Fic: Gravity, 4/? (Heroes)
When Mohinder awakens, he’s alone.
Really alone. The bathroom is empty, both of the beds are empty. Sylar is gone.
He stretches, gingerly, easing out kinks in aching muscles, and he slips out of the bed, getting to his feet. A quick check confirms it - both of the hotel keys are gone, meaning Sylar is coming back. Also, not-so-subtly hinting that Mohinder shouldn’t go anywhere while he’s gone.
Mohinder sighs, and he pads to the bathroom, splashing a handful of water on his face.
What is he doing here?
This is ridiculous. He shouldn’t have left Molly. It was unforgivable, and now he’ll never be able to go back, not since Parkman and Bennet saw him, him and Sylar -
“Hey, beautiful.”
Mohinder turns to see Sylar set a brown grocery bag on the floor, his eyes twinkling with an easy affection.
It’s fake, Mohinder tells himself. He lies, he always lies.
But then Sylar’s hands slide to Mohinder’s waist and he brushes a kiss across Mohinder’s mouth. Brief, easy - familiar, by now.
Mohinder finds his fingers drifting up to touch his lips.
“Something wrong?” asks Sylar.
Mohinder smiles, and he finds that it’s not so hard to force as he thought it would be. “No,” he says. “Nothing.”
- - - -
Almost an hour and a half into the drive, that day, Sylar falls asleep. Mohinder doesn’t notice, at first. He only sees it when he glances over, by chance, and notices that Sylar’s eyes are closed, that he rests his head back against the seat, his muscles slack, relaxed.
Mohinder smiles to himself - Sylar is human. Of course he’s human, even though he never sleeps during the night, even though he has abilities that no other human, besides perhaps Peter Petrelli, could match.
Even though he’s killed, brutal and bloody, again and again and again…
Mohinder bites his lip so hard it almost bleeds, but no sound escapes from his mouth. Just a panic, a short panic, it’ll pass, he tells himself. It’s all right, it’s all right.
He unclenches his hands from the wheel, and keeps his eyes on the road. Concentrates now, on keeping his driving steady, not turning too quickly or changing speed, keeping the engine hum constant.
He loses track of time quickly. The road blurs into an endless line. He drives automatically, mindlessly. And beside him, in the passenger seat, Mohinder’s father’s murderer sleeps, his face peaceful for the first time Mohinder can remember.
- - - -
“License and registration, please?” The sun glints off of the police officer’s sunglasses, and the traffic whirs past them, on the freeway.
Sylar stirs.
“I’m sorry, is there a problem?” asks Mohinder, digging out his drivers license, flipping open the glove compartment and leafing through the papers inside.
The officer studies the car’s registration for a long moment, and Mohinder wishes he’d spotted the name on it before he passed it along. Sylar is awake now, watching the officer a little too carefully.
Oh, dear.
“This car has been reported stolen,” says the officer, finally, hand to the butt of his gun. “I’ll need you both to step out of the car.”
“I don’t think so,” says Sylar.
The officer pulls out his gun. Mohinder moves to the door handle -
“Don’t move,” says Sylar. Whether to him or the officer, Mohinder doesn’t know.
“You two are under arrest,” says the officer. “Step out of that car right now.”
Sylar gestures, casually, and the gun clatters onto the freeway. Mohinder’s eyes widen, and the officer’s partner ducks out of the patrol car.
“What the-”
And then both of the police officers are on the ground.
“What did you just do?” Mohinder asks, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. “Did you just kill two police officers?”
“They’re unconscious, not dead,” says Sylar. “Drive.”
Mohinder sets his jaw. “So the car is stolen.”
“We’ll get a new one.”
“That’s not exactly the point I was trying to make.”
Sylar cocks his head to the side. “What were we going to do, rent one?”
“Stealing a car is a crime,” snaps Mohinder. “And a traceable one.”
“You didn’t seem so concerned about it the day before yesterday,” returns Sylar.
Mohinder pauses, for a beat. “I didn’t know what I was doing the day before yesterday,” he says, finally.
“And you do now?”
Mohinder shakes his head. “No. I don’t.”
“You’re not angry because I stole a car,” says Sylar.
“Yes, I am,” says Mohinder.
