Fic-Narcolepsy (Part 1)
Title: Narcolepsy
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: smut, violence, language, jealous love between personalites, character death
Summary: 'I'm on a train, but there's no one at the helm and there's a demon in my brain that starts to overwhelm.'
The dry, gritty heat of Las Vegas is a welcome change; the endless stretches of red sand and struggling plant life an entirely different kind of barren from Montana’s frozen landscape. It’s refreshing, in its own way, especially for Mohinder, who still finds America to be far too cold for his tastes.
Sighing, he glances over at his companion, quirking an eyebrow at the other man’s antics. Zane has the window down, his hand riding the rushing wind, an intent look on his face as he bobs his head along to the radio.
The sight is inexplicably comforting, a welcome bit of normalcy after everything that has happened. Guilt still weighs heavily on Mohinder’s conscience, Dale’s gruesome end etched permanently in his memory. They had stopped at a payphone a few miles away, given an anonymous tip to the police before continuing on their way. It had bothered Mohinder, had felt wrong to just abandon the woman, but he knew it had been their only option.
Mohinder knows that he is, by nature, obsessive. The ability to put something out of his mind and not think on it again is by no means his strongest attribute. It’s the scientist in him, he’s sure, and usually he can deal with it. But when he’d been confronted with Dale’s corpse, blood still wet on the garage floor…the last thing he’d wanted to do was obsess, or think of it at all, and so he’d turned that same, single-minded focus to his companion instead.
Normally, the other man was an avid participant in conversation, eager to spin theories with Mohinder about the smallest of things. It was one of the things that had initially drawn the scientist to him, as well as infinitely easing the long hours of driving. But since Montana…Zane had ignored each and every one of Mohinder’s attempts to draw him out of his self-imposed shell, instead staring blankly out the window in stony silence.
Afraid he’d gone into shock, Mohinder had wound up paying more attention to him than the road, an ear-splitting horn being his only warning before he’d drifted into oncoming traffic. Jerking the car back into the right lane, Mohinder had sworn, turning to apologize to Zane when he saw the other man had his head buried in his hands, tears streaming down his face. Heart breaking a little in his chest, Mohinder had pulled to the side of the highway, resting a comforting hand on Zane’s shoulder as he whispered reassurances.
As their journey wore on, Zane’s spirits had seemed to brighten, even going so far as to turn on the radio. Pleased, Mohinder hadn’t even debated his music selection, though rap was by no means his favorite. Hoping to further brighten the other’s mood, he’d told him about the woman they were going to visit next, relieved when that quiet smile had resurfaced.
Tearing his thoughts back to the present, Mohinder makes another turn down a decrepit street, glancing at the scrap of paper clutched in his right hand. Nicole Sanders. He can’t remember if he had called her, hopes he didn’t because at least then there’s a chance she might listen to him. He sighs, perhaps a bit too heavily, because Zane’s looking at him now, shooting him an encouraging grin. Mohinder feels a matching smile come to his lips unbidden, warmth spreading through his chest.
Not for the first time, he thinks how lucky he is that he found Zane.
They pull into an already full driveway, a SUV and battered Cadillac sharing the cramped space. Taking a deep breath, Mohinder shuts off the engine, pocketing the keys and turning to his companion. “Ready?” he asks, trying to keep his voice confident.
“Ready.” Zane affirms, tucking his hands in his sleeves. “Don’t worry, Mohinder. It’ll be fine.”
Mohinder nods, opening his door and climbing out the car, straightening his collar and running a hand through his hair in some attempt to look presentable. He knocks on the front door twice, Zane standing quietly behind him.
After a few moments, a thin blonde woman answers the door, a wary expression on her pointed features. “Can I help you?” she asks through the screen.
Mohinder puts on his best charming smile. “Yes, you can, Ms. Sanders. My name is Mohinder Suresh and this is Zane Taylor,” Zane gives a small, awkward wave, “and if you have a minute, we’d very much like to speak with you.”
She doesn’t respond for a minute, eyeing them. “Are you with Linderman? Cause if so-”
Frowning, he interrupts her, hands spread out in supplication. “I don’t know anyone named Linderman, Ms. Sanders, I promise you. I would just like to talk.”
