FIC: What We Are or Might Have Been (3/8)
Title: What We Are or Might Have Been (3/8)
Author: Seraphtrevs ( My Fic Masterlist)
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Genre: Tragicomedy
Word Count: (this part) ~4600
Warnings: Contains depictions of characters suffering from mental illness
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made, etc.
Summary: Sequel to Down To This. Company man Sylar has brought a superpowered (and psychotic) Mohinder to the Primatech facility in Hartsdale for treatment. After some finagling, he manages to get himself put in charge of Mohinder's recovery. With Mohinder by his side, Sylar hopes to live his newly minted dream of being Gabriel Petrelli, a Good Guy with a nice house in the suburbs, a loving partner, and a (relatively) honest job. Changing his identity, however, is proving to be much more difficult than he originally assumed, particularly when the people around him refuse to let him forget about his past.
A/N: Thanks once again to my beta, the fantastic aurilly!
This is a WIP. I've finished five of the eight chapters, and I'll be posting one chapter a week(ish).
Introduction and Table of Contents
Prologue and Chapter One
Chapter Two
Gabriel Gray had believed very firmly in routines. Every minute of his day was scheduled precisely. He woke up at 5 am every day, including weekends. He took a shower from 5:15 to 5:30, got dressed at 5:45, ate breakfast at 6:00, and read the newspaper when it arrived at 6:30 (although sometimes the delivery boy was late - he hated that, it threw everything off). He got to the shop by 7:30, opened at 8, and worked until noon, at which time he'd walk to the deli down the street and have either a ham sandwich (Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays), or a tuna one (Tuesdays and Thursdays). He’d go back to the shop at work until closing at 6 pm. He'd go home, eat dinner, and then allowed himself thirty to sixty minutes of television before going to bed at 8:30. He had to be precise about these things. Chaos lurked around the edges of every moment; even a small lapse in attention could make him lose days, even weeks.
Sylar was much more flexible; he had to take his opportunities when he could get them. But now that he was trying to create a new identity, he recognized the stabilizing ability of routines, and decided he should probably have one. Due to the nature of his work, he couldn't be quite as fanatically devoted to schedules as Gabriel was, but surely he could manage something.
His alarm went off at 6 am. He woke up with a sigh and reached over to turn it off. He rolled over and opened his eyes, expecting to find Mohinder still asleep, but the other man was already awake and staring at him.
"Uh," he said. "Good morning?"
"What happened to them?" Mohinder said. His voice was low and creaky.
"Who?"
"The people in my apartment."
"You mean the ones you cocooned to the wall?"
Mohinder didn't answer, but his jaw tightened and his eyes blinked once, hard.
"Well, of the men you had in there, one died. Not sure about the other two - I think one of them is still in a coma, but he might have gotten better."
"And Maya?" he said quietly.
"Oh, she's all right," Sylar said. "They were able to resuscitate her fairly easily; she obviously hadn't been there very long. Of course, she nearly killed everyone when she woke up, so they had to put her under until they can figure out what to do with her."
Mohinder shut his eyes, so tightly that his brow furrowed. He took a few shaky breaths. Sylar was worried that he was going to start crying, but after a few moments, he became very still. He opened his eyes again. He seemed eerily calm.
Slowly, he reached out his hand and put it on the back of Sylar's neck. To his shock, he proceeded to pull him in for a kiss. Sylar could not for the life of him imagine why Mohinder was doing this, but he'd take what he could get. This wasn't exactly what he had in mind when he'd planned his new routine, but he certainly wasn't opposed to scheduling in some morning sex. He put an arm around Mohinder's waist to pull him closer and began to kiss him back. Mohinder kept his lips taut and unyielding, so Sylar gave up after a few attempts to deepen the kiss and moved on to his neck, teasing the soft skin under his ear with his tongue while he worked his thigh between Mohinder's legs. He moaned happily when Mohinder shifted his hips forward, rubbing his body against Sylar's morning erection.
As Sylar continued his tender kisses, he noticed that Mohinder was murmuring something under his breath. "...deserve it, I deserve it, I deserve it..." he was saying.
Sylar stopped and pulled back. Somehow, he didn't think the unspoken part of that sentence was '...because I've been so good.' "Wait a minute," he said. "Are you trying to have sex with me as a way of punishing yourself?"
Mohinder looked away and said nothing.
"That's horrifying," he said, because it was.
The expression on Mohinder's face became stony. He gathered up the comforter and stalked over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Sylar sat in bed and rubbed his face. This was not an auspicious beginning to the day. He waited for twenty minutes. When Mohinder still hadn't emerged, he walked over to the bathroom and knocked. "Are you going to be much longer?" he asked.
There was no response. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. "Come on," he said. "I have to get ready for work." Still no response. He was considering using telekinesis to pop the lock when the door opened a crack. A razor, shaving cream, and a bar of soap came flying out before the door shut and locked again. Sylar stooped to pick them up. "What about my toothbrush?" he said. More silence was his only answer.
Sylar looked at the clock. It was already 6:43; if he wanted to be at work by 8:00, he didn't have time for a battle. He took the items and went to the guest bathroom. When he was finished showering and shaving, he wrapped a towel around his waist and returned to the bedroom. Mohinder still hadn't emerged from the bathroom, but that wasn't surprising.
It was 7:00. He picked up his cell phone and pressed three on his speed dial.
The phone rang twice before it was answered. "What?" said Bennet.
"Hi, partner," Sylar said. "Just wanted to know what our mission is today."
"Blood drive," Bennet said. "Be at the office by eight, or I'm leaving without you." He hung up the phone.
