A/N: Peter is called to Baltimore at the request of Dr Gibson. She has a patient there who knows nothing about himself or what happened to him. All he knows is a particular name that he keeps repeating...

The * means a different POV

From Smouldering Ashes

Peter recognised his own voice from within his apartment as soon as he unlocked the front door. Although he had purposely distanced himself from any and all remnants of the crazy past few years, he still hadn't quite shaken the sensible paranoia he had crafted to protect himself out of necessity.

And so he froze outside in the hall, peeking through the crack in the door. Senses buzzing and hearing strained, he fully expected his own familiar-yet-unrecognisable, scarred face to come into view at any moment... A few seconds passed this way, but no hardened, warrior, future version of himself approached. Not even a shape-shifter wearing his appearance jumped out at him.

It was only after mentally running through all the ability-related possibilities that the most obvious answer hit him squarely in the forehead: it was only his answering machine.

Embarrassed now, Peter forced his way into the empty room. The door was stiff on it's hinges as ever, and he thought for the millionth time that he should get around to fixing it. But he just didn't have time for anything much outside of work these days, not with all the overlapping shifts he was pulling – like tonight's for example. He hadn't even set both feet inside his apartment yet, and the sun was already threatening to rise.

He dropped his keys and heavy medical bag on the ground, beyond caring about storing them neatly (another perk of the "minimalist" theme that his mother disapproved of so: no coat stand meant the floor was the only option). Curious as to who could possibly be calling him at this hour, Peter swiped his tired, limp hair back and leant against the wall to wait for the message to start. Hesam's shift had just ended so he wouldn't be on call for a while yet; Peter had just recently talked to his brother Nathan, and doubted to hear from him again so soon; and his mother would be wrapped up snugly in her Egyptian Cotton sheets and Deluxe Caviar face mask for another few hours yet... Which left the unfavourable possibility of an old acquaintance calling on him – no, his ability – to solve a problem for them.

Of course Peter still harboured his old dream to be a hero, to save the world and all that... but he was just so tired of the never-ending game. Of all the back-stabbing and manipulation that seemed to come hand in hand with these superhuman abilities. Was it worth it, really? To be involved with all of the horrific incidents and schemes that always seemed to lurk beneath the surface? At the current moment, Peter was sure the answer was a flat-out "no". Noah Bennet and the others could stuff it for all he cared – Peter's ability (although, yes, a lessened version of the gift it used to be) was still powerful. And still dangerous. He wouldn't go around hiring it out to people with "morally-grey" agendas any longer. He would much rather do his part to save one life at a time at work than get too involved with the bad type of people he had only recently managed to disentangle himself from.

And he had also just got home from more than twenty hours on the job. All he wanted right now was to collapse on his bed and sleep for three days straight with no cares or obligations.

However, to Peter's surprise, it was an unfamiliar voice that sounded through his answering machine: a woman with a polite, English accent. "Hello. My name is Dr Gibson, I'm a psychologist with Baltimore police. ...I have a patient in custody asking for you. At least, I hope it's you, I don't have much information to go on..."

At this, Peter's curiosity outweighed his exhaustion, and he scooped up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Peter Petrelli?"

"Yeah. Hi... but, uh, I don't understand why you're calling me. I don't know anyone in Baltimore."

"Oh." Dr Gibson's voice fell.

"Yeah. Sorry. I wish I could help you, but..."

"Are you sure?" Dr Gibson continued, grasping at straws by the sound of it. "I'm afraid that my patient is suffering from a case of traumatic amnesia, and is not very coherent. But he mentioned your name a couple of times and was really quite insistent... his name is Gabriel? Gabriel Gray?"

Every ounce of curiosity drained away from Peter then, along with the feeling in all his limbs. He would swear his heart stilled for more than a few beats, and her voice floated around in his head for a brief few seconds.

Images flitted across Peter's memory: dancing orange light, spitting flames, a ring of witnesses – no, perpetrators...

