A/N: This story takes place very loosely during the Fugitives volume. I wrote it a while ago, inspired by Claire's suggestion that Sylar needed a good spanking (as I'm sure many people were) and thought I might as well post it. So if that wasn't clear enough I'll say it again, yes this story contains spanking. Enjoy!


Peter made his way down the lengthy hallway, scanning closed doors along the peach-coloured walls. The house almost vertiginously gave off a cozy ambiance in spite of its large size. That was one of the main things Peter remembered and it hadn't changed since he'd last been here as a teenager. There were a lot of good memories in this summer home. Peter didn't even know his family still owned the property until a few days ago. But revisiting it now felt strange and out of place somehow. What made the experience even more strange and mildly unpleasant, was knowing who else was residing in one of the rooms. When the serial killer picked Peter's old bedroom as his place to sleep, Peter knew he did so to be characteristically malicious and Peter deliberately said nothing.

Coming to a stop in front the last door on the right, Peter hesitated and then knocked three times in quick succession before letting himself in. This house was his after all and Sylar was lucky to be here.

A heartwarming nostalgia came over Peter when he was greeted with the cadet blue painted walls decorated by WWII airplane decals. Yet he didn't go past the door frame. The sight before him took a while to sink in though there was nothing unusual about it. Sylar sat crossed-legged in the center of the bed wearing black jeans and a t-shirt and was in the middle of watching a documentary on caves in Mexico. Seeing a man who had tried to kill him several times, not to mention all else he had done, sitting on a bed he used to sleep in during trips his family would take here in the summer gave Peter the creeps.

Sylar begrudgingly hit the mute button on the remote and directed his attention to Peter. The sensation was like locking eyes with a wild animal which was in the process of quietly deciding whether or not to tear him to pieces.

"Hey," Peter cleared his throat. "I'm um, making something to eat. I just thought . . ." he trailed off. Years of ingrained etiquette compelled Peter to be polite no matter who the house guest was.

"Yeah," Sylar said slipping his long legs off the side of the bed to stand up. "I am pretty hungry."

"I mean it's just some re-heated lasagna." Why the hell was he explaining himself? He had to get a grip. This was only going to last a few nights and then he'd never have to deal with this murderer again.

"Yeah, that sounds fine." Sylar stood restively beside the bed. His 'thanks' came out sounding more like a question. Peter was surprised it came out at all.

"Kitchen's this way." Peter beckoned Sylar to follow.

No matter which way he viewed it, the idea that Sylar was accompanying him to the kitchen where they would split lasagna encroached on wrongness. Of course Peter completely trusted Bennet's judgment and agreed that both he and Sylar needed to vanish for a bit or until the Company could figure out what to do with them. Their abilities and by association their DNA strands were too valuable and since getting rid of Sylar was near impossible, keeping him hidden was the next best thing. In the end, getting captured by the wrong people meant big trouble for everyone and the wrong people seemed well trained at catching those with an evolved gene trick up their sleeve.

Although, the funny thing about the existence of people with these remarkable abilities was that it effortlessly turned friends into enemies and Peter had already learned his lesson about Claire's daddy. The first thing he and Sylar needed to do was get off Bennet's radar as well which was why he never told him where they were taking refuge exactly.

"This is a nice place your folks have got here," Sylar piped up from behind him. "Well, I mean your mother anyway. Your dad is dead."

Peter stopped, turning in a flash, his furry swelling up unexpectedly and all at once. With not quite controlled rage, he twisted his fist in the neck of Sylar's shirt, pulling the material high enough to expose Sylar's midsection.

"If you continue to talk about my family, I'm going to do something very unpleasant," Peter said running his thumbnail in a cutting arc across Sylar's bare stomach. "You'll heal but I guarantee that the experience won't be enjoyable."

"Someone's touchy," Sylar said unceremoniously.

Peter wanted nothing more in that moment than to vulgarly break his face. But he settled for a shove backwards. "Come on, the lasagna is probably burning."

Sylar smoothed out his black shirt. "It is. I can smell it from here."

"What!"

Peter quickly jogged down the rest of the stairs with Sylar on his heels. The lasagna was literally the single piece of food in the house and it wasn't like they could exactly call for a pizza. This was deep cottage country and past the tourist season.

