"Split" --- (R; Sylar/Mohinder)

[aheartfulofyou]

Title: Split
Author: aheartfulofyou
Rating: R
Pairings: Sylar/Mohinder (Gabriel/Mohinder)
Words: 10,766
Settings/Spoilers: Post-1x18 "Parasite".
Notes: Heroes belongs to the creators and NBC, and various quotations belong to the stated author/artist. Writing is mine, but not much else. For the Niki Challenge at mylar_fic, based around the idea that Sylar kills Niki/Jessica and he himself splits into his two selves, Gabriel and Sylar. Warnings include many varied character deaths, violence (of course), language, and sexual situations. And lots of angst. All the normal stuff. Much thanks to my glorious beta krisravenna, and the linguaphiles comm for help with Hindi. Dedicated to the awesome sesemperamabo for running this brilliant contest (and even changing the word count limits for us long-winded crazies).



When I, Daniel, had seen the vision, I sought to understand it; and behold, standing before me was one who looked like a man. And I heard the voice of a man between the banks of Ulai, and he called out and said, "Gabriel, give this man an understanding of the vision." So he came near to where I was standing, and when he came I was frightened and fell on my face; but he said to me, "Son of man, understand that the vision pertains to the time of the end." Now while he was talking with me, I sank into a deep sleep with my face to the ground; but he touched me and made me stand upright. He said, "Behold, I am going to let you know what will occur at the final period of the indignation, for it pertains to the appointed time of the end... A king will arise, insolent and skilled in intrigue. His power will be mighty, but not by his own power, and he will destroy to an extraordinary degree and prosper and perform his will; he will destroy mighty men and the holy people. But he will be broken..." Then I, Daniel, was exhausted and sick for days. Then I got up again and carried on the king's business; but I was astounded at the vision, and there was none to explain it.
--- Daniel 8:15-27, The New American Standard Bible

I

"... all people are divisible into 'ordinary' and 'extraordinary'. The ordinary must live obediently and have no right to transgress the law-- because, you see, they're ordinary. The extraordinary, on the other hand, have the right to commit all kinds of crimes and to transgress the law in all kinds of ways, for the simple reason that they are extraordinary."
--- Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment

A competent-looking confident little kid pulling on a backpack answers the door when he knocks. Gabriel's feeling withdrawn and shy, Gabriel would hesitate with even the knock, after all, he doesn't know these people, but his real thoughts are full of scorn: Sylar knocks three times, firmly, and eyes the kid with distaste when he steps into view.

He feels a wave of hatred that he feels around most people, but more so, because this here is supposedly the representation of purity itself, and he hates hypocrisy. The kids were never innocent when he was that age, and he was never this secure in himself at that age, not ever, until Sylar was born.

"Can I help you?" the disgusting little boy says.

Sylar puts on a smile, trying not to show too many teeth. "Hey, buddy. Is your mom home?"

The kid's chewing gum and looking at him with disturbingly penetrating eyes, as he fixes the backpack on his shoulders. "I've never seen you before."

"It's okay, kiddo, he's here on business," says a female voice, and a blonde (Niki Sanders, he thinks, satisfied) steps up to the door, tousling her son's hair, cocking her hip, tapping her manicured fingers on her thigh, glaring at Sylar. He notices immediately that her apparently fond ruffle of her kid's hair is a setup. He sees, because he usually does, and because he's felt the same, the exact, minute moment of hesitation and distaste for loving contact, put on completely for show. He feels the power inside her, hears it in her mind, except it's more fractured than everyone else's, there's something off, but he's sure he can fix it. He grins more broadly. The true challenge-- she's strong, and she hates people and loves killing almost as much as he does, he can feel it. The rest were completely weak-- she's at least partially well-matched for him.

He watches, intensely, as the kid hesitatingly says okay, hugs his mom, and walks down the hall and out. Sylar tilts his head to the side, returning her look, still grinning. "Mind if I come in?" He motions.

"If you're sure you want to, go ahead." She lets him step in, and shuts the door behind him, then she spins on him as he looks casually around the apartment. He's always liked to take his time.

"I've been warned about you," she says, and she catches him off guard, pushing him full force with the heels of her palms, unexpectedly and more strongly than he would've imagined. He topples to the ground, slightly winded and grinning. He wouldn't mind the physical strength as well as the mental strength. Sounds like a nice combo to him. She straddles him while he's on the ground, and grabs the sides of his head, half-grinning and half-furious, and starts trying to knock his head against the floor.

He flings her at the ceiling with a blink, where she hits, hard. He sits up, and rubs the back of his head. "Now, uh, that just won't do, Niki."

She's like a hissing cat, struggling to get free of the ceiling, but his mind's too strong for her. "The name's Jessica. Don't even try to kill me, I'll--" But even now she's starting to look a little worried. Jessica? He almost hesitates for a moment, but he can feel the power, and he wants it, so the name doesn't matter right now.

He drops her flat to the ground with a thud, and then throws her, without touching her, to the glass coffee table, pinning her there. He can hear the sounds of cracking glass, but it doesn't shatter completely.

With breath heaving, and eyes glossy with more amusement than fear, even through pain, she flashes him a brilliant smile, and says, "You don't want to kill me. We could, uh, we could be something together, couldn't we? Anyway-- you'd rather screw me first, wouldn't you?" She's taunting him, and her confidence is unacceptable. He raises an eyebrow derisively and in almost nonchalance draws his index finger through the air. She cries out, her makeup-ringed eyes suddenly growing wide with pain and fear.

"No, please, please, Micah, I have to take care of--" Her screams grow wordless the deeper he cuts, and he finally flings the useless patches of blonde hair and skin and enveloping bone to the ceiling, sticking them there. Weird lady-- but he's heard enough final words during his hunt to not think over it too much. When one trick doesn't work, another one can take it's place, the quick switch is not improbable, in fact it's highly likely.

Her face is distorted with blood, now, and her slightly attractive features contorted. He gently slides her brain out of it's case, cutting the few remaining attaching chords with his eyes, and he takes it in his fingers, enveloping it with his hands. The brain's the only part he actually touches without telekinesis. He ignores the pounding, juvenile cries at the locked door, sobbing cries of, "Mom! Mom!" The kid'll get smart and leave, or he'll take care of him later. The show of emotion makes him want to laugh, makes him scoff. Objectively, what's the point? The humans with their melodrama and tears don't concern him, they're not looking at the ultimate plan, the big picture, that focuses on him, as a kind of god. Right now, he's not concerned, he's reveling in the absolute feeling of power and the still warmth in his dripping palms.

Sylar grins.