Sylar felt relief as he put down the phone. He loved this mission. On days that weren't too busy, he and Bennet would pretend to host a blood drive. They'd bring the collected blood back to the lab, where the scientists would test them for mutations. It was easy, and the way this morning had started, he was definitely in the mood for easy.
He opened the mirrored door to his walk-in closet and stepped inside. He sifted through the large number of uniforms, suits, and other disguises he'd collected until he found a nice polo shirt and a neatly pressed pair of khakis. After he put them on, he reached up to one of the shelves and pulled down a box of props. He pulled out a roll of adhesive name tags; he tore off a few and stuffed them in his pocket, along with a black marker. He also selected a thin gold chain with a small cross on it. He finished his look with white socks and a pair of slightly scuffed black tennis shoes. He stepped out of the closet and closed the door. He practiced smiling at himself in the mirror; he was already running late, but this step was important. Thoughts of church basements, green bean casseroles, and amateur softball teams filled his head. His smile shifted and softened. A new, temporary identity started to create itself.
Once he was satisfied with his work, he headed downstairs to the kitchen. He got Mohinder's pills from one of the cupboards. He was going to bring the medication wheel full of the week's pills up to Mohinder, but after thinking about it for a moment, he tapped out only that morning's doses and put the rest in his pocket. He sat the pills on the table along with a stack of saltine crackers.
He went back upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. "I'm leaving your medicine on the table. Remember to take it, and make sure you eat something. I'll be back by five." He didn't get a response, but he hadn't really been expecting one.
It was 7:32 when he pulled out of the driveway. Bennet didn't make idle threats; he really would leave without him if he was late. He stepped on the accelerator. So much for starting a fresh routine. He wondered if he should set his alarm a half-hour earlier every morning so he could schedule in time for Mohinder's craziness.
* * *
The Bloodmobile was impressive. It was almost as big as a bus; there were interview booths, beds, and even a little snack bar area in the back, where people could drink orange juice and contemplate what a good deed they'd just done. They called themselves the Special Cross, and as far as the law was concerned, they were a fully accredited, nationwide charity organization. For the most part, they didn't even have to go looking for places to go; people contacted them. The Special Cross was friendly and convenient, providing easy, feel-good publicity for businesses, churches and community events. No one ever bothered to check if the blood they took reached a hospital.
Bennet was standing beside it in the parking lot of the Hartsdale facility, arms crossed and a sour look on his face.
Sylar parked beside the bus and got out of the car. "Morning, partner," he said. He noticed, with glee, that Bennet was wearing khakis. The last time they'd done a blood drive, Sylar had pointed out that Bennet's suit made people nervous. That was the intended effect. Bennet had one tool in his kit when it came to dealing with the public: intimidation. It was, admittedly, a very powerful tool that could be used to hammer through most situations, but Sylar's subtler approach had proven itself to be very useful. Apparently Bennet had taken the advice to heart. It wasn't entirely effective - Bennet was one of those people who always looked like he was in a suit, regardless of what he was actually wearing. But the fact that he'd taken Sylar's advice was extremely gratifying. "I like the pants," he said.
"You're late," Bennet said.
Sylar was, in fact, not late; he was actually a few minutes early. He'd already scored his victory for the morning, however, and decided not to press the issue.
"Get in," Bennet said as he boarded the bus. "We don't have all day."
"Can I drive?"
"No," Bennet said without turning around.
They were going to a church. Those were always the easiest; people were already bursting with good will by the time they rolled in and needed very little convincing. The only trouble was that the church was two hours away, somewhere out in farm country. The classic rock radio station they were listening to eventually petered out. Sylar scanned through the stations several times, trying to find something interesting, but he didn't have any luck. He drummed his fingers on the arm rest and looked at Bennet out of the corner of his eye. He didn't look like he was interested in conversation, but Sylar was bored.
"So," he said finally. "How are Sandra and the kids adjusting to life in New York?"
Bennet's already tight jaw clenched further. "That's none of your business," he said.
"Oh, come on," Sylar said. "We're partners. We can't make small talk every once in a while?"
"You want small talk? Fine," Bennet said. "How's Dr. Suresh?"
There was a pointed silence. "He's fine," Sylar lied after a moment. "He's really impressed with the new place."
"Really?" Bennet said. "Has he regained enough of his senses to realize that the man who murdered his father is attempting to play house with him, or is he still too drugged and crazy?"
"You are terrible at small talk," Sylar said, making a face. Bennet just smiled.
After many long miles of corn and cows, they finally reached their destination. Bennet pulled the mobile around to the back of the church. "You want to go tell them we're here?″
"Wiat," Sylar said. ″We need names.″ He took the marker and two blank name tag out of his pocket and thought for a moment. He was struck with inspiration; he printed the names and stuck one on Bennet's chest before sticking one on his own.
Bennet looked down, then at Sylar. "'Abraham and Isaac?'" he said, raising an eyebrow.
Sylar smiled. "I'll be back in a jiff," he said, already feeling the cheerful, bouncy energy he'd imagined Issac would feel. He made sure the cross on his necklace lay over his shirt collar before stepping out of the mobile and making his way through the church's back door.
They were very busy. It was a Sunday, and the weather was beautiful; it was a perfect day for the picnic the church had organized. Sylar stood outside of the mobile, making small talk with the congregation. He told them about his wife and their two beautiful daughters. Isaac was, unfortunately, unemployed at the moment, but he knew that God would provide for him. In the meantime, he figured he'd donate his time to charity. It was very noble of him, everyone agreed.
