Musings from the Ambiguous Zone

Title: Rescue Me, Chapter Four: Nathan, Episode 3 - “A Day in the Life”, part 3/5
Characters: Nathan, Peter, Sylar, Luke, Claire, Mohinder, Ando, Monica, Angela, and Nana
Pairings/significant relationships: Sylar/Peter, Peter&Nathan, Sylar&Luke, Monica/Ando
Rating: PG-13
Genre: science fiction, action/adventure, hurt/comfort, romance, slash, het
Length: ~ 6500 words
Warnings: character death (temporary), implied incest, light violence, angst, foul language 
Recap: While leading the mission to Primatech Paper, Peter was shot and killed by Homeland Security. Sylar teleported to the scene after telepathically hearing Angela's cry. He was traumatized at seeing Peter dead. As a result, Sylar combined his powers to produce psychokinesis, burning all the HS soldiers to death without having to be near them. He then almost went nuclear in grief. Noah was forced to shoot and temporarily kill him to make him calm down, reminding him that Claire’s blood could bring Peter back to life, as it did him. Ando was also shot and badly wounded. He was saved by Hiro’s good timing. In the process of rescuing Angela from certain death, Luke killed five men.
 
Summary: Nathan and Peter centric. This is the infirmary scene where Mohinder treats Ando and Peter with Claire’s blood. Nathan and Sylar engage in a staring match and Nathan has angry, violent words with Luke. While dead, Peter takes a trip that’s hard to believe. (Think Deep Space Nine Prophets/worm hole aliens - meets Battlestar Galactica angels/aliens/who the Hell knows.) Family and friends wait tensely for him to come back to them or for Sylar to crack. Mohinder gets to be the voice of reason while breaking up a few fights. Nathan and Peter have an intense and revealing confrontation.
 
Special thanks to my beta game_byrd, who pushes me to do better. This story would be nothing without her.
X-posted to sylar_peter 
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The scene in the infirmary was one of controlled chaos. The lights weren't as cold and bright as in a regular hospital but the equipment was just as advanced. The stink of blood was heavy in the air and a small pool had gathered on the floor under Ando's bed. In the middle of the one long row of hydraulic hospital beds that ran along the side of the building, Peter and Claire were laying in side by side beds. They and the sheets under them were covered in blood. Peter's shirt had been removed and both their pants had been cut up the legs for access. Claire's shirt had been cut up the arms as well. Mohinder had IV lines running from each of Claire’s arms connecting her to Peter; one going into Peter’s vena cava on route to his heart, while the other was in his carotid artery headed for his brain. Two more lines were connecting their femoral arteries. All were backing up with blood flow. Trying to encourage Peter’s circulation, Mohinder was periodically massaging his chest and arms while Angela worked on his legs. In their rush to perform the transfusion, they hadn't bothered with monitors for Peter or Claire. They weren't needed anyway – Peter was either going to stay dead or revive completely; there was no in between.
 
At the bed on the other side of Claire from Peter, Nana injected some of Claire’s blood into the feed coming from Ando's IV bag. All of his clothing except his underwear had been cut off to get to his wounds, the bandages red with still seeping blood. Monica, holding Ando’s hand, took off one of the pieces of gauze with her other and watched gratefully as the bullet hole began to heal within seconds. It was not a moment too soon. He had lost so much blood from his leg wounds that he was in danger of going into cardiac arrest, while one of the bullets had pierced a lung causing it to collapse. Nana pointed out Ando's improving blood pressure on the beeping monitor screen before drawing a sheet over his lower body. Monica brushed Ando's hair back from his face, smiling down at him as he opened his eyes and found hers.

“You're alright, Ando. You're going to be alright,” she said comfortingly. Her stomach was in knots, tears stinging her eyes at how close they'd, she'd come to losing him. She hadn't realized how important he'd become to her in such a short time. They still barely knew one another, but it was enough that she wanted to know more. She smiled again, heart flipping as he squeezed her hand silently. It seemed they were both still learning how to breathe again.  

Nathan was standing near the door out of the way, watching helpless and frustrated as the two wounded men were fussed over. He had been in his cabin when the alarm had gone off, but hadn’t bothered to do anything until Nana called over the CB informing him that Peter had been among the injured. Nathan had hurried to the infirmary with a growing sense of dread yet was unprepared for the severity of what he found. His brother, dead from semi-automatic weapons fire; daughter recovering from similar bullet wounds. His mother was covered in blood as well and everyone was stinking of ozone from an almost nuclear blast. His heart had dropped in his chest as he looked at his family, stifling panic trying to catch hold, causing his breath to speed up.

