Fic: What Miracle Is Wrought (Crossover)
Fandoms: Heroes and Jericho
Pairing/Characters: Mohinder/Sylar, Elle, Molly.
Rating: hard R
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Spoilers: General through second season, for Heroes. Through "Black Jack" for Jericho.
Notes: For the Mohinder/Sylar fans on this community who are probably quite annoyed at me for not writing any for a while - this story doesn't require any prior knowledge of Jericho to read.
Summary: The bitterest irony is, of course, that New York survived.
- - -
The bitterest irony is, of course, that New York survived.
Mohinder was at home; he’d called an early night, from the lab. And he remembers that Matt was there, and Molly, and that they were having dinner - doesn’t remember what dinner they were having, though. The details slip, after a while.
He remembers the interruption. The scream, out in the hallway. Remembers Matt pushing past him, out the door. Ready to offer help.
There were neighbors in the hallway. That never happened - never. Mohinder hardly ever spoke with his neighbors. Barely even knew them by sight. But that moment, they were all out of their apartments, all together.
“What’s going on?” asked Matt. “What’s happening?”
And one of them turned towards him, eyes numb, and said, “Turn on the radio.”
~*~
For a long time, no one knew what was happening. The radio spoke of lost communication, of the necessity of staying calm.
Mohinder sent Molly to her room; only minutes later, Matt followed, crouched by Molly’s bed, as Mohinder watched from the doorway. Asked her to find Janice, in Los Angeles.
Molly couldn’t.
~*~
Two hours after the news broke, Matt left to report for duty. “They’ll need every cop in the city,” he said, and he promised to be back in time for breakfast.
Breakfast came and went. Rumors spread of total destruction, absolute devastation in places too close for comfort - and there was that whisper, that tiny, shadowy undertone. The hint that someone - someone - saw a mushroom cloud.
Mohinder kept Molly inside, the whole day, as the volume in the streets increased, bit by bit. They heard sirens - more and more - and then there was hardly a time when they didn’t hear a siren.
Mohinder hasn’t seen Matt Parkman since that night.
~*~
The second day, a helicopter landed on the roof of Mohinder’s building. Mohinder has the idea that this would have been illegal, but there’s no one in any position to enforce the law, not anymore.
“We’re here to get you out of New York,” says the Company representative, at Mohinder’s door. Two men lurk behind, their guns drawn.
“No,” says Mohinder. “Matthew Parkman is still out there.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor Suresh,” said the man, “but you don’t have a choice.”
And he didn’t have a choice.
They had to take him at gunpoint to the helicopter. Molly sobbed into his shoulder, and Mohinder held onto his lone bag of belongings and tried to ignore the beating of the helicopter blades.
He didn’t look down at the city. He doesn’t know, to this day, what he would have seen if he had.
~*~
“What happened?” was all he could ask, when he got to the Company facility in Odessa. “What’s going on?”
“There were multiple nuclear detonations,” Bob told him, matter-of-factly. “We don’t know how many cities were hit; we do, however, have an incomplete list.”
Mohinder took the paper, and the letters on the page refused to resolve into words. And when they did, the words refused to resolve themselves into ideas.
Los Angeles, California. Baltimore, Maryland. Miami, Florida. Dallas, Texas. Houston, Texas. Washington, DC-
“Washington, DC,” breathed Mohinder. “Who’s the President?”
Bob shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
~*~
The list grew daily. Detroit, Denver, Topeka; San Francisco, Chicago, Atlanta.
“Why can’t we go outside?” complained Molly. “I’m sick of this place.”
“We have to stay in,” was all Mohinder could say.
~*~
Elle showed up pale and injured, a week and a half after the explosion.
Bob greeted her with a shocked silence, then, a yelled, “Where in God’s name have you been?” -and he didn’t wait for a response. Just pulled her into his arms, held her so tight it seemed he might squeeze the breath out of her.
Mohinder waited for Elle to object, but she didn’t; she held on just as hard.
~*~
“Are we going to get fallout?” Elle asked. “Isn’t everything going to be radioactive?”
