Day 34, January 12th, Morning

"You say if there were people around that you'd still try to get abilities. But … you told me a couple years ago that just knowing there was an alternative gave you hope. Do you still have that?"

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"Ha!" Sylar barked his laugh. "No," he said that like it was obvious. Because it was. When he'd said that, he thought he'd had a family who would help him, not lock him in a cell and feed him live targets. The family thing wasn't just limited to him and that made it both better and worse to know that Peter was in the same boat, that Brandy or whatever the fuck her name was with the memory touch power was just Angela's fail-safe for Nathan's death. The whole family was bullshit. "I tried nearly everything. If that's what you're angling for, you already know what you have to do." Sylar rounded on the shorter man, towering over him and poking Peter in the chest, "But until you make good on it, quit with the fucking psychobabble!"

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Peter was in the midst of feeling sad for Sylar, for himself, for the whole situation – but mostly for Sylar. He was sad Sylar didn't see a way out. He was sad that maybe there wasn't a way out for Sylar. And he was a little annoyed by the defeatism in it, which blossomed into anger when Sylar got in his face so unexpectedly. "What the fuck are you talking about?!" He stiffened, breath coming faster, brows drawn together in confusion.

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Sylar used three fingers to push off Peter's chest and start walking again, uncaring if the empath followed or not. "It's more useful to torture people and leave them alive to see if they're still useful. No one has managed to make death stick to me, so if you're going to do it, just fucking do it and be done with it. Eight years is kinda pushing it, Pete. And I don't need to hear how I should have 'done the right thing' and offed myself," Sylar sneered with a sort of bitter sarcasm.

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Just as quickly as it had sprang up, Peter's anger was doused. He paced along in Sylar's shadow, chewing over Sylar's words and Peter's memory of telling him just that – that he should have taken matters into his own hands once he found he was killing people uncontrollably and ended things. It was still what Peter thought was right, just as he knew, also, that it wasn't useful or constructive to say. He should have never have said it – telling someone to kill themselves was … wrong. Very wrong. It left Peter feeling small and unworthy of himself. Then something Sylar had said jumped out at him. "What does 'nearly everything' mean? Why 'nearly'? What is it that might have worked that you didn't try?" Then, before Sylar could answer, Peter groused, "And don't call me 'Pete'."

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"It means, Pete, that I tried everything I could think of at least once. It means that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, a concept very lost on you."

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Another 'Pete', on purpose. Peter ground his teeth. "Are you going to answer my questions? Or are you going to keep trying to start a fight?"

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"I am answering your questions." Just not the way you want me to. "I'm trying to stop everything but the walking, so stay focused for once," Sylar commanded, waving his arm the direction he was walking to get Peter moving again, towards the silly storefront. Where he probably plans to start a fight after all this. It sounds like a good idea.

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He didn't call me 'Pete' again. "Are walking and talking too compli-, yeah, okay, never mind. Maybe they are." Stupid conversation anyway. He's stonewalling me. Peter sealed his lips and kept them that way, digging his hands deep into his pockets and hunching his shoulders a little against the cold as he tried to mimic a turtle – head drawn in and chin tucked. He considered that he needed a full hat or at least a hood, occupying himself with thoughts about the temperature and not paying too much attention to where they were going. Sylar knew the way; he was leading.

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Sylar glared at him for that, "No, it isn't." I thought that would be obvious. I want you to shut up but not at the cost of thinking I can't walk and talk like a retard. But Peter did drop it.

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When they arrived, Peter straightened and looked at the shattered storefront. "This isn't the hardware store," he said dumbly, blinking at it. He reached up and scratched at where his shifted posture caused his cold weather headband to pull on his hair and make his scalp itch. He realized it made him look like he was scratching his head in befuddlement and decided to go with it. It was better than being angry. "At least, I don't think it's the hardware store," Peter said, aiming for comedy even though he doubted his audience would appreciate it. He didn't care – or rather, he would be amused regardless of how Sylar took it. "Now maybe if those mannequins were a little more explicit it might be the hard-something store, but I never knew anyone to call their penis a 'ware'." Peter absently noted there were four display windows, not the three he'd imagined, and he'd managed to smash all of them. Then there was the spiderwebbed door to remember as well. "Speaking of which, you'd think a hard-wear store would sell armor," he said with a slightly different enunciation.