II

While I was still speaking in prayer, then the man Gabriel, whom I had seen in the vision previously, came to me in my extreme weariness about the time of the evening offering. "Seventy weeks have been decreed... to finish the transgression, to make an end of sin, to make atonement for iniquity..."
--- Daniel 9:21-27

Mohinder has not thought about purchasing another apartment, at least not yet. Truthfully, in fact, he has not thought about much at all-- the days have not been kind to him, and the days have not been scientific or thoughtful. A certain Mr. Bennet, escorted by an apparently supervising man and young woman, visited him hours after the torture, from a company they would only call Primatech Papers, offering condolences while a crew cleaned everything in Mohinder's apartment. Bennet said there was a certain way to rid Mohinder's mind of its trauma, but unfortunately, the source of such power had disengaged itself from the company recently and is not currently under use. Mohinder was safe, he insisted, because he clearly was of no use to Sylar any longer.

The List is gone-- the complete, final list, using the new DNA patterns-- as is the information he would have needed to obtain it, and more oft than not Mohinder ponders, instead of his own security, the lives he has given up and essentially placed into Sylar's hands. Sylar knows exactly where he resides, and could technically come at any moment, but is clearly too preoccupied murdering the innocents Mohinder delivered to him as a feast. For every person Sylar kills, Mohinder is responsible. This is karma. He has blood on his hands, he should have killed Zane-- Sylar-- when he had the chance, he should have poisoned the tea thoroughly and forgotten about updating the list, better the people stay alive than become aware of their powers right at the moment of their death. Spawning a once-human monster that only grows more and more powerful every day, with every kill. Mohinder has never killed anyone with his own hands, in his own sight, and he still knows he is, indeed, more a murderer than most anyone he's ever met. He wishes he'd never gotten involved, never delved, never befriended Zane-- never stayed alive by Sylar's oh so merciful hands, once the list was stolen.

He almost wishes Sylar would return, so he can say, You see, I am still here, I'm waiting for you, to come kill me in my kitchen, in my living room, in my sleep, anywhere, if you'd like, like you should have. I will take your offer of death. I hate you more for not giving it in the first place.

Mr. Bennet most likely had some idea of these thoughts, seeing as he confiscated Mohinder's gun during his visit.

Mohinder has enough chemicals to make a remedy for this situation, to end it, for himself at least, but he is also very aware of the atonement he would not be doing if he succumbs to temptation and injects himself with something of his own making. So he sits, instead, obsessively re-reading his father's book (the father he betrayed by feeling those inexplicable waves of affection, admiration, towards the shyly hunched shoulders and quick but intense glances of... a murderer, his father's murderer) and nursing his wounds that are healing too quickly for his self-effacing moods. Alone in his empty place, now for a week and a half, not daring to leave and re-enter the world, he refuses to admit he misses the companionship of... Eden, perhaps, or really, truly, more twisted, more horrifically twisted, the man who likely killed her.

Mohinder has fits of quaking, where he feels nauseous and can't seem to move from his couch to safely hover over his toilet in case the small portions of food he's been forcing down refuse to digest correctly, like they threaten, like they did the first few nights. He sweats, shakes, breathes in choking gasps to try and control himself, and runs through his lessons on psychology and the psychosomatic, inner turmoil manifesting itself as physical symptoms. For a day or two he trembles himself into a semi-serious fever, and then laughs at himself, harshly-- he would, indeed, make a horrific murderer, for all his self-labeling. He wonders if Sylar's ever felt even the slightest scrap of regret, of what Mohinder, by association, is feeling. He sleeps and dreams of the room with the prayers of confession scrawled across the walls, and Zane's there (Sylar's Zane, the only Zane he truly knew, although the musician's picture was in the obituary and looked disconnected and unfamiliar), in that room, against the wall in a fetal position, rocking and sobbing harshly and saying, over and over, "Mohinder, I have to explain, please, please, you can help me. Mohinder, help me, save me."

He wakes up and wipes his eyes roughly with his calloused fingertips. "I cannot even save myself, let alone those around me," he mutters to himself, and weakly gets out of bed, noting in the small mirror limp curls on his head and stubble flecking his face. He hasn't showered in several days, he remembers vaguely.

He's in his kitchen, getting a glass of water for himself, since he's stopped drinking tea-- the associative memories with that tea kettle are too much to bear for now. He's holding the glass of water when the begging in his dreams is right behind him.

He's so tired that he's less shocked than ready to wholly fall into the hysterical laughter of lunacy. He turns and cannot even muster the strength to be afraid.

This, too, is karma.

III

The older man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. "By the way, Dorian," he said, after a pause, "'what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose--' how does the quotation run?-- 'his own soul?'"...
"The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought and sold and bartered away. It can be poisoned or made perfect. There is a soul in each one of us. I know it."
"Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?"
"Quite sure."
"Ah! Then it must be an illusion."
--- Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray

He's not sure what's-- oh, but God he is sure, he knows what's going on. Gabriel remembers too many things, and it's all blurry-- his vision is blurry. Not his mind. He needs his glasses. It's such an inane urge, it's such a human impulse. He wishes everything else was blurry, too. He's-- oh God god god this is what he's done, what Sylar's done. He's Sylar. No, he's not, he's Gabriel, but there's not a difference. Not really, it's his responsibility, even if-- oh please God forgive me.

He wants to knock, it'd be the polite thing to do, to pace back and forth in front of the door and wait; he doesn't really want to face anyone, but he needs to. His head is splitting with pain, and his abdomen hurts, too, and Mohinder will never open the door, not to him, not now, he knows that. He remembers peeking through Zane, the only time he felt-- no, no, he'll have to go through with this. He unlocks the door and opens it, and in a knee-jerk reaction smashes the mirrors in the house to the floor, all in one wave of power. He can't look in the mirrors. There's only so long he can go, before he'll... this is a risk in itself. Sylar can come back in any moment, and then one more person will be dead, one more pint of blood will have to be washed out of his mouth and throat by stinging antiseptic. He's already losing grasp, he feels. The man's stature and dark, curly hair are wavering in front of his eyes, and Gabriel's on his hands and knees, sobbing out, the image watery.

"Mohinder, I have to explain, please, please, you can help me. Mohinder, help me, save me."

Mohinder smashes a glass of water; it crashes to the floor, with gravity, not telekinesis, and shatters, and Gabriel squeezes his eyes shut, and keeps muttering. It's hopeless, it's hopeless, oh God, how can he-- now--?

"You have to believe me," he's saying. "You won't, but. I can't go to anyone else. I had to come in, I had to open your doors, I'm sorry." He chokes on the apology, and it spills out even more, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

Mohinder's voice is calmer than he would have expected. "Come here to finally kill me, Mr. Sylar?"

Gabriel's eyes fly open. "My name isn't Sylar. Not right now. He-- we-- killed a girl, and--"

"Yes, you've killed many innocents, I've heard."