This wasn’t the first time he had seen Peter covered with blood, laying in a hospital bed, or dead for that matter, but it was a scene that he could live without. He didn’t like how powerless it made him feel. That was his baby brother - his responsibility - and he was mad as hell at the men who had done this, and even angrier that Sylar had managed to take them all out, apparently easily, but only after Peter had been killed. Anger simmering for a while now, Nathan's teeth were starting to hurt from how hard he was grinding his jaws together. If Sylar could do that all the time then why was anyone else even there? Why were his family on the front lines while the madman in charge played around at home? And what helpful thing did he do when he finally did arrive? Kill over a dozen government employees and then almost explode, literally. He would have killed thousands if not more, not to mention Claire, Ma, and the rest. Sylar was the walking definition of overkill, more of a threat to them all than Homeland Security. Those dead soldiers he murdered could have been Nathan twenty years ago, just good Americans following orders, trying to protect the country from obvious danger.

Nathan stared heatedly at his own clear and present danger. He had no problem placing the blame for this squarely at Sylar’s feet. With all that man’s powers, there was no reason for Peter to be leading that mission. No reason for him to be in harm’s way. This was just more proof that they shouldn’t be fighting this war at all. Nathan was tempted to call Danko right now and try to negotiate, try anything to keep this from happening again. If Peter woke up that was exactly what he would tell him. When he woke up. He needed to convince Peter that this psuedo-military solution to a political problem was the wrong path, never mind the insanity of following a kid and a psychopath.
 
Sylar was slouched back in a chair at the foot of Peter’s bed, arms crossed in front of his chest, listening intermittently to Nathan's thoughts. Luke was sitting next to him, so close they were touching from their shoulders and arms, to their longs legs all the way down to their feet. Every once in a while, one of their knees would press against the other man’s and their legs would rock back and forth for a second or two. Sylar was grateful for Luke's support. He didn't know how he could get through this without him; especially with Nathan glaring at him accusingly, blaming him for everything under the sun, not completely without reason.
 
Sylar and Nathan locked eyes. Sylar looked away first and shifted in his seat, brushing against Luke again as another wave of guilt and anxiety swept through him. He tightened his folded arms closer, fighting off chills.
 
“What’s taking so long?” Luke growled to Mohinder in response to his mentor's agitated motions. Peter had pulled him and Micah aside earlier that morning for a quiet chat about Sylar's freaking out. Obviously, a little too late. Luke pressed his lips together and frowned, wondering how they would stop Sylar from having a complete meltdown if Peter didn't pull through. His eyes glanced around furtively, wondering where the hell Noah was.
 
The scientist shared a worried look with Claire before answering. “Peter’s circulatory system isn't working. It will take a while for Claire’s blood to cause enough regeneration to take effect and spread to his entire body. This is normal. It took a while to bring Noah back as well, but it will work.” Mohinder was looking apprehensively at Sylar when he finished. He didn’t mention that Peter was in much worse shape than Noah had been. Dead was dead, right? It didn’t matter how it happened, he hoped, fighting off growing insecurity as Peter's condition remained unchanged. Sylar didn’t respond beyond the flicker of a glance in the doctor's direction. Everyone else in the room exchanged nervous looks. After hearing about what had happened at Primatech, Mohinder wasn’t sure if he should be more worried about Peter staying dead, or of what Sylar would do to him if he did. Agitated, he went to check the line at Claire's right arm again but she stopped him with some soft words of support.
 
Head throbbing in pain, heart twisting in agony, Sylar ignored all the worry directed at him and continued focusing on Peter’s lifeless body, holding himself in check by the skin of his teeth. Silently, to himself, he started chanting his mantra, rocking a little, and wishing he had the courage to take out his mala, but there was no way he was going to play with prayer beads in front of Nathan like some old Catholic widow. So instead he held onto his arms with all his might, fingers digging in. He was not going to prove them all right and do all the impulsively violent things they expected and that at another time, he would have. He wasn't pacing madly. He wasn't yelling at Claire for her blood not working fast enough. He wasn't throwing Mohinder into the wall for not reviving Peter yet. And he most certainly wasn't going to blow up and kill them all. He had promised Peter he wouldn't fall back on old ways if he died. He had already come too close to breaking that promise as it was.

