Fic-Narcolepsy (Part 2)
(For header, see first post)
Mohinder sits awkwardly at the diner table, picking at his chicken sandwich.
As always, he had acted before thinking and as always, it had blown up in his face. Zane had been exceedingly quiet during the trip from Vegas, staring out the window and fiddling with his seatbelt. Mohinder had suggested music to no avail, even went so far as to inquire about the band on Zane’s t-shirt, which had been met with little more than a shrug.
And so here they sit, Mohinder berating himself silently as the quiet stretches. Suddenly, Zane looks up from the table, where he’s been folding napkins into tiny, concise squares, and reaches in his pocket. Smiling quietly, the other man lies something on the table. “You left this at the restaurant,” he explains, reaching for another napkin.
Mohinder looks down at his watch, amazed, picking it up and noting with surprise and pleasure that it was working like a charm. “Did you fix this?” he asks, impressed.
Zane shrugs, sipping at his soda. “It was easy. Just needed an adjustment or two.”
“Thank you,” Mohinder says warmly, snapping the watch into place on his wrist. “Looks like I won’t have to worry about missing our appointment with Miss George. I’m rather anxious to see her ability in action.”
Zane raised a heavy eyebrow, curiosity stamped across his features. “Really? What can she do?”
Mohinder smiles at him, pleased to see the awkwardness fading, and enthusiastically spearing a pickle with his fork. “It’s quite incredible actually. According to my father, she has the ability to transmutate her epidermal make-up into various elemental formats, particularly those she has been repeatedly exposed to.”
Zane blinks at him, swirling a fry in his ketchup. “Um, one more time?” A teasing smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “In English?”
Chuckling, Mohinder explains, “She can change her skin into any kind of metal or mineral she’s been exposed to.”
“Oh,” Zane laughs quietly, a wide grin gracing his features. “Why couldn’t you just say that the first time?”
**
The tattoo parlor is dark and cramped, graffiti-stained walls plastered with hundreds upon hundreds of designs, some sketched on notebook paper, others in polaroids, still others from various catalogues. The musty smell of cigarettes and ink permeates the air and Gabriel seriously doubts the place is anything resembling sanitary. But it’s quiet and oddly welcoming, so he tries his best to relax and be…sociable.
Perched on a stool behind the counter, stapling another sheet of designs to the wall, is a dark-haired young woman, dressed casually in a gray t-shirt and paint-stained jeans. Her arms are thin and bird-like, clothing hanging limply from her tiny frame as if she hasn’t eaten in weeks. Fragile. At the sound of the bell, she turns to face them, a smile lighting up her pale features.
“Hey, welcome to Mike’s. You pick it, we stick it.” She catches sight of Gabriel’s t-shirt, nodding approval as she pops her gum. “Dead Boys, huh? Nice choice.”
Gabriel returns her smile nervously. “Uh, thanks,” he stammers, glancing at Mohinder. Fortunately, the other man steps in, a warm smile crossing his features.
“Miss George, my name is Mohinder Suresh and this is Zane Taylor. We would like to talk to you about your…abilities.”
The girl’s stare shifts from Gabriel to Mohinder, an indecipherable look crossing her face. “You’re that guy who called me last week. The doctor.”
Gabriel winces at her tone, fiddling anxiously with his sleeves.
She sighs, climbing on top on the counter and swinging her legs listlessly. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but I have it under control. Besides, I’m not going to be your lab rat or anything.”
The Indian man shook his head hurriedly, rushing to reassure the woman. “No, of course not, Miss George-”
“Call me Adie,” she interrupts, biting on a hangnail.
“Yes, Adie, of course. All we want is to talk, to let you know you aren’t alone. Help you understand this ability. There are others out there going through exactly the same thing as you are.”
Her brow furrows in curiosity. “Really?”
A relieved smile breaks out across Mohinder’s features and Gabriel finds himself mirroring it. He knows how frustrated Mohinder has been, not finding anyone who will listen to him, anyone who will take him seriously. But this girl, she seems to have genuine interest in what the other man is saying, which is why he’s surprised when they both turn to him.
“Zane…?” Mohinder asks, his voice trailing off expectantly. But Gabriel doesn’t have a clue what he wants.
“Um, yes?” he asks back, trying to buy himself some time.
Mohinder’s smile is a bit perplexed as he nods towards the stapler Adeline has given him. “Would you mind giving Adie a demonstration?”
--staring at the toaster, focusing his thoughts, watching as it dissolves into a shimmering pool of metal and plastic, hearing the soft gasp of amazment and--
Gabriel blinks.
“Uh, sure,” he mutters, taking the stapler from Mohinder and setting it atop the newspaper the other man had lain down.
He holds out his hand, feeling awkward, and concentrates on the item, gritting his teeth in concentration. He wills it to bend, to flow, to melt into a perfect puddle of liquid plastic and metal.
Nothing happens.