"You have to listen to me!" Gabriel's begging now. "She had, uh, two personalities or something, and now I-- we-- do, too. I'm not Sylar right now, I swear, you have to believe me."

He's still on his hands and knees, and Mohinder's form is a little clearer, and it hurts his stomach more. Mohinder's face is resigned to death, and scornful, stance angry. "Just like I believed you were Zane? I don't know what you're playing at currently, but just do what you've come for and be done with it." Mohinder's foot snaps out and crashes into Gabriel's face. He feels something crack, feels something trickling down his face. He chokes a little, gasping out, "Please, please. Run your tests, whatever you need. You just have to help me. Sylar can come back any minute, especially if I-- I-- see my reflection. You have to help me."

Mohinder pauses a moment. "What would you have me do?"

Gabriel shakes his head, swallowing violently, feeling sick and spinning. "I don't know. Keep us separate. Something. Kill me. I don't care. Or run tests. Knock me out first. If I was Sylar I'd never let you-- right? Just give me something to knock me out, and do tests. You'll-- you'll see. I can only move things-- uh, uh, telekinesis-- while I'm-- me. And Sylar--"

"Is you, as well." The disgust on Mohinder's face stings, but is well deserved.

"-- can do a lot more. I don't have any of those other powers right now. You'll see. Just do it quick before he comes back."

Mohinder looks reluctant to turn his back on Gabriel, but does, glancing back several times, and comes back to him with a syringe in one hand and a business card in the other, shirtsleeves rolled up. "This is going to hurt," Mohinder says, and the phrase is very familiar, but slightly softer than the one time he remembers-- when he was-- why is Mohinder helping him? Any rational person would be torturing him-- revenge would be-- it would--

"Okay. Okay. That's fine," he says quickly, and jerks up a sleeve, holds out his arm.

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," Mohinder says, as he plunges the needle into Gabriel's exposed vein, glancing at the card, too.

Gabriel slumps forward a little, towards Mohinder's face, already feeling a little weak, and says, "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who-- I'm so, so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm so, so--" before passing out.

IV

"By the sympathy of your human heart for sin ye shall scent out all the places-- whether in church, bedchamber, street, field, or forest-- where crime has been committed, and shall exult to behold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one mighty blood spot. Far more than this. It shall be yours to penetrate, in every bosom, the deep mystery of sin, the fountain of all wicked arts, and which inexhaustibly supplies more evil impulses than human power-- than my power at its utmost-- can make manifest in deeds."
--- Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown"

"My tests were extremely conclusive," Mohinder is saying.

Mr. Bennet, after much suspicion and uneasiness, agreed to meet him alone. They're standing in the shade of thick concrete walls of a processing plant that is regurgitating fuel gases into the humid air.

"And don't you want to kill him?"

"No, I don't. I thought I might, for a long while, but it is a question of morality. This is no longer the monster who killed my father, this is a man who is truly remorseful, and most importantly, utterly terrified. Ethics demand that he be treated as well as is possible. We must try to somehow help him."

"You do realize, Mr. Suresh," Mr. Bennet says, removing his glasses and wiping them clean carefully, "That Gabriel Gray is Sylar? They aren't two separate people, Gabriel chose to become this way. You might be looking past the fact that nobody forced him."

Mohinder pauses, a thoughtfully furious look passing across his face. Finally, he responds. "True enough. But Mr. Gray is now actually split from his Sylar persona, and the simple fact that Sylar has become the embodiment of evil implies that Mr. Gray embodies at least some amount of good. And above all, he is experiencing extreme regret, and truly wants to get better. That cannot be ignored, either." Mr. Bennet looks ready to interrupt so he continues. "Mr. Gray admits to committing, partially with his own mindset, although heavily influenced by memory lapses and delusions, a crime wherein he obtained apparent telekinetic powers. But all the rest of the murders and the powers received thereof do not touch him. He has obtained none of those powers. It seems to be some extreme form of dissociative identity disorder. He is not wholly Sylar, at least not now."

There is a long pause, and Mr. Bennet sighs, putting his glasses back on. "This would explain some of the tests we administered to Gabriel when we had him in our facilities. Can you contain Sylar within him?"

"You had him secure and let him go?" Mohinder's topic jump is full of righteous anger.

"He escaped, Mr. Suresh. Through violent means. Now, the answer to my question?"

Mohinder gives a little quick sigh of annoyance. "Currently only when he is under highly corrosive substances. I obtained the notes from... a similar case... and heavy sedation seems to prevent the violent side from emerging. This cannot last forever, however. I'm trying to come up with something else, but it will difficult-- I had hoped you could help."

Mr. Bennet glances to the side. "No. No, I'm, myself, not exactly on the good side of the company. Not to mention that Sylar's done more than enough to my own family, that I truthfully don't give a damn what kind of personality he's acquired now." He looks angry, but a few seconds later sighs again, and shakes his head. "Keep him, run tests, but we can't help you any further, unless you want our help in killing him. This is me, granting you and your ethics a very, very large favor, Mr. Suresh. If you're absolutely sure-- realize that if Gabriel's alter ego escapes, there will be serious consequences. For him, for me, but most of all for you. Aiding and abetting a murderer, for the start. My very personal vendetta for the second. Are you completely aware of these risks?"

Mohinder's offended at the condescending notion in Mr. Bennet's voice. He lifts his chin a little more pridefully. "I am very aware, thank you."

Mr. Bennet shrugs. "Don't regret your decision. Oh, and in case you do..." Mr. Bennet pulls Mohinder's old gun, along with a magazine of cartridges, out of his suit coat pocket. "Take this. Use it when you have to, and don't screw it up. I'll trust you to make that decision in a reasonable way."

Mohinder takes the gun, and it feels heavier than ever. He's on his own, then, in his research, with half of the man who tortured him, who killed his father and countless others. Despite the man's warning words, he is already regretting his choices more than he'd like to admit. He enthusiastically plunged himself back into moral uprightness after his days of despair, but he's not quite sure it was the right choice. One shot to the skull while Gabriel sleeps might be the right way to go about it after all.

But he will try in any case. Perhaps redemption of someone else can lead to his own, as long as it doesn't lead him further into debt to the human race. And there could be no guarantees on those grounds.

V

What did he have to live for? What could he look forward to? What was he after? Mere existence? He had been ready a thousand times in the past to stake his existence on an idea, a hope, even a fantasy. Mere existence had always been too small for him; he had always wanted something bigger. It may have been only because of the strength of his desires that he had once considered himself a man to whom more was permitted than to others.
--- Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment

When he gets back home, Gabriel's wearily sitting at the kitchen table, IVs strapped into his arms. Mohinder tenses as Gabriel glances at the gun he's so cleverly kept in his hand, not in a safer, more subtle location, but the gun stays there without so much as a twitch. It is a wearied glance, no more, no attempt at telekinesis.

