(no subject)
Strange Condition
by Harikari
AN: Much thanks to my flist (and to levitatethis, in particular) for reading this chapter before I thought it fit for comms and giving me some very helpful crit/suggestions.
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Part Six
The diner was two buildings down from the motel. It was small, a square stretch of space filled with worn red booths, wooden tables and enclosed by walls of scratched plexiglass.
Mohinder sat at a booth tucked into a corner of the diner. He was staring dazedly down at his toast.
"Mohinder," said Sylar, and the geneticist looked up. The killer was sitting directly across from his captive; he'd speared some scrambled eggs with his fork, was holding the utensil a few inches away from his mouth. "You need to eat."
Mohinder narrowed his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached for his squat glass of orange juice. Sipped at it.
Sylar watched him. When the geneticist placed the glass back onto the table after only a few tentative drinks and didn't reach for his toast the killer frowned, dropped his fork. It landed on his plate, still laden with scrambled eggs, with a sharp clang sound.
An old man and woman sitting near the door and a young woman a few tables away - the only other patrons in the small restaurant - turned and stared. Mohinder flinched; then he clenched his teeth, angry at himself for the involuntary display of fear.
"Fine," hissed Sylar. His lips pursed and his eyebrows drew together in a show of anger. He held up his hand to get the attention of the diner's lone on-duty waitress. She was stepping out from behind the long counter that ran almost the length of the entire diner, carrying a pot of steaming coffee (to offer her few customers refills, Mohinder presumed). She stopped short when she saw the serial killer's gesture. "Check," he said. And she nodded.
Mohinder turned back to his untouched toast, turned away from his captor's heated gaze. A tense and quiet minute crawled by. And then the waitress was dropping the bill onto their table. "Here you go," she said. "You gentlemen have a nice day."
"Thank you," managed the geneticist.
Sylar looked at the bill, then slipped his wallet from his pocket. He pulled a twenty from the wallet and stuffed it into the miniature, faux leather folder the bill was tucked in.
"Come on," he said, and stood.
Mohinder stood, too. He followed the killer. Stopped suddenly when they reached the door that led out to the parking lot. "I..." he started, hesitated when Sylar's dark eyes met his. "I need to stop off," he said - felt an embarrassed heat make its way up his neck, then spread across his entire face.
The serial killer eyed him. Mohinder fought the urge to squirm and wondered if the taller man could actually listen for that sort of thing with his enhanced hearing. If he could hear the inner workings of a person's body and deduce what exactly was happening inside of it.
"You have five minutes," proclaimed the killer after a moment. His gaze swept away from his captive. Locked on to a pair of doors, one marked with a male sign and the other with a female sign, that were the dead end to a little alcove across the diner. "One second over that and I'm coming to get you."
Mohinder gave a tight nod; watched as Sylar pushed open the door and stepped outside. Then he walked across the diner, passed the young woman sitting at a tiny table (she shot a smile at him as he went by), reached the little hallway and entered the bathroom.
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Mohinder stepped out of the stall, walked to the sink. Once he was finished washing up he reached for a paper towel; stared into the mirror as he dried his hands.
He tossed the bunched up paper towel into the trash can near the sink, studied his reflection. Despite the fact that he'd slept the night before his face looked unhealthy and pale, his eyes sunken. There was a reddish mark near the collar of his shirt, at the juncture between his shoulder and his neck; it was the spot where Sylar had bitten him - the serial killer hadn't actually broken skin with his teeth, but the bite looked irritated and bruised.
Sylar...bit me.
Mohinder swallowed. He really didn't want to think about it. About that. He'd already replayed the disturbing scene with Sylar the night before numerous times in his head. He'd even been forced to relive the event in his dreams, had as a result spent most of that morning dry heaving at the memories of the killer's large body looming over his own and the feel of moist breath against his flesh, standing in the shower and scrubbing his skin until it stung.
I should have known, thought the geneticist. And it was true. He should have known.
He should have guessed what Sylar wanted because, before, he'd guessed what Zane wanted. Because Zane had been all longing looks and meaningful speeches and glancing touches. And because Mohinder himself, despite never having been with another man romantically and despite never having had any wish to be with a man, had picked up on those things. Those signals. Had not been completely put off by them, had even...
