that dark hair fall back into his face. "You can't adjust to this life because it's not yours. You and me? We were never cut out for a working nine 'til five, dinner's at seven, visit the parents at weekends kind of life. We weren't made to be normal, Peter, we were made for so much more. You know this."

( )

The words tumbling from those lips sounded strange at first, a forgotten, familiar truth, but as they sank in they revealed themselves to be the missing pieces that Peter had been failing to operate without. Of course he had thought of it, but it had always been something far away, something for later, something that he'd say he'd get around to but never actually would. He couldn't outrun the knowledge that his life was a constant roller coaster of crazy, but it wasn't until Sylar had put it so plainly that it really made sense that he could let go of the things that weren't working. Like trying to squeeze into a shoe ten sizes too small, no wonder Peter felt out of place and wrong in this day to day 'life'... because he didn'tbelong here.

He couldn't help that saving the world had felt so much easier than re-learning to cross a busy street; or choose that running for his life wasn't as scary as waiting in a long line for coffee and fearing he couldn't remember how to count a currency he'd had no need for over the past five years. Peter hadn't been back behind the wheel of a car since breaking free of the mind prison. A passenger in an ambulance or taxi had been the closest to it, but why would he ever choose such a scary, clumsy mode of transportation when he could fly without wings? It was freedom he craved, more than power. But then why had he willingly stayed cooped up in the tower when he been wearing the key around his neck the entire time...?

( )

"But – Hesam – Emma. I can't just..." Peter tried weakly, but Sylar knew he was breaking the surface of the ocean he had been drowning in lately. Sylar could practically smell this revelation wafting deliciously off his companion, could see him coming back into himself in a way he hadn't for weeks now. He tightened his hold on Peter slightly, encouragingly, smiling fully for the first time in days.

Wasn't this supposed to be temporary anyway, until something else came up? Until the world needed saving again? Until there was an issue that needed fixing or a call to arms was announced for these two heroes desperate to answer it? And if today's... scenario... could be classed as anything, it certainly fit the bill they'd been waiting for.

Sylar didn't bother to indulge Peter's pitiful attempt to argue with the destiny he was yearning after, instead just flashed the man a knowing glance that he literally felt shiver down his scorching skin in response. Having successfully drawn the smaller man back from the deadly ledge for now, Sylar changed the subject with another clap to his friend's neck, this time in a parting gesture. He then bent to scoop up the tangle of wires that had used to be Renautas observational equipment from the coffee table, thrumming over the new information that had barged in here along with Peter Petrelli.

So at last it had started, the next chapter in their lives beyond the confines of simply 'waiting it out'. And Sylar's brain itched delightedly for a challenge, a chance to stretch its legs after being cooped up in the unfulfilling corner for so long. That video... it was real. Which meant that, as unfortunate as it was, the perpetrator did resemble Sylar enough to warrant the confusion over this whole ordeal. And that someone had tampered with the rig deliberately. So, for all intents and purposes (as much as Sylar didn't want to think it), Daddy Bennet might have truly believed that person to be Sylar.

"Lets say that, for arguments sake, Noah genuinely thinks I blew up the rig..." Sylar lofted the disabled microphones in his palm, curling the wires absent-mindedly around his fingers. "That means he had nothing to do with it."

"But someone else did..."

( )

Although the whole Sylar identity crisis had been hastily cleared up between the pair for now, today's ordeal was far from over. No matter who was on that video, all that mattered was that someone was. And the culprit was responsible for every single ripple that had spread from their actions: all those people had still died today; their families would be without their sons, daughters, mothers and fathers; not to mention Sylar and Peter's lives had been thrown into disrepair... but for what reason?

It just didn't make sense – why would anyone want to make this horrific statement for no apparent gain? Then happily pass the blame onto an innocent man? Peter would have perhaps suspected an evo rights group – maybe one that had upped the ante as Claire had been worried about – but what was the point of protesting if they didn't take credit for their actions? If only life came with an instruction manual, Peter huffed, pacing on the spot and habitually running his fingers through his still slightly damp, freshly washed hair. Why wasn't there a map or something that could be looked back on from a distance to make sense of the road already travelled? To maybe catch some crucial information that nobody had seen coming the fist time...?

Then suddenly the memory cracked like a light bulb igniting and Peter froze on the spot, mid-step.

( )

The shared, contemplative moment between the two men was shattered when Peter turned and bolted into his bedroom almost faster that Sylar had seen him move before without flying. He jumped, watching the glass double doors swing in the man's wake. What the hell?

"Peter?" Sylar followed his friend, shocked, intrigued and worried that he had finally cracked all at once. The watchmaker stood by the door as the paramedic heaved his mattress off its new bed frame without hesitation, dropped to his knees and buried himself in the revealed stash of paper.

Damn, Sylar hadn't even thought to check there on his earlier hunt of the apartment, but was gratified to see no wired devices anywhere to be found... instead the entire expanse of the frame was strewn with Peter's half of the prophetic drawings created after the carnival. There they had lain all this time, secretly stored in the place where anyone else might hide more incriminating or private items, within easy reach and never far from the empath's awareness.

And then Sylar saw past the frenzied state of the youngest Petrelli family member to witness a sure determination the likes of which Peter hadn't possessed in a long time. He was on a mission. And he knew exactly where to go.

( )

Ripping his way through the dozens of images, Peter's mind's eye was projecting his goal across his vision as clear as day. He was so sure... but hopes and desires have a way of warping memories, and before Peter put his full faith in this plan he had to know...! It had been here somewhere... lost amongst the others, back before, when it hadn't meant anything. But as for now...