Mohinder, somewhat awkwardly, sits down at the table, unsure what exactly to say to this man. The medication is clearly still in effect. Gabriel's blinking somewhat heavily, though his eyes are wide with effort, and he seems incapable of speech.

"Oh, allow me," Mohinder says, once again slipping into politeness, and stands to dial down the dosage of sedatives. He fingers the gun anxiously, but Gabriel does not appear to be transforming. It hasn't happened yet, and he's not sure if he's relieved or only more uneasy than ever.

He sits back down and tries to form something to say, but instead intently watches the man before him. He's unsure what to think, but at the same time feels as though he's getting too used to not blaming this figure before him. Far too used to it.

Gabriel, more aware, squints a little, still silent, and glances around the room, then rubs his eyes, hard, several times.

"Tears of remorse?" Mohinder says, more than a little sarcastically, and instantly regrets it.

There's empty despair on his face, but he says nothing about it. "No, I-- I need glasses."

"Ah." Mohinder almost inquires why he did not need them in his days masquerading as Zane, but tallies it down, interestingly enough, to the split and the excess strength Gabriel does not hold in himself without Sylar. "I have an old pair," Mohinder continues somewhat gruffly. "I'll look for them later if you'd like, and perhaps they'd help."

Gabriel, though exhausted-looking, looks absolutely startled, and says softly, "Thanks," with more emphasis than a single word should have. Mohinder nods curtly in response.

They are silent for a few moments. Mohinder has not asked for explanation, but it seems to be demanding to be given anyway.

"I wanted to be significant." Gabriel's voice is quiet, very quiet, and almost completely unassuming. Mohinder, so used to the nearly constant, and intense, eye contact from Zane is almost taken aback by how Gabriel will not look at him, or winces away immediately after. "To change the world, to not be passed over."

"Well, all you've succeeded in doing is destroying part of the world, not making a glorious new world." He does not have the energy to be gentle.

"I know," Gabriel says, still looking down at his hands. "S-Sylar doesn't believe that, but I know."

"Yes, well," Mohinder says abruptly, medical coldness his greatest and best escape route, "I'll have to perform a few more tests so I can develop some sort of antidote for you."

Gabriel looks up. "You're-- you're still trying to help me? Why? Wouldn't it be easier just to kill me? I'm not important anymore. I mean, I'm worse than not important, right? I'm a hassle, a danger."

Mohinder's thought of all he's said, and more, but has come to his decision.

"You are a person. You are significant."

Gabriel's eyes are fixed and almost shocked, mouth slightly open. The next moment, as though suddenly self-aware, he looks down, closes his mouth, visibly swallows. He is silent, then clears his throat. "Um, what do we-- what do we need to do for the tests now?"

He's still not sure he wants to take such huge risks, but he cannot think of a better way. He must continue. "I need to map your brain patterns as Gabriel and as Sylar to come up with a drug to disable only the specific part of your brain."

He sees right away that he does not need to explain to Gabriel the implications of his proposal.

"Are you sure?" Gabriel asks.

"No," Mohinder says, laughing a little, mirthlessly. "But it appears to be the only option."

Gabriel sits still, looking contained but vaguely, inwardly terrified. "Now?" he says, looking up, tilting his head to the side a little.

"As good a time as any. Let me..." Mohinder gathers his supplies, including a carefully held syringe that will act instantly (he hopes, he quite desperately hopes). He dials up the dosage on the sedative, though only slightly, and hangs two more bags of IVs in preparation.

"If you'd just tug the front of your shirt down a little..." Gabriel complies, hands a little slow to move, and Mohinder starts attaching leads. "Your heart rate appears to be elevated," Mohinder says, listening to the beeping, trying to make light of the situation. "Nervous?"

Gabriel gives an unsuccessful smile in response, which disappears in a moment, watching Mohinder's slightly trembling hands place the leads below his collarbone, and in a circumference across the line of his temples, and plug wires into his laptop, where open programs await. Mohinder mutters a light apology as he straps Gabriel's wrists down to the chair.

"It won't do much good for Sylar, but may give us a little time, which is all we could ask for," he explains, tightening the straps. Gabriel only nods. Mohinder breathes carefully through his mouth, back at his laptop, searching the program and making sure everything is placed. He fingers the small compact mirror he has face down on the table beside him.

"All right. If you could start speaking, please."

"Sure," Gabriel says hesitantly. "About what?"

"Anything you'd like. I just need some sorts of readings. Begin, please?"

"Okay... My name is Gabriel Gray and I-- I was a watchmaker's son. I, well, I was a watchmaker." He stops, and looks at Mohinder.

"Yes, that's fine. Now..." He presses the key to log the brain patterns, and then he feels his stomach clenching, twisting. If only there was another way, and yet-- "Look into the mirror, if you could--" He sets it on the table, tilted, making sure it won't fall. With his free hands he hovers over the computer keyboard, and grips the syringe, perhaps too tightly. Gabriel's face is drawn with worry, too, wide-eyed, looking determinedly away from the reflective surface, staring at the ceiling.

"If you'll look right into it. Now, repeat your previous statements, and continue speaking for as long as is, er, necessary..."

Gabriel's eyes intensely stare into the mirror, and Mohinder hears the beeping recording of his heart rate speeding up, hears, without need of equipment, his tremulous, shallow breathing. "M-my name is Gabriel Gray and I worked as a watchmaker. My n-name is Gabriel Gray and I w-worked as a watchmaker." Mohinder's muscles are tensed. Gabriel breathes in carefully. "My name is Gabriel Gray and I worked as a watchmaker. Until I found a couple of better ambitions, until I found my real purpose, and Gabriel stopped annoying the piss out of--"

Mohinder slams the key on the keyboard, lunging with his syringe as the voice turns sinister and the mirror flies at Mohinder's face, forcing a noise of pain out of his throat as it slices across his cheek, splattering blood, and Mohinder is pushing the drugs deep into Gabr-- Sylar's jugular, with more effort than he's exerted in his entire life, for a simple piece of medical equipment that should not resist so much, as the table jerks up to the ceiling and comes crashing back down to split on the floor, where the only two people in the room slump roughly, too.