Mohinder took a deep breath. This isn't helping, he realized, and tried to push most of his troubling thoughts to the back of his mind. Attempted to focus on what mattered most - on staying alive, on escape.
A cool rush of air blew in from the single, small window in the bathroom. The geneticist shivered as goose bumps rose on his skin. He zipped up his jacket and stuffed his hands into his pockets in search of his gloves. His fingers hit something solid. He froze.
The phone.
And he moved, pulled the cell phone from his pocket. It was still turned off; its screen was still blank and its plastic frame was cold despite having been in his jacket's pocket, tucked close to his body.
He said five minutes. The geneticist licked his lips, hoped that when Sylar had said five minutes he'd meant five minutes of complete privacy. (And he realized a brief moment later that that was a foolish hope, that even if the serial killer wasn't listening in he'd already used up a significant chunk of his time alone).
He turned on the phone, watched as it lit up. As soon as the main screen was loaded he scrolled through speed dial, called Niki Sanders. He lifted the phone to his ear. Almost immediately there was a loud beeping.
He pulled the phone away. The words CALL FAILED were dominating the screen. Mohinder cursed, went back to the main screen and saw that there were no bars. No signal.
Damn it.
He sighed; almost without thinking scrolled to voice mail and selected it. His phone was strange. Sometimes he could call voice mail and get his messages even when his signal was non-existent.
An automated voice sounded in his ear. He had five new messages. The first message began to play.
It was Molly, asking him why he hadn't called to talk and assuring him that no matter what time he called Niki and D.L. would let her talk to him and reciting Niki's cell number just in case he'd forgotten it. The third message was from Niki. She sounded equal parts worried and annoyed, asked why he hadn't called Molly and informed him that Matt Parkman was doing well and told him that if he needed anything he shouldn't hesitate to call her. The fourth message was Bennet - 'call me', he ordered before hanging up. The final message was Molly again.
"Hi Mohinder." Her voice sounded tinny and small coming through the phone. "It's me. I...um. Are you okay? Because you always call me, and you haven't called me." She sounded scared, on the verge of tears, young. "I've searched for you, and you're still in New York and you said that's where you were going to be so I guess that's good." There was a short pause, a moment of just breathing. "Um. We're at your apartment. I used the key you gave me before. And don't worry because I've got Mohinder now and D.L. says I can take care of him until we find...see you." The geneticist's mind reeled for a moment at that, then he realized she was talking about his lizard. His father's poor pet lizard. "Just...call me, okay?" Another pause, some background noise. "Someone's at the door..." More noise, as if Molly was moving.
And then there was Niki's voice. And then some deep rumbling that must have been a male voice. Maybe two male voices. "...Harris..." he thought he heard Niki say after a moment. "...sounds like...Kirby..."
"Okay. I love you see you soon bye." Molly's parting came suddenly and in a rush.
Then nothing.
Mohinder blinked and turned off the phone. He shoved it back into his pocket. He walked out of the bathroom, made his way across the diner (the girl who had flashed him a smile was gone). He pushed open the door and stepped outside.
Sylar was leaning against the Kia's hood. He straightened when he saw the geneticist, walked around to the driver's side and got in the car. Mohinder walked to the passenger's side and also slid in.
"Okay," said the serial killer as the car rumbled to life. He didn't complain about how long his captive had taken, didn't act as if he'd overheard the phone use. "Let's get going. We've got some...errands to run before we leave."
The geneticist started at that. "Leave?"
The killer nodded and put the car in reverse. "New York. We've got some things to take care of before we leave New York."
Mohinder sank back in his seat. He felt overwhelmed, frightened, delirious with hope.
Niki Sanders and her family were looking for him. Molly was looking for him. And they had, apparently, found Jake Harris.
They had found Harris. A man who had gone up against Sylar once and survived. A man who might be willing to go up against the serial killer again, a man capable of saving him.
Mohinder breathed in deep; stared out the smeared car window and thought about Niki and Molly and danger and love and the fact that Niki and D.L. had thought him important enough to go from Las Vegas to New York when he'd gone missing.
He blinked again, noticed that the late morning sky was gray with heavy clouds. Noticed it was snowing.