Mohinder and Adeline are watching him in confusion. Frustration and embarrassment wells up in his chest, and closing his eyes, he concentrates as hard as he can. Moments go by, and then he feels something give, like water slipping through his fingers, and in relief, he opens his eyes, expecting to find a smiling Mohinder and a suitably awed Adeline.
Instead, he is looking at Mohinder over a smeared, plastic tabletop, a plate of fries half-finished in front of him. Mohinder is gesturing emphatically about something, his own food neglected entirely. Gabriel shakes his head, utterly confused, glancing reflexively at the clock over the counter.
He nearly falls out of his seat.
Eight o’clock. That’s impossible. They’d arrived at the shop at four, four-thirty at the latest! What the hell-
“I think she liked you,” Mohinder is saying, a grin crossing his face.
“Who?” Gabriel asks stupidly, his head swimming.
“Adeline. She was very…impressed…with your ability.”
“She was? You mean, I did it then? It worked?” He is ridiculously pleased for a moment, but that fades when he sees the puzzled look on Mohinder’s features.
“What are you talking about? Of course it worked. Zane, are you alright?” Mohinder’s brow is furrowed with concern and Gabriel feels ill.
“Can we go?” he asks, pushing his plate away, tucking his hands in his sleeves.
Mohinder nods, still obviously worried, and signals the waitress for the check. Gabriel sinks down in his seat, dread curling up inside his stomach. Faintly, he can feel something slithering through the back of his mind. Something cold, wet. Dark.
When he catches his reflection in the diner window, he’s not sure it’s him who’s looking back.
**
He sits on the bed, paralyzed.
The walls seem to shift around him, fading and sparking, as if he’s blinking very quickly, losing him in a constant state of déjà vu. He’s breathing too fast, trying to keep a hold of himself, trying to-
He chokes, looking down at himself in surprise and horror, standing in front of the door. Hurriedly, he shucks off his jacket, throwing it on the floor as if it were a poisoned thing, backing away and into the small bathroom, locking the door behind him.
Trying desperately to get a hold of himself, he clutches the edges of the sink until his knuckles are as white as the ancient porcelain. The room seems to shrink and bend around him, the dirty chipped tiles bulging grotesquely from the plaster. Gasping, he wills himself to be calm, to stay in control, to-
“Come on, now, Gabriel. You never actually believed you were in control, did you?”
The words are drawled in low tones; a voice so like his own and yet so horribly different that it makes him shudder. Gabriel chokes and clenches his teeth, staring into the mirror in utter hatred.
“Go away,” he hisses at the smirking face, furious and frightened. “Leave me alone.”
A mocking laugh and the reflected features twist in amusement. “And what would you do without me? Who would you be without me?” Sylar sneers at him, his contempt obvious. “I made us something, made you something. You’re nothing without me.”
Gabriel shakes his head fiercely, fighting the urge to cover his ears. “Stop it. Stop it, you...you k-killed all those people! You made me a murderer!”
A barely audible growl and Sylar leans in, his expression darkening. “I made you special. Isn’t that what you wanted? Poor little Gabriel, stuck in the watch shop, never amounting to anything. That worthless little meatsack was our ticket out of there. You knew it, you wanted it, all you had to do was reach out and take it and you didn’t have the balls. So I took it for you.”
Tears are burning their way down his cheeks as Gabriel shakes his head once more, pitifully, in despairing denial. “No…I didn’t want this…I didn’t…”
Sylar’s features soften in the mirror and when he speaks again, the jagged edge is gone from his voice. “I did it for you, Gabriel. You couldn’t and I knew that. You weren’t strong enough, so I was strong for you. Looked out for you, you know?”
Shutting his eyes tightly, Gabriel tries to block out the image, but the voice continues unabated, fingertips brushing ghost-like over his cheek. “I’m taking care of you, aren’t I? Giving you what you want? Who else do you have but me?”
There is a long quiet, a smirk hiding under Sylar’s gentle gaze, and then Gabriel speaks, his voice soft.
“Mohinder.”
The name breaks though the silence like shattering glass, falling from Gabriel’s lips in dawning realization. He opens his eyes. The concerned mask is gone from Sylar’s face. In its place is pure, unadulterated fury.
“What did you say?” he spits, eyes black with rage.
Gabriel gives him a small wistful smile and lets go of the sink, taking a step backwards. “I have Mohinder, now. I don’t need you. I don’t want you.”
Sylar’s jaw twitches with hatred as he hisses, “You have him? You have him? You ungrateful little shit. I’ll tear that son of a bitch to pieces, string his guts though the trees, you hear me? I’ll rip him apart until he’s nothing but blood and gristle and spit on the carcass, you hear me?”
Pain shoots through Gabriel’s hands as he smacks them against the glass, leaning forward and growling into Sylar’s face, “You won’t fucking touch him! I won’t let you!”
Sylar laughs.