He would fight with himself later about the moral implications of what he had done. He would worry then about what Peter would say about his loss of control. At this point, he just wanted Peter to come back and yell at him if it meant him being alive again. Even if it meant Peter choosing to sleep on the couch again or making him sleep there, or not talking to him, anything. He would give anything if Peter would just wake up.
 
Sylar blinked against the burning tears in his eyes, biting his lower lip visciously as he swallowed around the lump in his throat. He couldn’t get worked up, not here. Not with Nathan watching. But a part of him just wanted to crawl in the corner and bawl his eyes out. A cold emptiness was settling in his chest the longer that Peter lay motionless, a hollow feeling in his heart that reminded him of the hopelessness of his life before Chandra had changed it forever.
 
‘Gabriel, it will be okay.’ Angela’s voice was stern as well as comforting in his mind. Her face was a reassurance when he glanced at it. She gave him a small nod and his face relaxed, one side of his mouth rising in the barest of smiles. He blinked and sniffed, took a deep, cleansing breath, and looked back to Peter. His leg brushed against Luke's again as he refocused on his mantra.
 
Nathan watched the exchange, seething in anger because he knew what had just happened. That was his own mother giving comfort to the man responsible for all this. Nathan was still reeling from Angela being Sylar’s god mother. In a very real sense, he was Sylar’s brother, as far as the Church was concerned. Never mind the fact that she had tried to be Sylar’s actual mother. The idea that he had any connection with that...murderer made Nathan feel disgusted. What was inexcusable was that this wasn’t the first time Sylar had gotten Peter killed. Nathan remembered too well that triangular piece of glass that the serial killer had imbedded in his baby brother’s head for no more sin than Peter arriving to talk to Mohinder. Obviously, Nathan remembered it better than Peter did.
 
(What do you do with something that killed you?)
 
Fuck it, obviously, Nathan thought meanly. He had known Peter was weak, desperate for affection, but this was going over the line. It didn’t help that Nathan knew that he was as much to blame as anyone. More so. He had been Peter’s everything. His father, his brother, even his first...well, everything. And now, Peter had betrayed him and had clearly transferred his hero-worship to Sylar. It was the only thing that made sense. He couldn’t really be in love with the monster. What could there be to love in a man like that? A mass murderer and an unstable lunatic. Nathan wished he could find the Haitian and strip Sylar of his powers, so that everyone in the camp, but most especially Peter could see that he was nothing but a loser who got lucky in the power department. Sylar was nothing but a four-eyed freak under all that vain smugness.
 
Moving only his eyes, Sylar turned his glittering gaze to Nathan again. ‘Stop staring at me,’ he thought.
 
‘Make me,’ Nathan thought back, curling his upper lip in dark amusement, happy to be getting under his adversary's skin so easily.
 
Sylar gritted his teeth, spared a guilty glance to Peter’s body, and then looked to Nathan again. He held the infuriating man's gaze steady and commanded telepathically, ‘Stop staring at me Nathan, now.’
 
Nathan’s eyes glazed over and he broke the staring match much to Sylar’s satisfaction.
 
“It’s working!” Mohinder announced with excitement and profound relief.
 
Sylar launched himself out of his chair and was at Peter’s side in an instant. Everyone else crowded around, too, Nathan moving to stand with Angela between Claire and Peter's beds. They all watched with held breath as Peter’s visible wounds began to heal and color came back into his pale face. Sylar heard Peter’s heart start up, beating in a regular rhythm. He counted the beats in his head obsessively, willing them to keep going as relief and happiness surged through him. He clenched his teeth, feeling more tears spring to his eyes.
 
“Why isn’t he waking up?” Sylar asked worriedly as the seconds dragged on without other change.
 
“Give him time,” Mohinder answered quietly, taking Sylar’s arm and giving it a squeeze. “He’ll wake up when he’s ready. His body has been through a lot, after all.”
 
Sylar took a deep breath and gave a slight nod. With his head bowed he looked at Mohinder sideways, meeting his eyes shyly. “Thank you, Mohinder.” He clasped the doctor’s hand where it lay on his arm and held it. “Just...thank you,” he repeated softly, trying to convey all his gratitude with his eyes and touch.
 
“Anytime,” Mohinder said, giving his friend a small, encouraging smile. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up?” he suggested as Sylar, like everyone else, was covered in blood.
 
Sylar nodded, needing to leave and be alone. He felt shaky and hemmed in suddenly. He needed to get away from Nathan and all these people where he could be himself for a minute. He kissed Peter on the cheek, still counting heart beats in the back of his mind. Then he leaned closer, whispering so one else would hear, “wake up soon, please, baby. I need you.”
 
Luke followed Sylar as he left the building.
 
“Going to privately crow over your body count for today?” Nathan asked snidely as the two bosom buddies started leaving. He moved to the end of the bed for a better confrontation.
 
“Shut up, traitor. Nobody cares what you have to say,” Luke sneered, slamming his shoulder into Nathan as he passed the shorter man. Sylar, shoulders hunched up tensely, stopped but didn’t turn around.
 
“Watch it, punk,” Nathan rejoined, returning the shove, incensed at the teen’s gall.

Angela and Claire exchange uncertain glances, both unsure as to what they should be doing, or whose, if anyone's, side they should be on. They turned to Mohinder, who frowned at them in return, starting to straighten his posture.
 
“Bite me, ass munch,” Luke said angrily, turning around to tower over the older man, grabbing his jacket.
 
Nathan grabbed him back, eager to wipe that smirk of the trashy boy's face once and for all. He was sick to death of being disrespected by goddamned criminals. “Why don’t you make me -”
 
“Gentlemen! Please!” Mohinder exclaimed, gaining everyone’s attention. “This is a sick room. Take it outside. The last thing Peter needs is to wake up to a bunch of angry faces. In fact, all of you, just go,” he ordered, waving his hand. “Everyone who was on the mission needs to bathe, eat, and rest. Doctor's orders!” he announced with all the authority he had been given.
 
Luke snarled at Nathan before letting him go and leaving the cabin with Sylar’s arm around his shoulder. The words “fucking ass hat” floated through the doorway behind them, earning a barely suppressed snicker from Claire and a hidden smile from Angela. Nathan ground his teeth, frowning fiercely in the direction the infuriating youth had gone. Then he turned to take one last look at Peter before storming off to find a bottle.
 
Angela kissed Peter’s forehead, clasped Claire’s hand, thanked Mohinder, and headed for her own cabin to take a much needed bath and have a good cry. As Mohinder and Nana began unhooking her and Peter from the IV lines, Claire asked if she could stay until Peter woke up. Her excuse was that it would be less disorienting for Peter to wake up to her. Reluctantly, Mohinder agreed. He checked on Ando who seemed fine, sending him to shower and rest, wrapped up in a sheet and blanket. Monica went with him to make sure he ate something. Then Mohinder began the clean up as Nana went to make sure there was something to eat for everyone, planning to bring back some water and food for Claire to help her restore her strength. Even though, it wasn't necessary, it would be soothing.

Pulling over Sylar's abandoned chair, Claire settled in to watch over her uncle. She took his hand, and brushed some bloody hair back from his forehead. “Oh, Peter. Why aren’t you waking up?” she asked with a worried sigh.
 
 
 
 
 
Peter was standing in complete, unrelieved darkness. He turned in every direction, but all was an utter blackness like none he had ever known. There was no sound, no wind, nothing. He took a couple of hesitant steps and called out a tentative, “hello?” His voice didn't echo, in fact it sounded weirdly lacking in depth. Which made no sense, but then neither did this. Looking around gave him no information, so he turned, or rather, knelt to the floor. It felt a bit like linoleum, but more smooth, less squeaky. He got the sense that it was very clean, as though it had never been dirty.

Slowly, the darkness started lifting, lessening, though not from any light source Peter could make out. He became aware of shapes and shadows moving out at the farthest reaches of his sight. It was as though the dawning greyness of the space was alive and shifting. His eyes flitted around worriedly, adrenaline starting to pump, as he stood back up to face what ever might be happening. Time seemed to be in flux, as Peter couldn’t tell if it was seconds or minutes later, when the shadows finally solidified. Finally, distinct light and discernible color entered, and after a couple of strange blips in his vision, Peter found himself standing in his parents’ living room. His mother and Nathan were in front of him, both dressed entirely in black.
 
It shouldn’t be possible, Peter realized, but he understood what was going on. He was dead, and this was...some place he had been before, when he died back in college. This wasn’t his family, they were just borrowed forms used to communicate with him. As incredible as it seemed, these were angels, or something like that. They had prepared him, back then, for what was to come. They were why he had straightened up and changed his life after his overdose. All that time, he had been getting ready to receive his power, and he had forgotten all about why. But he remembered now as though it was yesterday. And maybe in this place, it was, he realized.
 