There was no black smoke flowing out of the oven when they both burst into the brightly-light kitchen and Peter thought that was a good sign. He grabbed a pair of flowered gloves from the counter and opened the oven. Only the top layer of cheese was blackened when he took out the pan.

"It's fine," Peter said more to himself than Sylar. Throwing off the gloves he pulled a knife out of a wooden block.

"Take out some plates. They're in that cupboard." Peter pointed with the knife to Sylar who was leaning with his hip against the counter.

Peter heard him opening cupboard doors as he cut the lasagna and then plates were being handed to him. Next, Peter hunted around for cutlery and managed to find a couple of dusty forks in one of the drawers. The refrigerator contained just bottles of water and thankfully bottles or water didn't expire. He took one out, threw another to Sylar and then picked up his plate intending to leave the kitchen.

"Where're you going?" Sylar asked, one of his cheeks already bulging around a large portion of lasagna. He was sitting on one of the bar stools tucked into the kitchen's yellow and white island counter.

"To the dinning room," Peter lied, not wanting Sylar to know he had meant to escape to a room where he could lock the door.

"Peter, that is just not true," Sylar lectured him.

Great! Peter had completely forgotten that he could do that. He gave Sylar a sour smile. If he wanted his company while he ate, Sylar would get it. Peter tossed his plate onto the counter uncomfortably close to Sylar, hunkered down and dug his fork into the pasta. He extended his elbows to take up as much space as possible. At least the food tasted good enough to distract him from who he was eating it with. Then Sylar had to ruin it by talking.

"You know, you should be thanking me. I did you a big moral favour by killing your dad for you. I did humanity a big favour."

Sylar was waiting for a reaction that he wasn't going to get.

"In a way, I guess you can say I saved the world."

At that, Peter did look up. The churning in his stomach was ruining the first meal he'd had in over twelve hours. Sylar continued with a grin on his face.

"That's right Pete. The first time you tried to save the world, your big brother had to come to the rescue. This time around, it was almost the same story with me being almost your brother."

"Shut up!" Peter tossed down his fork violently. It bounced off his plate and fell to the floor. "If you don't know how to have a regular conversation for more than five fucking minutes, then just shut up."

Peter was breathing hard. When Sylar didn't respond, Peter angrily moved to pick up his fork.

"I saved your life when I threw you out of that window, you know," he said in another attempt to goad a reaction out of him.

"I know."

The truth of his admission stunned Sylar into enough silence to go back to eating and Peter was grateful. The last thing he wanted was to discuss how he felt about Sylar's decision to not kill him that day. This pact was already complicated enough without Peter imagining that Sylar might have emotions other than morbid insanity. Emotions, specifically, which pertained to him.

Eventually they finished eating and ended up looking longingly at the pan which contained a few more pieces.

"I'll get the pan."

Sylar hopped off his stool to retrieve it and within another ten silent and therefore serene minutes, the pan was as empty as their plates. Sylar cracked the seal on his water bottle and took a long drink.

"That was really good," he said using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. "Not as good as my mother used to make but not bad. Not my real mother of course, my father killed her." Sylar made a funny face at this as if it was something wacky yet endearing which parents typically did.

He swiveled to face him on the high chair. "But speaking of mothers, how is Mrs. Petrelli?"

"Fine," Peter answered sharply.

"She was a nice lady, your mother. I'm almost relieved that I didn't manage to kill her." Sylar continued.

Peter wasn't expecting him to give it a rest and yet he still had trouble believing Sylar's audacity. "What the hell is the matter with you?" He asked, getting off his seat

"What? I said I was relieved. That's this close to saying I was happy about it," Sylar said, making the small space between thumb and forefinger and Peter suddenly understood that this fucking infuriating banter was a normal conversation for Sylar.

"Wow. I didn't think it was possible but my mother was definitely right about one thing she said about you," he began and noticed the way Sylar's shoulders tensed.

Peter smiled his most charming smile. "You're just an attention starved child throwing a temper tantrum. Maybe you could do with a good spanking."

Peter knew he said the right thing when Sylar also got off his chair and moved in close enough to be able to look down at him. Peter chuckled internally at the thought of Sylar presuming his height was intimidating.

"Hmm that's an interesting idea. But you should remember that you've sort of had trouble stopping me in the past," Sylar said leaning in. "You really think you're capable of doing something as simple as administering a spanking?" His voice buzzed with dangerous energy.