She stares a moment longer, before nodding and opening the screen door. “Alright. Come in, but you better not try anything funny. My husband’s right down the hall.”
Mohinder smiles his gratitude, hoping to put her at ease. “Of course not, Ms. Sanders,” he assures her, following her into the small, but tidy house.
“Call me Niki,” she says, jerking her head to the adjacent room. “We can talk in the kitchen, but you have to keep it down. Micah’s still at school but my husband works nights at the warehouse and I’d rather not wake him.”
“Of course,” Mohinder repeats, taking a seat at the kitchen table, Zane doing so as well. Niki remains standing, watching them, and Mohinder gets the feeling he’d better talk quickly.
“Ms. San-Niki. Have you ever heard of the human genome project?”
She just looks at him.
“Yes, well, it is come to my attention that you may be one of a select group of individuals with…abilities.” Mohinder finishes lamely, aware that he sounds like some kind of demented game show host. “We came today, Niki, because we know what’s happening to you and we want to help you, help you understand it, control it.”
Suspicion crosses her features and she takes a step backwards, crossing her arms over her chest. “What do you mean you know? Who are you people?”
“Zane…?” Mohinder turns to the other man, a pleading look on his face. Zane nods immediately, reaching into his pockets for a piece of paper and some change. He sets the coins on top of the paper, glancing up at Niki.
“I know what you’re going through,” he says, his voice earnest. “That you don’t understand what’s happening to you. But there’s no need to be afraid. You’re special. And Mohinder can help you. I know because he helped me. You see, I’m special, too.”
He reaches out a hand, furrowing his brow, and a moment later, the coins shimmer and ripple into tiny liquid puddles, hardening instantly. Zane looks up, pleased and expectant, and smiling, Mohinder turns to see Niki’s reaction.
His smile fades.
Her face is tense, frightened. Swallowing, she pushes away from the counter and nods towards the door. “I think you should leave.”
“But Niki-”
“I said leave.” Something in the woman’s face shifts, her posture relaxing infinitesimally even as her eyes harden. “I won’t tell you again.”
Mohinder’s stomach drops in disappointment and unease. Nodding, he pushes away from the table, motions for Zane to follow him. She stalks behind them until they are out the door, the screen banging shut behind them. Unwilling to give up completely, Mohinder turns back to face her, his voice cajoling.
“Ms. Sanders, I wish you would give us a chance to explain. We don’t mean you any harm.”
A mocking smile crosses her face. “Oh, yeah? Well, let me explain something to you, Dr. Suresh. If you so much as come near this house again, I’ll show you the meaning of harm.”
Mohinder stares at her a moment, startled, before nodding and backing away. “Sorry to have bothered you, Ms. Sanders. It won’t happen again.”
Defeated, he climbs in the car, Zane quiet at his side.
**
The infernal tapping of Mohinder’s foot on the worn linoleum is driving him mad.
Gritting his teeth, Sylar rips his napkin into tiny little pieces, trying to resist the urge to implant a fork between Mohinder’s eyes. You need him, he thinks, trying to calm himself. You can’t kill him. Yet. Just focus. Focus on tonight.
Tonight. Another addition to the collection and the thought of it is making his hands itch. He wants to get out of this revolting place, wants to check into the motel and then go. Collect. He grins to himself. Super strength, Mohinder had said, and the doctor hadn’t been wrong yet. Soon, he thinks, satisfaction rising in him, soon.
“Dammit,” he hears, and looks up, puzzled. Swearing is out of character for the doctor; being ignored must really be getting to him.
Mohinder is fiddling in annoyance with his watch, sighing and tossing it carelessly on the table. “Cheap piece of…”
I can fix it. He bites his lip hard against the words, rising to his tongue unbidden. No, he can’t. He is Zane, and Zane can’t even fix his own hair properly, let alone a broken timepiece. He can’t. But the knowledge doesn’t keep him from staring at the watch, abandoned on the greasy table, his palms itching to hold it, touch it, fix it.
He snaps out of his daydream as their food arrives, Mohinder muttering in resignation that they’ll have to leave in the morning, head for the next person. He hears some kind of encouraging tripe falling from his lips but he pays it no mind. Tonight. And then another, soon.
