Gibberings: Finally an update!! My computer crashed, can you believe it? I miss my computer. But I managed to get this chapter done. Sadly for anyone reading Open Wounds you'll have to wait until my computer is functioning again for me to get it because most of the chapter is on there.

Thanks again to Val for the awesome beta job!

Chapter 3: Under Pressure

His breath comes in shallow gulps, like he was drowning in the air. Gabriel knows without checking that his brother's heart is racing, making his own double also. He drops to his knees on the sidewalk, firmly gripping Peter's arms.

"Hey Pete, it's ok. Calm down. I've got you," he whispers, trying to keep the concern inward. If Peter hears he isn't listening. It's been a long time since this has happened, but not long enough for Gabriel. He forces Peter's head down, trying to keep his own breath steady. Their connection is never as acute as when Peter panics. Gabriel can feel it in his being.

It's several cycles of the traffic light before Peter's breath returns to normal intervals. It's a few more before Gabriel stops jittering enough to even dare move his brother.

"What happened?"

Peter shakes his head, "It was them. The people from my dream!"

_-_-_

Nathan squeezes a stress ball absently, staring at the pink walls of the study.

We need to get realistic about the chances of Peter getting better.

He had been realistic, pretty much from the beginning. He had been the one to remind his brothers that things don't always turn out the way they want. He'd been realistic. So why did the news feel so crushing? Peter isn't getting better, and when the results finally come they will likely confirm that the youngest Petrelli never will.

"It's good to see you have inherited the classic Petrelli way of managing stress so well."

Nathan looks up at the man as he walks in, the unnervingly casual manner and slight twinkle in his eyes still intact.

"This isn't a good time Linderman." Nathan isn't standing on president today; he doesn't have the stomach to, not for anyone else today. The grandfatherly man folds his hands as if to pray.

"The meeting can wait," he replies "I just wanted to make sure you were thinking over my proposition." Nathan's grip on the ball tightens, though his eyes remain level.

"I will give you an answer on Monday, when our meeting was scheduled."

"Your father and I were always good friends," Linderman comments, lightly. "The kind that take care of each other."

"I'm well aware of this," Nathan replies, "It will go into my consideration." He stands and walks toward the door.

"Yes of course." The door opens before Nathan's hand can even grip it, and he watches as Gabriel pushes Peter through the door, the elder twin's eyes narrowing at the Vegas casino owner. "Hello boys."

"Hello Mr. Linderman," Peter replies, ever polite though Nathan hears clearly the strange note in his brother's voice. Their father's old partner takes Peter's hand, covering it firmly with the other.

"How are you feeling dear boy?"

Nathan hates how sincere Linderman sounds. It's half of what makes him so successful yet the other half of the equation worries Nathan even more.

"I'm alright," Peter says, his tone is tight. Strained. Nathan puts a hand on Linderman's shoulder then, a friendly enough gesture with the slightest push behind it.

"We will discuss the matter further on Monday," he says, shutting the door behind the older man. Nathan takes a second to regain his equilibrium, something he often has to do after being in the mobster's presence. When he opens his eyes his attention instantly goes to Peter.

"Are you alright?"

"I…"

"He had a panic attack," Gabriel cuts in, his tone sharp. "Do we still have his prescription?"

"The pills are in the kitchen," Nathan replies absently, "Peter are you alright?"

"I'm ok Nathan," the youngest answers tiredly.

"What brought this on?"

Nathan doesn't miss the look Peter exchanges with his twin. "I thought I saw something." Nathan kneels in front of his brother's wheelchair, lifting Peter's chin to look into his brown eyes.

"Is it your vision?"

"You know not everything has to do with his condition," Gabriel snaps, coming back from the kitchen. He tosses the pills to his brother, his glare never leaving Nathan.

"I didn't mean anything by it Gabriel," the oldest growled, "You know that."

"Whatever."

"Gabriel. I swear you were never this difficult for Mom."

"Well you aren't her are you?"

"Guys!" Peter's shrill call stops the argument instantly. "Just stop ok? This isn't helping. I'm fine. I just thought I saw something." Peter rubs his forehead. "I'm gonna take my pills and get some rest. Just…try not to kill each other while I'm gone, ok?" Peter wheels into the kitchen. Nathan watches him go, seeing the ghost of a time when Peter could have walked through that door.

"Are you working with him now?" Gabriel's voice drags him back to the present.

"Who?"

"Linderman."

"Gabriel…" Nathan sighs, running a hand across his brow.

"Because I thought you told me after Dad died that we were done with Linderman."

"Gabriel, you keep putting things in cookie cutter terms, it's not that simple."

The younger turns away, but not before Nathan saw the empathic eye roll. "Here we go…"

"This is not some high school problem. This is real life, kid."

"You don't think I know that? He's a criminal."

Nathan falls into the chair again, letting his head list against the back. "Gabe…it's been a rough day, just lay off ok?"

"What did the doctor say about Peter?" Gabriel's tone softens.

"Just what I told you," the lawyer replies, "We'll know before Christmas."

"He's not getting better is he?" It's not really a question. Sometimes Nathan hates that their Mom passed on her perception to the twins. "But he was making progress right? Last time they said he was making progress!" Gabriel's tone is desperate, abandoning logic for childish hope. Sometimes Nathan forgets they are still kids.

"He was," he answers frankly, "Now he isn't."

"He's getting worse." Anger, denial, bargaining, sorrow. Nathan wonders if anyone can go through the five stages as fast as his little brother.

_-_-_

Linderman walked into his New York office, hanging his coat on the way in. His eyes fall on the five tall wooden boxes lining the room around him.

"They just came in," his secretary says, her green faux Prada pumps clanking as she joins him.

"Excellent," he replies, spying a crowbar on the floor and lifting it.

"Should I get someone to do that for you sir?"

"I'm perfectly capable Marian."

"Of course sir." She ducks out of the room, leaving him alone with the boxes. He lifts the crowbar, prying the top away and letting it fall aside. A grin, so seemingly innocent, spreads across his lips as he looks down at the object. A canvas with a one of a kind work on it.

The painting was of a boy, dark hair hanging in his face and blood on his hands.

"You've outdone yourself this time Isaac Mendez."