Heroes fic: Resignation
lol I think this entry marks the biggest dissonance between the content and the song in my media player ever.
Title: Resignation
Series: Heroes
Pairing: Mylar
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Just some salty language and sexay mentionings.
Summary: Mohinder debates what he should do now that he knows the truth behind President Petrelli.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or their universe.
A/N: Well, I started this for the mylar_fic holiday contest, for the "festive" prompt, but I didn't want to rush it. Takes place in the FYG timeline.
"I think I'll go home."
Matt finished washing his hands and yanked a paper towel from the dispenser. He leaned back against the long countertop as he dried his hands and skeptically lifted his eyebrows.
"I don't feel well," Mohinder went on, staring into the mirror. He certainly didn't look well-- sunken eyes, wilted posture, noticeable weight loss.
But of course Matt knew better. "You're fine. You know he expects you there."
Yes, Mohinder knew. The first year had been, Just show up-- Christmas straddles the religious and secular nowadays anyway. Plus my base'll eat it up. But the year after it was abruptly, I want you there. And that was fine, he'd supposed. A little more intimacy than he'd been used to in a friendship, or that he'd expect from the President of the United States, but he hadn't thought much of it at the time.
"Besides," Matt said, "I went through all the trouble of picking up your tux and bringing it to your lair."
"I'm not in much of a party mood," Mohinder muttered. Matt didn't reply. "Shouldn't the head of Homeland Security be concerned with more important things than chaperoning a scientist?"
"You know Nathan has always held you in special regard. The New York attack made him nervous."
Mohinder finally turned from the mirror to catch Matt's eye. Even though Matt was the one with telepathy, Mohinder knew they were thinking the same thing. Matt kept an eye on Mohinder's actions, not his safety. Matt would ensure Mohinder got from the lab to the Christmas ball. And it wasn't Nathan who gave the orders.
How long have you known? Mohinder thought, not for the first time. How long have you gone along with him?
He wasn't sure if Matt was listening in, but Matt wouldn't care about Mohinder's anger even if he was. "We're running late," Matt said. "The car's waiting."
- + - + - + -
Plenty of press attended the party, not only as guests, but as onlookers. They lined up along the red carpet leading into the party hall, brandishing pens and notebooks and cameras. Mohinder kept his head down and walked past them, but he couldn't avoid the questions thrown over the barricades.
"Dr. Suresh! Dr. Suresh!"
"Dr. Suresh, why have you changed your position on the implementation of your own cure?"
"What's happened to your alliance with the President?"
"Did you know about his ability? Dr. Suresh!"
"What are your thoughts on the odds of impeachment?"
"Why won't you comment on the attack in New York?"
Because who would believe him? Because what would happen to him if he talked? Would he be killed, or would the President ruin him with vicious lies or an overblown, forgotten truth? Or would the real truth come out, that it was Dr. Mohinder Suresh, not the terrorist Hiro Nakamura, who had killed René? And what would happen to the country if they knew their disguised leader was responsible for the attack that brought them together and bolstered the real man's political career? What would happen to all the evolved humans if people knew the President's deception was about more than flight? How fast would the trigger-happy Vice President give the obliteration order?
Uncertainties tumbled about in Mohinder's head, and he felt ill for sure now. The competing voices and constant flashes of light battered him from both sides. He had the sudden urge to just stop, raise his face to the washed-out sky, and scream, but Matt grabbed him by the shoulders and ushered him through the doors, into the crowded lobby that precluded the monstrous party hall. More guests pushed in behind them and Mohinder felt like he'd be crushed, trampled into the carpet until he sunk through it into an inescapable void. It was too hot, and he couldn't get enough air.
Matt pulled him through the crowd, and Mohinder stumbled as his knees refused to unlock. They ended up at a staircase tucked behind the wall at the head of the lobby. Halfway up the stairs, Matt made Mohinder sit down and crouched a few steps below him to cup his face with both hands.
"Breathe, Mohinder," Matt said. "Calm the fuck down and breathe."
Mohinder clung to Matt's lapels. He desperately wanted air, but he couldn't stop the rapid constrictions of his chest.
"Breathe," Matt said again, looking into his eyes. "Look at me. Breathe." He was steady, calm. "Breathe."
Matt's voice buzzed, and his words seemed to push into Mohinder's head and empty it of all else. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The words moved into his chest, easing every inhale, exhale.
"Good," Matt murmured, and he lowered his hands. He stuffed them into his pockets and stood to lean against the wall. Light sneaked in from the lobby, dimly lighting the staircase. This passage was probably for the staff, but now it was just the two men, a wonderfully isolated pocket.
Mohinder rested his arms on his knees and let his head hang. Everything was still awful, but he no longer felt like the world would swallow him. "Since when can your ability do that?" he asked weakly.
"A while. I don't really like using it, to be honest."
Mohinder dragged his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. "Because if he knew... Less use for a good security man if you can just make everyone do what you want." He shook his head. "You should get out, Matt. We both should. It's not safe--"
"This is the safest place for either of us," Matt interrupted. "On his good side."
"I can't do this anymore. I can't stand by and let him kill all of them, but I don't know what to do. He can be anyone. I could try exposing him and he could just disappear and come back as the Vice President."
"Wouldn't be much of a difference with that guy," Matt muttered.
Mohinder glared up at him. "You don't even care. You think they... You think your own kind... You think it would be the right thing, that you all really are that dangerous. But here you are, of course, living easy off his generosity."
