Gabriel lifted his hand, but Sylar stopped it before it could reach Peter, dropping it onto the pillow between them. He didn't know when the sun had gone down, but it wasn't light in the apartment any more, and neither of them had thought about turning on the lights, but his hand was in a pool of light on the pillow between them, and he was extra conscious of it there than he might have been just dropping it onto Peter's shoulder.

"You still don't get it, even now, do you?" he said, and it wasn't really condemning; his voice was gentle, warily testing the water between them. "You're mine, Peter. That's why he attacked you. I killed his hero, so he came to kill mine. It's my fault that this happened."

He drew his hand back, winding the top of the blanket around his fist as though if he covered it with several layers of blankets he could erase the faux pas of reaching toward Peter.

"I'll kill him for that."