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Sylar was confused who, or how, exactly hadn't been clear on their destination. Who was at fault? Peter didn't seem to be making a big deal of it though. "Ah. A condom joke," Sylar returned in kind. "I guess it depends how much wear your penis gets, Peter." He gleefully placed slight emphasis on the man's name.

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Peter chuckled at the comeback – not sure if it was derogatory or admiring and not willing to show his uncertainty. He walked in through one of the smashed out windows because he could and they were here at the smashed storefront instead of his intended destination. This is what I get for letting the guy with the concussion do the driving. Maybe I can get a decent hat here? "Jesus, it's cold in here, too! I wouldn't have figured that on a day like today. Whoever left the windows open like that is a real dick." Peter looked back at Sylar, smirking shamelessly. "Come on. Help me look for a measuring tape – one of those flexible ones they use at clothing stores. There has to be some here somewhere."

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Sylar looked up at that and grinned. It was true. (As opposed to a fake dick, his mind supplied unhelpfully). After that his face was confused, but he followed along, looking for…whatever a flexible measuring tape was. The only ones he knew of was the kind Virginia had used every now and again, a yellowy-orange with metal tabs on the end. We obviously don't shop at the same kinds of stores. /Nathan had seen them before, for various suit fittings. He even recalled hitting on the fitting assistant, getting her number and banging her./ What are we measuring again?

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Peter glanced around the nearest checkout counter, but expected and found nothing. He quickly moved on into the store. "There has to be a fitting room in here. I bet they'll have measuring tapes near there." He craned his neck and stood on tip toes, trying to see over the many displays to spot any separate, walled off area that would indicate a changing room. Or a sign. A sign would be nice. "Hey, maybe you could find some pajamas here," he said, deciding to just be fucking merciless in revenge for the 'Pete' thing.

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Sylar watched with bemusement at Peter's height issue. He wasn't actively involved in the search for several reasons, not that Peter had really noticed. "What's wrong with your pajamas?" In case you didn't notice that I stole them or you did and you didn't say anything?

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"Aside from me not having any?" Peter shot back immediately. He continued tauntingly, "I know you're not into me or anything, so you probably haven't noticed I've been sleeping in my jeans." To keep you out of them.

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I'm not into you, but of course I noticed and it looked…restrictive. "I hadn't noticed," he replied smoothly. "For the guy who usually wears baggy boxers or nothing that must be really hard. The sweats I have are fine."

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The sweats you have are mine. Oh! That's what he means. Peter's smile faded as he imagined Sylar wearing his pants; of him wanting to wear Peter's pants and confirming that he'd done it intentionally. Peter's face flushed and his eyes, entirely of their own volition it seemed, darted down to make a direct eye line to Sylar's crotch before he reasserted control and snapped them back to Sylar's face. He stumbled over his words, "Yeah, I notic- uh, yeah." I just implied that only someone who was into someone else would notice their sleepwear. Crap. "Those are fine. Little high water on you, though." Desperate to change the subject, Peter asked, "Speaking of your height, do you see a fitting room?"

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Oh, yeah. He finally has dick on the brain. I have him. Several plots hatched at that moment. Sylar smirked. "Like I said; they are fine." His voice indicated that 'fine' wasn't an average acceptance, instead it (Sylar himself) was a measure of attractiveness. "I thought we were speaking about my measurements?" he inquired with false innocence and a hint of seduction. "I think it's over there," he pointed a little further up from where they were now. "The silky things are over there, too. That's always better than jeans." He smirked again as he passed Peter, wickedly adding, "I'll leave you alone with those. I forgot to bring the lotion."

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Peter bristled and deliberately misinterpreted Sylar's words, letting the other man head off alone a few steps before saying, "Well, you probably won't chafe too badly. Have fun." Peter took a roundabout route towards where Sylar had indicated a possible fitting room. He didn't want to look like he was making a beeline for 'the silky things'. Those were either lingerie or gowns. And it seemed to be the same place Sylar was going at the moment – to be alone, doing something that forgetting the lotion made inconvenient. Or at least per Peter's insinuation.