Mohinder shook his head. “No. Dallas and Houston are too far away, and the prevailing winds are south.” He drew a hand through his hair, his mouth twisted and humorless. “Odessa will be perfectly fine.”
He wondered how New York City was faring, then.
He wonders about it now.
~*~
Boston, Massachusetts. Charlotte, North Carolina. Minneapolis, Minnesota. Phoenix, Arizona. San Diego, California. Seattle, Washington. Cedar City, Utah.
What had they done to deserve this?
~*~
“Come on, get up, you have you get out of here,” said Bob.
Mohinder blinked, settling up on his elbows.
“What’s going on?” asked Molly, her voice trembling.
As they rushed through the hallways of Primatech Paper, Mohinder heard the explanation, in short.
Odessa had a flood of refugees from Dallas, and another flood from the closer cities, from panicked residents fleeing radiation, real or imagined. There weren’t enough supplies to go around. And suddenly, the city had reached spark point.
“There’s not enough fuel,” the helicopter pilot told them, pale and terrified. “We can’t lift off the ground.”
“Go by car,” ordered Bob, thinking fast. “We’ll go out the front. Elle, take them and go out the back, alone.”
“Where will we meet?” asked Elle.
Bob’s mouth tightened.
~*~
The car was half-destroyed before they got out of the city limits of Odessa; Mohinder counted at least seven people Elle killed, just to keep them alive.
He remembers the scorching heat of a fire, the sharp chokehold of smoke.
He remembers the crash as the window next to him was broken inwards.
He remembers Molly not making a noise, not complaining once. She was braver than him.
He remembers staying alive. And regretting every minute of it.
~*~
“Where are we going now?” asked Molly, on the outskirts of Odessa.
Elle didn’t answer. She was looking out towards the horizon, her face studiously blank.
“Elle?” queried Mohinder, tentatively.
“What?” she turned, shook her head like there was an insect buzzing near her eyes. “What did you say?”
“Where are we going now?” repeated Molly.
“I don’t know,” said Elle. She looked to Mohinder.
He hesitated. Nuclear science wasn’t exactly his area of expertise. “We’re outside of the fallout now,” he considered, and bit his lip.
“North,” said Elle. “To Kansas.”
“What’s in Kansas?” asked Mohinder.
“Farms,” said Elle.
~*~
The road blurs into Mohinder’s memory. The days were walking, endless, monotonous walking. They walked past stretches of refugee camps, passed scattered families on the road.
Some nights, they built a fire. The winter was coming, fast and cold, and some days Mohinder worried about frostbite, about the three of them dying, out here, before they could get to somewhere safe.
Every town they passed refused them entrance. Bandits were all over, and they were attacked more times than Mohinder could count. Elle stayed steadfast, tenacious, always refusing to give in until the fight was done. Sometimes, though - on the good days - all it took was a demonstration of her power to fight the bandits off.
On the bad days, none of them came out unscathed.
Food they bargained for, stole - even killed for, on one horrific occasion.
Nights they took by the side of the road, more often than not. At first, Elle or Mohinder would try to stay awake, guard the group, but, as it got colder, they gave that up. They slept all together, sharing body heat - Molly sandwiched between them, Elle’s hair always tickling Mohinder’s cheek.
They lost track of the days.
~*~
One day, the temperature dropped. And dropped. And dropped.
By the end of the day, none of them were shivering.
“We have to keep moving,” said Mohinder, through a numb face. And they did.
Mohinder doesn’t remember when they stopped, only that he felt colder and colder and colder, and then he didn’t feel as cold anymore.
He heard an engine roar in the distance, but he didn’t have the strength to investigate.
~*~
Mohinder woke up in warmth, for the first time in months. Warmth, and a distant motion, and a low hiss.
“What,” he murmured, and then the motion came to a stop, pushing Mohinder forward against his seatbelt.
…seatbelt?
There was a water bottle pressed against his lips.
“Drink,” came a low, raspy voice. A familiar voice.
Mohinder didn’t worry about it. He fell back asleep.