Part Seven
by Harikari
AN: Much thanks to my flist (and to levitatethis, in particular) for reading this chapter before I thought it fit for comms and giving me some very helpful crit/suggestions.
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Part Six
The diner was two buildings down from the motel. It was small, a square stretch of space filled with worn red booths, wooden tables and enclosed by walls of scratched plexiglass.
Mohinder sat at a booth tucked into a corner of the diner. He was staring dazedly down at his toast.
"Mohinder," said Sylar, and the geneticist looked up. The killer was sitting directly across from his captive; he'd speared some scrambled eggs with his fork, was holding the utensil a few inches away from his mouth. "You need to eat."
Mohinder narrowed his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached for his squat glass of orange juice. Sipped at it.
Sylar watched him. When the geneticist placed the glass back onto the table after only a few tentative drinks and didn't reach for his toast the killer frowned, dropped his fork. It landed on his plate, still laden with scrambled eggs, with a sharp clang sound.
An old man and woman sitting near the door and a young woman a few tables away - the only other patrons in the small restaurant - turned and stared. Mohinder flinched; then he clenched his teeth, angry at himself for the involuntary display of fear.
"Fine," hissed Sylar. His lips pursed and his eyebrows drew together in a show of anger. He held up his hand to get the attention of the diner's lone on-duty waitress. She was stepping out from behind the long counter that ran almost the length of the entire diner, carrying a pot of steaming coffee (to offer her few customers refills, Mohinder presumed). She stopped short when she saw the serial killer's gesture. "Check," he said. And she nodded.
Mohinder turned back to his untouched toast, turned away from his captor's heated gaze. A tense and quiet minute crawled by. And then the waitress was dropping the bill onto their table. "Here you go," she said. "You gentlemen have a nice day."
"Thank you," managed the geneticist.
Sylar looked at the bill, then slipped his wallet from his pocket. He pulled a twenty from the wallet and stuffed it into the miniature, faux leather folder the bill was tucked in.
"Come on," he said, and stood.
Mohinder stood, too. He followed the killer. Stopped suddenly when they reached the door that led out to the parking lot. "I..." he started, hesitated when Sylar's dark eyes met his. "I need to stop off," he said - felt an embarrassed heat make its way up his neck, then spread across his entire face.
The serial killer eyed him. Mohinder fought the urge to squirm and wondered if the taller man could actually listen for that sort of thing with his enhanced hearing. If he could hear the inner workings of a person's body and deduce what exactly was happening inside of it.
"You have five minutes," proclaimed the killer after a moment. His gaze swept away from his captive. Locked on to a pair of doors, one marked with a male sign and the other with a female sign, that were the dead end to a little alcove across the diner. "One second over that and I'm coming to get you."
Mohinder gave a tight nod; watched as Sylar pushed open the door and stepped outside. Then he walked across the diner, passed the young woman sitting at a tiny table (she shot a smile at him as he went by), reached the little hallway and entered the bathroom.
-----
Mohinder stepped out of the stall, walked to the sink. Once he was finished washing up he reached for a paper towel; stared into the mirror as he dried his hands.
He tossed the bunched up paper towel into the trash can near the sink, studied his reflection. Despite the fact that he'd slept the night before his face looked unhealthy and pale, his eyes sunken. There was a reddish mark near the collar of his shirt, at the juncture between his shoulder and his neck; it was the spot where Sylar had bitten him - the serial killer hadn't actually broken skin with his teeth, but the bite looked irritated and bruised.
Sylar...bit me.
Mohinder swallowed. He really didn't want to think about it. About that. He'd already replayed the disturbing scene with Sylar the night before numerous times in his head. He'd even been forced to relive the event in his dreams, had as a result spent most of that morning dry heaving at the memories of the killer's large body looming over his own and the feel of moist breath against his flesh, standing in the shower and scrubbing his skin until it stung.
I should have known, thought the geneticist. And it was true. He should have known.
He should have guessed what Sylar wanted because, before, he'd guessed what Zane wanted. Because Zane had been all longing looks and meaningful speeches and glancing touches. And because Mohinder himself, despite never having been with another man romantically and despite never having had any wish to be with a man, had picked up on those things. Those signals. Had not been completely put off by them, had even...
