A/N: Thanks to miikkuli who was kind enough to be my beta for this.
(And no, I did not take time off from my Merlin-fic to write this, it's been lying around on my harddrive for ages.)
Spoilers: yes, for all the show (this is post canon)
Warnings: mentions of murder (it's Sylar) and hints of slash, but only if you squint.

Strong Enough to Carry Him

"The road is long, with many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows, who knows where
But I'm strong, strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy, he's my brother"

- The Hollies, He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

oOo

"Brave new world", Sylar had said as Claire jumped. Peter wasn't so sure that the world as such had been renewed, but his own life had definitely taken a turn. Nathan was dead, their mother had gone underground, and Peter driving through an America where specials were known about by everyone (embraced by some and hunted by others) in a rusty old car, with Sylar. Or was it Gabriel now? Three months had gone by since they broke through the wall, and Peter still didn't know what to make of it. The minutes, or the years, that they had spent in that world – had they really changed the other man to the core? Peter hadn't dared to leave him after the events in Central Park. He told himself it was so that someone would be there to protect the world from Sylar, to stop him if he turned into a deranged serial killer again. It was. It was also so that someone would be there to protect Gabriel from the world.

oOo

Noah had called them again. Another special was on a rampage, and they were the closest team. Peter had protested months ago that they weren't a team for the New Company, but Noah seemed to be of the opinion that once you had agreed to be in on it, there was no getting out. He hadn't been happy to see the former enemy following Peter around, that much was clear from the glares directed at Sylar, and the raised eyebrow to Peter (the one that asked "are you sure you can handle him?" or possibly "are you entirely f*ing crazy?"), but if there was anything Noah was good at, it was the trusty old trick called "grin and bear it". When Peter mentioned, while Sylar was in another room, that maybe going around "bagging and tagging" dangerous specials under the radar wasn't the best way of keeping Sylar on the straight and narrow, Noah had looked at him, and said:

"He's done it before. When your parents told him he was their son, he straightened up pretty damn quick. He saved Claire's life, and she told me he saved yours."

Peter had called Noah out on this sudden change of mind: he hadn't exactly believed in Sylar's ability to change his ways at the time, had he?

"Of course I didn't. He's a killer. All that was holding him back was a lie. I don't know Peter ... I can't tell you I trust him. I don't. But I trust you, if you're willing to make that sacrifice."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, if he trusts you, if you can bear having him around, if you can bear being nice to him, then well ... You know, the last time he tried to walk the line, he did it for family. If you are that family for him now, then maybe, just maybe, it will work; and he'll be an invaluable asset instead of a nearly unbeatable threat. But that means chaining you up to your brother's killer for the rest of your life, or at least for the rest of his. And I can't do that to you. That's a decision that has to come from you."

Peter had huffed and smiled at him.

"We've already spent years together with no other company at all. The normal world? Piece of cake."

Noah had given him a strange look, but he hadn't asked for an explanation.

oOo

So, here they were, somewhere in the woods of Minnesota, walking up to a small cabin where, according to Noah's information, a man with fire-starting abilities was hiding after having burnt down half of a nearby village.

Peter had held on to Parkman's ability. It was useful, especially since it was an ability Sylar didn't already have, even though the "lie-detector"-ability and the "touch me and I can tell your deepest desires"-ability both came close. Peter had been extremely wary around Sylar for weeks when he had found out about that last one, making sure he never brushed against the other man when fastening his seatbelt, or reaching across for the glove department when he was driving, or grabbing the salt when they were stopping at some diner ... Eventually Sylar had called him on it, and said, with a leer reminiscent of his old self, that not only would he promise not to use that power against Peter, it also took a whole lot more body contact than a simple brush of fingers to really read someone. Peter had felt a blush creeping up his neck, and had changed the topic.

Peter listened for the thoughts of the man in the cabin. They were scattered and confused.

"He's in there," he whispered to Sylar.

"I know. I can hear his breathing. Sounds stressed. What is he thinking?"

Peter shook his head.

"He's scared. I don't think he did it on purpose, Sylar."

Sylar looked at the cabin for a while with a blank expression. For the umpteenth time Peter wished he could read his mind, but he knew Sylar could tell if he did, and that breach of some-kind-of-trust would mean far more loss than gain.

"But he's dangerous, isn't he?" Sylar said.

"Yeah."

"So – 'trap, but not kill'?"

"Looks like it."

"I hate those ones."

Peter laughed. He actually laughed; what was wrong with him?

"Careful, Gabriel, you're beginning to sound like a certain killer I used to know."