“You shouldn’t be back here, little rock,” Nathan said, standing nearby, off to the right. His hands were in his pockets, his weight against an end table. He was relaxed, expression snide, almost contemptuous.
 
“You disappoint us, little rock,” Angela said quietly from her place on the sofa. She was sitting in the middle of it, prim and proper, hands folded in her lap. “We gave you the greatest gift of all, and you shunned it, squandered it, allowed it to be stolen from you,” she went on, accusation entering her voice. “And now the world is unsafe for you. Despite all we gave you, here you are, again. You are the one we were counting on,” she said, looking disappointed, even betrayed.
 
Peter was no stranger to being manipulated by that facade and it had never been more fake than now. Even so, he couldn't help but feel guilty and remorseful because what “she” said was only too true. He had been afraid of his powers, and it was likely that fear was why he hadn't been able to control them at first. And he definitely should have known better than to trust his dad, come back from the dead as the head of a shadowy corporation recruiting specials for God knew what. For that matter, he shouldn’t have gone to Pinehearst without Sylar in the first place. It was same old problem – always trusting the wrong people.
 
“What's wrong with you, little rock?” His father’s voice hissed in his ear and Peter spun around in shock. He clenched his teeth as old anger and resentment flared, reminding himself that the “man” standing in front of him was not his dad. It wasn’t. His dad was in Hell.
 
The being that looked like Arthur leaned entirely too close to Peter for his comfort and said, “Are you weak?  Too scared to wield power?”
 
Peter took another step back, tension making him go rigid. “I – I am not weak,” Peter said furiously, suddenly enraged at hearing the old accusation from some phantom. He looked at around at his...jury, he supposed, and tried to calm down. “I was being cautious. And yeah, at times, too trusting. But most of all, if I didn't live up to your expectations, it was because I didn't want to misuse my powers. I wanted to be a hero, not a monster.” He couldn't have explained what was really going on, but he believed he needed to defend himself here. This was really happening, what ever “it” was.
 
“Monsters. Heroes.” Peter’s head swung to his scoffing brother. “You have learned nothing,” Nathan sneered at him.
 
“That's not true!” Peter protested.
 
“Your caution takes you no where and leads to failure,” Arthur said.
 
Peter looked back at him in confusion over that sentence that made no sense.
 
“What have you learned?” Angela asked patiently.
 
Feeling dizzy and disoriented, Peter turned to her, settled himself as much as he could, and walked forward. He stood tall and raised his chin. “That I am my abilities. I can't be myself and be afraid of them. If I want to be whole, be the man I was meant to be, then it’s got to be with my full power back. I’m not me without it. And I’m not afraid of it anymore. I have faith in myself now. I know that I wouldn’t have this power in the first place, if I didn't also already have the ability to control the powers it gives me. I just have to do better, and I will. I promise. And I will be more...careful of who I place my trust in and not follow others blindly,” he added, thinking of Adam. “I am my own man, now more than ever,” he finished confidently.
 
“Anything else?” Angela asked, raising one elegant eyebrow.
 
“That this is my world. Our world. Not yours. It is up to me and my friends to change it. I can’t count on miracles, only the ones we create for ourselves.”
 
“Very good, Peter Petrelli.” Angela nodded at him and stood. “Because for your sake, this should be the last time we meet here.” Her eyes turned grim. “Do not forget this time,” she said, taking his shoulders in her hands.
 
“But wait. What about God?” Peter asked.
 
“I told you he was hopeless,” Nathan said, shaking his head and snorting with laughter.
 
Peter frowned over at him, before looking back to the being that looked like his mother.
 
Angela smiled indulgently. “You still need to learn more, young one. But you will have all the time you need now. All the time to set this right again. All you need now is the key. Stay on your path and all will be as it should.”  She touched his chest and as he looked down a golden glow emanated from her hand, and a warm, liquid sensation seeped into his chest, filling him with... 
 
 
 
 
Peter opened his eyes to see a cabin ceiling. He panted, eyes bugging out as he remembered what had just happened. Hand flying in the same direction, he looked at his chest. He didn't feel any different. He was a complete mess though, bloody and half naked, jeans ripped to hell. And he felt like...he had been healed. With a sense of foreboding, he looked to his right and found Claire sitting by his bed, face buried behind one of the medical texts. “Claire, what happened?” he asked hoarsely.
 