He found a dressing area, a single door with a clerk's desk and an L-shaped hallway leading off from it. Peter poked his head down it to make sure of where it led. It was only the expected several stalls of fitting rooms. What he wanted was most likely at the desk. He turned back to it to find Sylar sprawled in the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder against one side of the frame as he leaned diagonally across it and obstructed passage. It was a good pose for him – showing off the athletic length of his body.

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Sylar rolled his eyes and sighed. Peter understood him, evidenced by the fact he could hold a conversation about sex (sort of). But the infuriating little man refused to play along, even if it was just words for now. Sylar was left more frustrated every time. I was talking about you playing with the women's underwear, not me-! Once that thought passed through his head, he indulged it with a single glance to that area of the store. (I never thought about doing that…Has he ever-? Well, I'm not that much of a pervert. That stuff is only fun when someone else wears it). Idea dismissed, he followed Peter to the dressing room (for a moment Sylar thought he was headed into the intimate apparel or whatever the fuck they called it). He wasn't there to really help beyond acting as a guide and pointing out the obvious and he was still frustrated, not just sexually but on an interactive and interest level. "You don't want to try anything on? I'll wait out here. It'll be fun."

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"I thought you were going to leave me with my jeans and go have fun with the silky stuff." He frowned at how Sylar was blocking the way out, but for the moment, Peter turned his attention to the contents of the desk. It held brightly numbered chits on hangers, empty hangers, stationary, several pens, a drawer littered with pins and scraps of fabric and glossy magazine pages displaying flashy outfits – but no measuring tape.

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Peter wasn't…freaking out. Interesting! It was still possible. "I could always pick something out for you." That reminded him of something Peter probably wished he could take back. "But you are the crossdresser here, so maybe you already know what you like. You just…do that stuff just because or is it like a kink?" Sylar was now painfully curious. How does that work, your junk shoved into…well, I guess I don't know what he was wearing. And who did he get laid with?

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"I had my reasons," Peter said evasively, "but no, that's not one of my kinks." Searching the desk had taken only a few moments. The next best place to look would be in the back, where they kept the stock. Peter had seen it as they'd pushed the carts of trash out to the dumpster. Now that he needed to leave, Sylar's position was more of an issue. When a half-step towards Sylar didn't get even a twitch of motion that might lead to getting out of his way, Peter stopped. "Let me by."

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"I thought you wanted to measure me. Do you want me to try something on?" NOT from the ladies department, thank you, this isn't Truth or Dare. (Although being a woman to fuck Peter wasn't outside his offer, it was just outside his ability at the moment. That could be pretty hot).

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Peter took another half-step, this time backwards, away from Sylar. He gave him a quick sizing up. The man might be blocking the way out, but he had no leverage the way he was leaning. Peter could probably push him down one-handedly, without resorting to much in the way of violence – no quick motions, just a simple shove to Sylar's center of mass. But that wasn't the game they were playing and for now, Peter was willing to play by the rules. So what to say? 'I already have the measure of you,' - that just sounded mean, because the implication, since Peter had expressed his disinterest, was that Sylar wasn't worthy. Peter went with the less offensive challenge, delivered complete with dubious expression, "Do you really think you measure up?"

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Sylar tilted his head at the step back and checking glance. It wasn't the type of look he wanted, he could tell. "There's only one way to find out," Sylar murmured, arching an eyebrow.

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"Heh," Peter grunted. "We're not going to be certain until we find a measuring tape. Now get out of my way before I make you." The issuance of the playful threat made getting Sylar out of his way part of the game. There was little about Peter's demeanor which looked inherently threatening – just the slightest shift of weight showing a general poised stillness. His hands were still down and posture otherwise unchanged.

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Again, Sylar rolled his eyes, probably not for the last time today. He was beyond annoyed because Peter's deflection made sense, damn him. As he took his time making room for Peter to pass, he sassed, "It's so refreshing that you're not threatening to people recovering from head trauma. But while we look, tell me that crossdressing story." He'd gotten Peter to spill about his first time, so why not this? It would help make up for Peter's lack of participation.