They eat their meal in silence, each man focused on his own thoughts, Sylar’s eyes returning unwilling to the broken timepiece.
Those bastards had taken his away, like it was theirs to take, as if it didn’t mean anything. He missed it, missed the comforting feel of the band around his wrist and the ever-present reminder of the broken face. It had seemed strangely fitting to leave it that way, a silent rejection of everything he used to be, everything that the elder Suresh had deemed unworthy. Sylar looks at the abandoned timepiece, clenching his teeth together in anger.
It seems the Suresh family has a habit of casting things aside.
When the other man rises to pay the bill, Sylar slips the forgotten watch in his pocket.
**
The street is silent.
He stands in front of the house, hands in his pockets. Waiting. The driveway is missing a car and he vaguely remembers her mentioning a husband. Just as well-one less person to deal with means one less complication, and Sylar can certainly appreciate that. The watch feels heavy in his pocket, pleasantly familiar. He touches it lightly, reassuringly, before continuing up the driveway and onto the porch, unlocking the door with a twitch of his fingertips.
He opens it quietly, footsteps falling on nothing but thin air as he hovers mere centimeters off of the ground. He’s grown to appreciate the skill of the hunt, the look on their unsuspecting faces. Anticipation is pumping through his veins and he can hear the dull thud of his own heartbeat in his ears.
The living room is empty, television muted over some inane infomercial. If he didn’t know better he would’ve said the house was deserted. Standing still, he focuses on finding the heartbeat. And smiles.
A split second before the bat connects with his head, he stops it, wrenching it from surprised hands and flinging it halfway across the room, where it crashes into the TV, setting off a rainbow of sparks.
Niki is standing there, mouth agape, her skinny frame shaking with fear. “Micah, run,” she hisses to the small, terrified little boy at the hallway entrance. Sylar smiles at him. Waves.
“Mom…” the boy questions, his high-pitched voice grating on Sylar’s nerves.
“Run!”
He does as he’s told this time, his short legs making a break for it across the living room. Sylar rolls his eyes.
“Here, let me give you a head start,” he offers, a simple wave of the hand sending the boy flying across the room and through the large bay window, glass shattering, falling like raindrops on the living room floor.
“Micah!” Niki screams, but before she can move, he shoves her into the wall, pleased at the wet smack her head makes as it connects with the plaster.
He walks slowly towards her, teeth bared in a shark-like grin. She cringes against the wall, biting into pretty lips and mumbling fearfully. He picks up on the words easily and though the terror is right, the words are wrong.
“Not her,” she whispers frantically, her eyes darting around the room like a frightened animal. “Not her, oh god, she’s coming…”
Sylar sneers in disgust, lifting her by the throat and squeezing. He must be cutting off her air, but still she whispers, says it over and over, her legs kicking uselessly beneath her.
Something crosses her face then, like a cockroach scuttling over a waxed kitchen floor. The terror fades away to cool, amused certainty and for a surreal moment, Sylar imagines he’s looking at himself. Lined lips twist in a smirk.
“She’s here.”
He cries out involuntarily as a steel grip closes around his arm, bending it back until he can hear bones cracking. She’s stolen his grin, her teeth shining in the fading light as she takes hold of his jacket and throws him across the room, as if he were a mere doll.
Glass shatters as he crashes into the flimsy coffee table, slicing his hands and sticking in his hair. Swinging her hips, she saunters towards him, no longer the prey but the predator. Gritting his teeth, he motions with his hand and gives her a telekinetic shove backwards. Grim satisfaction wells up when she hits the wall once more with a sickening thud.
Dragging himself to his feet, he staggers over to her, pain shooting through his back. Raising a bloody hand, he concentrates and freezes her arms and legs to the floor. He’s tempted to turn her to a fucking block of ice, but no…he wants to see her eyes when he carves out her skull.
She breaks through four inches of solid ice without blinking.
Baring her teeth, she picks up the television set with one hand and fires it at him like a softball. He manages to deflect it in time, but the ottoman catches him at the knees, sending him in a heap to the floor. She breaks a door off of its hinges, raising it high above her head. For a split second, Sylar almost smiles. Her power is extraordinary. It almost makes his mouth water to imagine possessing it.
That is, if she doesn’t kill him first.
Letting out a hoarse yell, he rips the door from her hands with his mind, smashing it across her back and watching as she crumples. He crawls towards her, focusing all its strength on pinning her down, smirking as she struggles under invisible bonds. Sylar climbs on top of her, punching her square in the face and splitting his knuckles. It’s base and beneath him, but damn the bitch, he doesn’t care.
He can feel the agony coursing up and down his spine, but as he begins to make the incision, her screams echoing in his ears, it’s worth it. Just to imagine the sheer power contained in this simple package. It’s so close to being his.
He watches as her eyes widen, then blink against the blood, and the sharpness fades from her features. The plain little housewife is back, it seems, and just in time. Right before the light fades from those baby blues entirely, she lets out a single, horrified sentence.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.”
**
It’s never felt like this before.
Not even when he’d taken that repulsive woman’s hearing. His head feels as if it’s about to split in two, fire surging along his neural pathways and searing them beyond recognition. It’s crippling, and with a pitiful moan, Sylar folds in on himself, knees hitting the wet pavement. He keeps waiting for the blood to spill out and over his eyes, but nothing comes, and desperate for a distraction, he slams his fist into the gravel. His newly acquired gift creates a small crater, but he can’t even be satisfied.
Gasping, he crawls forward a few feet, everything in him protesting the movement. He clenches his jaw as tight as he can and squeezes his eyes shut, willing the pain to fade.
And it does.
He is stunned for a moment, in disbelief that it actually worked when he realizes that something much worse has taken its place. It’s like a tickle at the back of his mind, a part that he never ventures near, never dares go to and it’s getting stronger.
No, he thinks desperately, furiously, trying to push it back but to no avail. No, this cannot be happening! I am Sylar, not…not…
But it will not relent, no matter how much rage he throws at it, how much he pushes and as he looks down at the ground, sickness washing over him, he catches his mirrored reflection in a pool of water. No, not his reflection…
No! he screams, and is gone.
For the first time in nearly six months, Gabriel takes a breath.
**
He’s cold.
He can feel his teeth chattering inside his skull, and water seeping through his jeans. There is blood on his hands and his face, and every part of his body aches. He’s not sure how he got here.
Gabriel chokes, feeling bile rise up in his throat. Looking around him, he spots a motel a ways off, and little pieces of the puzzle start to come back. The clock shop. Dr. Suresh. The anger…Sylar. Oh, god, Sylar.
He does vomit then, sick with this knowledge, that his brain had been all but hijacked by a creature of his making, this whole time, and all of those people…all of…
Mohinder.
The thought has him stumbling to his feet, clutching bruised ribs. He makes off in the direction of the motel, unsure of why he’s so certain, of who Mohinder even is, but knowing the man can somehow fix this. His head is spinning and his legs feel weak, but he keeps going.
As he walks, he keeps checking over his shoulder, feeling as if there is someone behind him, breathing down his neck. Gabriel tries his best to walk faster, to outrun it, but it lingers, and it is with no small amount of relief that he reaches Mohinder’s door.
He knocks once, twice, wincing as his knuckles split further.
There is no response at first and then the door swings open to reveal Mohinder’s tired features. Features that shift to fearful horror as he takes in Gabriel’s appearance, broken and bloody under the yellow porch light.
“Zane!” he cries, his voice thick with worry, grabbing Gabriel’s good arm and ushering him inside the tiny motel room. “My God, what happened to you?”
The room is still spinning a little and Gabriel sits heavily on the unmade bed, trying to keep his breathing even. “I don’t know,” he confesses, biting his lip at the puzzled look crossing Mohinder’s face. “I couldn’t sleep and so I went for a walk and then…”
He stops, unwilling to continue the lie, but not knowing the truth. Mohinder seems to accept this, to his relief, and scurries to the bathroom to get a washcloth. Gabriel stares down at his hands, cut and marred. He feels uncomfortable and out of place and why did Mohinder call him Zane?
**
Mohinder can feel his heart hammering in his chest as he searches the dingy bathroom’s cabinets for some kind of antiseptic.