"It's called survival, Suresh," Matt retorted. "And order. Can you imagine what will happen as more and more of us appear? What the world will turn into? He's done a lot of terrible things, but look at everything else, at the low unemployment rate, at improved trade, at--"
"In exchange for genocide. And what happens when he gets bored, hm? Decides to try at world overlord? He could take that position forever now, thanks to you."
"Hopefully I'll be dead by then."
"But Matty won't be."
"I'm doing what I can!" Matt snapped, and Mohinder recoiled. "Your decisions aren't the only complicated ones!" Matt leaned down. "But let me remind you, to make yours a little less complex: you're in a very privileged position, and I don't mean any of the ones he's had you in." Matt smirked at Mohinder's angry, flustered expression. "We both know you should have died in that fight, but he didn't let that happen."
Mohinder didn't want to think more about that, of that endless agony, of burning light, coalescing into a final brilliant explosion-- then darkness. He'd floated down, deep, numb, until a surge of air shot into his lungs, propelling him into the hell of his body, to sickening sounds that, as the pain finally dissipated, he'd realized were the sounds of his body pulling itself back together. He'd managed to open his eyes, to see the blurred face above him. The touch, firm yet cautious, had been Nathan's-- but it wasn't Nathan, because Nathan couldn't heal people, but Linderman could, but Linderman was dead.
Mohinder had woken up again in the hospital, and he'd known.
"I wish I could have gone with Hiro," Mohinder whispered. "I know he stopped the explosion. Our past selves moved into something new, into a different world."
"Lucky them," Matt grunted.
Mohinder laughed weakly. "I thought that maybe... maybe all this would just disappear."
"Unlucky us." Matt checked his watch and thumped down to the end of the staircase, peering around the corner. He came back up. "Just about everyone's inside. He's going to notice you're missing. Don't make him think you'll be a problem."
- + - + - + -
Mohinder didn't speak to Nathan until two hours into the party. The President had to mingle, after all, had to pay the right amount of attention to the right people. Typically the First Lady would do the same, but Heidi had been out of the picture for two years. Mohinder realized now that the divorce had coincided with the period of time in which Nathan changed, when he became gruffer, had a sudden intolerance for disappointment, and adopted more severe policies, especially regarding specials.
Mohinder couldn't forget how Heidi had been demonized in the media, as she abandoned a dedicated husband who gave his all to protect America from a threat its citizens had only seen in high-budget blockbusters. Even when Nathan relinquished custody of Monty and Simon to her with barely a fight, her skills as a nurturer had been ruthlessly questioned. Mohinder had mentioned the unfairness of the treatment to Nathan, and Nathan had shrugged. Perils of political gossip. She's tough. She'll get through it.
Looking back now, Mohinder could imagine Nathan working with his strategists to leak just the right rumors to paint himself as a saint and his ex-wife as a harpy just to drive up his approval points.
Since then, Nathan had been linked to many women, from diplomats to starlets, but none of those rumors were true, of course. Mohinder was surprised no one suspected the truth, given how closely he and Nathan worked together. Although, for the past two months, he'd felt more tortured by his part in the affair than the possible exposure of it.
He tried to focus on the words tumbling from the inebriated Secretary of Commerce's lips, but his mind kept wandering to how he could slip out without Matt catching him. He kept this thoughts in Tamil in case Matt listened, but that alone was probably suspicious enough.
The Secretary looked over his shoulder. "Ah, Mr. President, I trust you're having a fine evening?"
"Positively, Anita," Nathan's voice boomed in Mohinder's ear. His hand closed around Mohinder's arm. "You don't mind if I cut in, do you?"
The sudden surge of fear in Mohinder's stomach was swept away by bewilderment as Nathan jerked him around, joined his right hand with Mohinder's left, and slipped his left arm around Mohinder's waist. Anita let out a laugh of shock and delight as Nathan pulled Mohinder into a waltz.
"Mr. President!" Mohinder hissed. "What are you doing?"
Nathan raised his eyebrows innocently and spun them around, making Mohinder stumble. Cameras flashed.
"Are you drunk?" Mohinder asked, trying to pull away. "Do you have any idea how this looks?"
Nathan's hold was secure. "Mr. President..." he mused. "As much as I love to hear it, isn't that a little formal at this stage in our relationship?"
"Nathan--"
"Come on, Mohinder," Nathan murmured in his ear. "My real name."
The jabbering crowd and camera clicks faded to the back of Mohinder's concerns and he fell into step. He felt numb. "I... I don't..." He tried to swallow the trembling of his voice.
"I know you've put it together," Nathan said. "Peter's death. Your survival with just a few scratches. Our final solution. Your willingness to tolerate my dancing with you. Are you afraid I have a dangerous temper?"
"You're hardly dangerous," Mohinder said without thinking.
"I can fly," Nathan said teasingly. "So why have you been avoiding me?"
"I took a vacation."
"For three weeks," Nathan snapped, "and ignored my calls. And since then I've only seen you in meetings, and you've blown off our private little dalliances. You even moved your things out of your room at the lab."
"I nearly died. Forgive me if I prefer to keep to myself in the comfort of my home."
Nathan laughed. "That bare little apartment more comfortable than your lab? I can count on one hand the number of weeks out of the year you spend anywhere without a microscope." He stroked Mohinder's face, setting off another barrage of flashes and clicks. They went off again when Mohinder swatted the hand down. "You must have accepted it by now."