When he finally found his voice, it sounded weak and very far away. "Gabriel Gray is dead."

He had seen it with his very own eyes, just one pair of the many watchful orbs of the guilty. They had all convened to watch, like cold shadows in the night, each one with their part to play in the fateful deed... Peter hadn't known what they were going to do. He hadn't known they would use himas an accomplice in murder. The thought still turned his stomach, no matter who the man had been. But at least it had all been over, and countless lives had been spared at the loss of just one. But now...?

There was a stung silence from Dr Gibson's end of the line, but the gap in conversation was nothing compared to the void in Peter's insides. "Well I have a very confused man here who can't remember anything about himself or where he's from. He didn't even know his name until we identified him... All he remembers is you, Mr Petrelli."

She seemed to be waiting for Peter to input something, but he couldn't even swallow, let alone speak. What was that he'd just been thinking about disentangling himself from bad people...? Shit, he'd rather take Noah Bennet calling to recruit him for the goddamned Avengers over this phone call!

Dr Gibson finally seemed to realise that no reply was coming, and cleared her throat, securing her professional persona more firmly around her shoulders. "Would you be able to arrange an appointment to come and visit Gabriel? I really think a familiar face would help him recover more of who he is. Frankly, I'm worried about him, Mr Petrelli. He's been through an ordeal, and he's in quite an unstable condition –"

"Yeah." Peter said instantly, before his mind had even had a chance to catch up. "Yeah I'll come see him." Then Dr Gibson was listing appointment slots and suggesting the best times for a meeting tomorrow, but all Peter could think was that there was no way he could leave that man alone over there in an "unstable condition" with innocent people around him. If it really was him, that is. But uncertainty wasn't good enough – Peter had to be sure. "Not tomorrow. Tonight. Uh, this morning." He added, glancing at the sunrise tainting the sky outside.

"Well I'm very glad to hear it, Mr Petrelli, thank you! I'm sure Gabriel will appreciate it immensely."

So much for a blissful sleep, Peter thought humourlessly. All trace of fatigue had evaporated, and the uncomfortable, oh-so-familiar weight of getting into something he shouldn't was starting to build in his chest.

"I'll be there as soon as I can. What's the address...?"

( )( )( )

The room was empty, buzzing with the intensity of the silence. He just couldn't take it any longer. The once too loud clock now, as if in protest, ticked so faintly he couldn't be sure if he was only imagining it. The whole place was too bare, too clinical, stripped of any identifying or unique features. Exactly like an imitation of the man currently sitting slumped at the table.

Gabriel... Gabriel... it was all he had to go on: this name that the doctors had given him. He was supposed to latch onto it, allow it to unlock the secrets to his personality and make everything alright again. But he couldn't. It almost fit, almost felt right... like three edges of a puzzle piece slotted together perfectly. But the forth edge... a separate part of him rejected the name stubbornly, as if it were made for someone else and not him. This absolute sense of incompleteness, of indecisiveness, was maddening, as a war raged on inside the ravenous cavern that used to hold a soul but was now left neglected and gaping.

...Gabriel... at least "almost" was better than nothing at all.

The click of the door opening drew his attention instantly, and he tensed in his seat. Then the familiar face of Dr Gibson relaxed him a little. She smiled at him as she entered the room, as if he was actually important enough to deserve such a kind gesture...

"Hello Gabriel. How are you feeling?"

"Better." He lied, knowing it was the answer she wanted.

"That's excellent." She nodded, smiling widely: the perfect blend of understanding, comforting and professional. It was the smile she'd rehearsed to perfection during her internship. "I have more good news: I brought you a visitor..."

Dr Gibson stepped aside, allowing another figure to fill the doorway. Gabriel's knuckles whitened around the arm rests of his chair at the arrival of yet another stranger in this big new world. The new addition looked no older than thirty, drained and exhausted, but most of all: unfamiliar. The man's face was taut and pale, and he seemed just as nervous as Gabriel felt.

Finally he managed to force the words through his stammering lips. "Who're you?"

( )

Peter cautiously stepped closer to the metal table where his enemy sat. It was impossible not to think of the last time they'd been this close, the last time he'd looked into those haunting eyes. He tried to hide the bewilderment from his expression for the benefit of Dr Gibson (and the cameras he assumed were focused on the exchange), but his eyes were wide and couldn't stop staring at the dirty, frightened face peering out from under dirty, stringy hair. Peter had spent the entire journey trying to convince himself this man couldn't really beback from the dead... but now there was no escaping the truth.

It was him. No doubt about it.

Finally the initial shock waned, and Peter frowned. He ensured to keep a safe distance between himself and the man at the table, just to be safe, but really he didn't think he needed it. The guy he'd known had always been a good actor, great at assuming roles and characters, but this was different. It felt real.

"It's me. Peter?" He murmured. It was so bizarre, as if those three words could possibly encapsulate an appropriate greeting. But what else could he really say? He had to stay intentionally vague in front of the third party in the room.

( )

Peter... Peter... Gabriel... Gabriel and Peter. Two names, yet neither truly meant anything to him. Gabriel blinked up questioningly at Dr Gibson, a reassuring presence at his side. When she placed a hand on his shoulder, Gabriel flinched slightly, but didn't shake her off.

"Don't you recognise Peter?" Dr Gibson asked kindly. "You were talking about him earlier, don't you remember? You said you needed to see him?"

As much as Gabriel tried, he couldn't recall saying anything of the sort. But his already befuddled mind had been playing tricks on him since he had been born into existence a few measly hours ago, so he believed Dr Gibson. She wouldn't lie to him – she had promised to help him. Staring at the table surface, Gabriel repeatedly mouthed the word "Peter" to himself, as if tasting it, before his deep, dark eyes flicked back onto the man himself. Dr Gibson wasn't mistaken in sensing fear ripple through both men. The air couldn't have been heavier with everything that they weren't saying to each other.

Taking this as her cue to leave, she crossed to the door. "I'll be right outside, okay?" She sent another practised smile at Gabriel's lost look before excusing herself and joining a frowning Captain Lubbock behind a monitor in another room.

Peter and Gabriel both watched in silence as the only small sense of comfort abandoned them. The door shut metallically behind her, sealing one man in a room with an unstable, possibly dangerous foe. And that was the case from both perspectives. The tension was thick, the air spiralling and swirling with so much between them, so many questions...

( )

Anxious, curious, but most of all, empathetic, Peter let his genuine concern show on his face now. "You really don't know me?" He asked, feeling just as exposed under that probing, searching gaze as ever. The other man shook his head, hair fanning over his face. It had grown considerably since Peter had last seen him, and could now be used to hide behind like a reluctant child. Only then did Peter notice that he, himself, was doing the exact same thing. So in an act of defiance he swept his fringe behind his ear and inched a few steps closer. "You don't remember who you are? What you've done? What you – what we both – can do...?" Mindful of the cameras, he leaned closer than ever and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper to add, "...Sylar?"

The only reaction was a small grunt and flinch, but Peter suspected more so at his sudden proximity than the name. He just couldn't understand it... if only there was a way for him to verify this man's identity, or to check if it was all a lie... Then for the first time since entering the room, Peter's shocked, crowded and overexerted brain cleared enough to function closer to it's normal capacity. Feeling foolish, he recalled that he currently held Matt Parkman's telepathy, and had forgotten all about it. It was an ability he was less confident with, it being one of the most powerful and deadly should the consequences go wrong, so Peter just gently extended the feelers of the power to caress the contents of Sylar's mind...

