Fic: I Spy (Heroes)
Mohinder hates this.
His heart is pounding, beating too hard, too fast. Pure anxiety. Nothing to be afraid of, he reminds himself. And he hopes, by this time, he’s learned not to show it.
Three dollars, one matinee ticket.
Two dollars, fifty cents for a medium tub of popcorn. He hates the popcorn, too. Greasy, salty. He doesn’t like the way it clings to his tongue, or the way the kernels get stuck in his teeth. But he needs something in his hands.
Mohinder wonders who’s watching him this time.
He goes straight to the back row of the movie theater, in the back left-hand corner. The lighting pattern always leaves that seat half in shadow. Mohinder always imagines that he just fades away, here in this corner of a movie theater, tucked away in a pocket of the world. Unseen.
There are four or five others in the theater, and Mohinder observes, for a few moments.
The older man is out. No way is he a professional tail. From here, Mohinder can see the cane resting against the seat. It’s really just the kind of detail someone would add, if they were trying to follow him, but the thin, sticklike figure, the sagginess of the skin - too much effort for a routine tail.
The couple that seems more engrossed in one another than waiting for the screen to come on - possible. The man has a straight shot to Mohinder’s seat. If he wanted to watch, he could. But from his behavior so far, it doesn’t seem likely.
Then, finally, two girls. Teenagers, laughing amongst themselves. Too young.
Mohinder crosses his arms, and he waits, his heartbeat thundering.
He timed it fairly closely; he doesn’t have long before the lights dim and the previews start. One, two, and he spots the shadowy figure, ducking into the theater and moving up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He sits in the second row down, a couple seats over from Mohinder.
A sideways glance from the stranger confirms it.
Mohinder breathes. The movie starts, eventually - opening with a car chase. Ten minutes in, Mohinder slips his cell phone out of his back and drops it between the seats.
“Excuse me,” he murmurs, leaning forward, “I dropped my cell phone.”
“Oh, is this it?”
The face that tilts back, the eyes that meet his -
“What news?” asks Sylar.
“There’s going to be a roundup tomorrow,” Mohinder says, softly. “Starting in Boston.”
Sylar hisses, between his teeth. “Names?”
“Winchester,” Mohinder tells him. “Lorne. Garrett. MacPherson.”
“The team?”
“I don’t know.”
Sylar nods.
Mohinder’s throat burns. His life isn’t his anymore - it’s half a lie, half a truth that he can’t tell, not to anyone. If the Homeland Security Department somehow finds out who he’s working with - and meanwhile, Mohinder goes through the motions, swallows the bile, smiles at the propaganda. And sometimes, he can’t remember what he’s supposed to be fighting for.
“Mohinder?”
Mohinder tries to breathe. “Ah, I’m sorry,” he says, “did you say something?”
Sylar watches him, studies him for a long moment. “What’s wrong?” he asks, finally.
“Nothing,” Mohinder denies, reflexively, then, at Sylar’s look, “It all just gets to be too much sometimes, you know?” His voice cracks.
Sylar stands, slips up over his row of chairs and eases into the seat next to Mohinder’s.
“Get back down there,” Mohinder hisses. “Do you know how dangerous-”
But then it’s just Sylar’s arms, drawing him into an embrace, the fabric of Sylar’s shirt against his cheek, the warm, rhythmic heartbeat under his ear. Mohinder chokes, and Sylar’s hand strokes through his hair.
God help him, he needs this. This is real, this is everything - the only human contact Mohinder ever has, the only meaningful moments in his grey, featureless life, and it’s Sylar-
“You never asked me how I got to be your handler.”
Mohinder glances up. “You never looked like you wanted to say.”
“You never looked like you wanted to hear.”
The armrest digs into Mohinder’s ribs, but he’s unwilling, somehow, to pull away. “How, then?” he asks.
“I know you.”
Mohinder closes his eyes.
“Mohinder. I understand you. I can give you what you need, I can keep you safe.”
“Nothing in this world is safe.” Mohinder surprises himself, with the bitterness in his voice.
“I am.”
“You killed my father.”
The edge of a thumb, stroking up Mohinder’s neck. Mohinder shivers.
“I can’t apologize for what I’ve done,” Sylar says, so quiet Mohinder can barely hear it over the swelling music from the screen in front of them. “If you trust me, I won’t let it happen to you.”
“You promise?” Mohinder whispers.
“I promise.”
It’s nearly the end of the movie before one of them speaks again.
“What’s next?” Mohinder asks. He dreads it, dreads hearing what new security protocol he’ll have to get around, dreads finding out what new risk he’ll have to take.
“We need you to destroy their files on the Athena group.”
Mohinder bites his lip, but he finds that he’s, somehow, not as afraid as he expected to be. He meets Sylar’s eyes. “I’ll do it.”