~*~
“Sylar,” said Mohinder, softly. It was a guess, as much as an acknowledgment, at the identity of the figure at the mouth of the tent.
“Mohinder,” came the return acknowledgment, then, “you’re safe now.”
“Safe?” spat Mohinder, moving so that he was sitting up, sitting on the edge of the bed, and his chest tightened, tightened up so much he couldn’t speak.
Sylar knelt, in front of Mohinder, and that gesture, more than anything else, convinced Mohinder that Sylar was different. That he’d changed too.
“I spent two months looking for you,” Sylar told him. “I couldn’t rest until I knew you were alive.”
“And you found us out on the road.”
“I scouted all the routes from Odessa.” He reached out, to trace fingers along Mohinder’s cheek.
And Mohinder remembers every detail, every instant of that touch, even today.
“I saved your life.”
Mohinder leaned forward and buried his head in the curve of Sylar’s neck. The world ended two months ago, he thought. The world ended two months ago and I’m taking comfort in the man who killed my father.
~*~
Outside, the world was grey. Black Jack Fairground - that was what it used to be - but now it was a trading post.
“What have you been trading, exactly?” asked Elle, her voice hard.
“Skills,” said Sylar.
~*~
“You know he’s the boogeyman,” said Mohinder, half-statement, half-question.
Molly nodded, solemnly.
“You’re not afraid of him?”
She looked up at him, her eyes firm. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
~*~
When Sylar kissed him, Mohinder pulled away. Didn’t meet Sylar’s eyes - scared to death that he would give in.
“Mohinder,” said Sylar, and Mohinder snapped, inside. He broke in two, and sobbed, half-senseless, against Sylar’s chest. And he can still feel the way Sylar’s hands tangled in his hair, the way Sylar held him close. That Sylar didn’t make a single noise, didn’t say a single word.
And before Mohinder knew it they were kissing, for real, this time, slick with saliva and tears, hungry and rough and all-consuming.
Mohinder didn’t forget that Sylar killed his father. He clung to it, with every ounce of his being. It was real, it happened, it existed, and there was a world that was real before this horror.
Sylar slicked himself up, fingers pressed inside, and it was the most erotic sight of Mohinder’s life. And he pushed into Sylar’s body, past Sylar’s defenses, and rode a tight wave of rapture; it was in Sylar’s skin, Sylar’s warmth, Sylar’s life, so close to his, and burning so bright.
Sylar cried out, strangled and muffled, at the moment of orgasm, and Mohinder knew, without a doubt, that he would never stop wanting this.
~*~
The fairground security kicked them out less than a week later, citing ‘unnatural practices’ - and Mohinder had a strike of fear, a flush of anger at the homophobia, before he realized that their eyes were trained towards Elle. Towards Molly.
~*~
“What did you do?”
Elle trained a cold glare on him. “What did I do?” she asked. “I flash-fried a guy.”
“Within the fairgrounds-”
“Within the fairgrounds,” she interrupted, “apparently it’s perfectly okay for a big, strong man to accuse a woman of being a whore. By offering her money for sex.”
“That doesn’t-”
“Even if she’s eleven years old.”
That brought Mohinder up short, and he gaped, stupidly, as Elle turned away.
~*~
Bandits attacked, one day, and a demonstration of power didn’t hold them off - not from Sylar or Elle. They just kept coming.
Elle took a bullet in her shoulder. Sylar saved her life.
~*~
“Who are you?” snaps a voice, a flashlight dancing in Mohinder’s eyes. “Identify yourselves.”
“We’re travelers,” says Sylar.
“Just looking for a place to stay,” adds Elle.
“I’m sorry,” says the voice, the flashlight dropping fractionally, “but we can’t take any more refugees.”
And he actually does sound sorry. No one else, on their journey, seemed so taken by conscience.
Mohinder tilts his head.
“Please,” he says, “one meal. We have a child here.”
A hesitation, from the - what is he, a border guard?
“We have skills your town could find very useful.”
A soft hiss, then, “It’s not that we can’t find people useful. I’m sorry, but we don’t have enough for the people we already have.”
Mohinder senses Sylar shift position, beside him. Feels him wait for Mohinder to object.