Nothing but the weeping, blistering agony of literally nothing greeted him, and Peter instantly recoiled the ability as if burned. What the hell was that?! He'd never known anything like that, not ever. No memories, no hopes, no dreams or ambitions, not even secrets resided in that empty chasm of a mind! He had, for a short while on the way over, entertained the idea that perhaps René was responsible for Sylar's memory loss. But now he doubted that even the Haitian's power extended that far into the depths of a soul... at least it hadn't when he, himself, had been brain-wiped, abandoned and packed off in a container to Ireland.

But what if René had been going easy on him back then? This was Sylar after all! The man Peter's own family and friends had conspired to trap and murder! There was no telling what would be done to him, or by who, in a desperate attempt to finish him off for good. Which then poised the question of the cremation those weeks ago... Sylar had burned right before Peter's eyes, yet here he was: very much alive and breathing, despite the state of him. He had proven time and time again to be an immensely resilient man, but was it really possible to regenerate from nothing more than a pile of smouldering ashes...?

No. Trusting his instincts had more often than not gotten Peter into trouble and/or killed in the past, but this time he was absolutely sure of it: there was definitely some ability-related messing at play here. Perhaps a shape-shifter somehow stuck behind Sylar's face, or an illusionist, or the ever-possible time-travel conundrum – could this be a Sylar from the past who had got himself caught up in the consequences of his future self's actions? It was impossible to guess at the right answer. In this world, anything was possible after all.

Then a small sound drew Peter out of the deep well of his reverie. He had almost forgotten for a moment that he was actually standing so close to the problem at hand. Person! Person, he corrected himself sternly. Nobody should be referred to as a "problem" (his own past experiences on the receiving end of the word had ingrained this mentality into him), especially not while they were so clearly in such a state of distress. The small noise sounded again, except this time, Peter interpreted it to be his name.

"Peter... Peter... Pete?"

( )

Slowly things were knitting together inside Gabriel's head. A few bits and pieces here and there were forming the outline of a picture he was sure he had once known. Staring openly at this stranger, Peter, made Gabriel feel like he might be getting somewhere with this...

"Yeah, that's right. I'm Peter." The maybe-stranger said gently, now leaning on the table with both hands spread out on the surface. Long fingers, nice hands. Gabriel almost felt a ghost of their touch jovially patting his shoulder, his back, touching his arm, then suddenly gripping around his throat so tightly he was sure he felt his very bones break – he shivered, looking up at the face instead. The hands were too complex, there were too many conflicting feelings there.

...Yes. There was definitely something about Peter. Gabriel was pretty sure he half-recognised him: the wide, hazel eyes and small mouth mostly. The asymmetrical slant to that lower lip itched at some distant inkling want to fix it somehow, as if he'd thought so before...

Then amazingly, to both Peter and Gabriel, the amnesiac's mouth curved softly in a self-conscious, timid smile. Gabriel didn't even know why – all he knew was that it was so strange, so welcome, to feel the tickle that was a whisper of a memory. It was the most he'd managed since clawing himself out of the ground last night and, most importantly, it was a nice sensation.

( )

Feeling safe to assume that Sylar wouldn't at least jump on him if he got too close, Peter dragged the other chair out from the table. The metal snagged and squeaked on the floor, the screech loud enough through the microphone to make the hidden surveyors all wince. Then Peter sat down, leaning forward, eyebrows peaked. "Syl... uh, Gabriel?" He whispered, blocking out the memory of an impossible future where he and Sylar were brothers, close friends, and Peter an uncle to Gabriel's child. "What happened to you? Can you tell me anything at all?"

Telling himself not to be so childish, Peter tried to think of this poor soul like any other he helped at work: a wounded person who just needed to be shown some kindness and comfort. He reached out a slightly trembling hand and tentatively brushed the pads of his fingertips along the long, dark hair on Sylar's arm. Hoping against hope that the consoling gesture just might pay off...