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Peter grunted again, even less articulately. It summed up his mixed feelings. He'd brought it up originally to quash Sylar's insults about Peter's choice of store to smash or clothing to wear. It had been effective, but apparently Sylar wanted the gory details now.

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Sylar was prepared for that. "You either tell me, or I'll have to use my imagination for the reason why you would do something like that. Getting laid notwithstanding. You couldn't know you'd get laid if you dressed like that. So I want to know the real reason."

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"Why do you want to know? You seem awfully determined about it."

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"Help pass the time. And it's interesting."

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Peter sighed like this was an imposition. He didn't mind the telling – not really – and it was innocent enough that he didn't think Sylar would use it against him. "It's not as racy as you think. It was Opposites Day, towards the end of senior year. There was a party over at ..." He stopped walking, narrowing his eyes and looking off to the side, his expression shifting as he called up a name and face he hadn't seen since high school. "Becky's. Becky … Tomlinson, I think." Peter gave himself a brief shake and continued, pushing open the double doors at the back of the store.

"Doesn't matter. That was just where the party was. I had this plan that I was going to go dressed as a girl, but you know Mom and Dad would never let me out of the house like that, no matter what." He smirked at Sylar. Like his parent's disapproval was going to stop him – ha! "So I made a deal with girl named Amanda. She was about my size. We'd hardly talked before this, but we sold it to our parents like we were dating and as soon as we were out of sight of her house, we stopped at a gas station and swapped clothes in the restroom."

Peter smiled easily, remembering clearly how awkward that had been. She'd been shy and even though he'd been with Shelly at the swim meet a few months before, undressing and sharing clothes with someone wasn't something he was used to. "She had some make-up from the theatre or her home or wherever. She shaded her face like a five o'clock shadow and helped me get my lipstick on straight. I meant to overdo it, so I was pretty painted up. The party was great," he said with feeling. "It was towards the end of the school year. We were all talking about what we were doing after high school, what teachers we'd miss the most, that sort of thing."

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Sylar placed himself almost directly in front of Peter, arms crossed, expression intent on listening.

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Peter hitched his hip up on a pallet of nondescript cardboard boxes, continuing the story. "I remember going over and asking her if she wanted to go home once it got late and Becky's mom started encouraging people to move on. We'd both had a few, but we weren't wasted – how wasted can you get at a chaperoned party? So I was heading for the door and Amanda literally, I mean literally, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a bedroom." Peter made an apologetic head bob. "I wasn't very big then. Of course, neither was she, but …" He shrugged. "She started taking her clothes off, so I did, too – all of them. And when she was just in her bra and panties, and I was looking at her, I remember her expression – it was sort of like 'oh!'" Peter grinned, his brows shooting up briefly in imitation of her face. "Like you see in comics when a light bulb goes off over someone's head. And she was like, 'We're just changing clothes, right?' and I was jolted because I hadn't been thinking, or at least, what I was thinking wasn't that and what I had been thinking was pretty obvious at that point. So I answered, 'Yeah, okay, sure,' and got her clothes. She took them and seemed to think for a moment. She'd put my clothes on the bed, which was behind her, so I was waiting. Then she turned back to me and-" Peter eyed Sylar for a moment. Surely he knew what was next. Did he want the details, or was a discreet fade-to-black more what he was comfortable with?

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"And?" Sylar prompted. The story wasn't finished – no one had been laid.

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"She took her shirt and said she was going to help me get my make-up off. That made sense to me at the time, but later I realized that was a nice shirt she ruined. As she was dabbing at my lips, I kissed her fingers. I wasn't real smooth about it, but she stopped moving so I did it again, better." He looked at Sylar, at his eyes and then at his lips. Peter thought of those tender, affectionate kisses the man had given Elle – Elle who had meant a lot to Sylar. His kisses to Amanda were the first loving ones (rather than hungry, passionate, or anxious as he'd been with Shelly) he'd given anyone. Peter breathed out and looked down at the floor. "So, yeah, we made love on the bed. It was really sweet. It was wonderful. Or at least it was until Becky's dad figured out we were in there and started pounding on the door."