"I think I am," Peter said, dead serious.

"I would really enjoy seeing you try."

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could see bright, cyan electricity lightly flowing over Sylar's hands. He was preparing for a fight he believed Peter was challenging him to. Meanwhile, Peter unhurriedly moved his hands to his belt buckle.

"Bend over."

The change of expression on Sylar's face was almost comical. It went from pure rage to confusion and then to a narrowly hidden stunned understanding. Peter thought he might have seen him blush and this thrilled him for some reason.

"As if you could," Sylar said, continuing to test him but he couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice.

"Why don't you bend over and we'll find out," Peter shot back.

There was no movement. Then, gradually, Sylar placed his hands on the island counter and bent over. Peter forced a laugh while inside he was thrumming with panic.

"You don't have to twist my arm." He wanted it to come out menacingly, to call Sylar on his bluff. The problem was that it sounded more like he was eager to dispense a spanking. Sylar only smirked at that. Ignoring him, Peter pulled his belt out, looping it so he could hold both ends in one hand. There would be no going back after the first hit Peter thought in the seconds before he swung fast, making contact just above Sylar's thighs.

"What was that? Did you sneeze back there?" Sylar exclaimed, apparently having almost no reaction despite Peter putting a good amount of force into the blow.

"Oh I'm sorry. I'll make sure you feel the next one," he said sardonically. Peter swung the belt harder. It whistled as it sailed through the air and created a distinct 'thwack' when it slapped Sylar's backside. This time it coerced a grunt out of him.

"Did your grandma teach you how to use a belt?"

Peter could hear the strain to keep his voice steady and an odd feeling settled over him when he thought about Sylar willingly subjecting to the abuse.

Once he brought down the belt a third time, Sylar's grunt was no longer followed by any smart comments. Peter didn't even pause, quickly swinging again with enough strength to propel Sylar forward. Sylar's hips banged into the wooden lip of the island and his hair flew into his face. He let out a strangled breath through clenched teeth and as soon as he had finished, the belt forcibly came down again. This produced a softer exhale of breath.

Again Peter swung the belt hard enough to make Sylar's hips hit the wood, hard enough to convince himself that they weren't enjoying this more than they should be. But Sylar's groan suggested otherwise and the blood that had been pulsing deeply in Peter's veins, took up residents in his groin. He stepped away.

Sensing it was over, Sylar straightened up carefully, brushing hair off his forehead.

"Thanks Peter. I've learned my lesson." His tone was scathing but Peter could easily see the swell in his snug jeans.

"Good," Peter said much more weakly than he meant. He wanted to say something else to break the uncomfortable tension but found he couldn't. Instead, he found he was imagining those snug jeans and Sylar's underwear pooled around Sylar's ankles while he spanked him. He hoped Sylar hadn't acquired some new ability which would allow him to see this was what he was picturing.

"Well if you need me, I'll be upstairs," Sylar said but his eyes remained locked with his. Peter could only nod at first.

"Yeah, okay. I'll uh . . . see you in the morning," Peter tried to say casually. He was not used to dealing with things like suddenly being turned on by a man.

Sylar turned to leave the kitchen and Peter was not surprised when he stopped halfway to the door.

"How rude of me," Sylar said walking back towards him. He got unnecessarily close, seemingly intending to only pick up his empty plate off the island counter.

"I forgot to clean up after myself," Sylar said, not stepping away after he retrieved the plate. Peter should have shoved him. But he didn't and Sylar leaned in a fraction closer, beginning to tilt his head to the right.

"Thanks for dinner Pete and for the spanking," he said, his warm breath flowing over Peter's lips. One arm was already trapping Peter on the left and Sylar lifted the other one to the counter, encircling him. He meticulously rocked his hips, just enough to make to contact, to ensure they both knew exactly what was going on. The quietest gasp escaped Peter's mouth and a smile formed on Sylar's face that was composed of entirely too many teeth. Then he was walking to the sink, disposing of the dirty plate as if nothing happened. He sauntered out of the kitchen without another word.

Peter rested, flattened against the counter for a few more seconds. Then he took his dirty plate and the pan and threw them into the sink next to Sylar's dish. Turning off the lights and heading for his own room, Peter prayed that he wouldn't end up ruining what was left of his childhood by tainting his childhood bed.