It did not. Instantly, the entire atmosphere in the room shattered, and everything was everywhere all at once. An anguished yell tore from Sylar's dry throat, and he fell backwards off his chair in a desperate attempt to distance himself from Peter. Whimpering and screaming, crawling backwards until he hit the far wall, his eyes were wild and never once strayed from Peter's. Frightened by the loud noise and the reaction, Peter too jumped to his feet, shocked dumb and only staring helplessly as Dr Gibson ran in and over to Sylar.

"What happened?" She demanded, kneeling on the floor beside the thrashing man with an arm around his shaking shoulders.

"Nothing! I dunno! I just touched him!" Agitated, Peter ran a hand over the rough stubble on his chin, then gripped a fistful of his overgrown hair as he watched Sylar try to retreat from him further. Guilt and pity began to settle itself only deeper in his gut, and he felt even more useless for not knowing the cause of the breakdown. Sylar or not, Peter's heart had always been vulnerable for people in need, and the look of utter terror and revulsion beneath those dark brows haunted Peter already. It would take a long time to forget that image.

Shivering, voice starting and stopping, Sylar continued to whine pitifully in Peter's direction. "You... you w-were dead... He was dead! And his blood... my hands..." He stared at his hands in terror, holding them as far away from himself as was possible, as if he could rid himself of them that way.

"Shit..." Peter breathed out without meaning to as understanding dawned.

"The ground... I fell onto him... he was broken – twisted – dead! And, and then his head..." The murderer continued in a high-pitched stream of cries, shrinking back further into Dr Gibson's embrace. His face was flushed and tears streamed fast and hot down his cheeks. Peter's stomach knotted itself even further into a conflicted mess of emotions overcoming rational thinking.

Hopefully Sylar's sentences were distorted enough for Dr Gibson not to believe him, but every word hit home painfully for Peter. "His head was splitting open!" Sylar whined, and Peter's stomach jolted uncomfortably as the serial killer's forefinger imitated the deadly cut of telekinesis that he had come to fear spectacularly – and with good reason. "And then... then he was on the floor... the glass... the thud... his eyes! And his eyes were clouded over... and he was so cold – so cold and heavy... Pete! In my arms... he's not supposed to die this way... he was dead...!"

( )

After having absolutely nothing until now, Gabriel was now suffocating under the weight of all these horrific images that painted themselves across his vision, tearing gashes in his being. They ate at him, revitalised him, made him want to throw up and cheer at the same time – and the whole thing was so overwhelming and horribly confusing and he had no idea what was happening and just wanted it all to stop! He had two people fighting in his head: opposite views of the same events. It was like looking through one eye and watching from the new, skewed perspective. It didn't make sense. It ripped him apart.

"H-he... Peter... Pete, I held him...! I watched him fall then... then I cried when I held him..."

( )

Heart hammering painfully inside his chest, Peter tried to make sense of all this. He recognised the re-telling of his past encounters with Sylar, but some of it didn't fit. "I cried when I held him"... He pushed away the thought, didn't even want to go there, but it was impossible to ignore now he'd caught a hint of it. Had Sylar regretted killing him back in Mohinder's apartment? Cradled his dead body and cried over what he'd done...? That definitely didn't sound like the man Peter knew.

Yet neither did the man before him now.

With great effort, Dr Gibson managed to settle Sylar back into his chair at the table, where he slumped over and rested his forehead to the cool metal. Peter watched the other man's shoulders heaving, heard his breath hitching, and allowed himself also to be numbly guided back into the opposite chair by Dr Gibson.

Whatever was going on here was sick – it was disgusting to put a person through this, and Peter was revolted at the very idea of someone doing this to him on purpose. Even to Sylar of all people. It wasn't fair! It wasn't right! And he vowed to help in any way he could. 'Save the world and all that' sure, but this was personal, a 'one person at a time' thing, and Peter couldn't remember ever meeting anyone in such desperate need of his care. He reached out softly again, nervous in case of another bout of memories stemming from his touch, and grasped Sylar's shoulder gently.