Sylar gave him a slight smile, but there was no heart in it. Peter understood. When they took people alive, they had to travel with them in the car for hours. Where they were now, it would be days. Days with a tied up person with an ability in the back seat, just within arm's reach ... Peter had felt that hunger too, once.

"We'll get Noah to send someone to meet up with us, to pick him up. He can't expect us to drive all the way to California when we were going in another direction."

Sylar looked at him, but didn't say anything. Instead, he grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Surprised, Peter squeezed back. Until he remembered. He froze. Sylar noticed and drew his hand back. For a moment their eyes met. What did you see? It only lasted half a second before Sylar turned his head as if listening:

"A car is coming this way."

oOo

It had happened once before. In a motel somewhere in Illinois, where they had shared a two-bed room. Peter had gotten rather drunk in the bar, and he'd been talking to the bartender about Nathan. Old stories from their childhood had poured out of him. Sylar had been standing close by, looking like he was having a staring contest with his beer, but if Peter had thought about that at the time – his memory wasn't entirely clear – he hadn't cared. Why should he? Let the man feel guilty. He'd destroyed the one family member Peter had actually had a functional relationship with. His brother. His idol. His hero. Peter didn't remember how he'd gotten into bed that evening, but he would never forget how he'd woken up:

Nathan and he had been throwing a football around in the back yard. Nathan rarely played with him, and he never let him win, but this time they hadn't really been counting. It had been hot and their mother had brought out ice tea. It was the kind of perfect afternoon the Petrelli family had perhaps once every five years, if that. Later Nathan had been telling him ghost stories, and Peter had gotten so scared that Nathan had stayed on the couch in Peter's room until they both fell asleep. When the first daylight seeped in through the blinds, Peter woke up, and the first thing he saw was Nathan. He smiled. He felt elated, like hadn't seen his brother in months. "Nathan," he slurred. But his voice was too deep. He shifted, and his body was too big. And that wasn't his couch Nathan was lying on, and this wasn't Peter's room. From warm and fuzzy, Peter turned cold all over. His head cleared for the fraction of a second. His guts twisted. Then he snapped.

He crossed the floor, hardly touching it, and bore down upon the sleeping man with feet and fists.

"No! No! Don't you fucking dare! Don't you fucking dare wear his face, you hear me, you piece of shit! Wake up! Wake up and show your real face, you fucking, murdering, psychopath, bastard, killer ..."

Sylar had woken up the second Peter had landed on the bed, but had only put his arms up in front of his face, seeming bewildered at first. Only when Peter shouted the word "face" did he change back from Nathan's form to his own while Peter's fists were still hammering against his chest. Peter was throwing punches with each word, but as soon as Nathan's face was gone he was shaking so bad that he probably wouldn't have done much damage even if Sylar hadn't had instant regeneration. Sylar grabbed his shoulders.

"Peter... Peter, I'm sorry ... Calm down, Peter ... I'm sorry ..."

"Fuck you!" Peter screamed at his face.

He felt tears running down his cheeks. His cheeks were wet. He had been crying all along. And then he noticed that Sylar was crying too. One single tear was slowly sliding down his left cheek. Peter tried to shake off his grip, but he knew it was pointless unless Sylar decided to let him go. Sylar, who had the ability to read people through touch, who had been pummelled by Peter's hands, and who was now holding him by his naked shoulders.

That time too their eyes had met, that time too Sylar had broken eye contact, gently pushing Peter off of him. That time too Peter had thought "What did you see?" as he swiftly made his way back across the room. They had never mentioned it again; not the incident, and not Nathans name.

oOo

Peter certainly didn't have time to reflect on it for long this time either. When the approaching car turned on the sirens, even Peter could hear it.

"The police! Great!"

Sylar got a suspicious look in his eyes.

"How did they find him?"

"Small town, Sylar. Someone must have recognized him."

"How do we proceed, save ourselves or try to take him with us?"

Peter hesitated. If Sylar was caught by the police ... Well, they couldn't kill him, but they could make things damn difficult. Which really applied to them catching the man in the cabin as well.

"If we let them go in there, they could all die."

Sylar nodded. Time to go and be heroes.

oOo

They were both on edge as they entered the house; they had to be careful not to startle the man but quick enough to get out before the police came – they only had a minute.

"Sir?" Peter called. "Mr Gordon? We're here to help. Let's get you away from here before that car arrives, ok?" Wherever the man was hiding, the sound of sirens had gotten loud enough that he would have heard it.

"I ain't going nowhere with any police!" a voice called from another room.

"Where not the police, Mr Gordon" Sylar replied in an even voice. "We're here to help you ..."

"I don't need no help! Get out of my house, or you'll regret walking on in here without even knockin'!"