Mohinder didn't want to accept it. He wanted to wake up in his old apartment, years before it had come to all of this. Maybe if he hadn't been so dismissive of Peter, had returned from India sooner, had made so many different choices... "What do you want from me?" Mohinder growled.
"A kiss would be nice."
Mohinder's brow creased, because Nathan couldn't be serious, was being entirely too flippant and free when so many influential people were watching their dance. But the rapid destruction of his public image was clearly the last thing on the President's mind as he grabbed the back of Mohinder's neck and mashed their mouths together. Mohinder could barely hear the strangled, horrified noise out of his own throat over the collective gasp-shout of the room. He freed himself with a rough shove and hissed, "Are you mad?!"
Suddenly Matt appeared at Nathan's side. "Sir," he said, "maybe you've had too much." Matt was clearly nervous and confused. He spoke a little too loud and his gaze constantly flitted to the onlookers. "Jokes can get out of hand like this."
Nathan grinned at Mohinder, ignoring Matt's words. "Parkman, where can the professor and I have a private chat?"
Mohinder felt himself flush under all the stares. What was going on?
Matt ushered them out into the lobby, back to the stairs he and Mohinder had hidden in earlier. They climbed to the second floor, Matt pausing to tell the secret service agents following them to take posts downstairs. Matt opened the door to an employee breakroom, but once the other two men entered, he slipped back into the hall.
Mohinder had gone in first, and he turned around immediately, keeping Nathan in sight. Nathan said something to Matt before pulling the door shut-- he didn't lock it, didn't need to-- and fixed Mohinder in his sights. "It's time we talked."
"Well, you could have just asked," Mohinder snapped, "instead of manhandling me in front of hundreds of people."
"Just feeling withdrawal, I suppose."
"Stop being flippant."
"Stop trying to pretend."
Mohinder set his jaw. The anxiety welled up again, but it was nothing compared to what he'd experienced in the lobby earlier. He wished Matt had just let him have the attack, that he was back in the hospital instead of this tiny room.
"Just say it," Nathan said softly. "I want to hear you say it." Not a threat, but a push.
Mohinder didn't want to say it. If he didn't acknowledge it out loud, this all had a chance of being only a dream. But Nathan's stare, hard and undeniable and all too real, told him that wasn't true, that there was no good in denying it any longer.
"Sylar," Mohinder relented.
Nathan closed his eyes and let out a breath, releasing the illusion. Gone were the bold eyes, the strong jaw, the neatly kept hair. Here was Sylar-- hair short and spiked, face less broad, eyes dark and watchful. He still wore a tuxedo, and it was so strange to see him so formal-- his clothing should have been all black, against pale white skin, the only real color that of the blood dripping from his fingers. Even so, Mohinder backed into a soda machine. He'd known for two months the man beneath the illusion, but it was the first time he'd seen Sylar's true form in five years.
"Why are you so nervous?" Sylar asked with faux innocence. "Am I really that unfamiliar?"
"You're a killer," Mohinder said. "You made me into a killer." He felt himself shake, and wasn't sure if it was from fear or anger.
Sylar smirked. "I can't control what you do. That much is obvious to me now." He seemed a cross between disappointment and cheer. "You did what you thought had to be done. Isn't that a sign of character?"
"The last five years of my life have been a horrific farce!" Mohinder shouted, as if volume could force conscience or at least sympathy.
Instead, Sylar suddenly looked offended. "I gave you everything you wanted," he growled.
"To help you accomplish your every devious goal," Mohinder retorted.
"Each one of which you agreed with," Sylar said, and he stepped forward, pulling Mohinder close, easily stifling his struggles with telekinesis. "And what about the non-political?" he said lowly.
It was Mohinder's turn to bare his teeth. "I'm sure that's what you got off on-- tricking me."
Sylar smirked. "Is that what you've been telling yourself? That it was all a game to me? I suppose that makes sense; if I don't really love you, then you don't have to love me back."
Mohinder sputtered. "I don't love you!"
Sylar's smirk deepened and he pressed forward, trapping Mohinder against the vending machine. "Really?" he murmured, breath warm against Mohinder's mouth. "I doubt that."
Mohinder's eyes flitted to his lips. "You're not who I thought you were."
Sylar laughed. "I'm not the man who pursued specials like animals? Who urged you to find a way to neuter them? I'm not the man with a zero tolerance policy toward terrorists like Peter and Nakamura?" His mouth moved to Mohinder's ear. "I'm not the man who took incredible political risks to pursue our little trysts?" He pressed a kiss at the peak of Mohinder's jaw. "What about how I've consistently trusted your advice, valued your opinion? Encouraged your side projects? Shared your private thoughts, secrets?"
The vending machine buzzed at Mohinder's back. He closed his eyes.
"That was all me, and you never thought it was just a politician's bullshit to get you into bed. You believed every word, because you knew it was true." Sylar flattened his hand against Mohinder's chest. "I made you love me."
Mohinder felt Sylar's mouth close over his, and his stomach turned because it felt just the same: the soft pressure, the tongue prodding into his mouth, the warmth wrapped around him. He turned his face away. Sylar eased back, and Mohinder covered his mouth and wrapped his arm around his stomach. "I hate you."
Sylar tucked a curl behind Mohinder's ear. "It's alright. There's plenty of time to get used to it."