God, they don’t even have to communicate in words anymore.
Sylar gestures, and Mohinder hears the clatter of metal, curses -
The flashlights are gone, then, and Mohinder can see the four men, through the afterimage in his vision. They don’t have guns.
“How,” says the first man, “did you do that?”
“Let us in,” says Sylar, “and find out.”
The first man pauses. “Stay here,” he tells the other three. “I’m taking them to Jake.”
~*~
They are seated in some kind of police anteroom - a completely intact building, fresh and clean, if cold.
“Why are we stopping here?” asks Molly.
“I don’t know,” says Sylar, and he looks to Mohinder.
“I have a feeling,” says Mohinder, but he can’t tell any more than that.
He sees Sylar get a certain look on his face -
“What are they saying?” asks Mohinder, lowly.
“I’m Mayor Grey Anderson.”
Mohinder looks up, stands, unsteadily. Feels Sylar stand by his side.
“Mohinder Suresh,” he says. “This is Molly, Elle. And -” he hesitates, for a moment. “And Sylar.”
“Nice to meet you,” says Gray, with an unmistakable tang of sarcasm. “What the hell did you do to the rangers’ guns?”
“I took them away,” says Sylar.
“How?”
The man isn’t as intimidating as he should be, somehow. Not if he’s in charge of a town, in days like this.
Could it be that he didn’t take charge by force…?
“He’s a telekinetic,” says Mohinder. “She’s a clairvoyant,” gesturing to Molly, “and she can manipulate electricity,” at Elle.
Honesty is the best policy, after all.
Elle looks scandalized.
“Right, Jake,” says the man from the border, over his shoulder. “I told you I was going to get spider powers.”
Mohinder follows his glance, and makes a startlingly intense eye contact.
The man leaning against the wall - Jake - has a casual posture, but he’s watching. Paying attention. And Mohinder has the feeling that, in a crisis, this man is going to be the one who knows what he’s doing. Not Grey Anderson.
“I find that a little hard to believe,” says Jake.
Elle opens her palm, criss-crossed with the startlingly bright glow of electricity. “How about now?” she asks.
~*~
Finally - “We could be able to work out a deal,” says Grey, reluctantly.
~*~
“Where are we supposed to stay, tonight?” asks Sylar, lowly. To Mohinder.
“My house,” says Jake, stepping into the conversation. “I bet my mom would love to meet Molly,” with a little bit of a smile.
~*~
“Jericho survived, then?” asks Mohinder, on the way to Jake’s house.
Jake glances over. “We’re doing fine.”
“Better than outside, by any means.”
“Yeah,” says Jake. “Jericho got lucky.” Then, “where are you from?”
“New York City.”
Jake’s eyebrows go up. “How is it there?”
“I don’t know,” says Mohinder. “I left the day after.” He shakes his head. “We walked here from Texas.”
“Why north?” asks Jake. “With winter coming.”
“We hoped to find places in Kansas with spare resources.”
“There’s no one with spare resources,” Jake tells him, bluntly. “But I can already think of a few ways to get you guys to work.”
The car pulls to a stop. Mohinder reaches for the door -
Jake catches his arm.
“If any of you plan to hurt this town,” he says, “you won’t last long. Powers or no.”
“We don’t,” says Mohinder.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
~*~
“This is my family,” says Jake.
The mother, Gail, the father, Johnston, the brother, Eric. Mohinder watches from the outside, during the dinner, as Gail pays special attention to Molly and Elle. As Johnston listens to them - really listens to them, doesn’t just hear what he wants to hear.
Molly smiles, tentatively - and Mohinder wonders when was the last time that happened.
And then he looks at himself. At Sylar. At Elle, at Molly.
~*~
He’s alone, out on the porch, after the dinner. He doesn’t turn, when the door opens and shuts behind him.
“Enjoying the view?” asks Gail Green.
Mohinder starts to respond, and he stops. Chokes it off.
There’s a pause, and then he feels the touch of her hand on his back. “I think you’ll do all right here,” she tells him. Leaves him alone.
Mohinder takes a breath, and makes a wish.
Pairing/Characters: Mohinder/Sylar, Elle, Molly.
Rating: hard R
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Spoilers: General through second season, for Heroes. Through "Black Jack" for Jericho.
Notes: For the Mohinder/Sylar fans on this community who are probably quite annoyed at me for not writing any for a while - this story doesn't require any prior knowledge of Jericho to read.
Summary: The bitterest irony is, of course, that New York survived.
- - -
The bitterest irony is, of course, that New York survived.
Mohinder was at home; he’d called an early night, from the lab. And he remembers that Matt was there, and Molly, and that they were having dinner - doesn’t remember what dinner they were having, though. The details slip, after a while.
He remembers the interruption. The scream, out in the hallway. Remembers Matt pushing past him, out the door. Ready to offer help.
There were neighbors in the hallway. That never happened - never. Mohinder hardly ever spoke with his neighbors. Barely even knew them by sight. But that moment, they were all out of their apartments, all together.
“What’s going on?” asked Matt. “What’s happening?”
And one of them turned towards him, eyes numb, and said, “Turn on the radio.”
~*~
For a long time, no one knew what was happening. The radio spoke of lost communication, of the necessity of staying calm.
Mohinder sent Molly to her room; only minutes later, Matt followed, crouched by Molly’s bed, as Mohinder watched from the doorway. Asked her to find Janice, in Los Angeles.
Molly couldn’t.
~*~
Two hours after the news broke, Matt left to report for duty. “They’ll need every cop in the city,” he said, and he promised to be back in time for breakfast.
Breakfast came and went. Rumors spread of total destruction, absolute devastation in places too close for comfort - and there was that whisper, that tiny, shadowy undertone. The hint that someone - someone - saw a mushroom cloud.
Mohinder kept Molly inside, the whole day, as the volume in the streets increased, bit by bit. They heard sirens - more and more - and then there was hardly a time when they didn’t hear a siren.
Mohinder hasn’t seen Matt Parkman since that night.
~*~
The second day, a helicopter landed on the roof of Mohinder’s building. Mohinder has the idea that this would have been illegal, but there’s no one in any position to enforce the law, not anymore.
“We’re here to get you out of New York,” says the Company representative, at Mohinder’s door. Two men lurk behind, their guns drawn.
“No,” says Mohinder. “Matthew Parkman is still out there.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor Suresh,” said the man, “but you don’t have a choice.”
And he didn’t have a choice.
They had to take him at gunpoint to the helicopter. Molly sobbed into his shoulder, and Mohinder held onto his lone bag of belongings and tried to ignore the beating of the helicopter blades.
He didn’t look down at the city. He doesn’t know, to this day, what he would have seen if he had.
~*~
“What happened?” was all he could ask, when he got to the Company facility in Odessa. “What’s going on?”
“There were multiple nuclear detonations,” Bob told him, matter-of-factly. “We don’t know how many cities were hit; we do, however, have an incomplete list.”
Mohinder took the paper, and the letters on the page refused to resolve into words. And when they did, the words refused to resolve themselves into ideas.
Los Angeles, California. Baltimore, Maryland. Miami, Florida. Dallas, Texas. Houston, Texas. Washington, DC-
“Washington, DC,” breathed Mohinder. “Who’s the President?”
Bob shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
~*~
The list grew daily. Detroit, Denver, Topeka; San Francisco, Chicago, Atlanta.
“Why can’t we go outside?” complained Molly. “I’m sick of this place.”
“We have to stay in,” was all Mohinder could say.
~*~
Elle showed up pale and injured, a week and a half after the explosion.
Bob greeted her with a shocked silence, then, a yelled, “Where in God’s name have you been?” -and he didn’t wait for a response. Just pulled her into his arms, held her so tight it seemed he might squeeze the breath out of her.
Mohinder waited for Elle to object, but she didn’t; she held on just as hard.
~*~
“Are we going to get fallout?” Elle asked. “Isn’t everything going to be radioactive?”
Mohinder shook his head. “No. Dallas and Houston are too far away, and the prevailing winds are south.” He drew a hand through his hair, his mouth twisted and humorless. “Odessa will be perfectly fine.”
He wondered how New York City was faring, then.
He wonders about it now.
~*~
Boston, Massachusetts. Charlotte, North Carolina. Minneapolis, Minnesota. Phoenix, Arizona. San Diego, California. Seattle, Washington. Cedar City, Utah.
What had they done to deserve this?
~*~
“Come on, get up, you have you get out of here,” said Bob.
Mohinder blinked, settling up on his elbows.
“What’s going on?” asked Molly, her voice trembling.
As they rushed through the hallways of Primatech Paper, Mohinder heard the explanation, in short.
Odessa had a flood of refugees from Dallas, and another flood from the closer cities, from panicked residents fleeing radiation, real or imagined. There weren’t enough supplies to go around. And suddenly, the city had reached spark point.
“There’s not enough fuel,” the helicopter pilot told them, pale and terrified. “We can’t lift off the ground.”
“Go by car,” ordered Bob, thinking fast. “We’ll go out the front. Elle, take them and go out the back, alone.”
“Where will we meet?” asked Elle.
Bob’s mouth tightened.
~*~
The car was half-destroyed before they got out of the city limits of Odessa; Mohinder counted at least seven people Elle killed, just to keep them alive.
He remembers the scorching heat of a fire, the sharp chokehold of smoke.
He remembers the crash as the window next to him was broken inwards.
He remembers Molly not making a noise, not complaining once. She was braver than him.
He remembers staying alive. And regretting every minute of it.
~*~
“Where are we going now?” asked Molly, on the outskirts of Odessa.
Elle didn’t answer. She was looking out towards the horizon, her face studiously blank.
“Elle?” queried Mohinder, tentatively.
“What?” she turned, shook her head like there was an insect buzzing near her eyes. “What did you say?”
“Where are we going now?” repeated Molly.
“I don’t know,” said Elle. She looked to Mohinder.
He hesitated. Nuclear science wasn’t exactly his area of expertise. “We’re outside of the fallout now,” he considered, and bit his lip.
“North,” said Elle. “To Kansas.”
“What’s in Kansas?” asked Mohinder.
“Farms,” said Elle.
~*~
The road blurs into Mohinder’s memory. The days were walking, endless, monotonous walking. They walked past stretches of refugee camps, passed scattered families on the road.
Some nights, they built a fire. The winter was coming, fast and cold, and some days Mohinder worried about frostbite, about the three of them dying, out here, before they could get to somewhere safe.
Every town they passed refused them entrance. Bandits were all over, and they were attacked more times than Mohinder could count. Elle stayed steadfast, tenacious, always refusing to give in until the fight was done. Sometimes, though - on the good days - all it took was a demonstration of her power to fight the bandits off.
On the bad days, none of them came out unscathed.
Food they bargained for, stole - even killed for, on one horrific occasion.
Nights they took by the side of the road, more often than not. At first, Elle or Mohinder would try to stay awake, guard the group, but, as it got colder, they gave that up. They slept all together, sharing body heat - Molly sandwiched between them, Elle’s hair always tickling Mohinder’s cheek.
They lost track of the days.
~*~
One day, the temperature dropped. And dropped. And dropped.
By the end of the day, none of them were shivering.
“We have to keep moving,” said Mohinder, through a numb face. And they did.
Mohinder doesn’t remember when they stopped, only that he felt colder and colder and colder, and then he didn’t feel as cold anymore.
He heard an engine roar in the distance, but he didn’t have the strength to investigate.
~*~
Mohinder woke up in warmth, for the first time in months. Warmth, and a distant motion, and a low hiss.
“What,” he murmured, and then the motion came to a stop, pushing Mohinder forward against his seatbelt.
…seatbelt?
There was a water bottle pressed against his lips.
“Drink,” came a low, raspy voice. A familiar voice.
Mohinder didn’t worry about it. He fell back asleep.
~*~
“Sylar,” said Mohinder, softly. It was a guess, as much as an acknowledgment, at the identity of the figure at the mouth of the tent.
“Mohinder,” came the return acknowledgment, then, “you’re safe now.”
“Safe?” spat Mohinder, moving so that he was sitting up, sitting on the edge of the bed, and his chest tightened, tightened up so much he couldn’t speak.
Sylar knelt, in front of Mohinder, and that gesture, more than anything else, convinced Mohinder that Sylar was different. That he’d changed too.
“I spent two months looking for you,” Sylar told him. “I couldn’t rest until I knew you were alive.”
“And you found us out on the road.”
“I scouted all the routes from Odessa.” He reached out, to trace fingers along Mohinder’s cheek.
And Mohinder remembers every detail, every instant of that touch, even today.
“I saved your life.”
Mohinder leaned forward and buried his head in the curve of Sylar’s neck. The world ended two months ago, he thought. The world ended two months ago and I’m taking comfort in the man who killed my father.
~*~
Outside, the world was grey. Black Jack Fairground - that was what it used to be - but now it was a trading post.
“What have you been trading, exactly?” asked Elle, her voice hard.
“Skills,” said Sylar.
~*~
“You know he’s the boogeyman,” said Mohinder, half-statement, half-question.
Molly nodded, solemnly.
“You’re not afraid of him?”
She looked up at him, her eyes firm. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
~*~
When Sylar kissed him, Mohinder pulled away. Didn’t meet Sylar’s eyes - scared to death that he would give in.
“Mohinder,” said Sylar, and Mohinder snapped, inside. He broke in two, and sobbed, half-senseless, against Sylar’s chest. And he can still feel the way Sylar’s hands tangled in his hair, the way Sylar held him close. That Sylar didn’t make a single noise, didn’t say a single word.
And before Mohinder knew it they were kissing, for real, this time, slick with saliva and tears, hungry and rough and all-consuming.
Mohinder didn’t forget that Sylar killed his father. He clung to it, with every ounce of his being. It was real, it happened, it existed, and there was a world that was real before this horror.
Sylar slicked himself up, fingers pressed inside, and it was the most erotic sight of Mohinder’s life. And he pushed into Sylar’s body, past Sylar’s defenses, and rode a tight wave of rapture; it was in Sylar’s skin, Sylar’s warmth, Sylar’s life, so close to his, and burning so bright.
Sylar cried out, strangled and muffled, at the moment of orgasm, and Mohinder knew, without a doubt, that he would never stop wanting this.
~*~
The fairground security kicked them out less than a week later, citing ‘unnatural practices’ - and Mohinder had a strike of fear, a flush of anger at the homophobia, before he realized that their eyes were trained towards Elle. Towards Molly.
~*~
“What did you do?”
Elle trained a cold glare on him. “What did I do?” she asked. “I flash-fried a guy.”
“Within the fairgrounds-”
“Within the fairgrounds,” she interrupted, “apparently it’s perfectly okay for a big, strong man to accuse a woman of being a whore. By offering her money for sex.”
“That doesn’t-”
“Even if she’s eleven years old.”
That brought Mohinder up short, and he gaped, stupidly, as Elle turned away.
~*~
Bandits attacked, one day, and a demonstration of power didn’t hold them off - not from Sylar or Elle. They just kept coming.
Elle took a bullet in her shoulder. Sylar saved her life.
~*~
“Who are you?” snaps a voice, a flashlight dancing in Mohinder’s eyes. “Identify yourselves.”
“We’re travelers,” says Sylar.
“Just looking for a place to stay,” adds Elle.
“I’m sorry,” says the voice, the flashlight dropping fractionally, “but we can’t take any more refugees.”
And he actually does sound sorry. No one else, on their journey, seemed so taken by conscience.
Mohinder tilts his head.
“Please,” he says, “one meal. We have a child here.”
A hesitation, from the - what is he, a border guard?
“We have skills your town could find very useful.”
A soft hiss, then, “It’s not that we can’t find people useful. I’m sorry, but we don’t have enough for the people we already have.”
Mohinder senses Sylar shift position, beside him. Feels him wait for Mohinder to object.