VI

Precisely four-fifteen when he stopped existing, the world should've ended, how could it go on, how could it go on? I don't exist I don't exist I don't exist, so now that we got that straight doesn't mean that I can fly, doesn't mean that I can go do whatever I want. He started remembering and remembering... Filling up the bathtub, getting ready to go in for a swim and I says no, you're gonna drown, and he says no, I can't drown. Simply because (shh) a man destined to hang can never drown. A man destined to drown can never burn. A man destined to fry can never ever die. In any other way. Frying, lucky that I'm dying by hanging and not drowning. So now that we got that straight, can't I just be left alone? I want to take a fucking bath.
--- Regina Spektor's "Daniel Cowman"

Mohinder carefully makes sure not to grimace, even with the pain, because even with that small facial expression he can feel his self-sewn stitches tugging and splitting with a sort of intense burning across his cheek. He gingerly touches the large bandage taped on to the right side of his face, walking through his hallway warily to the bedroom, folded eye glasses and a printed paper in hand. Sylar had overexerted, overcompensated, attempting to stop the injection and project objects at the same time, inhibited by the sedatives, and without this Mohinder knows he would likely be dead. He hopes that is the last of it all, but is not so optimistic as he once was. Still, his family has always joked his face was too smooth and baby-like to begin with, so one scar and a bit of pain is a small sacrifice for this possible cure, as long as Sylar has retreated--

Mohinder lets out a small noise of surprise and regrets it with the panic in his stomach, as he enters his very own bedroom, to find Gabriel, or-- or Sylar, perhaps-- turned away, gun in hand, rifling through one of his drawers. Gabriel turns (it is Gabriel), looking dismayed and guilty, and immediately sets the gun down on top of the dresser.

His voice is so soft it's nearly hoarse. "It's not loaded," he says regretfully. "And I-I wasn't gonna hurt you."

"I--" And then Mohinder realizes. "Ah." He is silent for a moment. Gabriel has been so intensely quiet and has not had any sort of catharsis of emotion while in Mohinder's presence that he is suddenly both alarmed and feels sickeningly like a even grander failure than before, that he did not even suspect the immense inward effect all of this must have. He cannot say he would not do the same-- he even contemplated it, and his own guilt is far, far less than Gabriel's. But he was so calm-- he looks so calm, now, even, nearly wide-eyed sullen, resigned, but not in any violence of passions.

Mohinder looks downward, in sudden solemnity, then hands the pair of glasses to Gabriel. "I dug these up, if they'll help at all." He then continues to blurt out, too sentimentally he knows, "You cannot lose hope so soon." His hand reaches out to grasp Gabriel's shoulder-- which twitches both visibly and like a shock under his touch. He hasn't lain a casual, friendly hand on the man since he was Zane. Mohinder realizes this is the only time he's touched the man when he is actually candid and uncalculating, not planning Mohinder's death with something of glee. There's no such disturbing joy, now-- in fact, quite the opposite, utter despair, so much so that Gabriel is uncomfortable-looking and almost completely blank.

He taps Gabriel's shoulder lightly again, and then somewhat awkwardly takes the hand away, because the physical contact, although Gabriel says nothing, seems slightly unwelcome. He thinks it somewhat strange that it is not unwelcome to him, that he does not feel obligated, or even legitimately disgusted. He cannot muster any sort of negative emotions, excepting something like anxiety, or empathy, in the pit of his stomach. No negative emotions towards the figure standing, flinching away, nearly, in front of him. "I have a sort of concoction for you," Mohinder says, somewhat gently. "I have every amount of scientific proof, as well as hope, that it will work. It... well, it can't be helped, that the body will develop a resistance to the chemical, and the doses will need to be increased periodically." The truth, he knows, is really that the doses can only go on for so long before they eventually become fatal, and they'll have to discover a new solution, if there is such a thing. But for now-- "For now, you will remain as you are, without Sylar to haunt you."

"The haunting happens anyway," Gabriel says, with the slightest smile. He jokes with truths, Mohinder knows. Sylar haunts him, too, but he's managed to detach the serial killer from the painfully self-conscious wreck of a man, here. He's not sure if he should differentiate, he's never really been sure, but, really, suicide is not currently the best option. For either of them. "Thank you," Gabriel says, in addition, after a slight pause. He sounds absolutely honest. Mohinder studies his face carefully, then looks away, beginning to leave. "Yes, well. Try the glasses, and I'll get the formula ready."

"Where-- where will you be taking me, after this?"

Mohinder turns back to him in confusion, and then realizes he himself has not considered the long-term affects of his situation. Even if they manage to find a permanent cure for Gabriel, integration into society will be difficult to say the least, and truthfully, he's not sure a complete cure will come. He tries to smile. "I myself am more or less alone," (more than partially thanks to your spiritual twin, Mohinder wants to add, but cannot be so cruel), "Clearly, I've taken responsibility for your care. And as no one else-- well, you are welcome to stay, indefinitely."

Rather than looking touched, as Mohinder has come to expect from the man, Gabriel, too close to Mohinder, looks utterly devastated. "I'm not worth this," he says, and then does something that quite possibly frightens Mohinder more than anything Sylar or Gabriel or Zane has ever done-- Gabriel kisses him. It is a jagged lunge he makes for Mohinder's mouth, and he nearly misses, landing on the very corner of his lips, only for the slightest moment, then Gabriel makes a noise of despair and pulls away, before Mohinder can react.

He stutters himself a little, before saying, with forced calm, "Gabriel, I am sorry, but I cannot-- I cannot--" He's not truly certain what exactly he can or cannot do, only that this was the most unexpected thing he could have encountered, and he's just had the lips of the image, the shell, of his father's killer on his lips, or the sides of lips to be more accurate, and he is waiting for a surge of disgust, but none is coming, and he hears something pounding in his ears. What does this mean to everything?

Gabriel turns away, but not before Mohinder, confused, wavering, sees eyes holding a strange mixture of horror and resigned anguish. He's not sure, but he thinks he hears a barely spoken whisper of "I'm sorry." Gabriel is visibly trying to control his breathing into deep, steady inhalations and exhalations, hands gripping the shelf behind him. His voice trembles as he says, "Get-- get the injection, please? I can f-feel Sylar--"

Mohinder nods quickly, even though he realizes the other man cannot see the response, and leaves the room, nearly running.

VII

"Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!" said the head. For a moment or two... all the other dimly appreciated places echoed with the parody of laughter. "You knew, didn't you? I'm part of you? Close, close, close! I'm the reason why it's no go? Why things are what they are?"
The laughter shivered again.
"Come now," said the Lord of the Flies. "Get back to the others and we'll forget the whole thing."
--- William Golding's Lord of the Flies

He's not exactly sure why or what or what's going on. Everything had been clear for a short amount of time, and then the fogginess started setting in again. He's not sure which he wanted more, for Mohinder to take the gun himself and finish the task for Gabriel, or just leave him alone so he could do it on his own. He's never been very good with decisiveness, and when he's made choices, they've gone stale, they've fit wrong, they've messed everything up. Things have usually been simple to him-- not people, not really, but things, situations, too, sometimes, and it's simple, death would be simple, and Mohinder's making it difficult, now. Death is simple-- even Sylar knows that, and Gabriel knows it, too, except from the other side, not to other people, but for himself. He can't stand Mohinder's kindness. He slipped up, and had an embittered moment where he showed Mohinder what that kindness was really doing to him. He's sick at himself. He deserves nothing, and the drugs actually working scares him more than being left with hopelessness as a motivation.