They stayed for two fruitful hours, which produced thirty blood samples and an appointment for the next month with a local business owner. After the last donor had left, Sylar and Bennet cleaned up the equipment and made sure the samples were properly labeled and stored. It had been a very successful day, and Sylar felt pleased with himself. He couldn't tell how Bennet felt; he was always so dour for some reason. When everything was taken care of, they started the long drive back to Hartsdale. Sylar was still filled with bubbly, chatty energy. That happened sometimes when he took on identities; they would stick around longer than wanted them to. He really ought to have known better than to make another stab at conversation, but he couldn't help himself. "That went very well, don't you think?" he said.
Bennet didn't look at him, but he moved his head in an almost imperceptible nod. He didn't offer anything further.
Sylar sighed. "Look," he said. "If we're going to work together, we're going to have to figure out a way to at least be civil. I know that there's been some...well, bad blood between us. I'm willing to own up to my part in that. But I'm a different person now, and I feel like you're not even giving me a chance. I think that we make a pretty good team, so why don't you say that we agree to make a fresh- what are you doing?" he asked as Bennet pulled off to the side of the road.
Bennet waited until he'd stopped the vehicle before he answered. "I want us to be very clear about something," he said in a calm, measured voice. "We are not partners. We do not 'make a good team.' I'm working with you because I don't have a choice at the moment, but there's no doubt in my mind that your little stint as a Company agent won't last much longer. You and I both know that you like to try on identities like other people try on hats; you aren't a different person. Underneath it all, you're still Sylar, and you always will be. Sooner or later, you're going to remember who you really are, and when that happens, I'm going to be there to put a bullet in your brain. Until then, you will not talk about my family. You will not speak to me unless it has to do with the case. Do we understand each other?"
Whatever cheeriness Sylar had retained from earlier had completely evaporated at this point. "So if you're going to kill me, why don't you just do it now?" he said. "Oh wait, you can't, because my mother - your boss - has ordered you to work with me. And you have to do everything she tells you to. Why is that again?" Bennet glared at him, and Sylar smirked. His mother had told him all about it; in exchange for Claire's freedom to pursue a normal life, he'd agreed to shoot Nathan. (Angela hadn't intended for him to die, of course; she'd been waiting at the hospital with a bag of Claire's blood.) "Mother owns you. So maybe you ought to be a little nicer to me," he finished. He sat back and crossed his arms smugly.
"And why do you think your mother ordered me to be your partner?" Bennet said. "She's waiting for you to snap again."
Sylar stared at him for a moment, stunned. That couldn't be true - could it? "You're a liar," he said.
Bennet gave him a cold smile. "Sometimes," he said. "But not always. You're an accomplished liar yourself - you should be able to tell."
Sylar's left hand began to twitch. It would be very easy to kill him - just a quick swipe of the finger, and the top of his head would come clean off. Well, not clean - there would be blood spattered everywhere, it would spray all over the windshield and the seats, and there would be bits of bone and brain, and he'd smash those stupid glasses, too - he could already hear the satisfying crunch as the frames bent under telekinetic force...
He could do that. He had that power. But it would only prove Bennet right, the smug son of a bitch. "You're trying to bait me," he said. "It's not going to work again."
It was the first time that he'd let on that he knew about Bennet's involvement with Gabriel's downfall. A look of surprise passed over Bennet's face, but he contained it quickly. "I don't know what you mean."
"You really are a liar," Sylar said. "I've seen my case file. I know what you and Elle did to me.″
Bennet sat back in his seat. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "That... went badly," he said. "We wanted to see what happened when you initiated an attack. Elle was supposed to have stopped you before it went too far. It was a bad plan, poorly executed."
Sylar was more than a little surprised by the admission. He seemed almost sorry. "So you admit it, then," Sylar said. "You made me what I am."
Bennet put his glasses back on; his gaze was much fiercer when it was filtered through the severe frames. "Don't push it, Sylar. You were already a murderer several times over by the time we got to you. I didn't make you do a damn thing."
"Gabriel," he corrected. "It's Gabriel Petrelli now."
"You can't just decide that," Bennet said. "You can't just change your name and become a different person."
"I can," he said. "I have."
"Then tell me this," Bennet said. "When you think of yourself, what's the name that first comes to your mind?"
"Gabriel Petrelli," Sylar said.
"Really."
"Yes, really."
Bennet made a skeptical sound. ″Even if that were true, it wouldn't change what you are.″
"And what is that?" Sylar said. "A monster? A killer, like you?"
Bennet scoffed. "Oh please," he said. "Don't even try to equate the things you've done with me."
"Why? The people you've killed have ended up just as dead. Why does it matter how it happened?"
"I've defended myself. That's all. You ripped open innocent people to satisfy your sick compulsions. Not even you are crazy enough to not see the difference."
"And what about the man you threw to me?" he said. "Was that 'self-defense?'"
"You killed him," Bennet said, his voice raising. "Not me!"
Sylar was pleased to see that he'd touched a nerve. "What you did was the equivalent of pushing someone into a lion's den. But you didn't care, did you? You were just following orders, right?"
"I'm not discussing this with you."
Sylar ignored him. "I've always been curious - what exactly drew you to this line of work? What made you want to spend your life shooting people up with drugs and dragging them to be experimented on?"
"Shut up," Bennet said.
"You're a hypocrite," Sylar said. "A liar, a killer, and a hypocrite. I may be sick, but I never chose to be what I am. You did. What does that make you?"
Bennet's face had turned a very dangerous shade of red. Sylar wasn't sure what would happen next - did Bennet have a gun hidden somewhere on his person? Would he try to use it? And what would Sylar do if he did? He didn't imagine that Mother would be thrilled if Sylar killed him, even if it was self-defense. It turned out to be a moot point, because Bennet took a deep breath and brought himself into check. Within a minute, he seemed his usual calm, collected self. But Bennet was never really calm, Sylar was learning.
Bennet turned the keys to start the mobile and pulled out onto the empty road. Sylar thought the conversation was over, but after a few minutes of driving, Bennet spoke again. "Are you sorry?"
"About what?"
"About the people you've killed," Bennet said, his eyes not leaving the road. "Does it haunt you? Do you go over ever moment that happened in your head, wondering what you should have done differently, wondering if all of the justifications are just flimsy rationales you tell yourself so you can sleep at night? Except you can't sleep sometimes, and you see their faces, see the blood - " He finally looked at Sylar. "Do you?" When Sylar didn't respond right away, Bennet just shook his head and turned back to the road. "And that's the difference between you and me."
Sylar slouched down in his seat. It wasn't that he wasn't sorry; he was, in an abstract sort of way. But he'd put the memory of those killings in a mental box and shoved it into a dark corner in his brain. If he opened that box, he'd end up the same as poor Gabriel. "Well, I'm sure the families of the people you've killed rest easier because you have trouble sleeping sometimes," he said sarcastically.
"That isn't the point," Bennet said. "The point is that I feel bad about what I've done. Do you feel bad? Do you feel anything at all?"
"Of course I feel things," Sylar said.
"I'm not sure you do," Bennet said. "If you were really capable of feeling, the guilt over what you've done would cripple you."
"And what good would that do?" Sylar said. "No matter how bad I felt, those people would still be dead. So why wallow in it?"
"And you've missed the point again. Feelings aren't something that you can just turn on and off arbitrarily. If you don't feel the magnitude of the damage you've done, then you also can't feel love, or happiness, or anything else. The only true feelings I've ever seen you have are hunger, and anger when that hunger isn't fulfilled. You're a reptile, Sylar. You literally can't change - you lack the capacity."
Sylar wasn't sure what to say to that. They rode in silence for a little while. "Do you feel bad about what you did to me?" Sylar asked after a while.
Bennet didn't answer right away. "Yes," he finally said.
Sylar remembered the moment when Gabriel finally gave up. It was after Elle had fled, and Sylar had sawed the top of that stupid little punk's head off; Gabriel had seen his reflection in the man's dying eyes. He'd screamed - a long, jagged wound of a sound. By the time the scream ended, Gabriel was simply gone, and he'd taken all of his inhibitions and insecurities with him. It had been a liberating feeling. He ought to be thanking Bennet, really. "He was so scared at the end," he said quietly.
"Yes, I imagine he was," Bennet said with disgust.
Sylar realized that he thought he'd been talking about the man he'd killed. He didn't bother to correct him; where would he even start?
They spent the rest of the trip in silence. When they got to the facility, Bennet pulled into the parking lot and parked the mobile. "I'll let the lab technicians we've arrived," Bennet said. "They can take it from here. And then I'm going home."
"Isn't there something we should be doing?"
"You can do whatever you want," Bennet said. "Right now, I can't stand the thought of being a 'we' with you for another minute." Sylar couldn't disagree with that.
They exited the mobile. Bennet started for the lab, and Sylar headed to his car. Right before he opened the door, Bennet called out to him. "Hey, Sylar!"
"Yeah?" Sylar said automatically - and then scowled.
Bennet smiled at him smugly. "See you tomorrow," he said. Sylar didn't dignify him with a response.
Since it was a Sunday afternoon, Sylar made very good time getting home. He opened the front door and looked around for Mohinder, but wasn't surprised when he didn't immediately see him.
"Mohinder!" he called. "I'm home early!" He wasn't in the living room, dining room, or family room. He poked his head into the kitchen, but it was also empty; the pills were gone, but the stack of crackers remained. He headed up the stairs and into the bedroom. He still didn't see Mohinder, but the sheets and bedspread were missing. The door to the bathroom was closed. A feeling of dread pulled at his stomach. He turned the doorknob slowly and pushed the door open. The bathroom was empty. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
When he went back into the bedroom, he noticed a corner of a blanket sticking out from under the door to the walk-in closet. He rushed over and opened the door. The light was off, so Sylar switched it on. The first thing he noticed was that the floor was covered in wadded up tissues. He picked one up; it was sticky. At the very back of the closet was a pile of blankets, sheets and pillows; Mohinder's foot was sticking out from under it. Sylar pulled back the blankets until Mohinder was exposed. He was lying on his side, his arms held out in front of him. His hands were loosely open, and they were secreting a webby substance; Sylar supposed that explained all of the tissues. Sylar knelt down beside him and gently touched his shoulder. "Hey," he said. "Are you all right?"
After a long silence, Mohinder managed to creak out a response. "Hurts," he said.
"What hurts?"
"Moving.” With great effort, he rolled away from Sylar and shut his eyes. "Leave me alone," he said. "Please."
Sylar left the closet, closing the door gently behind him. He went downstairs, unsure of what to do with himself. There was something happening inside him; it felt huge and tumultuous, and he had no idea what to do with it. Finally, he pulled out his cell phone and called Bennet.
He picked up after a few rings. "What?" he said.
"Sad," Sylar said. "I feel sad. For him." He hung up the phone.
He could feel the chaos that he'd been managing to keep in check rumble through him. He went to the hall closet and pulled out all his cleaning supplies. He spent the next few hours cleaning, scrubbing and sweeping until everything was neat and shining. It made him feel better, like he was giving himself a fresh start. He'd try again with the routine tomorrow. Everything would be all right.
He set to work making dinner. He'd make spaghetti - surely Mohinder would eat that. He brought a plate of it up to the bedroom and set it in front of the closet, along with Mohinder's evening medication. He knocked on the door and told Mohinder it was there, but left before Mohinder responded. He didn't want to see him again, not right now. He slept on in the guest bedroom that night, feeling like a coward.