Mohinder took a deep breath. This isn't helping, he realized, and tried to push most of his troubling thoughts to the back of his mind. Attempted to focus on what mattered most - on staying alive, on escape.
A cool rush of air blew in from the single, small window in the bathroom. The geneticist shivered as goose bumps rose on his skin. He zipped up his jacket and stuffed his hands into his pockets in search of his gloves. His fingers hit something solid. He froze.
The phone.
And he moved, pulled the cell phone from his pocket. It was still turned off; its screen was still blank and its plastic frame was cold despite having been in his jacket's pocket, tucked close to his body.
He said five minutes. The geneticist licked his lips, hoped that when Sylar had said five minutes he'd meant five minutes of complete privacy. (And he realized a brief moment later that that was a foolish hope, that even if the serial killer wasn't listening in he'd already used up a significant chunk of his time alone).
He turned on the phone, watched as it lit up. As soon as the main screen was loaded he scrolled through speed dial, called Niki Sanders. He lifted the phone to his ear. Almost immediately there was a loud beeping.
He pulled the phone away. The words CALL FAILED were dominating the screen. Mohinder cursed, went back to the main screen and saw that there were no bars. No signal.
Damn it.
He sighed; almost without thinking scrolled to voice mail and selected it. His phone was strange. Sometimes he could call voice mail and get his messages even when his signal was non-existent.
An automated voice sounded in his ear. He had five new messages. The first message began to play.
It was Molly, asking him why he hadn't called to talk and assuring him that no matter what time he called Niki and D.L. would let her talk to him and reciting Niki's cell number just in case he'd forgotten it. The third message was from Niki. She sounded equal parts worried and annoyed, asked why he hadn't called Molly and informed him that Matt Parkman was doing well and told him that if he needed anything he shouldn't hesitate to call her. The fourth message was Bennet - 'call me', he ordered before hanging up. The final message was Molly again.
"Hi Mohinder." Her voice sounded tinny and small coming through the phone. "It's me. I...um. Are you okay? Because you always call me, and you haven't called me." She sounded scared, on the verge of tears, young. "I've searched for you, and you're still in New York and you said that's where you were going to be so I guess that's good." There was a short pause, a moment of just breathing. "Um. We're at your apartment. I used the key you gave me before. And don't worry because I've got Mohinder now and D.L. says I can take care of him until we find...see you." The geneticist's mind reeled for a moment at that, then he realized she was talking about his lizard. His father's poor pet lizard. "Just...call me, okay?" Another pause, some background noise. "Someone's at the door..." More noise, as if Molly was moving.
And then there was Niki's voice. And then some deep rumbling that must have been a male voice. Maybe two male voices. "...Harris..." he thought he heard Niki say after a moment. "...sounds like...Kirby..."
"Okay. I love you see you soon bye." Molly's parting came suddenly and in a rush.
Then nothing.
Mohinder blinked and turned off the phone. He shoved it back into his pocket. He walked out of the bathroom, made his way across the diner (the girl who had flashed him a smile was gone). He pushed open the door and stepped outside.
Sylar was leaning against the Kia's hood. He straightened when he saw the geneticist, walked around to the driver's side and got in the car. Mohinder walked to the passenger's side and also slid in.
"Okay," said the serial killer as the car rumbled to life. He didn't complain about how long his captive had taken, didn't act as if he'd overheard the phone use. "Let's get going. We've got some...errands to run before we leave."
The geneticist started at that. "Leave?"
The killer nodded and put the car in reverse. "New York. We've got some things to take care of before we leave New York."
Mohinder sank back in his seat. He felt overwhelmed, frightened, delirious with hope.
Niki Sanders and her family were looking for him. Molly was looking for him. And they had, apparently, found Jake Harris.
They had found Harris. A man who had gone up against Sylar once and survived. A man who might be willing to go up against the serial killer again, a man capable of saving him.
Mohinder breathed in deep; stared out the smeared car window and thought about Niki and Molly and danger and love and the fact that Niki and D.L. had thought him important enough to go from Las Vegas to New York when he'd gone missing.
He blinked again, noticed that the late morning sky was gray with heavy clouds. Noticed it was snowing.
Part Seven