"Used to it?" Mohinder repeated quietly. He felt suddenly cold, and all too disgusted with himself. He couldn't look anywhere but the floor.
Sylar leaned back against the table in the center of the room. "I'm bored, Mohinder. Bored, and despite what all the yes-men think, soon to be impeached with no hope of getting your cure distributed. That fiasco with Nakamura sort of ruined everything, if you haven't noticed. I don't see the point in sticking around."
Mohinder looked up. "You're leaving?" Sylar just stared back, and Mohinder sputtered, "You... you cant just..."
"Why not?"
Mohinder took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "The President of the United States cannot just disappear."
"I fail to see why not. It'd be easy; I can walk around as myself again, or as anyone else, or hell, even be invisible." Sylar cocked his head. "Why, Mohinder, I didn't know you appreciated my executive work so much."
Mohinder gestured uselessly, struggling to find words. "That isn't... I don't... You're the President! Impeached or not, if you vanish, it'll throw the country into chaos. It'll affect the whole world. I can't even imagine--"
"So?" Sylar interrupted. "Am I supposed to be concerned? I don't owe 'the people" a goddamn thing. I've made their sad little political system work the best I can to the point that I've raised the standard of living, and I've protected them from the evolved menace to the point that I've won." He sounded triumphant and irritated all at once. "Then they learn I can fly, and it's like a majority of the country suddenly has amnesia." He made sharp cutting gestures with both arms. "I'm finished here."
"It's no fun anymore?" Mohinder prodded, slipping his glasses back on. "It's a little more difficult to manipulate an entire population than just a few people?"
Sylar didn't bother trying to deny it. He shrugged. "I'm getting smaller and smaller returns. What's the point? Besides..." He smirked. "I've achieved immortality. I've little use for politics to get what I want anymore."
"You didn't 'achieve' immortality-- you murdered a girl for it."
"That was hard work!" Sylar retorted. "It took years of strategizing to find her. I did have a country to run. You remember all that, don't you, Mohinder? 'Well done, Mr. President.' 'Excellent idea, Mr. President.'"
Mohinder's wariness hardened and he pushed off the vending machine into Sylar's space. "Shut up!"
"I'm a fantastic President and you know it," Sylar shot back. "Accept it, Mohinder. You're less angry about how I fooled you for so long than you are at yourself for still feeling the same way about me."
"I don't feel anything."
"I thought you hate me? Try to be consistent." Sylar touched Mohinder again, left hand on his shoulder and right hand cupping his face. The warmth to his touch was no less familiar. "But you'll come to terms when it's just us."
"Just us..." Mohinder's brow furrowed and he pulled Sylar's hand away from his face. "You want me to go with you?"
Sylar frowned. "What do you think the point of this conversation is?"
"I thought you just enjoyed rubbing my foolishness in my face," Mohinder snapped.
"You are the most fun when you're mad," Sylar said with a grin. He kissed Mohinder again, brief but sure.
Mohinder jerked his head away. "Don't do that." He meant to say it sharply, but it came out as a quiet protest.
"Because you like it?"
Mohinder shook his head angrily and spat, "I'm not running off with you!"
Sylar did not let him go, holding him by both shoulders now. "Why not? What's left here for you? You've fought against the 'cure,' sure, but it's made the public suspicious of either you or your expertise. You've seen the polls, read the papers. Everyone knows you knew about Nathan. A lot of them sense something is wrong with the cure and that you're covering your ass. Your career is as good as over. It'll be hard to even find a university that'll take you in."
"I'm glad you worked so hard to ruin my life."
That smirk again. "I didn't have to work hard. I didn't make you do anything," Sylar reminded him, and Mohinder felt ill all over again. Sylar squeezed his shoulders. "Tell me, Mohinder, what have you really been thinking about for the past two months?"
Mohinder had thought about exposure. He'd thought about telling the truth about President Petrelli to anyone who would listen, and praying there'd be enough evidence. And he'd thought about the President's immortality and how to get around it, somehow luring him alone and incapacitating him long enough to set him on fire, burning the remains again and again until it was impossible for the gritty ashes to reform. Mohinder had no doubt that he would be caught, by Matt most likely, but he was willing to accept that, to be vilified and tried and put to death.
Laying alone in the dark in his silent little apartment, Mohinder tried not to think of the absence of strong hands playing along his body, of a warm presence pressing against his back. He had tried not to think about all those late evenings in the Oval Office collaborating with Nathan, with Sylar, on initiatives and policies, and how they ended with a well-wish for the night as easily as they did a fumble on the couch. The dinners where Sylar would lean over and tell Mohinder to pick a dignitary, any dignitary, then quietly relate his or her little scandal or secret. Sylar's surprise visits to the lab, when he'd hang back to observe and easily engage in conversation about the work when he managed to drag Mohinder away for a break. Sitting across from Sylar on Air Force One, especially the night trips when everyone else would sleep and they'd whisper about nothing and everything.
Mohinder had tried not to think about how his life consisted of little more than his ongoing work for the administration and his attachment to the man at its head. He'd tried not to think about how, besides Matt's begrudging camaraderie, Sylar was all he had.
"All this mess, it's done," Sylar said quietly. "Leave it." And he kissed Mohinder again, once, twice, three times, coaxingly, like he always did when Mohinder was stressed. A sob strangled Mohinder's laugh, and he clung tightly to the back of Sylar's neck, like he always did when he gave in.