"In the rush to get dressed and get out of there, I didn't realize I left with Amanda's shirt until I was home. And you know, in a situation like that, Ma has to be up, right?" He laughed and colored a little. "She took one look at me ..." Peter shook his head. "We'd picked shirts that were extreme because Opposite's Day isn't as fun if you don't play it up. So I was in this rumpled, powder pink blouse with a lacy white cravat or something in the front, which was of course where the stains were. At least I was in my jeans instead of the poodle skirt I'd been in earlier. I stammered out something about how the lipstick wasn't mine. Mom cut me off and ordered me upstairs to clean up. She didn't have to tell me twice. And she never mentioned it again."

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Sylar shifted once. The 'getting caught' thing was something he understood all too well. Angela would have had the uncanny knowledge of just how to embarrass Peter, or anyone for that matter. Poodle skirt…did he shave his legs for it? Though Peter had been correct, the story was hardly racy. Instead it was more childish and innocent and cute. "Did she do you again when you were dressed like yourself?"

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"No. The next day, she chewed me out for not having used a condom (not like I'd finished anyway, but that wasn't the point), said she didn't want to think of me that way, and," Peter winced, "she didn't want-" He shrugged unhappily. She didn't want him. "We weren't dating before and we weren't dating after. It was a nice night. We both had fun. She wasn't accusing me of anything, but after she'd had a chance to think about it, she ..." He shrugged again the same way. "I wondered if maybe Becky's parents called hers, but I don't know. If they called mine, no one ever told me. Anyway, high school was over in a few weeks and that was it."

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Ah. (He didn't use a condom? He wasn't…prepared. Why is that the man's job?) Sylar was at a loss for words because he could vividly imagine what that had felt like. "How is it 'making love' if you're not…Hmph," He cut himself off and moved on. "Girls, huh?" Sylar offered disparagingly, with that man-to-man tone he'd heard before when discussing something both of them knew they'd never grasp, abilities or no. "I think it's worst in high school." He turned away and began actively hunting for a measuring string, whatever took their minds off Peter's story.

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Peter shrugged, still leaning on the boxes and not feeling motivated to search right now. "I don't think it's specific to girls," he said quietly. He tilted his head at something he wanted to talk about more than the propensity of both sexes to dump him. "How is it making love if you're not … what?"

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"'In love.'" His tone was clearly less than thrilled about that.

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"Oh." Peter looked down to consider his word choice. Just yesterday evening, he'd described his time with Shelly as 'having sex', if his memory served. With Jennifer it had been 'slept with her'. And now, 'making love'. "I guess I … mean different things by how I talk about it. Um …" He lifted his head to look off in the distance, thinking about how it had made him feel to be with Amanda. "At that moment, it was ... soft, gentle, so sexy, passionate, a little careful …" He shrugged. "I thought it was loving. I … felt … love." A brief frown chased across Peter's face, worried that Sylar would make fun of him for saying that, even though Peter had a history of being free with expressing his feelings for and to people. Sylar could stuff it if he didn't like it. "I call it making love … if love is what you're making."

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"Oh, God, Peter…" Sylar murmured in despair, his face disgusted and slightly pitying. I guess this Emmy girl shares this sappiness? She'd have to.

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Peter crossed his arms and frowned. He wasn't going to take that attitude, especially about something so precious. Sylar was the one who had asked for the story, the details, and the explanation. He didn't get to disrespect it. "You know what I'm talking about. You've felt it. I know you have."

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Without totally grasping what they were talking about, Sylar shot back quickly, "No, I haven't."

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"That memory of yours I saw when I was asleep? The dream? It was from your point of view, Sylar. I know what you were feeling." With emphasis, he repeated, "You know what I mean." He realized belatedly that Sylar had requested Peter pretend those had never happened, to ignore them, and he almost certainly meant the ones Peter had already seen, too. They'd had quite an argument about it, where Peter had insisted he wouldn't use them and Sylar had called him a liar (or implied it strongly).