“No,” says Sylar. “You’re not.” He takes a breath. “Exit here.”
- - - -
“Stand back, Mohinder.”
“Why?”
Sylar shoots him a glance. “How much gas is in this car?”
Mohinder shrugs. “We were almost empty.”
“Then stand back.”
Mohinder retreats, slowly. He’s nearly at the other end of the vast, empty parking lot when he sees Sylar’s hands begin to glow.
Barely a minute later, Mohinder watches, in utter disbelief, as Sylar turns and walks, one step at a time, towards Mohinder. The car, a burning wreck, smolders half-melted and utterly destroyed behind him.
“Let’s go,” says Sylar.
“You just blew up a car,” protests Mohinder, unable to tear his eyes away.
“They should be able to find the VIN number,” says Sylar, with a shrug.
Mohinder looks to Sylar. “Why?” he manages.
“You didn’t want your fingerprints connected with a car theft, did you?” Sylar’s voice is, as always, a little too calm. A little too focused. His hand slides onto Mohinder’s shoulder, turning him away from the fire. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll take a car from the diner, up on the hill.”
- - - -
“Weird, isn’t it,” says Sylar, conversationally, “how someone’s powers reflect them, as a person.”
“I’m sorry?” asks Mohinder, and then his mind catches up.
“Mine was so indistinguishable from my own natural abilities your father couldn’t even find it.”
Mohinder sucks in a breath. It’s the first time Sylar has talked about Mohinder’s father, besides that moment, when Mohinder had Sylar helpless, drugged - though, not so helpless as it seemed, he supposes. Then, Mohinder had hoped, beyond hope, that it was a lie.
“I suppose you’re right,” says Mohinder, trying to focus. Trying to think of a single special ability that Sylar hadn’t tried to steal. Or succeeded in stealing.
“A nurse reflects the powers of others,” murmurs Sylar. “Empathy. A manipulative criminal has the power to persuade. Painters always see more than meets the eye, and one starts to see into the future…”
“And what about Nathan Petrelli?” asks Mohinder. “He always seemed fairly cynical to me. Not the flying type.”
Sylar bites his lip. “Politicians are sometimes idealists, you know,” he says. “Inside.”
“Why this sudden topic of conversation?” asks Mohinder.
“Just,” says Sylar, and he stops. “Just maybe the power isn’t so separable from the person, after all.”
Mohinder glances at Sylar, sideways.
“Maybe I carry a piece of them,” Sylar says, softer, looking down at his hands. “Maybe they’re not completely dead.”
“And what about the ‘normals’ you killed?” asks Mohinder, his tone biting, caustic. “What about those without abilities?”
What about my father, he doesn’t say, but he thinks Sylar hears it, all the same.
Sylar stirs, but only to look out the window, as far away from Mohinder as he can.
- - - -
In the motel, that night, Sylar pushes Mohinder flat against the wall, the surface smooth against the bare skin of his back. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand.
Unsteadily, Mohinder stands, on the wall. He reaches out, flattens his palm against the suddenly perpendicular bedspread. “What are you doing?” asks Mohinder, turning to Sylar.
“Come on,” urges Sylar, again, and he leads Mohinder to the ceiling
Mohinder stops. “No,” and all he can think about, all he can remember, is being trapped against the ceiling - pinned, helpless, as he watched Sylar try to murder Peter Petrelli. “No,” he says again, pulling away.
“Please, Mohinder.” Sylar takes Mohinder’s hand in both of his, curling their fingers together.
Mohinder swallows, and he leans against the ceiling, letting Sylar press him flat. He closes his eyes, fighting the racing of his heartbeat, the clench in his hands.
“Stop it,” says Sylar.
“Stop what?” breathes Mohinder.
“Being afraid,” and Sylar kisses him, teasing Mohinder’s tongue into his mouth, pressing long and reassuring. It’s almost a plea, and Mohinder feels himself tense up even more. He can’t help it, he can’t help remembering, and the feel of Sylar’s body over his isn’t helping.
Sylar kneels up over Mohinder. He cocks his head to the side, and twists, and then Mohinder is the one on top of Sylar - below him? - and Sylar pulls Mohinder down, his legs spreading just a little under Mohinder’s hands.
Mohinder’s heart skips a beat, from the wanton feel of Sylar’s body, and his eyes meet Sylar’s. He’s gone, immediately, in the need he can read in Sylar’s face. “Sylar,” he says, softly, and Sylar’s eyes close.
“I love the way you say my name,” Sylar confesses, barely a whisper into Mohinder’s ear.
“And how’s that?” Mohinder manages, as Sylar nuzzles in the crook of his neck.
“Like it means something.” Sylar shifts, sliding Mohinder’s hand up the inside of his thigh, to the cleft of his ass.
Mohinder can barely breathe, suddenly. He retreats, just a little, and presses a kiss to Sylar’s mouth, trying to convince himself that this man is here, he’s real, and that Mohinder doesn’t have to want anymore, he can touch, he can feel -
“Is there lotion in the bathroom?” asks Mohinder.
Sylar nods; his eyes shift over Mohinder’s shoulder. Mohinder holds out his hand, and in a moment, a small bottle of lotion lights in his palm.
Mohinder tries not to let his hands shake; he draws Sylar’s legs to his chest, and says, half-breathless, “you had better not lose concentration.”
“The bed’s beneath us,” says Sylar, and his voice isn’t so steady either.
“It’s a long way,” says Mohinder, and he rubs the lotion around Sylar’s hole, not pressing in, not yet.
Sylar’s breath hitches. “Mohinder,” he pleads, and Mohinder starts stretching him open, slowly, carefully. It’s hard, though - between the way Sylar twitches, underneath him, like he wants just a little bit more, just a little, and the noise he makes, halfway between a whine and a gasp, when Mohinder withdraws and presses another finger inside.
Mohinder thinks he’s never wanted something so badly in his entire life. And Sylar isn’t using his powers, isn’t pushing this beyond what it is - besides keeping them on the ceiling.
Finally, Mohinder withdraws, tracing a thumb around Sylar’s stretched opening. “You’re sure you won’t-”
“Mohinder-”
Mohinder urges Sylar’s legs up, further, and he moves up. He slips inside almost too easily, and Sylar arches against him, opening up, letting Mohinder so far, so amazingly deep inside. Sylar’s body pulses around Mohinder, so alive, so warm, and when Mohinder presses in, just so -
Sylar gives a pained, hungry cry, and Mohinder does it again, just to see Sylar hitch up, open that much more.
How did I not know this about you? Mohinder thinks, trailing a finger across Sylar’s mouth.
Sylar parts his lips, meeting the finger with his tongue, letting it slip just inside. He’s desperate, so sweet and desperate, and he could force Mohinder to move any time now, just with a thought, but he isn’t.
He isn’t.
And so Mohinder does.
Sylar’s orgasm is silent, caught in his throat, ripped from his body. Mohinder feels it, white-hot and perfect, from the inside - he doesn’t have to hear it, not at all - and his own pleasure is blinding bright, poured from one trembling form to another.
“Hold on,” says Sylar, barely a breath, “I’m going to catch us.”
Mohinder feels as though he’s falling, then they both come to rest on the hotel sheets. The blankets, obligingly, pull over them, and Sylar snugs into Mohinder, like he couldn’t stand to be away.
Mohinder inhales in Sylar’s hair, and he closes his eyes.
- - - -
He awakens when it’s still dark, Sylar’s hand over his mouth.
“They’re here,” whispers Sylar, and he takes his hand away, slowly.
“Who?” asks Mohinder, sitting up.
“The FBI.” Sylar’s already out of the bed. He tosses Mohinder his clothes. “I can hear them outside. We have to go.”
“How did they,” starts Mohinder, but Sylar shakes his head.
As soon as they’re both dressed, Sylar takes Mohinder’s hand, leads him out to the balcony. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs, and Mohinder does, wrapping an arm around Sylar’s waist.
A moment later, they’re down in the parking lot. Mohinder can see the distant lights of the police cars; Sylar gestures to a car, an unfamiliar one.
“We’re taking this one,” he decides.
As the car starts, under Mohinder’s fingertips, Sylar’s hand slides over his. “No lights,” says Sylar. “Until we get to the street.”
Mohinder blinks the exhaustion from his eyes, and he nods.
Together, they escape into the night.
Really alone. The bathroom is empty, both of the beds are empty. Sylar is gone.
He stretches, gingerly, easing out kinks in aching muscles, and he slips out of the bed, getting to his feet. A quick check confirms it - both of the hotel keys are gone, meaning Sylar is coming back. Also, not-so-subtly hinting that Mohinder shouldn’t go anywhere while he’s gone.
Mohinder sighs, and he pads to the bathroom, splashing a handful of water on his face.
What is he doing here?
This is ridiculous. He shouldn’t have left Molly. It was unforgivable, and now he’ll never be able to go back, not since Parkman and Bennet saw him, him and Sylar -
“Hey, beautiful.”
Mohinder turns to see Sylar set a brown grocery bag on the floor, his eyes twinkling with an easy affection.
It’s fake, Mohinder tells himself. He lies, he always lies.
But then Sylar’s hands slide to Mohinder’s waist and he brushes a kiss across Mohinder’s mouth. Brief, easy - familiar, by now.
Mohinder finds his fingers drifting up to touch his lips.
“Something wrong?” asks Sylar.
Mohinder smiles, and he finds that it’s not so hard to force as he thought it would be. “No,” he says. “Nothing.”
- - - -
Almost an hour and a half into the drive, that day, Sylar falls asleep. Mohinder doesn’t notice, at first. He only sees it when he glances over, by chance, and notices that Sylar’s eyes are closed, that he rests his head back against the seat, his muscles slack, relaxed.
Mohinder smiles to himself - Sylar is human. Of course he’s human, even though he never sleeps during the night, even though he has abilities that no other human, besides perhaps Peter Petrelli, could match.
Even though he’s killed, brutal and bloody, again and again and again…
Mohinder bites his lip so hard it almost bleeds, but no sound escapes from his mouth. Just a panic, a short panic, it’ll pass, he tells himself. It’s all right, it’s all right.
He unclenches his hands from the wheel, and keeps his eyes on the road. Concentrates now, on keeping his driving steady, not turning too quickly or changing speed, keeping the engine hum constant.
He loses track of time quickly. The road blurs into an endless line. He drives automatically, mindlessly. And beside him, in the passenger seat, Mohinder’s father’s murderer sleeps, his face peaceful for the first time Mohinder can remember.
- - - -
“License and registration, please?” The sun glints off of the police officer’s sunglasses, and the traffic whirs past them, on the freeway.
Sylar stirs.
“I’m sorry, is there a problem?” asks Mohinder, digging out his drivers license, flipping open the glove compartment and leafing through the papers inside.
The officer studies the car’s registration for a long moment, and Mohinder wishes he’d spotted the name on it before he passed it along. Sylar is awake now, watching the officer a little too carefully.
Oh, dear.
“This car has been reported stolen,” says the officer, finally, hand to the butt of his gun. “I’ll need you both to step out of the car.”
“I don’t think so,” says Sylar.
The officer pulls out his gun. Mohinder moves to the door handle -
“Don’t move,” says Sylar. Whether to him or the officer, Mohinder doesn’t know.
“You two are under arrest,” says the officer. “Step out of that car right now.”
Sylar gestures, casually, and the gun clatters onto the freeway. Mohinder’s eyes widen, and the officer’s partner ducks out of the patrol car.
“What the-”
And then both of the police officers are on the ground.
“What did you just do?” Mohinder asks, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. “Did you just kill two police officers?”
“They’re unconscious, not dead,” says Sylar. “Drive.”
Mohinder sets his jaw. “So the car is stolen.”
“We’ll get a new one.”
“That’s not exactly the point I was trying to make.”
Sylar cocks his head to the side. “What were we going to do, rent one?”
“Stealing a car is a crime,” snaps Mohinder. “And a traceable one.”
“You didn’t seem so concerned about it the day before yesterday,” returns Sylar.
Mohinder pauses, for a beat. “I didn’t know what I was doing the day before yesterday,” he says, finally.
“And you do now?”
Mohinder shakes his head. “No. I don’t.”
“You’re not angry because I stole a car,” says Sylar.
“Yes, I am,” says Mohinder.