Title: Resignation
Series: Heroes
Pairing: Mylar
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Just some salty language and sexay mentionings.
Summary: Mohinder debates what he should do now that he knows the truth behind President Petrelli.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or their universe.
A/N: Well, I started this for the mylar_fic holiday contest, for the "festive" prompt, but I didn't want to rush it. Takes place in the FYG timeline.
"I think I'll go home."
Matt finished washing his hands and yanked a paper towel from the dispenser. He leaned back against the long countertop as he dried his hands and skeptically lifted his eyebrows.
"I don't feel well," Mohinder went on, staring into the mirror. He certainly didn't look well-- sunken eyes, wilted posture, noticeable weight loss.
But of course Matt knew better. "You're fine. You know he expects you there."
Yes, Mohinder knew. The first year had been, Just show up-- Christmas straddles the religious and secular nowadays anyway. Plus my base'll eat it up. But the year after it was abruptly, I want you there. And that was fine, he'd supposed. A little more intimacy than he'd been used to in a friendship, or that he'd expect from the President of the United States, but he hadn't thought much of it at the time.
"Besides," Matt said, "I went through all the trouble of picking up your tux and bringing it to your lair."
"I'm not in much of a party mood," Mohinder muttered. Matt didn't reply. "Shouldn't the head of Homeland Security be concerned with more important things than chaperoning a scientist?"
"You know Nathan has always held you in special regard. The New York attack made him nervous."
Mohinder finally turned from the mirror to catch Matt's eye. Even though Matt was the one with telepathy, Mohinder knew they were thinking the same thing. Matt kept an eye on Mohinder's actions, not his safety. Matt would ensure Mohinder got from the lab to the Christmas ball. And it wasn't Nathan who gave the orders.
How long have you known? Mohinder thought, not for the first time. How long have you gone along with him?
He wasn't sure if Matt was listening in, but Matt wouldn't care about Mohinder's anger even if he was. "We're running late," Matt said. "The car's waiting."
- + - + - + -
Plenty of press attended the party, not only as guests, but as onlookers. They lined up along the red carpet leading into the party hall, brandishing pens and notebooks and cameras. Mohinder kept his head down and walked past them, but he couldn't avoid the questions thrown over the barricades.
"Dr. Suresh! Dr. Suresh!"
"Dr. Suresh, why have you changed your position on the implementation of your own cure?"
"What's happened to your alliance with the President?"
"Did you know about his ability? Dr. Suresh!"
"What are your thoughts on the odds of impeachment?"
"Why won't you comment on the attack in New York?"
Because who would believe him? Because what would happen to him if he talked? Would he be killed, or would the President ruin him with vicious lies or an overblown, forgotten truth? Or would the real truth come out, that it was Dr. Mohinder Suresh, not the terrorist Hiro Nakamura, who had killed René? And what would happen to the country if they knew their disguised leader was responsible for the attack that brought them together and bolstered the real man's political career? What would happen to all the evolved humans if people knew the President's deception was about more than flight? How fast would the trigger-happy Vice President give the obliteration order?
Uncertainties tumbled about in Mohinder's head, and he felt ill for sure now. The competing voices and constant flashes of light battered him from both sides. He had the sudden urge to just stop, raise his face to the washed-out sky, and scream, but Matt grabbed him by the shoulders and ushered him through the doors, into the crowded lobby that precluded the monstrous party hall. More guests pushed in behind them and Mohinder felt like he'd be crushed, trampled into the carpet until he sunk through it into an inescapable void. It was too hot, and he couldn't get enough air.
Matt pulled him through the crowd, and Mohinder stumbled as his knees refused to unlock. They ended up at a staircase tucked behind the wall at the head of the lobby. Halfway up the stairs, Matt made Mohinder sit down and crouched a few steps below him to cup his face with both hands.
"Breathe, Mohinder," Matt said. "Calm the fuck down and breathe."
Mohinder clung to Matt's lapels. He desperately wanted air, but he couldn't stop the rapid constrictions of his chest.
"Breathe," Matt said again, looking into his eyes. "Look at me. Breathe." He was steady, calm. "Breathe."
Matt's voice buzzed, and his words seemed to push into Mohinder's head and empty it of all else. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The words moved into his chest, easing every inhale, exhale.
"Good," Matt murmured, and he lowered his hands. He stuffed them into his pockets and stood to lean against the wall. Light sneaked in from the lobby, dimly lighting the staircase. This passage was probably for the staff, but now it was just the two men, a wonderfully isolated pocket.
Mohinder rested his arms on his knees and let his head hang. Everything was still awful, but he no longer felt like the world would swallow him. "Since when can your ability do that?" he asked weakly.
"A while. I don't really like using it, to be honest."
Mohinder dragged his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. "Because if he knew... Less use for a good security man if you can just make everyone do what you want." He shook his head. "You should get out, Matt. We both should. It's not safe--"
"This is the safest place for either of us," Matt interrupted. "On his good side."
"I can't do this anymore. I can't stand by and let him kill all of them, but I don't know what to do. He can be anyone. I could try exposing him and he could just disappear and come back as the Vice President."
"Wouldn't be much of a difference with that guy," Matt muttered.
Mohinder glared up at him. "You don't even care. You think they... You think your own kind... You think it would be the right thing, that you all really are that dangerous. But here you are, of course, living easy off his generosity."