Peter cursed himself for not thinking of this earlier. The future had been on his mind every second for hours, days and even weeks, but not once since news of the explosion had broken had he remembered that he might've been sitting on the answers all along!

The loud rustling of paper sounded out in the otherwise quiet apartment, amplifying the empath's desperation, playing as the furious soundtrack for his mission – until Peter stopped, his heart tightened in his throat and the racket crinkled into silence.

So, he hadn't been imagining it, or enhancing the memory for this own needs after all.

Unable to find his voice once more today, Peter just turned on his knees and held the prized prophecy out for Sylar, a question for an authenticator, another pair of eyes to confirm the same spectacle that Peter couldn't quite trust just yet.

( )

For precious seconds, Sylar just stared at the drawing. Then he relieved it from Peter's shaking hand, letting the numerable possible interpretations run through his mind before finally settling on the truth: there they were, plain as day – himself and Peter. Standing beneath the full, unbroken, towering height of what, last time, had been only indiscernible scribbles of pencil. But what now, through the enlightening lens of context, was unmistakably the very same oil rig that had haunted both men all afternoon.

"How is that possible? We weren't there..." Sylar mumbled, dropping the page to meet bright, purposeful and oh-so-familiar hazel eyes.

"No." Peter's voice was gravelly, influenced and alight with a wonderful motivation that Sylar hadn't heard him use in a long time. "Not yet."

( )

It was all spiralling away ahead of him and Peter could see it all blocked out so clearly. Sylar had been right before – he could do more than he'd been able to at the hospital if only he embraced the superhuman abilities that had been gifted to him for a reason! Healing blood had been useful today, yes, but what need would there be for it if nobody was even hurt in the first place...?

Sylar, however, seemed to be taking the long route to the same brilliant conclusion. "What happened to 'it's too dangerous'?"

Riding the rejuvenating crest of purpose and adventure that coursed up to meet him, Peter clambered to his feet and hurried to stand almost toe to toe with the former killer. "Don't you see?! All this?" He exclaimed, his hands gesturing wildly before him. "The explosion, all the innocent lives that were lost today, your reputation...? We could change it all! ...We're supposed to fix everything!" He croaked, enjoying the light-headedness that had accompanied this revelation. It was as if everything was finally about to go right, the planets were aligning and at long fucking last, Peter was staring down the road he was supposed to follow for a change.

The two men shared the wave of understanding, destiny and thrill that encompassed them both at once, an old friend returned after a long hiatus. If this was it? What they were supposed to do? Then for the first time in a very long time, Peter felt the first spark of, well... belonging flare to life within his chipped and bruised heart. And it was the most marvellous sensation the likes of which he almost didn't recognise.

But before he could enjoy even one more second of it, a faint, metallic click from outside the front door alerted both men. They weren't alone anymore.

( )

It was a split-second warning, barely long enough for Peter and Sylar to dodge together out of the direct line of fire before the door burst off its hinges and slammed to the floor. And then dozens of armoured men spilled forth into the apartment.

Unlike earlier that day, there was no warning, no hesitance and no pretence of protocol – instead everything blew apart all at once in the ricochetting chaos of stampeding feet, shouting voices and splintering gunfire.

Just when things were starting to make sense! Just when everything was finally falling into place?! Furious at being found, interrupted, and at a second such attack today, Sylar jabbed a sharp lash of telekinesis at the intruders and their weapons, envisaging them crumpling in a heap like before... but this time, nothing happened. He tried again. And again, but to no result each time. What?! His abilities...?!

Sylar shrank back instinctively, suddenly feeling very naked without this crucial part of him. It was too loud in here to think straight, too crowded to strategize appropriately, but Sylar was well and truly aware of the gaping void within his body where his precious powers should be but weren't.

"That's enough!"

The telltale voice proceeded the man in horn-rimmed glasses before he rounded the smashed-in door frame, closely shadowed by a second ominous silhouette. René, the Haitian, stood large in the compact space, drawing all the energy in the room like air into himself with ease, and then Sylar realised why he'd temporarily lost his powers. His telekinesis, his shape-shifting, his lie-detection, flight, clairsentience and regeneration to name a few... But then why wasn't he hurting from all those gunshots? Surely one would have hit its mark? Unless... unless they were never aiming at him in the first place...

Ice clenched around Sylar's heart as he locked eyes with Peter, just a step or so out of reach. Those hazel orbs looked confused, startled, as if something only slightly irritating had just transpired... and not that a wet darkness was seeping from a gaping hole in his heaving, mortal torso. The empath wavered on the spot slightly, still standing where he'd bravely thrown himself, supposed to be invincible, between Sylar and their many attackers.

A solitary trickle of blood ran down his asymmetrical lower lip like a full stop to finalise the deed. A choked, spluttered gasp resonated through the now ringing silence of the place. Then no more sound left the little man as the full picture slowly made sense to both him and his horrified, petrified friend who could do nothing whatsoever to stop it.

Peter...

A/N: Alright everyone! Sorry again for the delay, but I hope the wait wasn't too long. I can't wait to get launched into the rest of the story, and I am trying my best to do so as soon as possible! Until the next update however, I'm afraid I'll just have to leave you all here at this rather inopportune moment. Goddamned Noah, barging in at all the wrong times...! All will be explained though, I can promise :P

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you check back for the next one! Don't be afraid to tell me what you thought, I will reply to each and every comment you are kind enough to leave X)