“No,” says Sylar. “You’re not.” He takes a breath. “Exit here.”
- - - -
“Stand back, Mohinder.”
“Why?”
Sylar shoots him a glance. “How much gas is in this car?”
Mohinder shrugs. “We were almost empty.”
“Then stand back.”
Mohinder retreats, slowly. He’s nearly at the other end of the vast, empty parking lot when he sees Sylar’s hands begin to glow.
Barely a minute later, Mohinder watches, in utter disbelief, as Sylar turns and walks, one step at a time, towards Mohinder. The car, a burning wreck, smolders half-melted and utterly destroyed behind him.
“Let’s go,” says Sylar.
“You just blew up a car,” protests Mohinder, unable to tear his eyes away.
“They should be able to find the VIN number,” says Sylar, with a shrug.
Mohinder looks to Sylar. “Why?” he manages.
“You didn’t want your fingerprints connected with a car theft, did you?” Sylar’s voice is, as always, a little too calm. A little too focused. His hand slides onto Mohinder’s shoulder, turning him away from the fire. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll take a car from the diner, up on the hill.”
- - - -
“Weird, isn’t it,” says Sylar, conversationally, “how someone’s powers reflect them, as a person.”
“I’m sorry?” asks Mohinder, and then his mind catches up.
“Mine was so indistinguishable from my own natural abilities your father couldn’t even find it.”
Mohinder sucks in a breath. It’s the first time Sylar has talked about Mohinder’s father, besides that moment, when Mohinder had Sylar helpless, drugged - though, not so helpless as it seemed, he supposes. Then, Mohinder had hoped, beyond hope, that it was a lie.
“I suppose you’re right,” says Mohinder, trying to focus. Trying to think of a single special ability that Sylar hadn’t tried to steal. Or succeeded in stealing.
“A nurse reflects the powers of others,” murmurs Sylar. “Empathy. A manipulative criminal has the power to persuade. Painters always see more than meets the eye, and one starts to see into the future…”
“And what about Nathan Petrelli?” asks Mohinder. “He always seemed fairly cynical to me. Not the flying type.”
Sylar bites his lip. “Politicians are sometimes idealists, you know,” he says. “Inside.”
“Why this sudden topic of conversation?” asks Mohinder.
“Just,” says Sylar, and he stops. “Just maybe the power isn’t so separable from the person, after all.”
Mohinder glances at Sylar, sideways.
“Maybe I carry a piece of them,” Sylar says, softer, looking down at his hands. “Maybe they’re not completely dead.”
“And what about the ‘normals’ you killed?” asks Mohinder, his tone biting, caustic. “What about those without abilities?”
What about my father, he doesn’t say, but he thinks Sylar hears it, all the same.
Sylar stirs, but only to look out the window, as far away from Mohinder as he can.
- - - -
In the motel, that night, Sylar pushes Mohinder flat against the wall, the surface smooth against the bare skin of his back. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand.
Unsteadily, Mohinder stands, on the wall. He reaches out, flattens his palm against the suddenly perpendicular bedspread. “What are you doing?” asks Mohinder, turning to Sylar.
“Come on,” urges Sylar, again, and he leads Mohinder to the ceiling
Mohinder stops. “No,” and all he can think about, all he can remember, is being trapped against the ceiling - pinned, helpless, as he watched Sylar try to murder Peter Petrelli. “No,” he says again, pulling away.
“Please, Mohinder.” Sylar takes Mohinder’s hand in both of his, curling their fingers together.
Mohinder swallows, and he leans against the ceiling, letting Sylar press him flat. He closes his eyes, fighting the racing of his heartbeat, the clench in his hands.
“Stop it,” says Sylar.
“Stop what?” breathes Mohinder.
“Being afraid,” and Sylar kisses him, teasing Mohinder’s tongue into his mouth, pressing long and reassuring. It’s almost a plea, and Mohinder feels himself tense up even more. He can’t help it, he can’t help remembering, and the feel of Sylar’s body over his isn’t helping.
Sylar kneels up over Mohinder. He cocks his head to the side, and twists, and then Mohinder is the one on top of Sylar - below him? - and Sylar pulls Mohinder down, his legs spreading just a little under Mohinder’s hands.