Onto Chapter Four!
Author: Seraphtrevs ( My Fic Masterlist)
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Genre: Tragicomedy
Word Count: (this part) ~4600
Warnings: Contains depictions of characters suffering from mental illness
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made, etc.
Summary: Sequel to Down To This. Company man Sylar has brought a superpowered (and psychotic) Mohinder to the Primatech facility in Hartsdale for treatment. After some finagling, he manages to get himself put in charge of Mohinder's recovery. With Mohinder by his side, Sylar hopes to live his newly minted dream of being Gabriel Petrelli, a Good Guy with a nice house in the suburbs, a loving partner, and a (relatively) honest job. Changing his identity, however, is proving to be much more difficult than he originally assumed, particularly when the people around him refuse to let him forget about his past.
A/N: Thanks once again to my beta, the fantastic aurilly!
This is a WIP. I've finished five of the eight chapters, and I'll be posting one chapter a week(ish).
Introduction and Table of Contents
Prologue and Chapter One
Chapter Two
Gabriel Gray had believed very firmly in routines. Every minute of his day was scheduled precisely. He woke up at 5 am every day, including weekends. He took a shower from 5:15 to 5:30, got dressed at 5:45, ate breakfast at 6:00, and read the newspaper when it arrived at 6:30 (although sometimes the delivery boy was late - he hated that, it threw everything off). He got to the shop by 7:30, opened at 8, and worked until noon, at which time he'd walk to the deli down the street and have either a ham sandwich (Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays), or a tuna one (Tuesdays and Thursdays). He’d go back to the shop at work until closing at 6 pm. He'd go home, eat dinner, and then allowed himself thirty to sixty minutes of television before going to bed at 8:30. He had to be precise about these things. Chaos lurked around the edges of every moment; even a small lapse in attention could make him lose days, even weeks.
Sylar was much more flexible; he had to take his opportunities when he could get them. But now that he was trying to create a new identity, he recognized the stabilizing ability of routines, and decided he should probably have one. Due to the nature of his work, he couldn't be quite as fanatically devoted to schedules as Gabriel was, but surely he could manage something.
His alarm went off at 6 am. He woke up with a sigh and reached over to turn it off. He rolled over and opened his eyes, expecting to find Mohinder still asleep, but the other man was already awake and staring at him.
"Uh," he said. "Good morning?"
"What happened to them?" Mohinder said. His voice was low and creaky.
"Who?"
"The people in my apartment."
"You mean the ones you cocooned to the wall?"
Mohinder didn't answer, but his jaw tightened and his eyes blinked once, hard.
"Well, of the men you had in there, one died. Not sure about the other two - I think one of them is still in a coma, but he might have gotten better."
"And Maya?" he said quietly.
"Oh, she's all right," Sylar said. "They were able to resuscitate her fairly easily; she obviously hadn't been there very long. Of course, she nearly killed everyone when she woke up, so they had to put her under until they can figure out what to do with her."
Mohinder shut his eyes, so tightly that his brow furrowed. He took a few shaky breaths. Sylar was worried that he was going to start crying, but after a few moments, he became very still. He opened his eyes again. He seemed eerily calm.
Slowly, he reached out his hand and put it on the back of Sylar's neck. To his shock, he proceeded to pull him in for a kiss. Sylar could not for the life of him imagine why Mohinder was doing this, but he'd take what he could get. This wasn't exactly what he had in mind when he'd planned his new routine, but he certainly wasn't opposed to scheduling in some morning sex. He put an arm around Mohinder's waist to pull him closer and began to kiss him back. Mohinder kept his lips taut and unyielding, so Sylar gave up after a few attempts to deepen the kiss and moved on to his neck, teasing the soft skin under his ear with his tongue while he worked his thigh between Mohinder's legs. He moaned happily when Mohinder shifted his hips forward, rubbing his body against Sylar's morning erection.
As Sylar continued his tender kisses, he noticed that Mohinder was murmuring something under his breath. "...deserve it, I deserve it, I deserve it..." he was saying.
Sylar stopped and pulled back. Somehow, he didn't think the unspoken part of that sentence was '...because I've been so good.' "Wait a minute," he said. "Are you trying to have sex with me as a way of punishing yourself?"
Mohinder looked away and said nothing.
"That's horrifying," he said, because it was.
The expression on Mohinder's face became stony. He gathered up the comforter and stalked over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Sylar sat in bed and rubbed his face. This was not an auspicious beginning to the day. He waited for twenty minutes. When Mohinder still hadn't emerged, he walked over to the bathroom and knocked. "Are you going to be much longer?" he asked.
There was no response. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. "Come on," he said. "I have to get ready for work." Still no response. He was considering using telekinesis to pop the lock when the door opened a crack. A razor, shaving cream, and a bar of soap came flying out before the door shut and locked again. Sylar stooped to pick them up. "What about my toothbrush?" he said. More silence was his only answer.
Sylar looked at the clock. It was already 6:43; if he wanted to be at work by 8:00, he didn't have time for a battle. He took the items and went to the guest bathroom. When he was finished showering and shaving, he wrapped a towel around his waist and returned to the bedroom. Mohinder still hadn't emerged from the bathroom, but that wasn't surprising.
It was 7:00. He picked up his cell phone and pressed three on his speed dial.
The phone rang twice before it was answered. "What?" said Bennet.
"Hi, partner," Sylar said. "Just wanted to know what our mission is today."
"Blood drive," Bennet said. "Be at the office by eight, or I'm leaving without you." He hung up the phone.
Sylar felt relief as he put down the phone. He loved this mission. On days that weren't too busy, he and Bennet would pretend to host a blood drive. They'd bring the collected blood back to the lab, where the scientists would test them for mutations. It was easy, and the way this morning had started, he was definitely in the mood for easy.
