A/N: This was originally set up as two 100 word drabbles.
"Don't worry yourself too much about it, Sweetie."
Peter rolled his eyes and sighed. The endearments had become a staple of Sylar's recent language. "Don't call me names when you don't mean it."
He felt Sylar's full attention fix on him, but Peter looked away. A head tilt later, Sylar asked, "When I don't mean it?"
"Yes. Don't call me names."
"Unless I mean them."
Peter turned, fists balling up for a fight he didn't want. "Yes. You're not my sweetie."
Peter couldn't tell if he was joking or not when Sylar responded with: "That doesn't mean you're not mine."
Peter sputtered. "I'm not yours! I'm not your anything!"
Sylar gave a deep, velvety chuckle. He'd expected nothing less than complete rejection, but it still stung. His manner of showing it was to up the ante, moving to loom over Peter. "Yes, you are. You're my enemy. You're my …" His eyes stroked up and down Peter's form suggestively, "companion. I get to think of you whatever way I want and there's nothing you can do about it." His lips mimed a kiss before he said, "Sweetie."
Well, it had been a while since he'd been socked in the face.