"Gabriel." He murmured. The shoulder stopped moving as Sylar held his breath. Then lifted his pink and blotchy face. Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving behind trails in the dirt that was embedded into his skin. The guy had clearly been through a hell of an ordeal, and Peter's heart ached. He remembered exactly how lost and petrified he'd been all alone with no memories or sense of self in the shipping container, and then again once being discovered. It was not an experience he'd wish on anyone, not even, coincidentally, his worst enemy.

( )

"Peter...?" Gabriel breathed, and found the name escaped his lips easily and without effort. Peter's hand was still touching him, a warm, welcome weight that instilled more peace and trust in this one contact that Dr Gibson had in him in all of hers combined. No more vivid flashes of past horrors came flying up to greet him this time, and Gabriel let himself relax under the touch.

"Listen, I'm gonna help you, okay? I'm gonna work out what happened to you. I'll look after you, alright? ...Do you understand?" Peter said carefully, deliberately, right into Gabriel's eyes, spawning another little sob as a pale, lifeless version of that same face danced just behind Gabriel's vision. But then Peter smiled, and his squint lip sent a bolt of emotions through the broken man – playing to both parts of his messed up being. A brief flicker of that same smile, same little lip on a child's face, innocent, adoring... then as an adult, with shorter hair and hopeful eyes, that mouth forming the words "I wasn't gonna leave you"...

The most solid thing he knew in this whole wide world was that he could trust Peter. Pete would look after him.

( )

So much work was going on inside that head, but Peter made absolutely sure not to leak an ounce of Matt's ability and intrude on such private matters. He'd never been particularly fond of this power or it's manipulative ways, but he yearned to read Sylar's thoughts in that moment. But he wouldn't. That was the exact issue he was trying to outrun day to day! He'd promised himself only to use his ability for good, and never to abuse it over people who had no chance of defending themselves. Reading someone's thoughts aided him at work, such as when a patient was in shock or unwilling to admit what had really happened to get them into such an accident, but Peter never strayed further than the necessary information that he needed. And he wouldn't do so now, either. It wouldn't be fair on Sylar, or himself.

"Thank you." Sylar muttered, trying to smile again before giving up. For a moment nothing happened, then Sylar slowly reached across the table. Instinctively, Peter froze. Past experience had taught him only to expect pain or death when Sylar pointed at him. But no... instead of slicing through skin with a finger, he shyly took Peter's hand. The empath's first impulse was to shake him off and recoil, but the killer's skin was warm and the affection even warmer and so unexpected from this human being! Peter couldn't bring himself to shatter such a fragile trust of a man who knew nothing else.

So he allowed Sylar to hold his hand, aware of the absurdity of the situation and the faceless people watching through the camera. But they didn't matter, not when there was a man in such urgent need of help, and Peter was here and able to give it.

Satisfied with the turn of events and her patient's progress, Dr Gibson smiled between the two. There was definitely a relationship of sorts there, complicated to say the least. But she had been right after all, seeing Peter had helped Sylar remember something – even if it had only been delusions and fantasy.

"Thank you for coming down, Mr Petrelli. You've really made a difference."

Peter acknowledged this briefly, throat tight and afraid to speak should his voice break. He had to be strong for Gabriel (for this man definitely wasn't the murderer he had come to know and hate, and didn't deserve to be identified under his alias, so "Gabriel" it would be). The man sitting before him hadn't committed those heinous crimes, that was like holding Peter responsible for his future self's actions: they were outside his control. Gabriel's circumstance, however, wasn't. Or at least wouldn't be if Peter could help it.

He cleared his throat, trying to sound calm. "So do I have to sign him outta here or something?"

Dr Gibson's smile froze, and Peter knew immediately they'd hit a speed bump. Her eyes flickered quickly to Gabriel and back, and she chose her words carefully as to not upset her charge. "Ah, no. No, actually. You see, there's a system... in, in cases like this..."