He’d been dozing at the cheap, cramped desk, his father’s notes scatted around him when he’d heard the faint knock. At first, he’d been tempted to ignore it and re-locate to the sagging double bed. But as it sounded again, he’d given in and crossed the room to answer it
The last thing he’d expected to see was Zane, frightening and bleeding, on his doorstep. His first horrified, heart-stopping thought was that Sylar had gotten to him, had somehow tracked them here from Montana. But no, if it had been Sylar…Zane wouldn’t have been standing there at all. The thought had done nothing to calm him.
His search proving fruitless, he wets and soaps up a facecloth, returning to the room where Zane is sitting, knees pulled up to his chin on the bed. Wincing, he kneels beside him and gently takes Zane’s hand in his own.
“I think you may have fallen on some glass,” he murmurs, cleaning the wounds carefully. Zane flinches under his touch and Mohinder feels his stomach do sick little flip-flops inside him.
Whatever happened has shaken Zane badly. The other man’s features are sharp with fear, watching every move Mohinder makes in nervous apprehension. He’s never seen the other man this way, with eyes like a hunted thing. The thought infuriates him, his hands itching to get a hold of the culprit.
Trying to calm himself, he starts to wipe the cuts on Zane’s face clean when the taller man suddenly pulls away, his eyes focusing on something across the room.
“Did you lock the door?”
Mohinder begins to shake his head and Zane is off the bed in a second, latching the deadbolt and flipping the lock, making sure the curtains are shut. Mohinder stays seated, hesitant to approach him in his agitation.
“Zane?” he asks gently, waiting for the other man to look at him, “ are you alright?”
Zane shakes his head, obviously upset, and bites at his lip. “I feel like…I feel like someone’s watching, like they followed me…I…” he trails off, folding his arms defensively over his chest.
The lost tone in his voice tugs at Mohinder and with hardly a thought, he stands and walks over to Zane, clasping him on the shoulder and meeting his eyes. “Hey,” he says quietly, waiting until he has his attention. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”
For a moment, he’s afraid he’s gone too far. Zane stares at him, eyes shining in the dull lamplight, and then slowly reaches up to grasp Mohinder’s hand. “Thank you,” he whispers, intense as always, and Mohinder can feel something fluttering in his chest.
**
Mohinder’s hand is warm and heavy on his shoulder, grounding him. He can still feel something teasing at the corner of his mind, unseen eyes boring into his skull, but the panic is loosening its grip. Gabriel takes a deep breath.
He doesn’t know this man, not really. He has a name, a face; jumbled memories of a madman, winding their way through his thoughts, distant and marred by contempt. He knows this is Chandra’s son, can see it in his eyes. That same, magnetic sincerity.
But there’s also something else. In his smile. Blinding and trusting and unreasonably safe. It pulls at him, tugs at his chest, and because of this, he tells himself, because of the eyes still peeking over his shoulder and the dread curled in his stomach, because of this, he lurches forward and presses his forehead into Mohinder’s shoulder, hunched over and shaking.
He can feel Mohinder’s surprise, but doesn’t move, just needs to have this for a minute. Slowly, Mohinder’s arms come up around him, settling lightly on his back, holding him in place.
“Zane?” Mohinder asks, his voice quiet. “Are you alright?”
Gabriel pulls away, uncomfortable, still not sure exactly who “Zane” is, and wishing for something, anything to make sense.
And then Mohinder’s touching him.
Softly. His fingertips brushing the side of Gabriel’s face, tracing the line of his jaw. Gabriel swallows, disconcerted, watching as Mohinder leans in closer, his expression intent, and…kisses him.
Gabriel nearly chokes in surprise, his hands curling into fists at his side. The kiss is light, the barest brush of lips and it terrifies him, freezes him to the spot. After a moment, Mohinder pulls away, watching him with a quiet anxiety.
“I…good night,” Gabriel blurts out, backing away and hurrying through the door, not knowing what to make of the look on Mohinder’s face.
Not knowing what to make of anything.
Shaking, he digs through his pockets for a key, fitting it into the ancient lock and twisting it hard, letting himself into the dark, dank little room. Taking a deep breath, he locks the door, closing the blinds and backing up until he reaches the bed, sitting down heavily.
