(no subject)
Nathan paces the corridors, his office, Mohinder’s lab. Why is he here? What is he accomplishing? That same old tired song and dance-Gabriel’s mantra of I want to be special. He can’t even be someone with his own face. He has to wear the cloak of Nathan Petrelli, the flying man, whose arrogance is only surpassed by his mob ties.
His face is plastered all over the news-real face and assumed. They credit President Petrelli with pulling the nation through after the bomb. As if Sylar had been bested, defeated, another cast-away villain; another happy-ending hero-plot. It makes him nauseas, especially since Peter Petrelli, this face’s brother had been the actual threat.
And the worst part is? Peter is safe, goddamn Peter who he had thought he had killed years ago. It was a kick in the gut, really, but now… Now he has no desire to kill Nathan’s brother. Or at least… no desire to make it quick.
---
“Nathan,” Peter sighs, sounding a bit like his former self as he shuts the door behind himself. He takes in the office with a consuming gaze, eyes much harder than when he saw him last. “Why now?”
Oh, the puppy sounds mad. He curls his face into a sneer-this is going to be more fun than he’s had in five long years.
“Oh, what, you didn’t miss me, Peter?” he says in his best Nathan voice, all diplomacy and feigned innocence.
Peter balls his fists at his side, face set in a determined line except for the half of his lip that protrudes awkwardly. He frowns, stepping toward the younger man. Peter flinches, but doesn’t make any effort to move. When the back of his hand ghosts across Peter’s cheek, however, the boy man snaps his head away.
“Peter…” His tone is award-winningly fraternal as he runs his knuckles over his brother’s face again, relishing in the way his eyes twitch-Peter doesn’t move away this time, and he grins.
His façade of Nathan Petrelli finally drops back, but he doesn’t allow his true form to emerge-not yet. His hair lengthens and his frame shrinks, eyes growing large and wide. He is wearing the younger brother’s face-five years earlier.
He looks up into the older version’s face, dropping his arm limply. Remembering the delicate mannerisms of the former Peter, he idly tucks a wisp of hair behind his ear, staring expectantly.
Peter shoves him back, alarmed. “Nathan?” he hisses. He stalks forward fluidly, pushing Peter back into the door. This isn’t his brother. It’s a realization that means nothing now as his younger self grips his shoulder to the point of bruising. “Sylar.”
And lips are against his own-his lips. He can taste his own naïvety, his own fumbling inexperience as he leans into himself. Peter makes a small noise of protest, but the lips press tighter, his own form trapping him effectively.
Only it isn’t him-he knows it isn’t him, but he can’t stop seeing it.
He’s a murderer.
These hands are just like his, but before calluses, before the crimson had seeped through his flesh. They run over him appraisingly as teeth bite his tongue, tear into his lips. Blood is pouring down his broken face, but he supposes it doesn’t matter by now.
Nathan had been dead all these years.
He never knew.
His face crumbles away before his eyes and the figure retreats, becomes Sylar. Only this man is much softer than the killer he had met at Union Wells High, in Mohinder Suresh’s apartment.
This man is Gabriel Gray.
Peter knows he's right as he fidgets nervously, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses over round eyes. The man glances down at his wristwatch which proclaims “Sylar” proudly from the face, hands stuck at seven of twelve.
“You’re just like me, Peter,” Gabriel cries in a soft voice, heels of his hands coming up to stop the tears that threaten. “You’ll be just like him before long.”
And when all the masks drop away, Sylar is left vulnerable-a shadow of himself.
He hadn’t expected Gabriel to be this close…
“Peter,” he says softly, reaching for the man again. Peter spits-it lands on Gabriel’s collarbone. Like acid, the salvia soaks through the illusion.
He smoothes his thumb over the long scar, brows knitting together in concern. When had this man become so weathered? So much like him-Sylar.
“Don’t be like us-drop your masks.”
Something in Peter’s expression loosens, and Gabriel weeps-saline mingling with the mimic’s blood on the floor.