Peter sighed, rubbing his face. He'd forgotten that Gabriel had been arrested and charged of multiple murders. There was no way to just up and walk out of here without consequence... unless Peter broke his "ability abusing" rule...

Oblivious to the plan forming in Peter's mind, Dr Gibson continued trying to neatly salvage the situation. "– I just don't have the authority. Plus, you'd have to be family to –"

"He is family."

The small voice was barely a murmur, but it was enough to cut Dr Gibson's ramble dead. She tipped her head at Gabriel, while Peter felt his stomach jolt. "What did you say Gabriel?" Dr Gibson prompted gently.

( )

"He is my family... my... brother?" Gabriel said, unsure this time. Upon seeing their expressions, his confidence had plummeted again. He'd been so sure of it, somehow. The word "family" had struck a chord, and it had seemed like the most obvious thing in the world! Peter, Pete: family. A brother, his little brother... but by the looks on their faces he assumed he'd been wrong about that too.

( )

When Gabriel's eyes landed on Peter, seeking reassurance, he smiled a little. Gabriel's hand was still over his own, but Peter had almost forgotten it was there. It felt nice. "No, we're not family." He said kindly, then elaborated for every spectator's sake. "There was a time not too long ago when we thought we were brothers. You must be remembering that? There was, uh... a mix up. My parents mislead us... but they were lying. We're not related Sy- Gabriel. We've only known each other a few years."

( )

This answer placated Dr Gibson, but Gabriel was now only more confused than ever. If that was true, how could he feel echoes of playing with Peter as a child? How could he catch fuzzy glimpses of that face and body ageing through what must have been twenty or more years? But he said nothing. Just nodded to the tabletop, hiding himself behind his hair again.

It was fascinating to watch them, Dr Gibson thought to herself. She'd always enjoyed people-watching, which had suited her profession immensely. And here were two fascinating specimen tangled in so much mystery and intrigue: one man guarded and shy, the other open and caring, joined only by overlapping hands and a huge mess of baggage that only one person in the room knew the truth of.

( )

"We might not be family, but that doesn't mean I won't try to help you. I'm gonna get you outta here." Peter said, reaching across and squeezing Gabriel's hand with both of his now. The guy jumped at the sudden intensified contact, face crest-fallen and hopeful all at once. Gabriel was depending on Peter to solve this puzzle, and although the task was daunting, he was already gearing himself up for a fight. He'd gotten into too many of those recently (most of which had been with the very man who's hand he was presently holding) but this would be different. This was a fight worth having: a fight for justice.

( )

"Th-thank you." Gabriel breathed, astounded at the conviction and certainty in Peter's vibrant gaze. So he had been right about one thing at least: Pete would look after him. "Thank you." He repeated, allowing the first unbridled smile to grace his mud and tear-stained face.

( )

Peter returned it automatically, mind whirring with all the possible ways Gabriel could have gotten into this mess. Maybe Sylar's body had eventually regenerated from the burning, and only fractions of his memories had survived with him? Did that mean that maybe this timid, delicate version of the mass murderer could be a fresh start for him? For Gabriel? Peter hoped so, but was not as naïve and optimistic as he once was. The likelihood of that was slim, and first he had to track down the source of the foul play involved and confront the monster who had ripped a person's soul from their body.

"I promise you, Gabriel. I will help you. We'll work this out together." Peter vowed, squeezing Gabriel's fingers again. The rewarded look of adoration and trust sent his way cemented Peter's decision fully. He didn't care right then how many people Sylar had killed, or that he deserved a proper punishment for everything he had done. Right then, Peter only cared about helping another person who needed him.

He hated breaking his promise to himself, and all he could do was hope that mind controlling their way out wouldn't cost anyone here their jobs. But it was a necessary risk to take – no one here could help Peter save Gabriel.

He knew exactly where to start his search for answers, and it certainly wasn't in Baltimore. It was the place where every incriminating secret was kept neatly tucked away and hidden until some later use for it arose...

Angela Petrelli.