"We can teach you how to keep what happened this morning from repeating itself; we just need to get you out of here before ..."

"JAMES GORDON!" a voice bellowed outside. "STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD OR WE WILL FIRE!"

Peter just about had the time to whisper "What is this, the Wild West?" before everything exploded. Literally.

It couldn't have taken more than a second, but it seemed as if time slowed down – it almost felt like back when he'd had Hiro's power. There came a soft, crackling noise from the same room that the man Gordon had been in. Sylar turned around with wide eyes, shouted "Peter!" and threw himself over Peter, tackling him to the ground. And then, as the floor hit his back and Sylar's chest hit his face, there was fire.

oOo

"Peter!" Nathan was calling. It was Peter's eleventh birthday, and earlier in the day everyone had been playing hide and seek. Nathan had been the one counting, and he had found everyone else in a flash, but Peter's hiding place had gone undiscovered. Now it was evening, and Nathan had agreed to play again in order to wipe the smug smile off of Peter's face, and Peter once again lay hidden, barely daring to breathe. He stifled a giggle as his brother walked by outside, incessantly calling his name. "Peter! It's not funny anymore, Peter! Come out, I give up! Peter! Peter!"

"Peter! Peter! Wake up, Peter, come on! Please!"

Peter opened his eyes to see Sylar looking down on him. His clothes were burnt, and in shreds, but – of course – the man himself was unharmed.

"Peter, can you hear me?"

Peter tried to reply. His mouth felt impossibly dry, and his tongue wouldn't move properly.

"Water ..." he croaked out.

"Peter, you have to take my healing ability. I don't have any water. You have to try to do it."

"Kitchen," said Peter who felt a little bit clearer.

"There is no kitchen. There is no cabin anymore. There's no Mr Gordon, and there's no policemen. We're in the middle of nowhere. If you don't take my power, there won't be any Peter soon either."

No cabin? Peter tried to look around him, but his head wouldn't turn. Was that the sky behind Sylar's head?

"I can't. Can't just ... choose, you've got too many powers. Can't tell which is which. I'd get yours."

Was the situation really that bad? He didn't feel any pain.

"Then just take my power, and use it to take Claire's."

"Get the hunger, cut heads open? I'd rather die. 'Ve had it before. Never again. Couldn't stop."

Peter tried to move his fingers. He could feel his left hand that had been crushed between himand Sylar. But the right one was ... He couldn't feel it.

"Peter ... my power, it isn't ... I don't have to kill. Your father taught me. I can copy people's abilities just like you could, if I can just sympathise with them."

Peter didn't know if he was conscious enough to process that information. Didn't have to kill? So had he just been slaughtering people for fun! But Peter had felt that hunger: sympathy wasn't enough, blood was so much better, crushing the person in your way, taking the power that belonged to you ... Sylar had spent years living like that, in that horror. And Peter had seen him smile.

"You're saying ... to get Claire's power, I'd have to feel sympathy ... for you?"

All was quiet for a while. Then fingers gently wrapped around Peter's left hand.

"Peter. I know. I know what you felt when lost him. This is what I saw, every time. The pain. The fear. The loss of your only real friend, your support, your safe point. The only one you really trusted. You would do anything to have stopped it, but you weren't there. You didn't have the powers you would have needed."

"Too late. Too late now."

"But you can get even. This could be your revenge. You could do that to me. Or you could take pity on me, and use my power to bring yourself back."

"I – what?"

"You're my safe point, Peter. You're my brother. Use Parkman's power, you know I mean it. You can avenge Nathan by dying on me. Or you can come back here and keep me from going crazy. I wouldn't blame you for going with option A. But your right side is burnt to cinders, and you're fading, so whatever choice you make, you better make it fast."

oOo

It felt strange. Like floating. Like cold liquid pouring through a body he hadn't known was burning. Like he was breathing easier. Was this who he really was, when the end came? The mirrored image of Gabriel Gray? Taking Sylar's ability, the hunger swept through him for a moment, making him so much dizzier that he almost faded. And then he felt it, all that power, so close by, and it was like he'd been walking through the dessert for weeks and only now seen an oasis. He forced himself to think of Sylar's words. Of what it had felt like, watching Nathan letting go, disappearing. What his own face must have looked like then. A bit like Sylar's did now. You're my brother.

And then came that rush, as of cold water; all that power was running into him, all those abilities. Some that he'd had before, some that were new, and one that was especially familiar ... he could feel his right hand again. And what was that one?

Oh, yeah. Prolonged physical contact.

"I can see you."

Sylar smiled.

"It's mutual."

oOo

"So on we go, his welfare is my concern
No burden is he to bear, we'll get there
For I know he would not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother"