Fic: Soon, Love, Soon (Heroes)
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~6,100
Spoilers: through "Five Years Gone", sort of.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Notes: Written for dodificus, for Sweet Charity. I really hope you like this.
Summary: Nathan doesn’t look away. “Your life, for Mohinder Suresh’s freedom. Do we have a deal, Mr. Gray?”
- - -
It’s three in the morning in the Oval Office when Nathan Petrelli hears the knock.
He’s still awake, pacing restlessly by the veranda doors. He traces the edge of his jaw, eyes focused too far away, and nods, as though to himself. “Come in.” It’s taken long enough; no doubt Heidi is waiting for him upstairs, pretending to sleep.
The two Secret Service agents enter with a man slumped between them, braced on their shoulders. They don’t look tired.
Nathan hesitates, for a moment. Taking this step means that he’s admitting failure. Official channels have run dry; semi-official channels yielded dozens upon dozens of dead ends. Nathan doesn’t know whether it’s a problem with his leadership, the boundaries of legality, or the incompetence of those who investigated.
Or maybe it was just the pure skill of the man Nathan is chasing.
“Set him down,” orders Nathan, softly, “and then leave us alone.”
They exchange a glance, subtle, and they obey his orders. Slipping outside, to the veranda, such that they could still see, or hear, if anything went wrong.
Nathan wonders, again, if he’s making a mistake.
The man, slumped on the couch, stirs. He doesn’t moan, from the headache he has to have - he doesn’t ask where he is.
Nathan feels a chill as Gabriel Gray - the man formerly known as Sylar - opens his eyes.
“Petrelli,” says Gray.
“Mr. Gray,” returns Nathan.
Gray gives him a slow, deliberate look. Even from darkly bloodshot eyes, when Nathan knows - he knows he’s in no danger from Gray’s powers, it sends a chill down Nathan’s spine.
“To what do I owe the…honor?” asks Gray.
I’m going to regret this, thinks Nathan. “How would you like a job?”
Gray is surprised, taken off-balance; that much Nathan can see. “What kind of job?”
“I think you know.”
“How about you tell me anyway.”
Nathan grits his jaw. “I need you to find him.”
“Find who?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Nathan snaps.
Gray considers this, for a long moment. He tries to stand, sways, and falls back onto the chair. Sets his expression, containing the fury that has to be inside him.
Nathan Petrelli is trying to harness a hurricane.
“He’s managed to avoid you, then.” Gray looks away. “I’m not surprised.”
I am, Nathan doesn’t say. “You know him better than anyone.”
“He tortured me,” says Gray. “No one ever managed to take me. On their own.” His eyes meet Nathan’s.
Nathan doesn’t look away. “Your life, for Mohinder Suresh’s freedom. Do we have a deal, Mr. Gray?”
“Yes,” says Gray. Perhaps a bit too quickly.
Nathan signals to the Secret Service men outside; they move in, with silent efficiency. Gray has to lean on them, to get to his feet.
Just before they get to the door, Gray turns back. “Mr. President,” he says.
“Yes?”
“My name,” says Gray, “is Sylar.”
~*~
Mohinder Suresh doesn’t even see the heavy-set German woman until he trips over her - a superhuman feat, seeing as how she appears to take up slightly more space than the sidewalk actually allows. He pitches to the ground, thudding hard into the passenger door of a lime-green Volvo sedan.
He scrambles a moment to find his feet, ignoring the flood of infuriated German. He never liked the language anyhow. And he’s in a hurry.
A glance back, and he sees them move around the corner. One has a hand on his hip, obscured by the dark fold of his suit jacket.
Damn, damn. Germans don’t carry guns, do they? This is Europe, for god’s sake -
Mohinder ducks into an alley, just barely dodging around the outstretched leg of one of Berlin’s trademark bear statues. He’s completely at sea. No allies here, and these people, whoever they are, seem to have no trouble tailing him.
Whoever they are. Sure. Like he has no idea.
Compulsively, he checks to make sure the laptop is in place. He doesn’t touch the flash drive; he knows where it is, knows where its safe, and if someone is watching him closely enough, it’ll give away all the information Mohinder has left.
Not that them getting the laptop would be much better.
Two quick turns, and Mohinder is out of their sight, at least for the moment. He sprints straight down the sidewalk, dodging a mother and two daughters, a dark-coated man, three mostly-drunk teenagers. When he takes a second to look behind him, his pursuers have abandoned any pretense of subtlety. Both of them are pure power now, and gaining on him by the second.
They miscalculated, though.
Mohinder ducks to the side - just in time, as he hears a clatter of tranquilizers hit the concrete wall like demented houseflies. Not much farther…
They’re barely two car-lengths behind him when he slams through the doorway, straight into the lobby of the Bundespolizei, the German Federal Police.
It’s a desperate gamble. If these people have any kind of official authorization, Mohinder is moving straight into their hands.
Outside the glass, he sees the two men stop. Unsure of what to do next.
“Guten tag?” queries the receptionist.
Mohinder’s mind races. “Ich brauche Hilfe!” Was that how you said help? The German phrasebook seems so long ago, now. “Zwei Manner …folge mir -” Oh, to hell with it. “Those - two men out there were threatening me,” says Mohinder, gesturing, his words accented by the harsh speed of his breathing. He’s been running for hours, it feels like. “They had - guns.”
The receptionist, or whatever she is, seems to understand; in short order, several uniformed officers are out the door, in pursuit of the mysterious men. They probably won’t find them, Mohinder knows, but he’s safe for now.
Safe. Of course.
~*~
A rather mild interrogation later, still blinking from the fluorescent glare of the police building, Mohinder emerges back into the cloud-strained sunlight. His senses are painfully tuned to his surroundings, and he falls into his usual pattern with unsettling ease.
He moves to cross the street, and turns back halfway along.
He stops to tie his shoe, stays crouched as he leisurely roots through his bag.
He speeds up and moves at a near-run through the park, slows down to a lazy stroll once he passes through.
In the end, he’s convinced that there’s no one following him. The police must have really chased those men to ground - there’s no sign of them. They didn’t seem like American agents, either. Was Nathan stooping to hiring mercenaries? Surely he wouldn’t be that radical.
~*~
The inn squats pleasantly in a nook between two buildings and a stretch of grass, a strange triangle of roads angled against the well-ordered surrounding streets. The gate creaks lazily in greeting, and Mohinder makes sure to fasten the latch behind him. The owner, Kirsten, made it very clear on the first day that she would not tolerate wind damage from a loose gate.
She’s in the garden as Mohinder approaches, grey hair pinned under a broad straw hat, on her knees in the dark-rich dirt.
“Hello!” she greets, and Mohinder returns her smile.
“Guten abend,” he returns.
“English, please,” she tells him. “I need to practice.” A sigh, and then, “these flowers. They need more sunlight, but the clouds are too thick.”
Mohinder makes a sympathetic noise.
“Will you dine here tonight?”
“Of course,” says Mohinder.
She nods. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late, young man.”
Young man. Mohinder shakes his head, turning away. He glances back, as his hand drifts to the polished brass door handle - above her, the clouds have cracked, and a ray of sunlight shines through, illuminating the garden as though from the hand of God.
“Don’t forget to check the table,” she calls after him. “Newspaper for you.”
~*~
The Washington Post and the New York Times - both several days old - lay folded side by side next to stacked plates, arranged silverware. Page 3A, reads Kirstin’s barely legible scrawl, adjacent to the headline’s bold typeface.
Mohinder’s heart sinks. His hand shakes as he turns the page, and he prays, prays --
‘FBI RENEWS FUGITIVE INVESTIGATION’.
Oh no, oh no…
He steels himself, and reads the subtitle, word by word.
The first time it doesn’t register, the letters and words colliding into a jumbled mess. He read it, he knows, but as soon as he takes his eyes away he can’t remember what it says.
Takes another, more careful look.
NEW CONSULTANT ‘GRAY’ HEADS RECOVERY EFFORT
Gray. Gabriel Gray. No - as the article puts it, Gabriel “Sylar” Gray.
They put this article out there on purpose. They had to. They must know that Mohinder would read it, that he would understand, that he would frighten himself more than they could ever frighten him -
The door clicks open and Mohinder swirls, hand moving towards the knife in his pocket.
“Someone you know?” asks Kirsten.
“I have to go,” Mohinder blurts.
She gives him a long, sad look. “You’ll always be welcome here.”
“I know,” he lies, “and I’ll come back, someday.”
She takes his hand, as he tries to go past him. Her gnarled, spotted fingers clasp warm, protective around his. “You have helped me,” she tells him. “Stay safe.”
“Thank you.” Mohinder means it, this time.
~*~
In Dresden, a day later, Mohinder’s phone rings. The caller ID says it’s Kirsten - she’s one of the four, maybe five people in the world who have this number. It’s unlisted, untraceable, prepaid -
Mohinder is seized with a premonition of dread. Opens the phone, but doesn’t say hello, like his breath is caught in his throat.
There’s no sound, from the other end. He waits, half-expecting to hear Kirsten querying the line, wondering if there’s mechanical failure, or if she just didn’t hear Mohinder say hello. But there’s nothing, just dead silence, and Mohinder snaps the phone shut, trembling such that he can barely stand.
~*~
The police at the train station in Dresden give Mohinder a long, lingering glance. One of them leans to the other, not-quite-whispering something inaudible over the automated German intercom message.
Mohinder carefully lets his eyes skim over them, settling instead on a small store next to the main terminal of trains. The train to Prague leaves in half an hour. He just has to hold out until then.
“Excuse me,” says a policeman, in heavily accented English. “You will come with me.” His hand circles Mohinder’s arm, steering Mohinder away from the crowds.
No, no, no.
Mohinder breathes. The other officer is behind them; he gauges the distance, very carefully.
“I’m sorry,” says Mohinder, rudely, “I have a train leaving very soon. So, unless you wish to delay the delivery of key evidence to the Berlin police, you should let me go right now.”
The man hesitates. “Berlin? Your destination is not Prague?”
“Of course not.” Mohinder digs in his pocket, pretending not to notice the way each officer reached for their weapons. “Here,” and he shoves a ticket to Berlin at the first one.
They’d turned the corner; there was no one watching but the security camera, at the end of the hall.
The officer examines it, something suspicious crossing his face. “I must see a form of identification.”
Mohinder doesn’t give him a chance to yell. Evidently, the man isn’t wearing any kind of bulletproof armor; it’s fortunate that Mohinder isn’t in America, because if he were, this kind of sucker punch probably wouldn’t have worked.
As it is, the man doubles over, gasping for breath. The second one is already on the offensive, but Mohinder is ready - deflects the punch, moves entirely on instinct. The noise made when the man’s head slams into the wall is unfortunate but unavoidable, and Mohinder turns back to the first just in time, knocking the radio out of his hand, one, two, then he’s out cold.
The train to Prague leaves in fifteen minutes. But Mohinder is already compromised.
How in god’s name had they known to look for Prague?
For that matter, how had they known to look in Germany?
Mohinder remembers the carefully blank phone call, and he shivers. This - is bad.
~*~
Mohinder moves in a kind of dazed panic. Any moment now, any moment, he might turn a corner, or look behind him, and -
Sylar never used to haunt Mohinder’s nightmares. Mohinder was never afraid, just furious. Cold fury, a silently lethal vow of revenge for the death of his father. After all, he spent days with Sylar, alone, completely, utterly defenseless, and Sylar never made a move. Sylar didn’t want to kill Mohinder.
But, Nathan Petrelli. Mohinder isn’t terrified of him so much as he’s terrified of what Nathan could do with Mohinder’s knowledge.
The flash drive is still there, two gigabytes sewn into the cuff of Mohinder’s sleeve. The synthesized rubber vial, padded several times over, sealed as secure as possible into Mohinder’s bag. He doesn’t have the facilities to destroy it, yet. Someday he will.
The spectre of Sylar, doing Nathan’s bidding, is too much. Mohinder can’t stop running, can’t start thinking. He’ll get caught - he’ll get caught - and then -
~*~
Sylar is controlled.
He feels the puppet strings tug, surely as they were physical, tethered hand and foot. He can think clearly for the first time in - how long has it been? He doesn’t know - but his clear thinking, his absolute knowledge, is tripped and interrupted by a horrific blankness, lurking under his conscious mind.
Maybe there’s nothing there. Maybe they wiped it out of him when they tried to make him better.
Mohinder.
The two men flank him, cautious. They pretend they’re not afraid.
Sylar glances up. The last of the blue sky swirls over with grey. Flattens his hand against the stain-red hood of the car.
“What are we waiting for, sir?” one of them ventures.
Sylar flicks dried blood from his nails. It troubles him. He didn’t want to kill her, but the compulsion overrode his judgment. And it hurts, tears like the distant memory of a sword, of the plaza -
“Sir?”
“Shut up,” says Sylar, curtly.
The man - Secret Service? NSA? - complies without objection.
~*~
Mohinder spreads the map over a restaurant table. Imagines Sylar’s eyes sliding over the same towns, roads, rivers. He would predict where Mohinder goes next. He would know already, before Mohinder made the move. But then - he would know that Mohinder is very aware of his fugitive status, and very aware of who he’s running from. He might be one step ahead -
Mohinder doesn’t have to have a perfect plan. He doesn’t have to be steps ahead of Sylar, who no doubt has all of Mohinder’s possible moves plotted out in black and white, like a particularly lethal game of chess. He just has to be different enough from Sylar’s guess that he can hide.
He’s increasingly aware that this can’t last forever. He has to find a safe place for the information he holds soon, or he’ll be caught with it, and something extraordinarily precious will be lost to the human race forever.
Goddamn you, Nathan Petrelli.
Mohinder folds up the map, and glances up to the newly-arrived waitress.
~*~
Sylar traces the border of Germany, fingertips sliding smooth over the creases in the paper. As though he could bleed through the paper, with touch, and reach straight to where Mohinder is hiding. The government agents have long since decided that interruption is a bad idea. He hears the one woman on the team breathing, watching him, her heartbeat slow and relaxed.
Sylar tilts his head, focused on the map. He could kill her in an instant, but her blood wouldn’t feel anything like victory.
He remembers his mother’s voice, a distant echo of his past. Whenever he lost something - Well, if you were your shoes, where would you be? - talking down to him, crouched so that she looked up into his six-year-old eyes.
If he were Mohinder Suresh, where would he be? Not like an Indian didn’t stand out, especially in some of the areas where Mohinder is travelling. He would stay somewhere he could blend in. Somewhere he could be safe.
“Have every Indian consulate identified, from,” and he touches the map, “Germany, south to Italy, and France east to the Ukraine.” He frowns. He’s missing something.
“Yes, sir,” says the agent, getting up to leave.
“Wait.” He holds up a hand. The map doesn’t hold the answers. Geography doesn’t speak of everywhere a man can be found.
“Universities,” murmurs Sylar. “Universities with prominent genetics programs or professors. Anywhere he might have a colleague.”
Still missing something. Still.
“Stay away from motels,” says Sylar. “No chains, nothing low-rent. Focus on small places.”
“They’re harder to find,” points out the agent. “If they’re smaller -”
Sylar cuts her off, with the weight of his silence.
“We’ll be right on it, sir,” she corrects herself.
~*~
He has a few options. Scientific laboratories would have the facilities necessary to safely dispose of the materials in Mohinder’s possession. As would universities with biological and chemical research capabilities.
The university is probably the best bet. He has the best chance at fitting in, there.
Sylar would know that.
~*~
“A room for the night, please,” says Mohinder, to the woman at the desk. Her makeup is too dark, he decides; it makes the pale tint of her skin look more like the sheen of death.
Unbidden, nausea rises in his throat.
Once in his room, he doesn’t open the laptop. The fancy of a thousand spy movies is rushing through Mohinder’s mind - what if his access to his own email could be traced, what if they could find him here -
Unlikely. It’s a small bed-and-breakfast, run, as it seems, by a single family. If anything would fall through the strange, unofficial net surrounding Mohinder, than this would. It’s why he stayed so long with Kirsten.
An action that, in retrospect, was a mistake. His need for safety probably got her killed. And he can hold out the hope that someone’s taking care of her garden, that someone attended her funeral and mourned when she died, but he never saw any other visitors there. He didn’t even know if she had a family.
Mohinder buries his head in his hands. He can’t handle this much longer.
~*~
“Sir,” says one of the agents. “We have something.”
Sylar stands, and fixes marble-cold eyes on the disturbance of his quiet.
“Just like you said,” he continues. “Bed-and-breakfast.”
~*~
Mohinder awakens in the middle of the night with the absolute certainty that something in his plan has gone horribly wrong.
He props himself up on his elbows, fervently wishing for supernaturally sensitive hearing.
…there’s a slow creak, barely audible, just outside his door.
Mohinder is in motion immediately. Already dressed - he never got undressed - he grabs the satchel and has it over his shoulder. At the window in seconds, forcing it open, and then he’s outside, falling hard on the sidewalk below.
Inside the room, there’s a rough crash as the door is broken down.
No, no, no, no, it can’t end like this.
Mohinder is running before whoever it is inside gets to the window. Dodges down the garden path, into a clump of trees, and runs full-tilt into someone nearly invisible, thanks to the darkness. He thuds to the ground, painfully hard, the breath rushing out of his lungs. Nevertheless, he struggles to his feet, to the tune of whoever it was and their cry of “he’s over here”, no doubt summoning backup.
Running, it seems he’s always running these days. He feels oddly detached from it - his heart is fluttering, pounding, his breath burning in his lungs. He’s utterly terrified, running more on instinct than on sight. They’re pursuing him, and no doubt they’re in fairly peak physical condition, and if Sylar is with them, then there’s truly no way that Mohinder can escape.
He could be trapped now, and he wouldn’t even know it.
A roar grows in his ears, as he runs. Not wind - the blood in his veins? Doesn’t matter, the grass of the field tangles against his feet and it’s all he can do to keep -
Holy shit.
Mohinder slides to a halt centimeters from the edge of the gorge. He understands the roaring, now - he can see the white-rushing water below.
He is trapped. There’s nowhere to go.
Turns back, towards the men pursuing him. One hand dips in his bag, retrieves the vial, and he holds it out over the river. Holds steady, until they’ve surrounded him, flashlights dancing in his eyes.
“This will go better if you come quietly, Dr. Suresh,” says one, in an unidentifiable American-white-male accent.
“D’you know what this is?” asks Mohinder. “It’s what Nathan Petrelli needs from me. And I will bet my life that none of you know what it is, nor how to handle it properly.” He makes a gesture, as though to throw it away - sure enough, a wave of tension flutters through them, followed by a shade of growing fear.
Mohinder shifts his stance, a little closer to the edge. “You don’t know what it’ll do if I release it.”
“Dr. Suresh-”
“Back off!” snaps Mohinder. “Back off.”
“You heard him. Go.”
Sylar’s voice slices dagger-sharp through the noise of the river. One by one, the flashlights drift out of Mohinder’s field of vision. He can’t see their expressions, but he imagines that they aren’t happy about being dismissed.
He blinks through purple-black afterimages. Can’t see a thing -
“Hello, Mohinder.”
Adrenaline rises in Mohinder fast and bright; he almost drops the vial. He’s gone, he’s trapped, there’s nothing he can do about it.
Nothing, except -
He looks to the vial, his heart beating light and fast.
“Sylar,” manages Mohinder, through a dry throat.
The grass rustles; Mohinder can see him, now. Moonlight outlining his face. He searches Sylar’s features for a clue, a hint as to his plan, how he’s going to proceed, but Sylar is enigmatic, as always.
“Don’t - come any closer.”
Sylar stops. “You honestly think you can fight?”
“I will never stop fighting,” vows Mohinder. “How does it feel being Nathan’s lapdog? Do you really think that this vial is something you want in his hands? But you don’t have a choice, do you, you’re just his pet -”
Sylar tilts his head, with something that may have been a smile. And Mohinder shuts up, with the uncomfortable feeling that he may be missing something.
“Take a deep breath, Mohinder,” says Sylar’s voice, almost a caress.
Mohinder shivers.
And Sylar takes them both over the edge of the cliff.
~*~
Sylar drags Mohinder out of the water, onto a bank more dirt than sand, full of half-made memory -the water rushing in torrents, fast, narrow and deep, treacherous with rocks, cold from the mountains. By all rights, any human who tried that should have died in the process.
He smoothes Mohinder’s hair, in ragged wet strands, back from his forehead. The vial is still intact; Mohinder is still breathing.
Flattens a trembling hand over Mohinder’s chest. Smooth rise and fall, the oh-so-sure heartbeat underneath. How did this happen? The blessing, the success of his venture is entirely unanticipated.
Mohinder’s eyes open, slow and uncomprehending. Sylar’s fingers drift to his cheek.
They don’t have much time. Sylar knows they don’t have much time, but he aches to draw this out.
Mohinder half-inhales, and Sylar kisses him.
He’s terrified. Not that Mohinder won’t want him, because he knows Mohinder does, it says it in every movement he makes, infused with a desire he desperately denies. Sylar fears that Mohinder won’t trust him.
Muscles ease almost imperceptibly in Mohinder’s frame. His palm, salted with dirt and sand, scrapes against Sylar’s neck -
Oh, god.
Sylar kiss Mohinder again, again, until he’s not sure whether it’s him or Mohinder moaning, so soft, until he forgets the need to breathe, just knows this, more, closer, because this is everything he’s been pursuing, ruthless and cold, since before Nathan Petrelli through him in prison.
Mohinder breaks away, with a gasp. Wide eyes, in shock, but not in terror.
“Come on,” says Sylar. “We don’t have much time.”
~*~
“What do you want from me?” asks Mohinder, chilled, shivering in the passenger seat of the car.
“I want you to be safe,” Sylar tells him.
Mohinder straightens. “So you didn’t agree to do this for Nathan.”
“He’s desperate.” Sylar glances in the rearview mirror. “He made a mistake in choosing me.”
Mohinder lets his eyes close. He doesn’t understand this, but it’s welcome. More than welcome. He’s so exhausted, bone-weary, that it’s enough that there’s even one person trying to help him - more than that, it’s the man who used to be his worst enemy -
The world has twisted, crumpled in confusion. Mohinder doesn’t care.
~*~
Sylar cradles Mohinder in his arms, easing him out of the car. A quick glance confirms that none of the agents have returned to the hotel in his absence.
He always has been best at hiding in plain sight - what better place to conceal his presence than his own hotel room? The most obvious place, and no practical fugitive would ever return there, which is what makes it perfect for Sylar’s purposes. They’ll never expect him here.
Shifts Mohinder down onto crumpled floral-pattern comforter. He’s filthy, and so is Sylar, and that means that the bed will be filthy too, but Sylar can’t bring himself to care.
He stands. Caught, in the fragile certainty that this can’t be real. Mohinder can’t trust him like this. It’s impossible, it’s perfect, it’s everything he’s wanted.
~*~
Mohinder awakens to the white noise hiss of the shower.
Checks - the flash drive is intact, the vial is whole and unbroken. Everything important has been saved.
He sits up, some of his muscles protesting. Moves to his feet. He knows it must have been hours since the kiss, but his breath still feels short, like he can’t quite inhale far enough. Out-of-control, that’s all he’s been, his life manipulated by outside forces since his birth.
And maybe, he thinks, as he pushes open the door to the bathroom, this is just another attempt at control. This is him trying to force his life in a direction, any direction, so long as it’s his choice.
~*~
Sylar turns at the rasp of the shower door.
Mohinder steps under the spray, with him, and Sylar hesitates. There’s an odd, abstract, conflicted look on his face, something Sylar doesn’t understand. He reaches out, to touch - this is real, isn’t it? - and Mohinder steps forward, presses him into the wall, kisses him like this is absolutely everything to him, firm, aggressive, his tongue slipping into Sylar’s mouth.
This is perfect, ragged, deep - Sylar doesn’t know how long they’re there, just aware of the water, that gasping way Mohinder breathes, in between kisses, Mohinder’s hand inching up his ribs, the tile warm and flat under his back -
“You came for me,” says Mohinder. “Not what I’m carrying, not what I know, just me.”
Sylar realizes it’s a question, a confirmation. “Yes,” he breathes, and Mohinder is kissing him again. But it’s not enough this time, not nearly enough. Sylar needs, a way he’s never felt before, the way he knew he could feel if he could just catch Mohinder. Catch him lightly enough that he doesn’t even know he’s captured.
He pulls Mohinder out of the shower stall, out of the bathroom, and then they’re on the bed, somehow, water dripping, spreading dark on the sheets. Light as the fabric is, the water turns it grey, translucent, nothing like blood.
Mohinder is hot, hard against his palm, slick from the shower, his breath fast against Sylar’s neck. He gasps something low and incoherent when Sylar’s hand closes around his erection, fingers iron-tight on Sylar’s shoulder.
Sylar has imagined this. He imagined bringing any number of a dozen powers to bear against Mohinder - what he could do, how he could take Mohinder apart and put him back together better, more intact, stronger than he ever was before. But now it’s like all of his abilities have fled; his hands shake, and he would be humiliated, only Mohinder is just as desperate, urging just as hard. Not any more or less sure than Sylar is.
When Sylar presses fingers inside Mohinder, the hesitant feel, the way Mohinder spreads his legs a little further, tightens his spine into an arch against the mattress - it all tells Sylar what he needs to know. This touch is unfamiliar, to Mohinder, but if the shock in his eyes is anything to go by than it feels good, unexpectedly good, and he wants it.
Water’s still all over them, beaded, dripping, in rivulets, and Sylar thinks that if he used his ability, if he froze them right now, they’d be encased in ice. Preserved, in this moment, forever.
Mohinder grabs at Sylar, hauls him into a kiss, and Sylar realizes that what he’s feeling is Mohinder’s climax, from the inside, something he did, and his own orgasm hits him too hard, before he’s ready for it. Broken, but then maybe he was already broken, and this is just an outward expression of the way the world already was.
Sylar doesn’t go for a towel, afterwards. He finds that he wants to trace the drops on Mohinder’s skin - wants to feel how clean this is, shockingly clean, after they’ve fought for so long.
~*~
The agents return around nightfall, buzzing in fury and panic. They have no idea what happened.
They don’t check Sylar’s room. As far as Sylar is concerned, they deserve whatever punishment they get.
He starts on the road with Mohinder the next morning.
~*~
“Tell me what’s in the vial.” Sylar’s tone leaves no room for argument.
Mohinder looks towards the road ahead. Doesn’t answer.
“Now.”
“Listen, I’ve kept the secret for a long time, you think you could give me a few minutes?”
Sylar shoots him a sideways glance. “The President of the United States wants it very badly, and now he’s after both of us. We need to figure out what to do with it.”
We. We. “You don’t think that, between us, we can avoid capture?”
“I was captured once.” Sylar glances in the rearview mirror. “I won’t take risks again.”
Mohinder hesitates, for a long moment. “A virus,” says Mohinder.
Sylar makes an impatient noise. “Of course it’s a virus. What else would it be?”
“Well, forgive me for trying to answer your question.”
Sylar slides a hand along the steering wheel, releasing a breath. “Go on.”
“It shouldn’t have much of a fatality rate,” says Mohinder, woodenly. “The very elderly and the very young.” Not much, only a few hundred thousand deaths on his hands -
“What’s it designed to do?”
“It looks for specific DNA,” says Mohinder. “It’s a lot more complicated than that. But it disrupts DNA reproduction, and changes certain strands to junk DNA, for lack of a better term.”
“What strands?”
Mohinder glances out, to the side of the road. The trees, the mountains whirring past. “The strands that control mutation,” he says. “Powers, abilities, whatever you want to call them. In one incredibly contagious stroke, almost every newly evolved human on the planet-”
“Will be normal again,” snaps Sylar.
“Yes,” says Mohinder. “They will.”
“And Nathan Petrelli wants to release it.”
“Yes.”
Sylar hisses, frustration and restrained fury. “I’ll kill him before I let him do that.”
Mohinder’s heart rate spikes - half because he believes it, half because he wants to believe it.
~*~
“What are the options?” asks Sylar, after a day on the road. “With the vial.”
“Keep it safe, or destroy it.” That’s it. There’s nothing else possible.
Sylar considers this, for a moment. “What happens if it’s released?”
“It’s incredibly contagious,” says Mohinder, “and airborne. Without immediate organized response, which there wouldn’t be, it would go through the whole world in a matter of days, spread by trains, cars, airports.”
“Except for isolated areas.”
“Of course,” says Mohinder, as though that were obvious.
Sylar nods, looking away.
Mohinder wonders if Sylar has realized Mohinder’s conclusion. A remote area, a controlled release, and likely the immune systems of those around would take care of the problem at hand, namely destruction of as much of the virus as exists -
“The fatality rate wouldn’t be high enough for a fast response,” says Mohinder. “They would be mystified, but they wouldn’t move into action fast enough.”
~*~
The cabin is just as Sylar left it. In Russia. It was a place of last resort, one of the few developed countries safe from the treat of extradition to the United States.
The mountain air is thin and clear - Sylar can see so far, from here. Desolation, of course, so far away from any real urban environment, and he knows Mohinder won’t flourish here for very long. Despite the pull that brings them both together.
No, they have one task to accomplish.
Sylar flattens his back against a tree, and breathes the air like it’s his last day alive.
He can hear Mohinder shiver in the cold. But once there’s a fire set, it’ll be warm enough.
~*~
The place is remote enough. If the virus stayed inside the cabin, then the problems could be solved.
Mohinder grits his teeth. He can’t do this. It would be the worst kind of betrayal, in Sylar’s mind. And concerns for his safety aside, he doesn’t think he can do that to the person who saved him.
And yet.
This could be the solution. This controlled release could eliminate the risk to all evolved humans out there. Nathan’s scientists were years, decades behind him, if they’d ever discover the track that led to this research at all, which Mohinder doubts. This would end Nathan’s paranoid and frightened desire to rid the world of superhuman powers.
Hardly believing what he’s doing, Mohinder roots for the vial, in his backpack. Is he really -
He stops, disbelief, shock creeping over the edge of his mind like a wave on the sand.
~*~
Sylar is in the cabin’s bedroom, the vial on his palm.
“Don’t do anything rash,” warns Mohinder, hands out -
Sylar’s hand flares in a wash of nuclear energy, and in a moment, the vial is ashes. -but the rubber, the glass melted away first, and there was just a moment where - where -
~*~
Just an hour later, Sylar is prone on the bed. Breathing shallow, skin pale. Sweaty.
“Oh my god -” Mohinder rushes down next to him, checking his pulse. Light, weak, but it’s there. He’s burning up, a fever far too high to be normal. And there’s the syringe, discarded on the sheets next to him.
Sylar’s eyes open, bleary, unfocused. A half-smile crosses his mouth.
“Why,” breathes Mohinder, “why on Earth would you risk this?”
Sylar touches Mohinder’s cheek, so faint, so light.
~*~
Mohinder catches it a few hours later. Goes into a fever too, but not half as bad as Sylar’s. He took the whole vial, and yes it was diluted, yes there wasn’t much of it left, but the whole vial…
He can barely eat, barely drink. Knows it’s unhealthy, but he can’t quite seem to care. The room alternates between freezing and unbearably stuffy. Can’t quite summon the will or the intellectual capacity to manage the fire in the fireplace, so he lets it go out.
He wakes up, doesn’t know how many days later, to Sylar’s hand tilting his head back, giving him some water.
“It’s over,” says Sylar. His shoulders are hunched, posture more unthreatening, more casual than Mohinder has ever seen.
“You’re,” and Mohinder doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Yours,” finishes Sylar, softly, and kisses Mohinder on the forehead.
~*~
The package is searched by dozens of people before it gets to Nathan Petrelli. CDC, Secret Service, maybe FBI and CIA too for good measure. X-rayed, inspected, torn apart at the seams.
“There’s nothing,” says the Secret Service agent who hands it to him. “A plastic bag of ashes, completely innocent, as far as we can tell, and a smashed flash drive.”
“Is any of the data recoverable?” asks Nathan.
The agent shakes his head. “Definitely not, sir.”
Nathan pulls out the note, uncurling it in his hands.
You’ll have to find another solution to your problems, Nathan.
Best of luck in your future endeavors.
It isn’t signed, but Nathan knows who it’s from.
“Goddamnit,” he curses, under his breath. Then, yelled, “Goddamnit!” because maybe, this time, he’s made the last mistake of his career.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~6,100
Spoilers: through "Five Years Gone", sort of.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Notes: Written for dodificus, for Sweet Charity. I really hope you like this.
Summary: Nathan doesn’t look away. “Your life, for Mohinder Suresh’s freedom. Do we have a deal, Mr. Gray?”
- - -
It’s three in the morning in the Oval Office when Nathan Petrelli hears the knock.
He’s still awake, pacing restlessly by the veranda doors. He traces the edge of his jaw, eyes focused too far away, and nods, as though to himself. “Come in.” It’s taken long enough; no doubt Heidi is waiting for him upstairs, pretending to sleep.
The two Secret Service agents enter with a man slumped between them, braced on their shoulders. They don’t look tired.
Nathan hesitates, for a moment. Taking this step means that he’s admitting failure. Official channels have run dry; semi-official channels yielded dozens upon dozens of dead ends. Nathan doesn’t know whether it’s a problem with his leadership, the boundaries of legality, or the incompetence of those who investigated.
Or maybe it was just the pure skill of the man Nathan is chasing.
“Set him down,” orders Nathan, softly, “and then leave us alone.”
They exchange a glance, subtle, and they obey his orders. Slipping outside, to the veranda, such that they could still see, or hear, if anything went wrong.
Nathan wonders, again, if he’s making a mistake.
The man, slumped on the couch, stirs. He doesn’t moan, from the headache he has to have - he doesn’t ask where he is.
Nathan feels a chill as Gabriel Gray - the man formerly known as Sylar - opens his eyes.
“Petrelli,” says Gray.
“Mr. Gray,” returns Nathan.
Gray gives him a slow, deliberate look. Even from darkly bloodshot eyes, when Nathan knows - he knows he’s in no danger from Gray’s powers, it sends a chill down Nathan’s spine.
“To what do I owe the…honor?” asks Gray.
I’m going to regret this, thinks Nathan. “How would you like a job?”
Gray is surprised, taken off-balance; that much Nathan can see. “What kind of job?”
“I think you know.”
“How about you tell me anyway.”
Nathan grits his jaw. “I need you to find him.”
“Find who?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Nathan snaps.
Gray considers this, for a long moment. He tries to stand, sways, and falls back onto the chair. Sets his expression, containing the fury that has to be inside him.
Nathan Petrelli is trying to harness a hurricane.
“He’s managed to avoid you, then.” Gray looks away. “I’m not surprised.”
I am, Nathan doesn’t say. “You know him better than anyone.”
“He tortured me,” says Gray. “No one ever managed to take me. On their own.” His eyes meet Nathan’s.
Nathan doesn’t look away. “Your life, for Mohinder Suresh’s freedom. Do we have a deal, Mr. Gray?”
“Yes,” says Gray. Perhaps a bit too quickly.
Nathan signals to the Secret Service men outside; they move in, with silent efficiency. Gray has to lean on them, to get to his feet.
Just before they get to the door, Gray turns back. “Mr. President,” he says.
“Yes?”
“My name,” says Gray, “is Sylar.”
~*~
Mohinder Suresh doesn’t even see the heavy-set German woman until he trips over her - a superhuman feat, seeing as how she appears to take up slightly more space than the sidewalk actually allows. He pitches to the ground, thudding hard into the passenger door of a lime-green Volvo sedan.
He scrambles a moment to find his feet, ignoring the flood of infuriated German. He never liked the language anyhow. And he’s in a hurry.
A glance back, and he sees them move around the corner. One has a hand on his hip, obscured by the dark fold of his suit jacket.
Damn, damn. Germans don’t carry guns, do they? This is Europe, for god’s sake -
Mohinder ducks into an alley, just barely dodging around the outstretched leg of one of Berlin’s trademark bear statues. He’s completely at sea. No allies here, and these people, whoever they are, seem to have no trouble tailing him.
Whoever they are. Sure. Like he has no idea.
Compulsively, he checks to make sure the laptop is in place. He doesn’t touch the flash drive; he knows where it is, knows where its safe, and if someone is watching him closely enough, it’ll give away all the information Mohinder has left.
Not that them getting the laptop would be much better.
Two quick turns, and Mohinder is out of their sight, at least for the moment. He sprints straight down the sidewalk, dodging a mother and two daughters, a dark-coated man, three mostly-drunk teenagers. When he takes a second to look behind him, his pursuers have abandoned any pretense of subtlety. Both of them are pure power now, and gaining on him by the second.
They miscalculated, though.
Mohinder ducks to the side - just in time, as he hears a clatter of tranquilizers hit the concrete wall like demented houseflies. Not much farther…
They’re barely two car-lengths behind him when he slams through the doorway, straight into the lobby of the Bundespolizei, the German Federal Police.
It’s a desperate gamble. If these people have any kind of official authorization, Mohinder is moving straight into their hands.
Outside the glass, he sees the two men stop. Unsure of what to do next.
“Guten tag?” queries the receptionist.
Mohinder’s mind races. “Ich brauche Hilfe!” Was that how you said help? The German phrasebook seems so long ago, now. “Zwei Manner …folge mir -” Oh, to hell with it. “Those - two men out there were threatening me,” says Mohinder, gesturing, his words accented by the harsh speed of his breathing. He’s been running for hours, it feels like. “They had - guns.”
The receptionist, or whatever she is, seems to understand; in short order, several uniformed officers are out the door, in pursuit of the mysterious men. They probably won’t find them, Mohinder knows, but he’s safe for now.
Safe. Of course.
~*~
A rather mild interrogation later, still blinking from the fluorescent glare of the police building, Mohinder emerges back into the cloud-strained sunlight. His senses are painfully tuned to his surroundings, and he falls into his usual pattern with unsettling ease.
He moves to cross the street, and turns back halfway along.
He stops to tie his shoe, stays crouched as he leisurely roots through his bag.
He speeds up and moves at a near-run through the park, slows down to a lazy stroll once he passes through.
In the end, he’s convinced that there’s no one following him. The police must have really chased those men to ground - there’s no sign of them. They didn’t seem like American agents, either. Was Nathan stooping to hiring mercenaries? Surely he wouldn’t be that radical.
~*~
The inn squats pleasantly in a nook between two buildings and a stretch of grass, a strange triangle of roads angled against the well-ordered surrounding streets. The gate creaks lazily in greeting, and Mohinder makes sure to fasten the latch behind him. The owner, Kirsten, made it very clear on the first day that she would not tolerate wind damage from a loose gate.
She’s in the garden as Mohinder approaches, grey hair pinned under a broad straw hat, on her knees in the dark-rich dirt.
“Hello!” she greets, and Mohinder returns her smile.
“Guten abend,” he returns.
“English, please,” she tells him. “I need to practice.” A sigh, and then, “these flowers. They need more sunlight, but the clouds are too thick.”
Mohinder makes a sympathetic noise.
“Will you dine here tonight?”
“Of course,” says Mohinder.
She nods. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late, young man.”
Young man. Mohinder shakes his head, turning away. He glances back, as his hand drifts to the polished brass door handle - above her, the clouds have cracked, and a ray of sunlight shines through, illuminating the garden as though from the hand of God.
“Don’t forget to check the table,” she calls after him. “Newspaper for you.”
~*~
The Washington Post and the New York Times - both several days old - lay folded side by side next to stacked plates, arranged silverware. Page 3A, reads Kirstin’s barely legible scrawl, adjacent to the headline’s bold typeface.
Mohinder’s heart sinks. His hand shakes as he turns the page, and he prays, prays --
‘FBI RENEWS FUGITIVE INVESTIGATION’.
Oh no, oh no…
He steels himself, and reads the subtitle, word by word.
The first time it doesn’t register, the letters and words colliding into a jumbled mess. He read it, he knows, but as soon as he takes his eyes away he can’t remember what it says.
Takes another, more careful look.
NEW CONSULTANT ‘GRAY’ HEADS RECOVERY EFFORT
Gray. Gabriel Gray. No - as the article puts it, Gabriel “Sylar” Gray.
They put this article out there on purpose. They had to. They must know that Mohinder would read it, that he would understand, that he would frighten himself more than they could ever frighten him -
The door clicks open and Mohinder swirls, hand moving towards the knife in his pocket.
“Someone you know?” asks Kirsten.
“I have to go,” Mohinder blurts.
She gives him a long, sad look. “You’ll always be welcome here.”
“I know,” he lies, “and I’ll come back, someday.”
She takes his hand, as he tries to go past him. Her gnarled, spotted fingers clasp warm, protective around his. “You have helped me,” she tells him. “Stay safe.”
“Thank you.” Mohinder means it, this time.
~*~
In Dresden, a day later, Mohinder’s phone rings. The caller ID says it’s Kirsten - she’s one of the four, maybe five people in the world who have this number. It’s unlisted, untraceable, prepaid -
Mohinder is seized with a premonition of dread. Opens the phone, but doesn’t say hello, like his breath is caught in his throat.
There’s no sound, from the other end. He waits, half-expecting to hear Kirsten querying the line, wondering if there’s mechanical failure, or if she just didn’t hear Mohinder say hello. But there’s nothing, just dead silence, and Mohinder snaps the phone shut, trembling such that he can barely stand.
~*~
The police at the train station in Dresden give Mohinder a long, lingering glance. One of them leans to the other, not-quite-whispering something inaudible over the automated German intercom message.
Mohinder carefully lets his eyes skim over them, settling instead on a small store next to the main terminal of trains. The train to Prague leaves in half an hour. He just has to hold out until then.
“Excuse me,” says a policeman, in heavily accented English. “You will come with me.” His hand circles Mohinder’s arm, steering Mohinder away from the crowds.
No, no, no.
Mohinder breathes. The other officer is behind them; he gauges the distance, very carefully.
“I’m sorry,” says Mohinder, rudely, “I have a train leaving very soon. So, unless you wish to delay the delivery of key evidence to the Berlin police, you should let me go right now.”
The man hesitates. “Berlin? Your destination is not Prague?”
“Of course not.” Mohinder digs in his pocket, pretending not to notice the way each officer reached for their weapons. “Here,” and he shoves a ticket to Berlin at the first one.
They’d turned the corner; there was no one watching but the security camera, at the end of the hall.
The officer examines it, something suspicious crossing his face. “I must see a form of identification.”
Mohinder doesn’t give him a chance to yell. Evidently, the man isn’t wearing any kind of bulletproof armor; it’s fortunate that Mohinder isn’t in America, because if he were, this kind of sucker punch probably wouldn’t have worked.
As it is, the man doubles over, gasping for breath. The second one is already on the offensive, but Mohinder is ready - deflects the punch, moves entirely on instinct. The noise made when the man’s head slams into the wall is unfortunate but unavoidable, and Mohinder turns back to the first just in time, knocking the radio out of his hand, one, two, then he’s out cold.
The train to Prague leaves in fifteen minutes. But Mohinder is already compromised.
How in god’s name had they known to look for Prague?
For that matter, how had they known to look in Germany?
Mohinder remembers the carefully blank phone call, and he shivers. This - is bad.
~*~
Mohinder moves in a kind of dazed panic. Any moment now, any moment, he might turn a corner, or look behind him, and -
Sylar never used to haunt Mohinder’s nightmares. Mohinder was never afraid, just furious. Cold fury, a silently lethal vow of revenge for the death of his father. After all, he spent days with Sylar, alone, completely, utterly defenseless, and Sylar never made a move. Sylar didn’t want to kill Mohinder.
But, Nathan Petrelli. Mohinder isn’t terrified of him so much as he’s terrified of what Nathan could do with Mohinder’s knowledge.
The flash drive is still there, two gigabytes sewn into the cuff of Mohinder’s sleeve. The synthesized rubber vial, padded several times over, sealed as secure as possible into Mohinder’s bag. He doesn’t have the facilities to destroy it, yet. Someday he will.
The spectre of Sylar, doing Nathan’s bidding, is too much. Mohinder can’t stop running, can’t start thinking. He’ll get caught - he’ll get caught - and then -
~*~
Sylar is controlled.
He feels the puppet strings tug, surely as they were physical, tethered hand and foot. He can think clearly for the first time in - how long has it been? He doesn’t know - but his clear thinking, his absolute knowledge, is tripped and interrupted by a horrific blankness, lurking under his conscious mind.
Maybe there’s nothing there. Maybe they wiped it out of him when they tried to make him better.
Mohinder.
The two men flank him, cautious. They pretend they’re not afraid.
Sylar glances up. The last of the blue sky swirls over with grey. Flattens his hand against the stain-red hood of the car.
“What are we waiting for, sir?” one of them ventures.
Sylar flicks dried blood from his nails. It troubles him. He didn’t want to kill her, but the compulsion overrode his judgment. And it hurts, tears like the distant memory of a sword, of the plaza -
“Sir?”
“Shut up,” says Sylar, curtly.
The man - Secret Service? NSA? - complies without objection.
~*~
Mohinder spreads the map over a restaurant table. Imagines Sylar’s eyes sliding over the same towns, roads, rivers. He would predict where Mohinder goes next. He would know already, before Mohinder made the move. But then - he would know that Mohinder is very aware of his fugitive status, and very aware of who he’s running from. He might be one step ahead -
Mohinder doesn’t have to have a perfect plan. He doesn’t have to be steps ahead of Sylar, who no doubt has all of Mohinder’s possible moves plotted out in black and white, like a particularly lethal game of chess. He just has to be different enough from Sylar’s guess that he can hide.
He’s increasingly aware that this can’t last forever. He has to find a safe place for the information he holds soon, or he’ll be caught with it, and something extraordinarily precious will be lost to the human race forever.
Goddamn you, Nathan Petrelli.
Mohinder folds up the map, and glances up to the newly-arrived waitress.
~*~
Sylar traces the border of Germany, fingertips sliding smooth over the creases in the paper. As though he could bleed through the paper, with touch, and reach straight to where Mohinder is hiding. The government agents have long since decided that interruption is a bad idea. He hears the one woman on the team breathing, watching him, her heartbeat slow and relaxed.
Sylar tilts his head, focused on the map. He could kill her in an instant, but her blood wouldn’t feel anything like victory.
He remembers his mother’s voice, a distant echo of his past. Whenever he lost something - Well, if you were your shoes, where would you be? - talking down to him, crouched so that she looked up into his six-year-old eyes.
If he were Mohinder Suresh, where would he be? Not like an Indian didn’t stand out, especially in some of the areas where Mohinder is travelling. He would stay somewhere he could blend in. Somewhere he could be safe.
“Have every Indian consulate identified, from,” and he touches the map, “Germany, south to Italy, and France east to the Ukraine.” He frowns. He’s missing something.
“Yes, sir,” says the agent, getting up to leave.
“Wait.” He holds up a hand. The map doesn’t hold the answers. Geography doesn’t speak of everywhere a man can be found.
“Universities,” murmurs Sylar. “Universities with prominent genetics programs or professors. Anywhere he might have a colleague.”
Still missing something. Still.
“Stay away from motels,” says Sylar. “No chains, nothing low-rent. Focus on small places.”
“They’re harder to find,” points out the agent. “If they’re smaller -”
Sylar cuts her off, with the weight of his silence.
“We’ll be right on it, sir,” she corrects herself.
~*~
He has a few options. Scientific laboratories would have the facilities necessary to safely dispose of the materials in Mohinder’s possession. As would universities with biological and chemical research capabilities.
The university is probably the best bet. He has the best chance at fitting in, there.
Sylar would know that.
~*~
“A room for the night, please,” says Mohinder, to the woman at the desk. Her makeup is too dark, he decides; it makes the pale tint of her skin look more like the sheen of death.
Unbidden, nausea rises in his throat.
Once in his room, he doesn’t open the laptop. The fancy of a thousand spy movies is rushing through Mohinder’s mind - what if his access to his own email could be traced, what if they could find him here -
Unlikely. It’s a small bed-and-breakfast, run, as it seems, by a single family. If anything would fall through the strange, unofficial net surrounding Mohinder, than this would. It’s why he stayed so long with Kirsten.
An action that, in retrospect, was a mistake. His need for safety probably got her killed. And he can hold out the hope that someone’s taking care of her garden, that someone attended her funeral and mourned when she died, but he never saw any other visitors there. He didn’t even know if she had a family.
Mohinder buries his head in his hands. He can’t handle this much longer.
~*~
“Sir,” says one of the agents. “We have something.”
Sylar stands, and fixes marble-cold eyes on the disturbance of his quiet.
“Just like you said,” he continues. “Bed-and-breakfast.”
~*~
Mohinder awakens in the middle of the night with the absolute certainty that something in his plan has gone horribly wrong.
He props himself up on his elbows, fervently wishing for supernaturally sensitive hearing.
…there’s a slow creak, barely audible, just outside his door.
Mohinder is in motion immediately. Already dressed - he never got undressed - he grabs the satchel and has it over his shoulder. At the window in seconds, forcing it open, and then he’s outside, falling hard on the sidewalk below.
Inside the room, there’s a rough crash as the door is broken down.
No, no, no, no, it can’t end like this.
Mohinder is running before whoever it is inside gets to the window. Dodges down the garden path, into a clump of trees, and runs full-tilt into someone nearly invisible, thanks to the darkness. He thuds to the ground, painfully hard, the breath rushing out of his lungs. Nevertheless, he struggles to his feet, to the tune of whoever it was and their cry of “he’s over here”, no doubt summoning backup.
Running, it seems he’s always running these days. He feels oddly detached from it - his heart is fluttering, pounding, his breath burning in his lungs. He’s utterly terrified, running more on instinct than on sight. They’re pursuing him, and no doubt they’re in fairly peak physical condition, and if Sylar is with them, then there’s truly no way that Mohinder can escape.
He could be trapped now, and he wouldn’t even know it.
A roar grows in his ears, as he runs. Not wind - the blood in his veins? Doesn’t matter, the grass of the field tangles against his feet and it’s all he can do to keep -
Holy shit.
Mohinder slides to a halt centimeters from the edge of the gorge. He understands the roaring, now - he can see the white-rushing water below.
He is trapped. There’s nowhere to go.
Turns back, towards the men pursuing him. One hand dips in his bag, retrieves the vial, and he holds it out over the river. Holds steady, until they’ve surrounded him, flashlights dancing in his eyes.
“This will go better if you come quietly, Dr. Suresh,” says one, in an unidentifiable American-white-male accent.
“D’you know what this is?” asks Mohinder. “It’s what Nathan Petrelli needs from me. And I will bet my life that none of you know what it is, nor how to handle it properly.” He makes a gesture, as though to throw it away - sure enough, a wave of tension flutters through them, followed by a shade of growing fear.
Mohinder shifts his stance, a little closer to the edge. “You don’t know what it’ll do if I release it.”
“Dr. Suresh-”
“Back off!” snaps Mohinder. “Back off.”
“You heard him. Go.”
Sylar’s voice slices dagger-sharp through the noise of the river. One by one, the flashlights drift out of Mohinder’s field of vision. He can’t see their expressions, but he imagines that they aren’t happy about being dismissed.
He blinks through purple-black afterimages. Can’t see a thing -
“Hello, Mohinder.”
Adrenaline rises in Mohinder fast and bright; he almost drops the vial. He’s gone, he’s trapped, there’s nothing he can do about it.
Nothing, except -
He looks to the vial, his heart beating light and fast.
“Sylar,” manages Mohinder, through a dry throat.
The grass rustles; Mohinder can see him, now. Moonlight outlining his face. He searches Sylar’s features for a clue, a hint as to his plan, how he’s going to proceed, but Sylar is enigmatic, as always.
“Don’t - come any closer.”
Sylar stops. “You honestly think you can fight?”
“I will never stop fighting,” vows Mohinder. “How does it feel being Nathan’s lapdog? Do you really think that this vial is something you want in his hands? But you don’t have a choice, do you, you’re just his pet -”
Sylar tilts his head, with something that may have been a smile. And Mohinder shuts up, with the uncomfortable feeling that he may be missing something.
“Take a deep breath, Mohinder,” says Sylar’s voice, almost a caress.
Mohinder shivers.
And Sylar takes them both over the edge of the cliff.
~*~
Sylar drags Mohinder out of the water, onto a bank more dirt than sand, full of half-made memory -the water rushing in torrents, fast, narrow and deep, treacherous with rocks, cold from the mountains. By all rights, any human who tried that should have died in the process.
He smoothes Mohinder’s hair, in ragged wet strands, back from his forehead. The vial is still intact; Mohinder is still breathing.
Flattens a trembling hand over Mohinder’s chest. Smooth rise and fall, the oh-so-sure heartbeat underneath. How did this happen? The blessing, the success of his venture is entirely unanticipated.
Mohinder’s eyes open, slow and uncomprehending. Sylar’s fingers drift to his cheek.
They don’t have much time. Sylar knows they don’t have much time, but he aches to draw this out.
Mohinder half-inhales, and Sylar kisses him.
He’s terrified. Not that Mohinder won’t want him, because he knows Mohinder does, it says it in every movement he makes, infused with a desire he desperately denies. Sylar fears that Mohinder won’t trust him.
Muscles ease almost imperceptibly in Mohinder’s frame. His palm, salted with dirt and sand, scrapes against Sylar’s neck -
Oh, god.
Sylar kiss Mohinder again, again, until he’s not sure whether it’s him or Mohinder moaning, so soft, until he forgets the need to breathe, just knows this, more, closer, because this is everything he’s been pursuing, ruthless and cold, since before Nathan Petrelli through him in prison.
Mohinder breaks away, with a gasp. Wide eyes, in shock, but not in terror.
“Come on,” says Sylar. “We don’t have much time.”
~*~
“What do you want from me?” asks Mohinder, chilled, shivering in the passenger seat of the car.
“I want you to be safe,” Sylar tells him.
Mohinder straightens. “So you didn’t agree to do this for Nathan.”
“He’s desperate.” Sylar glances in the rearview mirror. “He made a mistake in choosing me.”
Mohinder lets his eyes close. He doesn’t understand this, but it’s welcome. More than welcome. He’s so exhausted, bone-weary, that it’s enough that there’s even one person trying to help him - more than that, it’s the man who used to be his worst enemy -
The world has twisted, crumpled in confusion. Mohinder doesn’t care.
~*~
Sylar cradles Mohinder in his arms, easing him out of the car. A quick glance confirms that none of the agents have returned to the hotel in his absence.
He always has been best at hiding in plain sight - what better place to conceal his presence than his own hotel room? The most obvious place, and no practical fugitive would ever return there, which is what makes it perfect for Sylar’s purposes. They’ll never expect him here.
Shifts Mohinder down onto crumpled floral-pattern comforter. He’s filthy, and so is Sylar, and that means that the bed will be filthy too, but Sylar can’t bring himself to care.
He stands. Caught, in the fragile certainty that this can’t be real. Mohinder can’t trust him like this. It’s impossible, it’s perfect, it’s everything he’s wanted.
~*~
Mohinder awakens to the white noise hiss of the shower.
Checks - the flash drive is intact, the vial is whole and unbroken. Everything important has been saved.
He sits up, some of his muscles protesting. Moves to his feet. He knows it must have been hours since the kiss, but his breath still feels short, like he can’t quite inhale far enough. Out-of-control, that’s all he’s been, his life manipulated by outside forces since his birth.
And maybe, he thinks, as he pushes open the door to the bathroom, this is just another attempt at control. This is him trying to force his life in a direction, any direction, so long as it’s his choice.
~*~
Sylar turns at the rasp of the shower door.
Mohinder steps under the spray, with him, and Sylar hesitates. There’s an odd, abstract, conflicted look on his face, something Sylar doesn’t understand. He reaches out, to touch - this is real, isn’t it? - and Mohinder steps forward, presses him into the wall, kisses him like this is absolutely everything to him, firm, aggressive, his tongue slipping into Sylar’s mouth.
This is perfect, ragged, deep - Sylar doesn’t know how long they’re there, just aware of the water, that gasping way Mohinder breathes, in between kisses, Mohinder’s hand inching up his ribs, the tile warm and flat under his back -
“You came for me,” says Mohinder. “Not what I’m carrying, not what I know, just me.”
Sylar realizes it’s a question, a confirmation. “Yes,” he breathes, and Mohinder is kissing him again. But it’s not enough this time, not nearly enough. Sylar needs, a way he’s never felt before, the way he knew he could feel if he could just catch Mohinder. Catch him lightly enough that he doesn’t even know he’s captured.
He pulls Mohinder out of the shower stall, out of the bathroom, and then they’re on the bed, somehow, water dripping, spreading dark on the sheets. Light as the fabric is, the water turns it grey, translucent, nothing like blood.
Mohinder is hot, hard against his palm, slick from the shower, his breath fast against Sylar’s neck. He gasps something low and incoherent when Sylar’s hand closes around his erection, fingers iron-tight on Sylar’s shoulder.
Sylar has imagined this. He imagined bringing any number of a dozen powers to bear against Mohinder - what he could do, how he could take Mohinder apart and put him back together better, more intact, stronger than he ever was before. But now it’s like all of his abilities have fled; his hands shake, and he would be humiliated, only Mohinder is just as desperate, urging just as hard. Not any more or less sure than Sylar is.
When Sylar presses fingers inside Mohinder, the hesitant feel, the way Mohinder spreads his legs a little further, tightens his spine into an arch against the mattress - it all tells Sylar what he needs to know. This touch is unfamiliar, to Mohinder, but if the shock in his eyes is anything to go by than it feels good, unexpectedly good, and he wants it.
Water’s still all over them, beaded, dripping, in rivulets, and Sylar thinks that if he used his ability, if he froze them right now, they’d be encased in ice. Preserved, in this moment, forever.
Mohinder grabs at Sylar, hauls him into a kiss, and Sylar realizes that what he’s feeling is Mohinder’s climax, from the inside, something he did, and his own orgasm hits him too hard, before he’s ready for it. Broken, but then maybe he was already broken, and this is just an outward expression of the way the world already was.
Sylar doesn’t go for a towel, afterwards. He finds that he wants to trace the drops on Mohinder’s skin - wants to feel how clean this is, shockingly clean, after they’ve fought for so long.
~*~
The agents return around nightfall, buzzing in fury and panic. They have no idea what happened.
They don’t check Sylar’s room. As far as Sylar is concerned, they deserve whatever punishment they get.
He starts on the road with Mohinder the next morning.
~*~
“Tell me what’s in the vial.” Sylar’s tone leaves no room for argument.
Mohinder looks towards the road ahead. Doesn’t answer.
“Now.”
“Listen, I’ve kept the secret for a long time, you think you could give me a few minutes?”
Sylar shoots him a sideways glance. “The President of the United States wants it very badly, and now he’s after both of us. We need to figure out what to do with it.”
We. We. “You don’t think that, between us, we can avoid capture?”
“I was captured once.” Sylar glances in the rearview mirror. “I won’t take risks again.”
Mohinder hesitates, for a long moment. “A virus,” says Mohinder.
Sylar makes an impatient noise. “Of course it’s a virus. What else would it be?”
“Well, forgive me for trying to answer your question.”
Sylar slides a hand along the steering wheel, releasing a breath. “Go on.”
“It shouldn’t have much of a fatality rate,” says Mohinder, woodenly. “The very elderly and the very young.” Not much, only a few hundred thousand deaths on his hands -
“What’s it designed to do?”
“It looks for specific DNA,” says Mohinder. “It’s a lot more complicated than that. But it disrupts DNA reproduction, and changes certain strands to junk DNA, for lack of a better term.”
“What strands?”
Mohinder glances out, to the side of the road. The trees, the mountains whirring past. “The strands that control mutation,” he says. “Powers, abilities, whatever you want to call them. In one incredibly contagious stroke, almost every newly evolved human on the planet-”
“Will be normal again,” snaps Sylar.
“Yes,” says Mohinder. “They will.”
“And Nathan Petrelli wants to release it.”
“Yes.”
Sylar hisses, frustration and restrained fury. “I’ll kill him before I let him do that.”
Mohinder’s heart rate spikes - half because he believes it, half because he wants to believe it.
~*~
“What are the options?” asks Sylar, after a day on the road. “With the vial.”
“Keep it safe, or destroy it.” That’s it. There’s nothing else possible.
Sylar considers this, for a moment. “What happens if it’s released?”
“It’s incredibly contagious,” says Mohinder, “and airborne. Without immediate organized response, which there wouldn’t be, it would go through the whole world in a matter of days, spread by trains, cars, airports.”
“Except for isolated areas.”
“Of course,” says Mohinder, as though that were obvious.
Sylar nods, looking away.
Mohinder wonders if Sylar has realized Mohinder’s conclusion. A remote area, a controlled release, and likely the immune systems of those around would take care of the problem at hand, namely destruction of as much of the virus as exists -
“The fatality rate wouldn’t be high enough for a fast response,” says Mohinder. “They would be mystified, but they wouldn’t move into action fast enough.”
~*~
The cabin is just as Sylar left it. In Russia. It was a place of last resort, one of the few developed countries safe from the treat of extradition to the United States.
The mountain air is thin and clear - Sylar can see so far, from here. Desolation, of course, so far away from any real urban environment, and he knows Mohinder won’t flourish here for very long. Despite the pull that brings them both together.
No, they have one task to accomplish.
Sylar flattens his back against a tree, and breathes the air like it’s his last day alive.
He can hear Mohinder shiver in the cold. But once there’s a fire set, it’ll be warm enough.
~*~
The place is remote enough. If the virus stayed inside the cabin, then the problems could be solved.
Mohinder grits his teeth. He can’t do this. It would be the worst kind of betrayal, in Sylar’s mind. And concerns for his safety aside, he doesn’t think he can do that to the person who saved him.
And yet.
This could be the solution. This controlled release could eliminate the risk to all evolved humans out there. Nathan’s scientists were years, decades behind him, if they’d ever discover the track that led to this research at all, which Mohinder doubts. This would end Nathan’s paranoid and frightened desire to rid the world of superhuman powers.
Hardly believing what he’s doing, Mohinder roots for the vial, in his backpack. Is he really -
He stops, disbelief, shock creeping over the edge of his mind like a wave on the sand.
~*~
Sylar is in the cabin’s bedroom, the vial on his palm.
“Don’t do anything rash,” warns Mohinder, hands out -
Sylar’s hand flares in a wash of nuclear energy, and in a moment, the vial is ashes. -but the rubber, the glass melted away first, and there was just a moment where - where -
~*~
Just an hour later, Sylar is prone on the bed. Breathing shallow, skin pale. Sweaty.
“Oh my god -” Mohinder rushes down next to him, checking his pulse. Light, weak, but it’s there. He’s burning up, a fever far too high to be normal. And there’s the syringe, discarded on the sheets next to him.
Sylar’s eyes open, bleary, unfocused. A half-smile crosses his mouth.
“Why,” breathes Mohinder, “why on Earth would you risk this?”
Sylar touches Mohinder’s cheek, so faint, so light.
~*~
Mohinder catches it a few hours later. Goes into a fever too, but not half as bad as Sylar’s. He took the whole vial, and yes it was diluted, yes there wasn’t much of it left, but the whole vial…
He can barely eat, barely drink. Knows it’s unhealthy, but he can’t quite seem to care. The room alternates between freezing and unbearably stuffy. Can’t quite summon the will or the intellectual capacity to manage the fire in the fireplace, so he lets it go out.
He wakes up, doesn’t know how many days later, to Sylar’s hand tilting his head back, giving him some water.
“It’s over,” says Sylar. His shoulders are hunched, posture more unthreatening, more casual than Mohinder has ever seen.
“You’re,” and Mohinder doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Yours,” finishes Sylar, softly, and kisses Mohinder on the forehead.
~*~
The package is searched by dozens of people before it gets to Nathan Petrelli. CDC, Secret Service, maybe FBI and CIA too for good measure. X-rayed, inspected, torn apart at the seams.
“There’s nothing,” says the Secret Service agent who hands it to him. “A plastic bag of ashes, completely innocent, as far as we can tell, and a smashed flash drive.”
“Is any of the data recoverable?” asks Nathan.
The agent shakes his head. “Definitely not, sir.”
Nathan pulls out the note, uncurling it in his hands.
You’ll have to find another solution to your problems, Nathan.
Best of luck in your future endeavors.
It isn’t signed, but Nathan knows who it’s from.
“Goddamnit,” he curses, under his breath. Then, yelled, “Goddamnit!” because maybe, this time, he’s made the last mistake of his career.