He opened the mirrored door to his walk-in closet and stepped inside. He sifted through the large number of uniforms, suits, and other disguises he'd collected until he found a nice polo shirt and a neatly pressed pair of khakis. After he put them on, he reached up to one of the shelves and pulled down a box of props. He pulled out a roll of adhesive name tags; he tore off a few and stuffed them in his pocket, along with a black marker. He also selected a thin gold chain with a small cross on it. He finished his look with white socks and a pair of slightly scuffed black tennis shoes. He stepped out of the closet and closed the door. He practiced smiling at himself in the mirror; he was already running late, but this step was important. Thoughts of church basements, green bean casseroles, and amateur softball teams filled his head. His smile shifted and softened. A new, temporary identity started to create itself.
Once he was satisfied with his work, he headed downstairs to the kitchen. He got Mohinder's pills from one of the cupboards. He was going to bring the medication wheel full of the week's pills up to Mohinder, but after thinking about it for a moment, he tapped out only that morning's doses and put the rest in his pocket. He sat the pills on the table along with a stack of saltine crackers.
He went back upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. "I'm leaving your medicine on the table. Remember to take it, and make sure you eat something. I'll be back by five." He didn't get a response, but he hadn't really been expecting one.
It was 7:32 when he pulled out of the driveway. Bennet didn't make idle threats; he really would leave without him if he was late. He stepped on the accelerator. So much for starting a fresh routine. He wondered if he should set his alarm a half-hour earlier every morning so he could schedule in time for Mohinder's craziness.
* * *
The Bloodmobile was impressive. It was almost as big as a bus; there were interview booths, beds, and even a little snack bar area in the back, where people could drink orange juice and contemplate what a good deed they'd just done. They called themselves the Special Cross, and as far as the law was concerned, they were a fully accredited, nationwide charity organization. For the most part, they didn't even have to go looking for places to go; people contacted them. The Special Cross was friendly and convenient, providing easy, feel-good publicity for businesses, churches and community events. No one ever bothered to check if the blood they took reached a hospital.
Bennet was standing beside it in the parking lot of the Hartsdale facility, arms crossed and a sour look on his face.
Sylar parked beside the bus and got out of the car. "Morning, partner," he said. He noticed, with glee, that Bennet was wearing khakis. The last time they'd done a blood drive, Sylar had pointed out that Bennet's suit made people nervous. That was the intended effect. Bennet had one tool in his kit when it came to dealing with the public: intimidation. It was, admittedly, a very powerful tool that could be used to hammer through most situations, but Sylar's subtler approach had proven itself to be very useful. Apparently Bennet had taken the advice to heart. It wasn't entirely effective - Bennet was one of those people who always looked like he was in a suit, regardless of what he was actually wearing. But the fact that he'd taken Sylar's advice was extremely gratifying. "I like the pants," he said.
"You're late," Bennet said.
Sylar was, in fact, not late; he was actually a few minutes early. He'd already scored his victory for the morning, however, and decided not to press the issue.
"Get in," Bennet said as he boarded the bus. "We don't have all day."
"Can I drive?"
"No," Bennet said without turning around.
They were going to a church. Those were always the easiest; people were already bursting with good will by the time they rolled in and needed very little convincing. The only trouble was that the church was two hours away, somewhere out in farm country. The classic rock radio station they were listening to eventually petered out. Sylar scanned through the stations several times, trying to find something interesting, but he didn't have any luck. He drummed his fingers on the arm rest and looked at Bennet out of the corner of his eye. He didn't look like he was interested in conversation, but Sylar was bored.
"So," he said finally. "How are Sandra and the kids adjusting to life in New York?"
Bennet's already tight jaw clenched further. "That's none of your business," he said.
"Oh, come on," Sylar said. "We're partners. We can't make small talk every once in a while?"
"You want small talk? Fine," Bennet said. "How's Dr. Suresh?"
There was a pointed silence. "He's fine," Sylar lied after a moment. "He's really impressed with the new place."
"Really?" Bennet said. "Has he regained enough of his senses to realize that the man who murdered his father is attempting to play house with him, or is he still too drugged and crazy?"
"You are terrible at small talk," Sylar said, making a face. Bennet just smiled.
After many long miles of corn and cows, they finally reached their destination. Bennet pulled the mobile around to the back of the church. "You want to go tell them we're here?″
"Wiat," Sylar said. ″We need names.″ He took the marker and two blank name tag out of his pocket and thought for a moment. He was struck with inspiration; he printed the names and stuck one on Bennet's chest before sticking one on his own.
Bennet looked down, then at Sylar. "'Abraham and Isaac?'" he said, raising an eyebrow.
Sylar smiled. "I'll be back in a jiff," he said, already feeling the cheerful, bouncy energy he'd imagined Issac would feel. He made sure the cross on his necklace lay over his shirt collar before stepping out of the mobile and making his way through the church's back door.
They were very busy. It was a Sunday, and the weather was beautiful; it was a perfect day for the picnic the church had organized. Sylar stood outside of the mobile, making small talk with the congregation. He told them about his wife and their two beautiful daughters. Isaac was, unfortunately, unemployed at the moment, but he knew that God would provide for him. In the meantime, he figured he'd donate his time to charity. It was very noble of him, everyone agreed.