"It's called survival, Suresh," Matt retorted. "And order. Can you imagine what will happen as more and more of us appear? What the world will turn into? He's done a lot of terrible things, but look at everything else, at the low unemployment rate, at improved trade, at--"
"In exchange for genocide. And what happens when he gets bored, hm? Decides to try at world overlord? He could take that position forever now, thanks to you."
"Hopefully I'll be dead by then."
"But Matty won't be."
"I'm doing what I can!" Matt snapped, and Mohinder recoiled. "Your decisions aren't the only complicated ones!" Matt leaned down. "But let me remind you, to make yours a little less complex: you're in a very privileged position, and I don't mean any of the ones he's had you in." Matt smirked at Mohinder's angry, flustered expression. "We both know you should have died in that fight, but he didn't let that happen."
Mohinder didn't want to think more about that, of that endless agony, of burning light, coalescing into a final brilliant explosion-- then darkness. He'd floated down, deep, numb, until a surge of air shot into his lungs, propelling him into the hell of his body, to sickening sounds that, as the pain finally dissipated, he'd realized were the sounds of his body pulling itself back together. He'd managed to open his eyes, to see the blurred face above him. The touch, firm yet cautious, had been Nathan's-- but it wasn't Nathan, because Nathan couldn't heal people, but Linderman could, but Linderman was dead.
Mohinder had woken up again in the hospital, and he'd known.
"I wish I could have gone with Hiro," Mohinder whispered. "I know he stopped the explosion. Our past selves moved into something new, into a different world."
"Lucky them," Matt grunted.
Mohinder laughed weakly. "I thought that maybe... maybe all this would just disappear."
"Unlucky us." Matt checked his watch and thumped down to the end of the staircase, peering around the corner. He came back up. "Just about everyone's inside. He's going to notice you're missing. Don't make him think you'll be a problem."
- + - + - + -
Mohinder didn't speak to Nathan until two hours into the party. The President had to mingle, after all, had to pay the right amount of attention to the right people. Typically the First Lady would do the same, but Heidi had been out of the picture for two years. Mohinder realized now that the divorce had coincided with the period of time in which Nathan changed, when he became gruffer, had a sudden intolerance for disappointment, and adopted more severe policies, especially regarding specials.
Mohinder couldn't forget how Heidi had been demonized in the media, as she abandoned a dedicated husband who gave his all to protect America from a threat its citizens had only seen in high-budget blockbusters. Even when Nathan relinquished custody of Monty and Simon to her with barely a fight, her skills as a nurturer had been ruthlessly questioned. Mohinder had mentioned the unfairness of the treatment to Nathan, and Nathan had shrugged. Perils of political gossip. She's tough. She'll get through it.
Looking back now, Mohinder could imagine Nathan working with his strategists to leak just the right rumors to paint himself as a saint and his ex-wife as a harpy just to drive up his approval points.
Since then, Nathan had been linked to many women, from diplomats to starlets, but none of those rumors were true, of course. Mohinder was surprised no one suspected the truth, given how closely he and Nathan worked together. Although, for the past two months, he'd felt more tortured by his part in the affair than the possible exposure of it.
He tried to focus on the words tumbling from the inebriated Secretary of Commerce's lips, but his mind kept wandering to how he could slip out without Matt catching him. He kept this thoughts in Tamil in case Matt listened, but that alone was probably suspicious enough.
The Secretary looked over his shoulder. "Ah, Mr. President, I trust you're having a fine evening?"
"Positively, Anita," Nathan's voice boomed in Mohinder's ear. His hand closed around Mohinder's arm. "You don't mind if I cut in, do you?"
The sudden surge of fear in Mohinder's stomach was swept away by bewilderment as Nathan jerked him around, joined his right hand with Mohinder's left, and slipped his left arm around Mohinder's waist. Anita let out a laugh of shock and delight as Nathan pulled Mohinder into a waltz.
"Mr. President!" Mohinder hissed. "What are you doing?"
Nathan raised his eyebrows innocently and spun them around, making Mohinder stumble. Cameras flashed.
"Are you drunk?" Mohinder asked, trying to pull away. "Do you have any idea how this looks?"
Nathan's hold was secure. "Mr. President..." he mused. "As much as I love to hear it, isn't that a little formal at this stage in our relationship?"
"Nathan--"
"Come on, Mohinder," Nathan murmured in his ear. "My real name."
The jabbering crowd and camera clicks faded to the back of Mohinder's concerns and he fell into step. He felt numb. "I... I don't..." He tried to swallow the trembling of his voice.
"I know you've put it together," Nathan said. "Peter's death. Your survival with just a few scratches. Our final solution. Your willingness to tolerate my dancing with you. Are you afraid I have a dangerous temper?"
"You're hardly dangerous," Mohinder said without thinking.
"I can fly," Nathan said teasingly. "So why have you been avoiding me?"
"I took a vacation."
"For three weeks," Nathan snapped, "and ignored my calls. And since then I've only seen you in meetings, and you've blown off our private little dalliances. You even moved your things out of your room at the lab."
"I nearly died. Forgive me if I prefer to keep to myself in the comfort of my home."
Nathan laughed. "That bare little apartment more comfortable than your lab? I can count on one hand the number of weeks out of the year you spend anywhere without a microscope." He stroked Mohinder's face, setting off another barrage of flashes and clicks. They went off again when Mohinder swatted the hand down. "You must have accepted it by now."