Gabriel's not used to taking what he wants, and from the first time he did (Brian Davis, bloodied hands), it's never worked out. He's a firm believer in apathy, and so he knows he felt Sylar's sneer capturing Mohinder's mouth. Mohinder's mouth. He wishes he didn't feel-- he's no better than a broken machine, now, so why does he have to be warm flesh and always still have to act like he's contained and put together like he's supposed to be? (Would Mohinder understand him?, he used to wonder. Mohinder's father loved his sister, the special one, more. Did Mohinder ever hurt from that? If he didn't, Gabriel wouldn't be surprised; Mohinder has the innate goodness and patience and selflessness that only makes him hate himself more. Mohinder wouldn't feel insignificant. Not like this.)

Gabriel approaches him, the next day, some of the original anxiety gone from no longer needing to hold Sylar away, but more of everything else, not to mention uselessness, piled back on. "Mohinder, I just want to say, what h-happened--"

Mohinder gives him a tight smile that by itself cuts him off. He doesn't give the dazzling smiles, full of bright, white teeth that Gabriel remembers peering at from behind the piled personas of Sylar and Zane. He never smiles like that anymore, and Gabriel knows it's his fault. The bandage on his cheek is his fault, too. "We need not discuss it, Gabriel," he says, and gives him a quick, swallowing look, something plus fear, Gabriel's not sure exactly what, before going back to typing faster and more furiously. What else can he say? He's not forceful, he's not going to speak out. He looks down at the floor, and walks back down the hallway, to the guest bedroom where Mohinder's let him stay. He is a murderer. He is a murderer.

There really is nothing left, now that even that blinding smile's gone, too. He's alive by habit and obedience, not by worthiness.

VIII

Prisoners serving life sentences wait for the earth to suddenly shake. For the walls to somehow suddenly come crumbling tumbling and for the bars to somehow magically break. Oh there's nothing wrong with them that a thousand bucks can't fix, that a thousand arms can't hold down. They want to run through the air with no barriers or obstacles, gunmen or guard dogs, or priests. And to rise from the mud and start over and over with the people all... dead. If Hans Christian Anderson would've had his way with me, then none of this shit would've gone down. And someday I will remember. Someday I will remember.
--- Regina Spektor's "Prisoners"

The doses have increased over the month, and Mohinder estimates that, pitifully soon, perhaps within the next month if they are unlucky, which most often seems to be the case, the doses will have to increase to a fatal amount. He's attempting to find the elusive new option, but is at a mental roadblock. He's hesitated to explain this fully to Gabriel as of yet; they've slipped into a routine of what he may have previously considered laziness. He knows, however, Gabriel wouldn't feel comfortable working in public, or leaving the place at all. He himself is hesitant to leave his studies, or the study of Gabriel, so they have stayed mostly within the confines of the apartment.

He's at no lack for money, but Gabriel insists-- as he should, Mohinder supposes-- on very little from his charity, even quietly insisting on keeping Mohinder's same eyeglass frames and lenses, and refusing a trip to the optometrist. Mohinder's picked up clothing for Gabriel, but overall has been forced into frugality by insisting, silent eyes. Gabriel's taken to fixing the spare mechanics in Mohinder's apartment-- an old watch, the broken toaster-- and has taken to the lizard, too, although with a definite wariness, watching it with a mixture of respect, amusement, and trepidation. Mohinder hates to admit how well they're getting along, and he's very aware, as well, of the shattering quality of what they have, how it cannot last for much longer. He sometimes wonders what will happen when it doesn't, or even if it does, and he's taken to putting those thoughts out of his mind, and drinking far more caffeinated tea than usual.

They're sitting at the counter on bar stools, their new makeshift table, since the kitchen table experienced something of a thorough death. As usual, but impossible to predict, their casual conversation takes a turn.

"Do you believe in redemption?" Gabriel asks quietly, spoonful of uneaten cereal clinking against his bowl.

Mohinder glances sideways at him, takes a sip of his tea. "I... am not sure." He gives a wry smile, a quick thing, attempting to be light. "Perhaps." He knows Gabriel, so far, has done little to make up for Sylar's deeds, but it is early on, and he's not sure what he should do, in any case. Community service labor? It is all trite before the larger picture, the lives lost.

Gabriel nods, and is silent again, until he abruptly changes the subject. "Maybe I'll go take Mohinder the lizard out for a breather. Uh, bring him over?"

Mohinder nods, grateful for the sudden reprieve. "Yes. That's fine."

Gabriel pushes back his stool and gets up. Mohinder halfheartedly stares into his mug, the murky liquid suddenly unappealing. He takes a sip anyway, and sets it down. He looks into it absently.

Until-- he hears the noises, sees a shape in the top of his line of vision, and sees a drop of blood splash into his tea, diffusing through the liquid like a disease. It all occurs within a single second; at the same time, he jerks his head up to see his lizard namesake slammed and pinned to the cabinet in a sick reenaction of a crucifixion, held to the wood with silverware utensils. He leaps out of his seat too late to miss the sight of the lizard's head sliced off, dropped to the counter with no apparent cause of injury. The other cabinets freeze over with a harsh blast of ice.

As Mohinder runs for his syringes, the atmosphere spinning around him, Sylar is standing, nonchalant, on the dividing line between the two rooms. Mohinder is tired and terrified at the same time, and confused, I should be dead by now, I should be dead or tortured, I should not be standing or in control of my limbs. He is playing, Mohinder realizes, as he grapples for the drugs. Sylar is the one in power, Mohinder could be dead this very moment, but he is taunting, he knows his control, and he is not trying to do actual harm, not this time, not to humans, in any case, he is utterly in power and knows so. He is even letting him bring Gabriel back for the time being. Mohinder is completely under Sylar's bidding. He is touching Sylar's arm; it feels like Gabriel's and he wants to vomit, he knows it is not, it is not Gabriel's, it is not.

"You can't do anything to stop me, not now that there's a pure, human life in the way." Sylar laughs, hard and full of sickening, twisted hilarity, the laughter continuing fanatically, tears in his eyes. His canines look unnaturally sharp with his wide, toothy grin. He laughs and holds his arm still, the perfect mimicry of obedience, as Mohinder injects the drugs into his bulging vein.

He's still laughing as Mohinder, swallowing back bile, scrambles for a second syringe and injects that, too. Mohinder realizes, with a drop of his stomach, that this is the highest dosage yet, and that it is doubtful he can risk any more.

"All I have to do is wait," Sylar says, and then rolls his eyes back and folds inward, breaking the needle off in his arm with the abrupt collapse.