Mohinder’s heart skips a beat, from the wanton feel of Sylar’s body, and his eyes meet Sylar’s. He’s gone, immediately, in the need he can read in Sylar’s face. “Sylar,” he says, softly, and Sylar’s eyes close.
“I love the way you say my name,” Sylar confesses, barely a whisper into Mohinder’s ear.
“And how’s that?” Mohinder manages, as Sylar nuzzles in the crook of his neck.
“Like it means something.” Sylar shifts, sliding Mohinder’s hand up the inside of his thigh, to the cleft of his ass.
Mohinder can barely breathe, suddenly. He retreats, just a little, and presses a kiss to Sylar’s mouth, trying to convince himself that this man is here, he’s real, and that Mohinder doesn’t have to want anymore, he can touch, he can feel -
“Is there lotion in the bathroom?” asks Mohinder.
Sylar nods; his eyes shift over Mohinder’s shoulder. Mohinder holds out his hand, and in a moment, a small bottle of lotion lights in his palm.
Mohinder tries not to let his hands shake; he draws Sylar’s legs to his chest, and says, half-breathless, “you had better not lose concentration.”
“The bed’s beneath us,” says Sylar, and his voice isn’t so steady either.
“It’s a long way,” says Mohinder, and he rubs the lotion around Sylar’s hole, not pressing in, not yet.
Sylar’s breath hitches. “Mohinder,” he pleads, and Mohinder starts stretching him open, slowly, carefully. It’s hard, though - between the way Sylar twitches, underneath him, like he wants just a little bit more, just a little, and the noise he makes, halfway between a whine and a gasp, when Mohinder withdraws and presses another finger inside.
Mohinder thinks he’s never wanted something so badly in his entire life. And Sylar isn’t using his powers, isn’t pushing this beyond what it is - besides keeping them on the ceiling.
Finally, Mohinder withdraws, tracing a thumb around Sylar’s stretched opening. “You’re sure you won’t-”
“Mohinder-”
Mohinder urges Sylar’s legs up, further, and he moves up. He slips inside almost too easily, and Sylar arches against him, opening up, letting Mohinder so far, so amazingly deep inside. Sylar’s body pulses around Mohinder, so alive, so warm, and when Mohinder presses in, just so -
Sylar gives a pained, hungry cry, and Mohinder does it again, just to see Sylar hitch up, open that much more.
How did I not know this about you? Mohinder thinks, trailing a finger across Sylar’s mouth.
Sylar parts his lips, meeting the finger with his tongue, letting it slip just inside. He’s desperate, so sweet and desperate, and he could force Mohinder to move any time now, just with a thought, but he isn’t.
He isn’t.
And so Mohinder does.
Sylar’s orgasm is silent, caught in his throat, ripped from his body. Mohinder feels it, white-hot and perfect, from the inside - he doesn’t have to hear it, not at all - and his own pleasure is blinding bright, poured from one trembling form to another.
“Hold on,” says Sylar, barely a breath, “I’m going to catch us.”
Mohinder feels as though he’s falling, then they both come to rest on the hotel sheets. The blankets, obligingly, pull over them, and Sylar snugs into Mohinder, like he couldn’t stand to be away.
Mohinder inhales in Sylar’s hair, and he closes his eyes.
- - - -
He awakens when it’s still dark, Sylar’s hand over his mouth.
“They’re here,” whispers Sylar, and he takes his hand away, slowly.
“Who?” asks Mohinder, sitting up.
“The FBI.” Sylar’s already out of the bed. He tosses Mohinder his clothes. “I can hear them outside. We have to go.”
“How did they,” starts Mohinder, but Sylar shakes his head.
As soon as they’re both dressed, Sylar takes Mohinder’s hand, leads him out to the balcony. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs, and Mohinder does, wrapping an arm around Sylar’s waist.
A moment later, they’re down in the parking lot. Mohinder can see the distant lights of the police cars; Sylar gestures to a car, an unfamiliar one.
“We’re taking this one,” he decides.
As the car starts, under Mohinder’s fingertips, Sylar’s hand slides over his. “No lights,” says Sylar. “Until we get to the street.”
Mohinder blinks the exhaustion from his eyes, and he nods.
Together, they escape into the night.