Mohinder didn't want to accept it. He wanted to wake up in his old apartment, years before it had come to all of this. Maybe if he hadn't been so dismissive of Peter, had returned from India sooner, had made so many different choices... "What do you want from me?" Mohinder growled.
"A kiss would be nice."
Mohinder's brow creased, because Nathan couldn't be serious, was being entirely too flippant and free when so many influential people were watching their dance. But the rapid destruction of his public image was clearly the last thing on the President's mind as he grabbed the back of Mohinder's neck and mashed their mouths together. Mohinder could barely hear the strangled, horrified noise out of his own throat over the collective gasp-shout of the room. He freed himself with a rough shove and hissed, "Are you mad?!"
Suddenly Matt appeared at Nathan's side. "Sir," he said, "maybe you've had too much." Matt was clearly nervous and confused. He spoke a little too loud and his gaze constantly flitted to the onlookers. "Jokes can get out of hand like this."
Nathan grinned at Mohinder, ignoring Matt's words. "Parkman, where can the professor and I have a private chat?"
Mohinder felt himself flush under all the stares. What was going on?
Matt ushered them out into the lobby, back to the stairs he and Mohinder had hidden in earlier. They climbed to the second floor, Matt pausing to tell the secret service agents following them to take posts downstairs. Matt opened the door to an employee breakroom, but once the other two men entered, he slipped back into the hall.
Mohinder had gone in first, and he turned around immediately, keeping Nathan in sight. Nathan said something to Matt before pulling the door shut-- he didn't lock it, didn't need to-- and fixed Mohinder in his sights. "It's time we talked."
"Well, you could have just asked," Mohinder snapped, "instead of manhandling me in front of hundreds of people."
"Just feeling withdrawal, I suppose."
"Stop being flippant."
"Stop trying to pretend."
Mohinder set his jaw. The anxiety welled up again, but it was nothing compared to what he'd experienced in the lobby earlier. He wished Matt had just let him have the attack, that he was back in the hospital instead of this tiny room.
"Just say it," Nathan said softly. "I want to hear you say it." Not a threat, but a push.
Mohinder didn't want to say it. If he didn't acknowledge it out loud, this all had a chance of being only a dream. But Nathan's stare, hard and undeniable and all too real, told him that wasn't true, that there was no good in denying it any longer.
"Sylar," Mohinder relented.
Nathan closed his eyes and let out a breath, releasing the illusion. Gone were the bold eyes, the strong jaw, the neatly kept hair. Here was Sylar-- hair short and spiked, face less broad, eyes dark and watchful. He still wore a tuxedo, and it was so strange to see him so formal-- his clothing should have been all black, against pale white skin, the only real color that of the blood dripping from his fingers. Even so, Mohinder backed into a soda machine. He'd known for two months the man beneath the illusion, but it was the first time he'd seen Sylar's true form in five years.
"Why are you so nervous?" Sylar asked with faux innocence. "Am I really that unfamiliar?"
"You're a killer," Mohinder said. "You made me into a killer." He felt himself shake, and wasn't sure if it was from fear or anger.
Sylar smirked. "I can't control what you do. That much is obvious to me now." He seemed a cross between disappointment and cheer. "You did what you thought had to be done. Isn't that a sign of character?"
"The last five years of my life have been a horrific farce!" Mohinder shouted, as if volume could force conscience or at least sympathy.
Instead, Sylar suddenly looked offended. "I gave you everything you wanted," he growled.
"To help you accomplish your every devious goal," Mohinder retorted.
"Each one of which you agreed with," Sylar said, and he stepped forward, pulling Mohinder close, easily stifling his struggles with telekinesis. "And what about the non-political?" he said lowly.
It was Mohinder's turn to bare his teeth. "I'm sure that's what you got off on-- tricking me."
Sylar smirked. "Is that what you've been telling yourself? That it was all a game to me? I suppose that makes sense; if I don't really love you, then you don't have to love me back."
Mohinder sputtered. "I don't love you!"
Sylar's smirk deepened and he pressed forward, trapping Mohinder against the vending machine. "Really?" he murmured, breath warm against Mohinder's mouth. "I doubt that."
Mohinder's eyes flitted to his lips. "You're not who I thought you were."
Sylar laughed. "I'm not the man who pursued specials like animals? Who urged you to find a way to neuter them? I'm not the man with a zero tolerance policy toward terrorists like Peter and Nakamura?" His mouth moved to Mohinder's ear. "I'm not the man who took incredible political risks to pursue our little trysts?" He pressed a kiss at the peak of Mohinder's jaw. "What about how I've consistently trusted your advice, valued your opinion? Encouraged your side projects? Shared your private thoughts, secrets?"
The vending machine buzzed at Mohinder's back. He closed his eyes.
"That was all me, and you never thought it was just a politician's bullshit to get you into bed. You believed every word, because you knew it was true." Sylar flattened his hand against Mohinder's chest. "I made you love me."
Mohinder felt Sylar's mouth close over his, and his stomach turned because it felt just the same: the soft pressure, the tongue prodding into his mouth, the warmth wrapped around him. He turned his face away. Sylar eased back, and Mohinder covered his mouth and wrapped his arm around his stomach. "I hate you."
Sylar tucked a curl behind Mohinder's ear. "It's alright. There's plenty of time to get used to it."