Mohinder, almost used to the transition by now-- almost, but not quite, he doesn't think he'll ever quite get completely hardened to it all-- swallows his nausea and helps the now awakening Gabriel to his feet the long moments later, asking, "Are you all right?" Mohinder winces and plucks the broken tip of the needle from Gabriel's arm.

Gabriel stares at the drop of blood in the crook of his arm and says, "Thank you." He glances at the crucified lizard on the wall, and sways on his feet, so Mohinder, only slightly resentful that he must be the controlled one, says tersely, "Let's get you to a seat," and helps Gabriel to the sofa.

He cleans up, too exhausted to shed tears of regret for his dead pet and namesake, washing his hands four times to get the scent of ivory soap and not death and reptile blood on his hands, and then grips the toilet seat, on his knees hard, as the lump in his throat becomes unignorable and he vomits violently and wearily. Choking and gasping, he gets shakily to his feet and cleans himself up again, brushing his teeth briskly. After he swallows a glass of water and tries not to taste the sourness in the back of his throat, mixed with spearmint, he goes back to Gabriel, wincing on his way there at the marks left on his cabinets. Mohinder tries very carefully not to think about the truth ringing in Sylar's words, and sits on the couch with a wide open gap between himself and Gabriel, who is staring at the floor, eyes wide and almost frightened.

"I'm sorry," Gabriel says, and he sounds like the absolute calm on the very edge of hysterics.

Mohinder tries to shrug nonchalantly. "There are-- other lizards in the pet store," he consoles lamely.

Gabriel rounds on him suddenly. "How am I supposed to make up for this?" Gabriel asks, dark eyes boring hopelessness into Mohinder's skull. Mohinder, after only a moment of thought, slides closer on the couch, offering the lack of fear, the physical closeness, as the only comfort he can manage. He realizes clearly that Gabriel does not mean only the most recent occurrence. Gabriel's eyes are saying everything, everything, every wrongdoing, every mark upon the world. He cannot stop looking into them.

"I am not sure if you can," Mohinder says honestly, and kisses him.

It is sloppy and inexperienced on both their parts, and Mohinder has no idea what on earth he is doing, not from the technical standpoint, it is quite obvious what's occurring on those grounds, too obvious, but from the moral one. Except that Gabriel is making little noises, little terrified, unsure, wanting noises that Mohinder could never imagine coming from Sylar's lips, and Mohinder himself is making an attempt at breath with a throaty, trembling sound, and Gabriel's hands are gripping his shirt at the shoulders. He is hit full in the face with a wave of guilt, like the chill over his now dripping cabinets, that they have maneuvered themselves, and he is atop his father's murderer, he's not taking vengeance, he's kissing this man, their hips are fitting together through tangles of fabric, and Gabriel is wide-eyed, this is Gabriel, this is not Sylar, this man is human, not a low parasite, does not deserve to die, to be trodden on, but to be here, panting, frightened, aroused, fingers treading through Mohinder's hair, tugging at it. This is a man-- odd enough, but not unbearable. He puts the notion of murderer out of his mind. They have only so much time before-- No, he puts much else out of his mind, too.

"Mohinder, you don't have to do this," Gabriel says, in between a kiss, Mohinder realizing he is so desperate for this contact that he's flinging himself into it full-force, teeth scraping against Gabriel's, a hand uncertain but against Gabriel's temple.

"I don't deserve pity--" It sounds like Gabriel's begging.

"It is-- not pity," Mohinder replies, and shifts slightly, unconsciously, then breathes in quickly, though not quite regretting the move. "But if you would-- if--" It is becoming far too obvious that the both of them are hard, and Mohinder thinks of all sorts of ridiculous medical terminology, and he realizes Gabriel's eyes are still worried (his may be as well, he is not sure), and so Mohinder pulls away, sitting back on the couch, looking down at the floor, making sure not to glance in the direction of the kitchen, allowing Gabriel to sit up, arrange himself.

"I-I've never..." Gabriel begins, and Mohinder understands, still feeling the warmth from Gabriel's close body.

Mohinder turns to him and grins a little. "The cruel joke is that I have not myself, no matter my apparent irresistible appeal." He's rewarded with a very small smile, that is not quite as sad as the others, has more of the light that Zane in the first day-- well, never mind, that is neither here nor there, and doesn't apply, shouldn't be thought of, not now, at this moment.

"Okay," Gabriel says, and seems to be waiting, if a little nervously. His hand is on Mohinder's wrist, wrapped around it, not gripping but only touching, moving up and down a little, and Mohinder is utterly distracted by this small gesture.

"We-- we could--" Mohinder's voice cracks, and he laughs a little. "If you would rather move to--"

Gabriel nods right away, so quickly that Mohinder cannot help but feel assured that it is all right, and they both stand shakily, more than a little awkwardly, and stumble towards Mohinder's bedroom. They flip on the light switch, and Mohinder, painfully unsubtle in his task, shuts the drawer where his gun is visible, and throws a pile of papers off his bed, for once uncaring as to where they land. He switches the lights off again, and Mohinder touches Gabriel's shoulder.

"Hey," Gabriel says, hoarsely. In the shades-drawn dark, they each take off their own clothes, Mohinder's fingers trembling on his buttons. He sees the shadow of Gabriel hunching away from Mohinder a little, self-conscious. There is a small crash, and Mohinder thinks the mug he's been using to hold pens on a lamp stand has toppled to the floor. He hears Gabriel's shaky breath, sees his silhouette. "I'm sorry," Gabriel says, sounding panicky again. "I'll try not to-- I'm just--"

"It's fine," Mohinder says, more determinedly than his actions, and uncertainly puts a hand to the back of Gabriel's head, and pulls him in again, until they are both touching, spaces between their skin a radius of seeping body heat and warmth. They stand there, weakened kisses escalating stronger, more forceful again, and in stumbling, jerking motions, end up in the bed, though how, exactly, Mohinder cannot be sure. The next moment, Gabriel's hands are over him.

"I can't believe this is actually-- for so long I've--" Gabriel says brokenly, stuttering. "Even before, even when--"

Mohinder swipes a quieting kiss from Gabriel's mouth, and says, "I know." Another. "I know." The fingers on his bare skin are infinitely gentle, nearly frightened, trembling and restrained, and sending shocks of currents to places Mohinder had known existed, scientifically anyway, but had never fully fathomed. Never like this, and the fates are certainly, certainly strange.