They stayed for two fruitful hours, which produced thirty blood samples and an appointment for the next month with a local business owner. After the last donor had left, Sylar and Bennet cleaned up the equipment and made sure the samples were properly labeled and stored. It had been a very successful day, and Sylar felt pleased with himself. He couldn't tell how Bennet felt; he was always so dour for some reason. When everything was taken care of, they started the long drive back to Hartsdale. Sylar was still filled with bubbly, chatty energy. That happened sometimes when he took on identities; they would stick around longer than wanted them to. He really ought to have known better than to make another stab at conversation, but he couldn't help himself. "That went very well, don't you think?" he said.
Bennet didn't look at him, but he moved his head in an almost imperceptible nod. He didn't offer anything further.
Sylar sighed. "Look," he said. "If we're going to work together, we're going to have to figure out a way to at least be civil. I know that there's been some...well, bad blood between us. I'm willing to own up to my part in that. But I'm a different person now, and I feel like you're not even giving me a chance. I think that we make a pretty good team, so why don't you say that we agree to make a fresh- what are you doing?" he asked as Bennet pulled off to the side of the road.
Bennet waited until he'd stopped the vehicle before he answered. "I want us to be very clear about something," he said in a calm, measured voice. "We are not partners. We do not 'make a good team.' I'm working with you because I don't have a choice at the moment, but there's no doubt in my mind that your little stint as a Company agent won't last much longer. You and I both know that you like to try on identities like other people try on hats; you aren't a different person. Underneath it all, you're still Sylar, and you always will be. Sooner or later, you're going to remember who you really are, and when that happens, I'm going to be there to put a bullet in your brain. Until then, you will not talk about my family. You will not speak to me unless it has to do with the case. Do we understand each other?"
Whatever cheeriness Sylar had retained from earlier had completely evaporated at this point. "So if you're going to kill me, why don't you just do it now?" he said. "Oh wait, you can't, because my mother - your boss - has ordered you to work with me. And you have to do everything she tells you to. Why is that again?" Bennet glared at him, and Sylar smirked. His mother had told him all about it; in exchange for Claire's freedom to pursue a normal life, he'd agreed to shoot Nathan. (Angela hadn't intended for him to die, of course; she'd been waiting at the hospital with a bag of Claire's blood.) "Mother owns you. So maybe you ought to be a little nicer to me," he finished. He sat back and crossed his arms smugly.
"And why do you think your mother ordered me to be your partner?" Bennet said. "She's waiting for you to snap again."
Sylar stared at him for a moment, stunned. That couldn't be true - could it? "You're a liar," he said.
Bennet gave him a cold smile. "Sometimes," he said. "But not always. You're an accomplished liar yourself - you should be able to tell."
Sylar's left hand began to twitch. It would be very easy to kill him - just a quick swipe of the finger, and the top of his head would come clean off. Well, not clean - there would be blood spattered everywhere, it would spray all over the windshield and the seats, and there would be bits of bone and brain, and he'd smash those stupid glasses, too - he could already hear the satisfying crunch as the frames bent under telekinetic force...
He could do that. He had that power. But it would only prove Bennet right, the smug son of a bitch. "You're trying to bait me," he said. "It's not going to work again."
It was the first time that he'd let on that he knew about Bennet's involvement with Gabriel's downfall. A look of surprise passed over Bennet's face, but he contained it quickly. "I don't know what you mean."
"You really are a liar," Sylar said. "I've seen my case file. I know what you and Elle did to me.″
Bennet sat back in his seat. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "That... went badly," he said. "We wanted to see what happened when you initiated an attack. Elle was supposed to have stopped you before it went too far. It was a bad plan, poorly executed."
Sylar was more than a little surprised by the admission. He seemed almost sorry. "So you admit it, then," Sylar said. "You made me what I am."
Bennet put his glasses back on; his gaze was much fiercer when it was filtered through the severe frames. "Don't push it, Sylar. You were already a murderer several times over by the time we got to you. I didn't make you do a damn thing."
"Gabriel," he corrected. "It's Gabriel Petrelli now."
"You can't just decide that," Bennet said. "You can't just change your name and become a different person."
"I can," he said. "I have."
"Then tell me this," Bennet said. "When you think of yourself, what's the name that first comes to your mind?"
"Gabriel Petrelli," Sylar said.
"Really."
"Yes, really."
Bennet made a skeptical sound. ″Even if that were true, it wouldn't change what you are.″
"And what is that?" Sylar said. "A monster? A killer, like you?"
Bennet scoffed. "Oh please," he said. "Don't even try to equate the things you've done with me."
"Why? The people you've killed have ended up just as dead. Why does it matter how it happened?"
"I've defended myself. That's all. You ripped open innocent people to satisfy your sick compulsions. Not even you are crazy enough to not see the difference."
"And what about the man you threw to me?" he said. "Was that 'self-defense?'"
"You killed him," Bennet said, his voice raising. "Not me!"
Sylar was pleased to see that he'd touched a nerve. "What you did was the equivalent of pushing someone into a lion's den. But you didn't care, did you? You were just following orders, right?"
"I'm not discussing this with you."
Sylar ignored him. "I've always been curious - what exactly drew you to this line of work? What made you want to spend your life shooting people up with drugs and dragging them to be experimented on?"
"Shut up," Bennet said.
"You're a hypocrite," Sylar said. "A liar, a killer, and a hypocrite. I may be sick, but I never chose to be what I am. You did. What does that make you?"
Bennet's face had turned a very dangerous shade of red. Sylar wasn't sure what would happen next - did Bennet have a gun hidden somewhere on his person? Would he try to use it? And what would Sylar do if he did? He didn't imagine that Mother would be thrilled if Sylar killed him, even if it was self-defense. It turned out to be a moot point, because Bennet took a deep breath and brought himself into check. Within a minute, he seemed his usual calm, collected self. But Bennet was never really calm, Sylar was learning.