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Sylar frowned now, confused. Which dream? The way Peter was looking at him was making his heart lurch in panic. What does he mean? My point of… Then his eyes widened. There had only been two memories of his that Peter had shared so far and one had been about Elle. And he just-? I knew it. I told you so! I told him he would! (But…) You know better than that; a temptation like that, it was only a matter of time, like I said. (And he thinks I felt love?)

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Peter uncrossed his arms and looked away and up, put out with himself. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry." As desperately as he wanted to simply change the subject or walk away, he couldn't. It wasn't right, Sylar probably wouldn't stand for it, and the last time Peter had broken his word had been … well, he was having to sleep with Sylar now, which was as just about as genuine a statement of Peter's apology as he could make. Breaking his word had seemed to break something inside of Sylar, damaged some psychic part of him that wasn't going to be quick to mend. The man's identity, sanity, and by extension, memories, were sacrosanct to Sylar. Peter didn't know how to heal this new breach, but addressing his slip immediately and fully was the only thing he could think of for it. With determination, he looked at Sylar as he got out, "I shouldn't have mentioned your memories. They aren't mine to bolster my arguments. That was wrong."

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Voice a dangerously low growl, Sylar replied with a glare and a sneer, "You know the next time I tell you something about abilities, maybe you should just take it as the gospel fucking truth that I know more than you and I know what I'm talking about." He approached and grabbed Peter's coat-front, shoving him aside before walking past to search elsewhere, away from the other man. He felt like punching him, strangling him into silence, ripping his fucking broken head open to stop the threat and make sense of it all…He felt like walking out but Peter would be lost (good!); he felt like maybe punching a row of pallets but then he'd break his hand like stupid, stupid Peter had. Loudly, he railed in his head, Don't ask me any more fucking questions! Just go look! You'll get everything you want and more! (He wound up whining pathetically, No…don't do that, I don't want you to know…I don't want you to know…) Worse than Peter seeing the memories was knowing how he'd felt about everything. Sylar's mind was still struggling to encompass it – someone else, his enemy, was going to use his entire past against him at some point, it was inevitable. It was one of his worst fears realized at full capacity. It hurt and he was helpless and he hated every heartbeat of it.

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Peter stepped backwards when Sylar approached, but his heel hit the pallet of boxes. He sidestepped, but Sylar tracked with him. He had a fraction of a second to consider running and a lot of instincts were screaming at him to do that, yet there was something in Sylar's face that stopped Peter from outright fleeing the beat-down he thought he was about to get. He stiffened, eyes wide and nostrils flaring, still teetering between fight, flight, and standing down when Sylar only grabbed him and shoved. Peter fell against the boxes, scrambling up and out of the way in case there was a more damaging follow-up. There wasn't – Sylar just walked off to the other end of the backstock area, storage, receiving dock or whatever the name was for where they were. Peter didn't know it if it had one. It took him a moment to figure out what Sylar was doing as he pawed through things angrily. He was looking for something. Peter hoped it was the measuring tape and not an implement to whack him with for being a complete idiot.

Peter moved over to the receiving area desk and spotted what he had come back here for ridiculously quickly. There they were – several fabric-based measuring tapes hanging out in the open next to some colorful aprons. Voice cautious, he said, "Oh. Um, yeah. Here they are. I-I found them." He pulled down two and waved them in Sylar's direction so the other man could see.

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Sylar ceased the search and glared at him, stalking by without a word to lead the little prick to the hardware store. With his anger keeping him very warm, it wasn't as awkward a silence as he'd anticipated but hopefully Peter was feeling it – the heat, the awkward or the silence, any or all would do.

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Peter followed, keeping up without drawing even or speaking as they walked through the store. He missed the teasing banter of earlier and it wasn't entirely because his current guilty feeling sucked. The way they'd talked earlier had been fun – and it was very different for him and Sylar to do anything 'fun'. They left through the front door, with Sylar continuing down the street without hesitation. Peter stopped. Did he not want me to follow him? Is he leaving and I misunderstood? Or does he want me to follow him now, like we're going somewhere? Before Sylar could get too far away, Peter called out, "Do you want me to come with you?" Measuring tape in hand, he looked back and forth between the smashed windows and Sylar.