He walks out of the theater without looking back.
His heart is pounding, beating too hard, too fast. Pure anxiety. Nothing to be afraid of, he reminds himself. And he hopes, by this time, he’s learned not to show it.
Three dollars, one matinee ticket.
Two dollars, fifty cents for a medium tub of popcorn. He hates the popcorn, too. Greasy, salty. He doesn’t like the way it clings to his tongue, or the way the kernels get stuck in his teeth. But he needs something in his hands.
Mohinder wonders who’s watching him this time.
He goes straight to the back row of the movie theater, in the back left-hand corner. The lighting pattern always leaves that seat half in shadow. Mohinder always imagines that he just fades away, here in this corner of a movie theater, tucked away in a pocket of the world. Unseen.
There are four or five others in the theater, and Mohinder observes, for a few moments.
The older man is out. No way is he a professional tail. From here, Mohinder can see the cane resting against the seat. It’s really just the kind of detail someone would add, if they were trying to follow him, but the thin, sticklike figure, the sagginess of the skin - too much effort for a routine tail.
The couple that seems more engrossed in one another than waiting for the screen to come on - possible. The man has a straight shot to Mohinder’s seat. If he wanted to watch, he could. But from his behavior so far, it doesn’t seem likely.
Then, finally, two girls. Teenagers, laughing amongst themselves. Too young.
Mohinder crosses his arms, and he waits, his heartbeat thundering.
He timed it fairly closely; he doesn’t have long before the lights dim and the previews start. One, two, and he spots the shadowy figure, ducking into the theater and moving up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He sits in the second row down, a couple seats over from Mohinder.
A sideways glance from the stranger confirms it.
Mohinder breathes. The movie starts, eventually - opening with a car chase. Ten minutes in, Mohinder slips his cell phone out of his back and drops it between the seats.
“Excuse me,” he murmurs, leaning forward, “I dropped my cell phone.”
“Oh, is this it?”
The face that tilts back, the eyes that meet his -
“What news?” asks Sylar.
“There’s going to be a roundup tomorrow,” Mohinder says, softly. “Starting in Boston.”
Sylar hisses, between his teeth. “Names?”
“Winchester,” Mohinder tells him. “Lorne. Garrett. MacPherson.”
“The team?”
“I don’t know.”
Sylar nods.
Mohinder’s throat burns. His life isn’t his anymore - it’s half a lie, half a truth that he can’t tell, not to anyone. If the Homeland Security Department somehow finds out who he’s working with - and meanwhile, Mohinder goes through the motions, swallows the bile, smiles at the propaganda. And sometimes, he can’t remember what he’s supposed to be fighting for.
“Mohinder?”
Mohinder tries to breathe. “Ah, I’m sorry,” he says, “did you say something?”
Sylar watches him, studies him for a long moment. “What’s wrong?” he asks, finally.
“Nothing,” Mohinder denies, reflexively, then, at Sylar’s look, “It all just gets to be too much sometimes, you know?” His voice cracks.
Sylar stands, slips up over his row of chairs and eases into the seat next to Mohinder’s.
“Get back down there,” Mohinder hisses. “Do you know how dangerous-”
But then it’s just Sylar’s arms, drawing him into an embrace, the fabric of Sylar’s shirt against his cheek, the warm, rhythmic heartbeat under his ear. Mohinder chokes, and Sylar’s hand strokes through his hair.
God help him, he needs this. This is real, this is everything - the only human contact Mohinder ever has, the only meaningful moments in his grey, featureless life, and it’s Sylar-
“You never asked me how I got to be your handler.”
Mohinder glances up. “You never looked like you wanted to say.”
“You never looked like you wanted to hear.”
The armrest digs into Mohinder’s ribs, but he’s unwilling, somehow, to pull away. “How, then?” he asks.
“I know you.”
Mohinder closes his eyes.
“Mohinder. I understand you. I can give you what you need, I can keep you safe.”
“Nothing in this world is safe.” Mohinder surprises himself, with the bitterness in his voice.
“I am.”
“You killed my father.”
The edge of a thumb, stroking up Mohinder’s neck. Mohinder shivers.
“I can’t apologize for what I’ve done,” Sylar says, so quiet Mohinder can barely hear it over the swelling music from the screen in front of them. “If you trust me, I won’t let it happen to you.”
“You promise?” Mohinder whispers.
“I promise.”
It’s nearly the end of the movie before one of them speaks again.
“What’s next?” Mohinder asks. He dreads it, dreads hearing what new security protocol he’ll have to get around, dreads finding out what new risk he’ll have to take.
“We need you to destroy their files on the Athena group.”
Mohinder bites his lip, but he finds that he’s, somehow, not as afraid as he expected to be. He meets Sylar’s eyes. “I’ll do it.”
He walks out of the theater without looking back.