Bennet turned the keys to start the mobile and pulled out onto the empty road. Sylar thought the conversation was over, but after a few minutes of driving, Bennet spoke again. "Are you sorry?"
"About what?"
"About the people you've killed," Bennet said, his eyes not leaving the road. "Does it haunt you? Do you go over ever moment that happened in your head, wondering what you should have done differently, wondering if all of the justifications are just flimsy rationales you tell yourself so you can sleep at night? Except you can't sleep sometimes, and you see their faces, see the blood - " He finally looked at Sylar. "Do you?" When Sylar didn't respond right away, Bennet just shook his head and turned back to the road. "And that's the difference between you and me."
Sylar slouched down in his seat. It wasn't that he wasn't sorry; he was, in an abstract sort of way. But he'd put the memory of those killings in a mental box and shoved it into a dark corner in his brain. If he opened that box, he'd end up the same as poor Gabriel. "Well, I'm sure the families of the people you've killed rest easier because you have trouble sleeping sometimes," he said sarcastically.
"That isn't the point," Bennet said. "The point is that I feel bad about what I've done. Do you feel bad? Do you feel anything at all?"
"Of course I feel things," Sylar said.
"I'm not sure you do," Bennet said. "If you were really capable of feeling, the guilt over what you've done would cripple you."
"And what good would that do?" Sylar said. "No matter how bad I felt, those people would still be dead. So why wallow in it?"
"And you've missed the point again. Feelings aren't something that you can just turn on and off arbitrarily. If you don't feel the magnitude of the damage you've done, then you also can't feel love, or happiness, or anything else. The only true feelings I've ever seen you have are hunger, and anger when that hunger isn't fulfilled. You're a reptile, Sylar. You literally can't change - you lack the capacity."
Sylar wasn't sure what to say to that. They rode in silence for a little while. "Do you feel bad about what you did to me?" Sylar asked after a while.
Bennet didn't answer right away. "Yes," he finally said.
Sylar remembered the moment when Gabriel finally gave up. It was after Elle had fled, and Sylar had sawed the top of that stupid little punk's head off; Gabriel had seen his reflection in the man's dying eyes. He'd screamed - a long, jagged wound of a sound. By the time the scream ended, Gabriel was simply gone, and he'd taken all of his inhibitions and insecurities with him. It had been a liberating feeling. He ought to be thanking Bennet, really. "He was so scared at the end," he said quietly.
"Yes, I imagine he was," Bennet said with disgust.
Sylar realized that he thought he'd been talking about the man he'd killed. He didn't bother to correct him; where would he even start?
They spent the rest of the trip in silence. When they got to the facility, Bennet pulled into the parking lot and parked the mobile. "I'll let the lab technicians we've arrived," Bennet said. "They can take it from here. And then I'm going home."
"Isn't there something we should be doing?"
"You can do whatever you want," Bennet said. "Right now, I can't stand the thought of being a 'we' with you for another minute." Sylar couldn't disagree with that.
They exited the mobile. Bennet started for the lab, and Sylar headed to his car. Right before he opened the door, Bennet called out to him. "Hey, Sylar!"
"Yeah?" Sylar said automatically - and then scowled.
Bennet smiled at him smugly. "See you tomorrow," he said. Sylar didn't dignify him with a response.
Since it was a Sunday afternoon, Sylar made very good time getting home. He opened the front door and looked around for Mohinder, but wasn't surprised when he didn't immediately see him.
"Mohinder!" he called. "I'm home early!" He wasn't in the living room, dining room, or family room. He poked his head into the kitchen, but it was also empty; the pills were gone, but the stack of crackers remained. He headed up the stairs and into the bedroom. He still didn't see Mohinder, but the sheets and bedspread were missing. The door to the bathroom was closed. A feeling of dread pulled at his stomach. He turned the doorknob slowly and pushed the door open. The bathroom was empty. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
When he went back into the bedroom, he noticed a corner of a blanket sticking out from under the door to the walk-in closet. He rushed over and opened the door. The light was off, so Sylar switched it on. The first thing he noticed was that the floor was covered in wadded up tissues. He picked one up; it was sticky. At the very back of the closet was a pile of blankets, sheets and pillows; Mohinder's foot was sticking out from under it. Sylar pulled back the blankets until Mohinder was exposed. He was lying on his side, his arms held out in front of him. His hands were loosely open, and they were secreting a webby substance; Sylar supposed that explained all of the tissues. Sylar knelt down beside him and gently touched his shoulder. "Hey," he said. "Are you all right?"
After a long silence, Mohinder managed to creak out a response. "Hurts," he said.
"What hurts?"
"Moving.” With great effort, he rolled away from Sylar and shut his eyes. "Leave me alone," he said. "Please."
Sylar left the closet, closing the door gently behind him. He went downstairs, unsure of what to do with himself. There was something happening inside him; it felt huge and tumultuous, and he had no idea what to do with it. Finally, he pulled out his cell phone and called Bennet.
He picked up after a few rings. "What?" he said.
"Sad," Sylar said. "I feel sad. For him." He hung up the phone.
He could feel the chaos that he'd been managing to keep in check rumble through him. He went to the hall closet and pulled out all his cleaning supplies. He spent the next few hours cleaning, scrubbing and sweeping until everything was neat and shining. It made him feel better, like he was giving himself a fresh start. He'd try again with the routine tomorrow. Everything would be all right.
He set to work making dinner. He'd make spaghetti - surely Mohinder would eat that. He brought a plate of it up to the bedroom and set it in front of the closet, along with Mohinder's evening medication. He knocked on the door and told Mohinder it was there, but left before Mohinder responded. He didn't want to see him again, not right now. He slept on in the guest bedroom that night, feeling like a coward.
Onto Chapter Four!