God, they don’t even have to communicate in words anymore.
Sylar gestures, and Mohinder hears the clatter of metal, curses -
The flashlights are gone, then, and Mohinder can see the four men, through the afterimage in his vision. They don’t have guns.
“How,” says the first man, “did you do that?”
“Let us in,” says Sylar, “and find out.”
The first man pauses. “Stay here,” he tells the other three. “I’m taking them to Jake.”
~*~
They are seated in some kind of police anteroom - a completely intact building, fresh and clean, if cold.
“Why are we stopping here?” asks Molly.
“I don’t know,” says Sylar, and he looks to Mohinder.
“I have a feeling,” says Mohinder, but he can’t tell any more than that.
He sees Sylar get a certain look on his face -
“What are they saying?” asks Mohinder, lowly.
“I’m Mayor Grey Anderson.”
Mohinder looks up, stands, unsteadily. Feels Sylar stand by his side.
“Mohinder Suresh,” he says. “This is Molly, Elle. And -” he hesitates, for a moment. “And Sylar.”
“Nice to meet you,” says Gray, with an unmistakable tang of sarcasm. “What the hell did you do to the rangers’ guns?”
“I took them away,” says Sylar.
“How?”
The man isn’t as intimidating as he should be, somehow. Not if he’s in charge of a town, in days like this.
Could it be that he didn’t take charge by force…?
“He’s a telekinetic,” says Mohinder. “She’s a clairvoyant,” gesturing to Molly, “and she can manipulate electricity,” at Elle.
Honesty is the best policy, after all.
Elle looks scandalized.
“Right, Jake,” says the man from the border, over his shoulder. “I told you I was going to get spider powers.”
Mohinder follows his glance, and makes a startlingly intense eye contact.
The man leaning against the wall - Jake - has a casual posture, but he’s watching. Paying attention. And Mohinder has the feeling that, in a crisis, this man is going to be the one who knows what he’s doing. Not Grey Anderson.
“I find that a little hard to believe,” says Jake.
Elle opens her palm, criss-crossed with the startlingly bright glow of electricity. “How about now?” she asks.
~*~
Finally - “We could be able to work out a deal,” says Grey, reluctantly.
~*~
“Where are we supposed to stay, tonight?” asks Sylar, lowly. To Mohinder.
“My house,” says Jake, stepping into the conversation. “I bet my mom would love to meet Molly,” with a little bit of a smile.
~*~
“Jericho survived, then?” asks Mohinder, on the way to Jake’s house.
Jake glances over. “We’re doing fine.”
“Better than outside, by any means.”
“Yeah,” says Jake. “Jericho got lucky.” Then, “where are you from?”
“New York City.”
Jake’s eyebrows go up. “How is it there?”
“I don’t know,” says Mohinder. “I left the day after.” He shakes his head. “We walked here from Texas.”
“Why north?” asks Jake. “With winter coming.”
“We hoped to find places in Kansas with spare resources.”
“There’s no one with spare resources,” Jake tells him, bluntly. “But I can already think of a few ways to get you guys to work.”
The car pulls to a stop. Mohinder reaches for the door -
Jake catches his arm.
“If any of you plan to hurt this town,” he says, “you won’t last long. Powers or no.”
“We don’t,” says Mohinder.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
~*~
“This is my family,” says Jake.
The mother, Gail, the father, Johnston, the brother, Eric. Mohinder watches from the outside, during the dinner, as Gail pays special attention to Molly and Elle. As Johnston listens to them - really listens to them, doesn’t just hear what he wants to hear.
Molly smiles, tentatively - and Mohinder wonders when was the last time that happened.
And then he looks at himself. At Sylar. At Elle, at Molly.
~*~
He’s alone, out on the porch, after the dinner. He doesn’t turn, when the door opens and shuts behind him.
“Enjoying the view?” asks Gail Green.
Mohinder starts to respond, and he stops. Chokes it off.
There’s a pause, and then he feels the touch of her hand on his back. “I think you’ll do all right here,” she tells him. Leaves him alone.
Mohinder takes a breath, and makes a wish.