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Sylar stopped immediately and turned to look back. He saw a confused Petrelli with a measuring tape – for measuring the window. I hope all my mistakes are the concussion. I'm…a lot better at planning and thinking things through. Missing a step transferred some of his anger towards himself, irritated in general now. He turned completely around and waved for Peter to continue, "Finish."

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Peter eyed him for a few more moments. The disapproval, regardless of how justified, was starting to piss him off. With a sullen huff, he went back inside the store and rooted around the checkout counter for a pen and a pad of paper. With these, he returned, measured the width for one window, then checked the width on the next two that they were the same. Then he stood there, hands on hips, frowning as he looked at the top. How to measure the height accurately? He couldn't reach that high, though he thought he only missed it by a foot or so with his hands outstretched. Sylar, on his tip toes with hands lifted might be able to reach it, but he might not and Peter wasn't about to ask him to do anything – not with the way he was scowling and glowering. Peter walked inside, looking around for something to stand on that could support his weight and didn't have wheels on the bottom.

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Sylar watched with half an eye so he noticed when Peter went inside for some reason. The last thing he'd been measuring was the width…Ah. We're not completely hopeless then. Sylar gauged it himself then began looking around for a measuring stick-like thing instead of a tape-like one. The broom handle was set against the cashier counter from their last visit. Sylar took it and commanded, "Peter," as he emerged from the store and began unscrewing the broom head. When the little man appeared, Sylar directed, "Measure the broom handle."

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It took Peter a few seconds to figure out what Sylar meant. Then he said, "Oh!" and moved forward quickly to follow directions. He measured and wrote down the numbers. It wasn't the most accurate of dimensions, but he hoped they made these things to uniform sizes and a half inch here or there wouldn't throw things off too much. He took down the numbers for the door, too, then stood checking over to make sure he could make sense of his scribblings later. "Okay. Do you know any place that sells glass commercially?"

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For a moment, Sylar stared at Peter, thinking and watching his face. He was still angry. Why does he need me? He's…dependent on me for things, too, like directions and locations. He could learn but he…chooses to have me help him. Another thing came to him; I shouldn't expect more of him. He's…like the rest…for the most part. He's still a Petrelli. It's not the last time. Peter had held out longer than Sylar expected, almost to the point where he'd forgotten about it. Being made to be helpless every few weeks wasn't as frequent as it could be – the man had apologized, not for the first time, saying it was 'wrong.' He apologized. Was it real? (Does it matter?) It made him feel like a pansy (after what he'd said about apologies) that a stupid little apology – mere words - could make him feel…better, human, accepted, even if it didn't fix anything and it didn't ease the tide of helplessness that made him panic so. Being magnanimous, helping when he didn't have to, when it wasn't his transgression to correct, and the teamwork, being useful, all helped lighten his mood. Because I didn't do anything wrong. I can't leave him, he'd get lost or do something stupid. Something even more stupid, that is. (I think we're responsible for each other). Is this what it's like to be a big brother? He inhaled and considered the question asked, "Uh…probably a bigger hardware store? They'd have…plywood, if nothing else." But that involves nails…

XXX

Peter waited as Sylar stared at him, evidently thinking something through. He doubted strongly that it had anything to do with the location of glass stores. Given it was Sylar, Peter wondered if something about the question had triggered Sylar into considering whether Peter was expendable. Well, it probably wasn't the question. Maybe just the realization that he's going to have to keep interacting with me, memories and fuckups and all. Is he willing to put up with that? If he wasn't, then it seemed to Peter that Sylar would be holding him to an inhuman standard. But on the other hand, Sylar seemed displeased, disappointed, and ill-served by people in general – he might not have any tolerance of normal failings, much less Peter's. Peter fidgeted under the gaze, vacillating between being pissy or patient, trying to read what small indicators of emotion Sylar was showing.

Finally, an answer came – a literal answer to his question and not the more concerning one of what Sylar was turning over in his mind. Plywood – yes. Peter sighed a little, accepting that protecting the store from the elements was probably wisest while they continued looking for better products to replace the windows. He nodded. "Do you know where one is?"