Claire jumped, then gave a huge sigh, putting the book on the bed behind her. “Oh, thank God, Peter. You’ve been unconscious for forever. I never stay asleep that long after being dead,” she said in exasperation.
 
“How would you know?” he asked, wryly.
 
“Good point,” she allowed, smiling. “How do you feel?” She sat down on the edge of his bed and took his hand.
 
“I hate the taste of blood in my mouth. But other than that, fine. What happened?”
 
Handing him a glass a water and a pan to spit in, Claire explained about Homeland Security getting there and shooting them. Reluctantly, she told him about Sylar going fire-starter on the soldiers and then almost going nuclear over his dead body. Her dad having to shoot him.
 
Peter fished something out of the back pocket of what was left of his jeans. “Like that?” he asked, handing her Matt’s drawing of Sylar screaming.
 
“You carry this around with you?” Claire asked incredulously.
 
“Thought I was supposed to stop it, not...”
 
“Be the cause of it?” Claire finished with raised eyebrows. Her expression said clearly, he was an idiot.
 
Peter nodded with a grim smile. “Where is Sylar?” he asked worriedly. He had the strongest feeling his boyfriend was needing him right now.
 
Claire shrugged. “He went back to your cabin. There was um...a little fight between Nathan and Luke as they were leaving, but I don’t think Sylar said anything to Nathan. They were glaring daggers at each other though,” Claire admitted. 
 
Peter began struggling to get out of the bed. “I need to go find him.”
 
“Where do you think you’re going?” Nathan’s voice sounded suddenly from the doorway. He strode over with purpose, looking belligerent. “Claire, could you give us a minute?” he asked, steely gaze focused on his brother.
 
She frowned, looking to Peter for direction, getting the feeling that Nathan had been drinking. She squeezed Peter's hand and left reluctantly after being given a go ahead nod.  She didn't bother trying to meet her father's gaze as she walked past, happy to not have to see confirmation of his early afternoon buzz. She thanked God he wasn't the only man in her life to look up to.
 
“I’m going home,” Peter said, putting his weight gingerly on his bare feet.
 
Nathan grabbed his shoulder, pushing him back onto the bed. “No, you’re not. You’re staying put for the time being.”
 
Peter was surprised at his brother's actions. “Nathan, what -”
 
“For God’s sake, Peter! You just died...” Nathan started.
 
“I’m fine, Nathan. All healed...” Peter tried to be reassuring.

“Give yourself a minute, okay?” Nathan pleaded as they talked over one another.

“...Sylar’s not. I need to go make sure he’s -”

Incensed that Peter would be worried about Sylar when he had just narrowly escaped his own death, Nathan grabbed his shoulders. “He’s a killer, Peter. A lunatic!” he yelled. “Do you know what he just did for Christ’s sake? He killed dozens of people, without even having to be anywhere near them. And I am not letting you go anywhere near him,” he swore vehemently.
 
Peter shoved his brother off him in outrage, making Nathan take a few steps back and stumble into what had been his daughter's hospital bed. Peter stood up, taking a confrontational stance. He could easily smell the alcohol on his brother's breath thanks to his tirade and was disgusted. Whatever Nathan saw in his face thankfully made him back down a bit. They stared at each other for a moment until Peter said gravely, “I'm not a child anymore, Nathan. You don't get to tell me where I go or who I go to.”

“I'm just trying to protect you, Pete,” Nathan said sincerely, taking a step closer.

“The last person you need to protect me from is Sylar. He would never hurt me. He cares for me more than you can imagine,” Peter promised. He frowned, lips pressed tightly together, willing Nathan to understand; knowing he wouldn't.
 
“Will you listen to yourself? You’ve been with the guy for how long? Two months? And you’re talking like this? What the hell’s happened to you?” Nathan asked with disbelief.
 
“Sylar isn’t what you think he is,” Peter insisted.
 
“Prove that he’s not.” Nathan crossed his arms and threw his shoulders back. All Peter had was a bunch of half-assed promises and pie-in-the-sky dreams about a proven killer with the darkest history imaginable.
 
“Look at what he’s done!” Peter exclaimed, waving off to the sides with his hands. He intended to indicate the entirety of Rebel Base One, but Nathan chose to focus on the letter of what he said rather than the spirit.
 
“Exactly,” Nathan said from between clenched teeth, leering at Peter's bared and bloodied chest. He leaned forward, trying to make Peter see his point of view from sheer will alone.
 