"Used to it?" Mohinder repeated quietly. He felt suddenly cold, and all too disgusted with himself. He couldn't look anywhere but the floor.
Sylar leaned back against the table in the center of the room. "I'm bored, Mohinder. Bored, and despite what all the yes-men think, soon to be impeached with no hope of getting your cure distributed. That fiasco with Nakamura sort of ruined everything, if you haven't noticed. I don't see the point in sticking around."
Mohinder looked up. "You're leaving?" Sylar just stared back, and Mohinder sputtered, "You... you cant just..."
"Why not?"
Mohinder took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "The President of the United States cannot just disappear."
"I fail to see why not. It'd be easy; I can walk around as myself again, or as anyone else, or hell, even be invisible." Sylar cocked his head. "Why, Mohinder, I didn't know you appreciated my executive work so much."
Mohinder gestured uselessly, struggling to find words. "That isn't... I don't... You're the President! Impeached or not, if you vanish, it'll throw the country into chaos. It'll affect the whole world. I can't even imagine--"
"So?" Sylar interrupted. "Am I supposed to be concerned? I don't owe 'the people" a goddamn thing. I've made their sad little political system work the best I can to the point that I've raised the standard of living, and I've protected them from the evolved menace to the point that I've won." He sounded triumphant and irritated all at once. "Then they learn I can fly, and it's like a majority of the country suddenly has amnesia." He made sharp cutting gestures with both arms. "I'm finished here."
"It's no fun anymore?" Mohinder prodded, slipping his glasses back on. "It's a little more difficult to manipulate an entire population than just a few people?"
Sylar didn't bother trying to deny it. He shrugged. "I'm getting smaller and smaller returns. What's the point? Besides..." He smirked. "I've achieved immortality. I've little use for politics to get what I want anymore."
"You didn't 'achieve' immortality-- you murdered a girl for it."
"That was hard work!" Sylar retorted. "It took years of strategizing to find her. I did have a country to run. You remember all that, don't you, Mohinder? 'Well done, Mr. President.' 'Excellent idea, Mr. President.'"
Mohinder's wariness hardened and he pushed off the vending machine into Sylar's space. "Shut up!"
"I'm a fantastic President and you know it," Sylar shot back. "Accept it, Mohinder. You're less angry about how I fooled you for so long than you are at yourself for still feeling the same way about me."
"I don't feel anything."
"I thought you hate me? Try to be consistent." Sylar touched Mohinder again, left hand on his shoulder and right hand cupping his face. The warmth to his touch was no less familiar. "But you'll come to terms when it's just us."
"Just us..." Mohinder's brow furrowed and he pulled Sylar's hand away from his face. "You want me to go with you?"
Sylar frowned. "What do you think the point of this conversation is?"
"I thought you just enjoyed rubbing my foolishness in my face," Mohinder snapped.
"You are the most fun when you're mad," Sylar said with a grin. He kissed Mohinder again, brief but sure.
Mohinder jerked his head away. "Don't do that." He meant to say it sharply, but it came out as a quiet protest.
"Because you like it?"
Mohinder shook his head angrily and spat, "I'm not running off with you!"
Sylar did not let him go, holding him by both shoulders now. "Why not? What's left here for you? You've fought against the 'cure,' sure, but it's made the public suspicious of either you or your expertise. You've seen the polls, read the papers. Everyone knows you knew about Nathan. A lot of them sense something is wrong with the cure and that you're covering your ass. Your career is as good as over. It'll be hard to even find a university that'll take you in."
"I'm glad you worked so hard to ruin my life."
That smirk again. "I didn't have to work hard. I didn't make you do anything," Sylar reminded him, and Mohinder felt ill all over again. Sylar squeezed his shoulders. "Tell me, Mohinder, what have you really been thinking about for the past two months?"
Mohinder had thought about exposure. He'd thought about telling the truth about President Petrelli to anyone who would listen, and praying there'd be enough evidence. And he'd thought about the President's immortality and how to get around it, somehow luring him alone and incapacitating him long enough to set him on fire, burning the remains again and again until it was impossible for the gritty ashes to reform. Mohinder had no doubt that he would be caught, by Matt most likely, but he was willing to accept that, to be vilified and tried and put to death.
Laying alone in the dark in his silent little apartment, Mohinder tried not to think of the absence of strong hands playing along his body, of a warm presence pressing against his back. He had tried not to think about all those late evenings in the Oval Office collaborating with Nathan, with Sylar, on initiatives and policies, and how they ended with a well-wish for the night as easily as they did a fumble on the couch. The dinners where Sylar would lean over and tell Mohinder to pick a dignitary, any dignitary, then quietly relate his or her little scandal or secret. Sylar's surprise visits to the lab, when he'd hang back to observe and easily engage in conversation about the work when he managed to drag Mohinder away for a break. Sitting across from Sylar on Air Force One, especially the night trips when everyone else would sleep and they'd whisper about nothing and everything.
Mohinder had tried not to think about how his life consisted of little more than his ongoing work for the administration and his attachment to the man at its head. He'd tried not to think about how, besides Matt's begrudging camaraderie, Sylar was all he had.
"All this mess, it's done," Sylar said quietly. "Leave it." And he kissed Mohinder again, once, twice, three times, coaxingly, like he always did when Mohinder was stressed. A sob strangled Mohinder's laugh, and he clung tightly to the back of Sylar's neck, like he always did when he gave in.