XXX

"There's a…Home Depot that way," Sylar pointed behind the store. A telekinetic-and-then-some former watchmaker had had little use for hardware so it had been a long time since he'd even been in one. Assuming Peter was finished now (there was nothing else Sylar could think to do here), he began walking at a better pace for short-limbed Peter to keep up. "Did those books tell you how to apply a window?" he asked curiously.

XXX

Hm. Okay. He's talking. There's that. I guess he thinks I'm still decent company. He doesn't seem angry anymore. "Yeah," Peter said, stowing the measuring tape in his pocket and moving to keep up. "The books were about residential windows. They come in a frame with flanges that have pre-drilled holes in them. You fit them to the opening, shim them even, then fasten them in and caulk to seal. I don't know if commercial windows operate the same way or not." He shook his head. "And they don't make windows of all sizes. So even if I'm trying to make some kind of … sub-frame assembly and use two or three residential windows, they have to match the dimensions exactly or close enough for the framing to take up the slack." He gestured out in front of himself, marking off squares that were stacked on top of each other, then shrugged. "Now that I have the numbers, next time we're at the store I can check against what they have there and see if there's some combination that would work." Maybe I could make it prettier by putting one of those stained glass sections at the top?

XXX

"Do you think we could be friends?" Sylar finally blurted as they walked, hastily trying to smooth it out with, "You asked me, but you didn't say what you thought." He wanted to know what he was working with because what he thought about things didn't seem to be the same as Peter.

XXX

Oh. Peter blinked at him. That's what he was thinking about earlier. Oh. Now he had to think about that. He nodded so Sylar wasn't stuck in Peter's situation from before, wondering what was going on in the other's head. "No, I didn't say. That's a tough question," he said, talking it out. "We're not enemies. At least," he looked over, "I don't think of you as an enemy. Not anymore. I don't know what we are. We're friendly," he said, gesturing between them. "There," Peter swallowed, "there are things I've told you, things I've … done, like the … bed, sleeping with you, that I've never done with people I didn't … didn't feel really strongly, really positively towards. There's a lot of trust in that." He turned to look Sylar direct in the eye. "I trust you." Then he looked away. "Which is kind of funny because a lot of the time I'm wondering if you're going to get fed up and kill me. I think that has to go away before I could consider you a friend."

XXX

Sylar looked at him quickly and kept looking upon hearing he wasn't viewed as an enemy, and friendly and trusted were vast improvements. It was completely novel. But Peter was right. I do get fed up and want to kill you. Everyone gets fed up and kills me. Maybe it's just…one of those things I should get used to? It means less now because I'm- I was immortal.

XXX

Peter walked on a few paces before adding, "Then there are the other things – things you've done. How can I be friends or even friendly with someone who killed my brother?" He gave Sylar a long look that was laced with a simmering anger. Peter's nose wrinkled as he looked away. "How do I stay on good terms with any of my family?" He shook his head slowly. "I'm still trying to figure it out, Sylar." His voice thickened with emotion, thinking about his mother, how he'd cried in her arms after finding out Nathan was lost to them, how he'd taken her faintly trembling hand when she'd called him to see her on the pretext of consulting about what should go on Nathan's gravestone. He knew even less how to handle his relationship with his mother than this one with Sylar. "I don't have the answers." He sniffed and tried to brush off the emotion. "I'm just trying to take each situation as it comes up. I've always been shit for planning, anyway."

"Speaking of which, where are we headed right now?"

XXX

Crap. Ask more questions. They get answers, at least from Peter. "I'm-" he cut himself off from finishing with 'sorry'. "Home Depot…" he hedged, checking Peter's face and slowing his walk in case that was the wrong destination. "I thought you wanted windows." The rest of what Peter had said didn't fall on deaf ears, just…a mind that was out of its depth and no more help than Peter's currently was. He hated that it was so complicated – morally for Peter, intrinsically for Sylar, being two persons at once in a way. I was never good with relationships or morals. With his anger gone, his headache returned full force but it wasn't stopping him. Sylar offered gently even though it wasn't asked for and he didn't think he wanted to talk more about it, "Moms…confuse everyone; I think." Why am I trying to comfort Peter with fucking Angela? She doesn't deserve his forgiveness. All it served to do was remind him of a nightmare he'd had, one of many.