Peter just sighed and looked away for a moment, exasperated. “Listen, I know he’s done unspeakable things in the past, but he is trying to do right now. That’s what matters to me. And right now he needs me and I'm going,” he said, turning to walk away.
 
Nathan grabbed his arm. “Sylar’s got plenty of people to take care of him in this camp. He’s the golden boy of Rebel Base One, while I’m the only one taking care of you. I’m trying to look out for your interests here, Peter, and protect you – from yourself if necessary. I’m the only one that’s got your back. I only want what’s best for you, Pete. And being with a psychopath isn’t it! Why can’t you see that this good guy act is just that - an act?”
 
“You’ve got my back?” Peter yanked out of his grip. “Are you kidding me?! You’re the reason we’re all here!” he yelled, gesturing wildly again.
 
“And I’ve apologized for that countless times!” Nathan shouted in frustration. “I know I’ve done bad things in the past, but I’m trying to do right now. Isn’t that what matters?” he asked, sarcastically.
 
Peter fumed at having his words thrown back at him but he deflated none the less. Shoulders slumped, he sat back down on the bed and scraped his hands through his hair, honestly unsure of what he should be doing. He was so tired of fighting with his brother. All they did was go round and round in a never ending loop of blame and disappointment. He wished they could get back to how they used to be, when Nathan was someone he could respect and count on to support him.
 
Nathan saw his opportunity and moved in, sitting next to Peter and tentatively putting his arm around him. “Listen, Pete, I know these last few months have been hard. Violent. Confusing,” he started, gently. “You were thrown out of your life, betrayed by me, isolated and alone for the first time. I get that, I do. I’ve been in war. I know what it’s like. But this isn’t what you’re used to. When I was in the navy, I knew there were guys who turned to each other for comfort when faced with all the stresses that comes with combat. But when their tour was over, they went back to their families where they belonged. That’s all this is with Sylar. You know that. But you’re not alone anymore. He’s not the only one you can turn to now.”
 
Peter looked up at his brother with narrowed eyes. When he spoke, his voice was soft and intimate. “And who should I turn to, hmm?” His face came near Nathan’s whiskey scented one. “Who did you have in mind to give me this comfort I so … obviously … need?” he asked seductively, letting his lids droop.
 
Nathan’s eyes flickered down to Peter’s mouth. He licked his lips answering in an equally low, sensuous tone. “I’m sure there are lots of people here who would help, Pete. You’d only have to ask,” he said, leaning closer, tightening the arm holding his brother.
 
Peter closed his eyes, smiling crookedly as shook his head in disappointment and disbelief. When he met Nathan’s gaze again, his was filled with bitter anger. “You know, Nathan, sometimes your hypocrisy is actually outstripped by your utter sleaziness,” he spat. He leaned away to rake Nathan from head to toe in a searing look. “Like I said, I’m not a child anymore and I see you now for what you are, clearly,” he snarled.
 
Nathan’s nostrils flared as he reared back, his arm falling away. “You’re not a child? Well, you’re certainly acting like one – sucking up to whoever has the power like some kind of twisted daddy fixation. I know you’ve always had those issues, Peter, but it's time to start thinking like a man, not a needy little boy. And part of that means not fucking who ever crosses your path. As usual, you’re thinking with your heart and your dick, not your brain.”
 
“Fuck you, Nathan!” Peter leapt off the bed in a sudden rage. “You’re one to talk, thinking with one’s dick. Jesus! And if I have daddy issues, you helped feed them, you damn hypocrite!”
 
“Hey! Nobody’s perfect here, I’ll admit!” Nathan shouted, standing up. “But think of the example you’re setting. You are living with a murderer. A male murderer. What does that say to kids like Micah and Molly?” Nathan asked, fuming.
 
“I don’t know,” Peter said, cocking his head to the side. “Maybe that everyone deserves a second chance? Oh, and that there’s nothing wrong with being gay. You unbelievable hypocrite!” he spat.
 
Just then Mohinder walked in, carrying clean linens for the beds Two sets of furious eyes rounded on him.
 
“Mohinder! Tell Peter he’s not well enough to get up.”
 
Mohinder! Tell Nathan I’m fine to go home.”
 
The brothers’ demands were spoken in unison. They seethed silently and separately for a few seconds before launching into their arguments again, this time directed at the scientist.

“Mohinder! Doesn't Peter need to stay here longer?”

“I’m perfectly fine!”

“No, you’re not. There might be a relapse.”

“Mohinder, tell him there’s not going to be a relapse.”

“How would he know?”

“He’s a doctor!”