He stares for a minute at the key in his hand, turning it over and slipping it into his pocket. In doing so, his fingers come into contact with cool, smooth metal. Frowning, he pulls the watch out of his pocket, gazing at it in silence.
Quietly, he goes to his bag, pulling out a small set of tools and setting to work, the actions calming him, quieting his thoughts, until finally, he can sleep.
**
Hands are flat on the desk, fingers spread and grasping at nothing. A quiet cacophony of sounds invades his ears; the ticking of his pocket watch, the dull thrum of the ceiling fan, and…
Stares at nails that are blunt and clean, scratching the dark wood, feels the floor under shod feet, the breath on the back of his neck, stirring dark hair suddenly long and brushing against his cheeks. Glasses form a familiar weight on the bridge of his nose.
“I know you’re there,” he tells it, not bothering to turn around. There will be nothing but shadows there and he’s not in the mood for games.
A warm voice pours into his ears, rough like honey over gravel and he shivers. “It? I’m hurt. And if my form bothers you, you can change it yourself. It makes no difference to me.”
He turns in his seat, staring at the meticulously made bed. He envisions black, and large hands, dark blue and toffee. The shadows bend and take form, sitting cross-legged on his bed in worn jeans and a black t-shirt. Short, dark hair lengthens, almost as an afterthought. A cruel grin stretches pale cheeks and he sighs.
“You’re wrinkling the sheets,” he says quietly, and toys with the idea of vampire teeth and claws, watching them flicker and then disappear as he changes his mind.
It reaches up and touches Its hair, a questioning look surfacing. He shrugs, looking at the grains in the floorboards, the watch silencing in the background. “You look better that way.”
It rises in a swift, graceful movement, walking to the bookshelves and thumbing along the spines. The mirror glints out of the corner of his eye, making his stomach turn. He knows what’s in there.
“And yet you don’t mind shutting me up inside while you run around socializing.” It drawls, bored, pulling out a book and putting it back. He notices It is careful to replace it correctly, and sighs a breath of relief.
“Things aren’t that simple. I can’t trust you.”
Shoulders tense under soft cotton at his words, and when It turns, there is a flash of anger in Its eyes. In one, violent movement, It sweeps all of the books off the shelf, sending them crashing in a heap to the floor. His jaw clenches, and he stands.
“Stop it. Don’t do that here.”
“This is as much mine as it is yours. I can break it all to pieces if I want.” The words are spat with contempt, sharp features angling in frustration.
“I don’t want to be here.” He says, turning to the door, but there are no doors. Not in this place. He should know that by now. He shivers as a feather-light touch ghosts over his throat. Wants to close his eyes but doesn’t.
“I miss you,” It says, whispering into his ear. “I miss knowing where you are.” Angrily. “What you’re doing.”
“I don’t belong to you,” he says, trying to move away, but strong arms envelope him, hold him in place as It brushes Its lips across his cheek.
“Shh, just be quiet. This is our time now. Our place. You don’t have to go anywhere else. I’m the only thing you need.” The words are soft, hypnotic, Its hand creeping up the back of his shirt, teeth nipping at his earlobe in a mockery of affection.
He wants to break the embrace, to push It back, down, away. This is insane, and sick, and makes no sense, none at all, but he stays frozen in place, feeling the caress of smooth fingers across the small of his back. The mirror splits behind him, groaning as it opens, slowly.
He shivers.
It kisses him, tongue plundering his mouth, teeth scraping harshly against his lips. Rough hands seize his wrists, leading him backwards, across the small room, back until…with a sudden horrified clarity, he realizes what It is trying to do. Where It’s trying to take him.
“Stop it,” he says, between bruising kisses, pushes, pulls, wills him to fade. A single black look is sent his way before there is nothing but shadow and empty space once more. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to ignore the pulsating of the mirror behind him, the shimmers and cracks. It is laughing in his head, in his ears, under his skin as the mirror gives way, melting into a silver puddle, staining the carpet and trapping his feet, trapping him there, and what’s behind it…
He wakes with a scream lodged in his throat.
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