The fingers pull away abruptly, then tentatively come back. "I did this," Gabriel says, running shaking fingers along Mohinder's scars, the scars that linger in gratuitous amounts over Mohinder's body. Mohinder is fairly sure he cannot actually make out their appearances in the gloom of the bedroom, but rather feel the thin patches of roughness with his fingers, which, which, well--

"You did not, and they don't hurt any longer," Mohinder says. Gabriel's touching a ridged scar on his hip, and Mohinder is gasping, and drawing Gabriel down to him. The kissing is more furious than it was to begin with, and they begin moving against each other, jerky, awkward, gasping. It is enough, and though flashes of images-- his father, Mira, Eden, severed limbs and blood, a trailing list on a computer screen-- rampage through his mind, they disappear, they fade one by one. Gabriel's forehead is pressed to his own, his hands grappling and unsure, striking up an unsure, sporadic pattern (he has no cause to complain), touching Mohinder, who reaches back, persuading a hoarse, choked gasp and more violent trembling from Gabriel. Their limbs are seizing together, they are breathing into each other's mouths. They cannot be close enough. He is spinning again, but it is the opposite of the wearying dizziness of before, he feels redemption closing in on him, their breaths are dragging out, raggedly, timed together.

After, damp and tangled, Mohinder hopes Gabriel will sleep. He knows he hasn't for a very long time, and it might even be possible, now. There are no regrets, not now. Mohinder's head is still nearly incapable of grasping extended thought processes, but he thinks, slightly dazed but ever philosophical, that he's finally managed to split the two concepts, the murderer and the man, in his mind, permanently. He feels no hate, and in fact-- well, he feels no hate, and he feels no guilt, and he feels he could sleep, now, too.

"I want to live," Gabriel says abruptly, with a short, disbelieving grin, a taut laugh.

"Well..." Mohinder stammers, completely at a loss. "My charm does, er, tend to--"

"I actually want to live, for once in this screwed-up life. Can I? Can it last?"

Sleep, peace of mind, may not come so easily, after all. Mohinder wants desperately to lie to Gabriel, but his hand is stretched hesitantly along Mohinder's stomach, and they have been breathing together for the past eternity, half an hour, he's not sure.

"There's hope, right?" Gabriel tries again.

Mohinder remains silent, can only manage a turn of the head, a short, heavy sigh.

"Oh," Gabriel says, and lays flat on his back, stiffly. "Oh."

It all comes out in a flood that sounds harshly cold and medical to even Mohinder's own ears: "It will stop working, and there will be nothing we can do."

"I see."

Mohinder, in reckless despair, rolls on to his side, presses a kiss furiously against Gabriel's jaw. At the forced stillness and unresponsiveness, he makes a desperate noise, and lifts his head to give another kiss, on tight lips that give in under his insistence. Mohinder clears his throat, choking with emotion, and says, "Get-- get some sleep, Gabriel, you need it, I know. And... there is always hope."

They go quiet in each other's arms for a long time. And then: "You really believe that, Mohinder?"

"Yes," he says, with a shaky breath. He grips Gabriel's shoulder harder. "Yes. I do."

IX

"I merely suggested that the 'extraordinary' man has the right... to transgress... certain obstacles, but only if the execution of his idea-- which might involve the salvation of all mankind-- demands it."
--- Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment

Mohinder is wide awake when he finally opens his eyes-- he's been laying, slightly uncomfortable, limbs feeling as though they may or may not be falling asleep, but he is also warm, without the usual morning chill, and he feels refreshingly claustrophobic, his bed no longer far too large, Mohinder no longer drowning in it. He doesn't want to open his eyes to the slight brightness pressing orange into his vision, because he'll then have to accept certain facts.

He opens his eyes. Gabriel is beside him, looking like he's awakening himself, face pressed into the pillow and then stirring, drearily opening his own eyes. He looks surprised for a moment, then gives Mohinder a smile. Mohinder twitches the corners of his mouth upwards a little and says, "Good morning." Their eyes cannot help but stare, Mohinder notices, and knows he has tried not to notice this for as long as he's known any of this man's personas, even when he did not wish to.

He is coming closer, and Mohinder's breath hitches as Gabriel comes in and, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, shyly kisses him. Mohinder brings his hand to the stubble along Gabriel's cheek and kisses back, then breaks away, giving a smile of reassurance. "Come on, we have a lot of work to do today." He sits up, and Gabriel himself gets out of bed. Mohinder watches Gabriel's awkward grace, as he begins to pick up stray articles of clothing and dress himself.

"We do?" Gabriel says, grinning slightly.

"Yes, absolutely," he replies, and he wishes his voice sounded less distracted. He stands up, pulls on some clothing himself, and cannot help but brush against Gabriel, a hand against his collarbone, one embrace as Gabriel buttons his shirt. It merits another smile that Mohinder can see in profile, and Mohinder walks towards his dresser, opening the drawer. He makes sure Gabriel's back is turned to him, and he is grateful for the super-sensory hearing Gabriel does not possess in this form. Mohinder's chest almost hurts from his heartbeat. He closes the drawer again, taking a shaky breath.

Gabriel turns towards him, and takes in Mohinder's hand, gripping the gun, much with the same look Mohinder thought so strange when it was given by Sylar, holding the cup of poisoned tea-- a flash of utter betrayal, that now changes into despairing understanding. Mohinder's chest hitches, his arm shakes.

"Forgive me," Mohinder says, choking, eyes stinging, and he knows he is begging.

He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Gabriel nods grimly. It is enough.

He almost wishes the bullet would stop in midair this time, he thinks he almost sees it skid, he is almost relieved. He almost wants it to stop, to clatter to the floor, as before.

It doesn't.

He knows he will move out of the apartment, go somewhere else, anywhere else, but he cannot stay. He is sick of seeing blood, he wants it to stop, but he cannot be sorry, now that it is done. He must be selfless, for once. He drops the gun to the ground.

The Hindi comes shaky and then strong, easy to his tongue, and he thinks it appropriate, somehow, voice cracking just a little. "Na jane kyoon-- kya yeh galat hai? Fir miltein hein." I do not know why I-- is it wrong? Let us meet again.

And then, and he means it, he finally means it: "Kshama kijiye." Meet forgiveness.

Mohinder stands, breathing, over the body, feeling drained if anything, and then staggers over to the telephone. He knows he's the only one who will ever feel remorse, but it's enough, one not-quite-prayer is enough.

Mr. Bennet answers on one and a half rings.

"Yes?"

"Sylar and Gabriel Gray are dead."

You will have heard of Dr. Henry Jekyll. You will have heard appalling things. I tell you this: He was my friend. I came to feel the exhilaration of his knowledge and the profundity of his suffering as though they were mine.
Man is not one but two, he is evil and good, and he walks the fine line that he'd cross if he could. And he's waiting...
--- Frank Wildhorn's Jekyll and Hyde

Note: Technically there could be a sequel to this, with Micah seeking revenge for his mommy, and Mohinder desperately trying to find Hiro to time travel, while running away from an either intrigued or upset Linderman. Maybe I'd write it. Maybe.

x-posted to mylar_fic, heroes_slash, and mature_heroes.