“Right, like all the doctors who couldn’t get you out of the coma you were in for six weeks! That was all Sylar’s fault, too, by the way!”

“It was not!”

“Yes, it was! If you’d just done what I’d said and not gone to Texas-“

“Oh, so now this is about Texas again? Should I have let Claire die, too?”

“Claire was fine!”

“How did you know that? You didn’t even know she was your daughter! People were going to die and you didn’t care!”

“Oh, yeah, like all those soldiers who were doing their duty today that Sylar torched, whom you don’t care about! I happen to know, Peter, how much it hurts to be burned to death.”

 Mohinder had stopped cold, eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights. Genuine uneasiness gripped him as he weighed his options, clutching the bedding to him like a shield. His eyes flew from one man to the other as he was bombarded by their rising voices. This was why he hadn’t become a medical doctor in the first place; scenes just like this one. Sometimes, he really hated having to deal with people.
 
“Enough!” he shouted, stomping his foot so hard the floor shook, causing the beds and monitors to wobble. Gradually the cacophony died down as the squabbling men shifted their attention. He slammed the linens down on the bed between himself and Peter. “Peter is fine to be released and I’m certainly not going to keep him here where you can agitate him like this!” he yelled at Nathan, completely done with the man's overbearing attitude. “He needs a shower, water, food, and rest. In that order!” This was shouted in Peter's direction before the angry doctor turned back to the older brother, ignoring Peter's startled gaze. “He does not need to be fighting with anyone about anything. Do you think you two can handle that? Or do I need to call Noah to get you to behave?” he asked threateningly.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Peter made an effort to put away his frustration, worry, disgust, and anger over Nathan as he walked to his cabin. He definitely didn't want to be dwelling on his brother's horribly timed and unwelcome, not so subtle advances when he was about to be with his psychic/psychotic boyfriend. This whole situation was getting ridiculously complex, he realized as he opened the door to his cabin. He paused at the threshold, taking a breath, studying the scene before him. Sylar was halfway across the room by the right hand wall, making a cup of tea. The electric kettle was on the table in front of him, steam pouring out of its spout, but the man made no move to get it. He was standing perfectly still, staring at the wall with a tea bag hanging from one hand. He seemed completely unaware of Peter's presence and as Peter had been worried about, appeared to be quietly freaking out. Peter walked slowly up to him and turned the pot off.
 
“Sylar?” Peter said softly, reaching out.
 
The taller man flinched when Peter touched his arm, dropping the tea bag, and knocking a mug onto the floor. He whirled towards Peter, face showing frightened surprise. They both stood very still and looked at each other with wide eyes, Peter gradually understanding just how close the other man was to losing it again. And that he still had on his khakis that he wore around the camp, covered in blood, presumably Peter's own.
 
“Gabriel?” Peter asked hesitantly, not daring to move again as his lover, who ever he was at the moment, was still clearly spooked.
 
Silently, blinking repeatedly, Sylar reached out slowly to cup Peter's jaw, exactly as the younger man remembered from their incredibly passionate and sensuous shared dream that first night in Pennsylvania. His expression was almost the same – longing, wondering, disbelieving, but now it was tinged with worry and fear so blinding it made Peter's heart break a little. Peter stood still as the trembling hand made contact, gently stroking his face. Sylar had tears in his eyes, and his painful emotions were coming through loud and clear with his touch once Peter switched for empathy. His heart broke further, feeling all the fear, guilt, shame, and devotion coming from his partner.
 
“Come here,” Peter took him into his arms when he realized Sylar's whole body was shaking. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m okay,” he murmured, running his hands over Sylar's arms and back. “We're okay, baby. Everything's going to be okay, I promise,” he soothed, easily understanding Sylar's worries and eager to assuage them.
 
Peter continued trying to console him as he led them over to the bed to sit down. They settled on the edge facing each other, twisted at the waist, hugging loosely. Peter pulled the blanket up around Sylar’s shoulders, thinking he was obviously in shock. Sylar just gripped Peter tightly, fingers digging into his bare skin, shivering, and breathing hard into his neck. Peter put his arms around his shell-shocked boyfriend, trying to send all the feelings of support he could through their link.
 
“I’m okay, baby. It’s going to be okay...” Peter began rocking them, pressing his head against his boyfriend's.
 
“Stop calling me ‘baby’,” a gruff voice finally whispered.
 
Peter smiled faintly, held him tighter, and didn’t say anything when he started to cry.