“No!” Gabriel shouts, hitting the glass again, his chest heaving with anger and fear. “I won’t let you! I hate you! Go, get out of my head, you bastard! Get out!”
His fists connect with the mirror a third and final time, shattering Sylar’s image into a thousand sparking shards. Pain sparks through his hands and chest where the pieces had cut into him, but he pays them no mind. All he feels is Sylar’s slow, creeping retreat, as he sinks further and further into the back of his mind and then…nothing.
Gabriel takes a shaky, gasping breath, legs giving out as he collapses to sit, quivering, on the dirty floor. He is close to hyperventilating, he knows, and rests his forehead on his knees, trying desperately to calm down before he makes himself sick.
He sits there quietly for several long minutes, taking deep breaths in and out. His head is fuzzy, his body exhausted, but he can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth as he remembers his own words. The wondrous realization he’d come to.
He has Mohinder now.
And no one is going to take that away.
**
The knock comes at half past two.
Bleary-eyed, Mohinder goes the door, the oddest sense of déjà vu overtaking him when he finds Zane standing there, quiet and looking far too young. The other man’s face is inscrutable, dark eyes shadowed by the dim light.
“What’s wrong?” Mohinder asks, tilting his head slightly to the side, stepping forward a bit. “Zane?”
Before he knows what is happening, Zane’s fingers are twisting in his hair, their mouths pressed together in a searing kiss. Mohinder inhales sharply, fisting his hands in a soft black t-shirt, tugging at the other man until they are inside the tiny motel room, the door closed firmly behind them.
It is only then he pulls back, panting heavily, staring at the taller man. “Zane?” he questions, cursing himself for sounding so desperate.
Zane’s breathing is shallow, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and the sight goes straight to Mohinder’s cock. The taller man steps forward, reaching up and brushing his fingertips against Mohinder’s cheek, cupping his jaw with a warm palm. “Zane,” Mohinder whispers, not knowing why the name insists on falling from his lips, but needing some kind of answer.
But there are no more words between them, and Zane brings their mouths together once more, large hands heavy on Mohinder’s shoulders. He hooks his fingers through Zane’s belt loops, pulling him backwards towards the worn, unmade bed, groaning as the action brings their hips in contact, setting off sparks behind his eyes.
The mattress hits Mohinder in the back of the knees, sending them down onto the bed to land with an undignified “oomph”, teeth clacking together. Zane’s snicker is swallowed by Mohinder’s mouth as he twists and pulls at his own shirt, uncaring if it rips, tossing it distractedly to the floor.
Zane is warm and pliant under his touch, pressing hot kisses to Mohinder’s collarbone. But as much as he appreciates the other’s enthusiasm, he wants that damn t-shirt off and the Zane is not helping. Finally, he manages to removes the horrid thing, and runs his hands over Zane’s bare chest. The other man tenses unexpectedly.
Mohinder leans forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek, his forehead, the corner of his mouth, pushing lightly at his chest until he falls back to lie on the bed. Zane’s hands twist nervously in the sheets. Frowning, Mohinder kisses him again, stretching out along his length and simply resting a moment, tracing that strong jaw with his mouth and fingertips.
For a moment, Zane doesn’t move. But as Mohinder continues to kiss him, continues to draw feather light, imaginary circles on that flat stomach, the taller man relaxes once again, sliding a hand through Mohinder’s hair, tangling long fingers in his curls and bringing their mouths back together.
Zane is unpracticed, he can tell, but his intensity more than makes up for that fact. Smiling into the kiss, Mohinder drags his palm over the bulge in Zane’s jeans, his smile widening as the other man gasps and grabs Mohinder’s hand in needless encouragement. Biting down on Zane’s bottom lip, he strokes him through his jeans, himself hardening even further as the other man writhes beneath his touch.
Shifting until he’s straddling the other man’s hips, he brings their erections in line, pressing hot and heavy through soft denim, eliciting a ragged gasp from Zane’s lips. Mohinder rocks his hips lightly, the two men groaning in tandem at the friction the sensation creates. Zane pushes himself up, kisses along Mohinder’s shoulder as they thrust against each other, the Indian’s eyes sliding shut at the sensation.
Warm, firm hands grasp his hips, pulling him forward into each and every thrust. Mohinder’s heart stop starts with each blessed drag of friction, and forcing his eyes open, he gazes down at the man beneath him.
Zane is watching him, eyes smoldering like hot coals, full lips parted and kiss-swollen. He is darkness and light, beautiful, and Mohinder can’t remember the last time he wanted something this much. Frantically, he works at his belt, unzipping his pants and groaning when Zane strokes him lightly through the fabric.
“Zane,” he pants harshly, staring at the other man. “I want…I want you to fuck me.”
Zane’s eyes widen, surprise and lust etched into his features. “You want me to…” he whispers, as if unsure what he heard.
“Please…” Mohinder hisses, grabbing his wrist and placing his hand over his aching cock. “God, I want you so badly…please…”
The other man’s breath catches, then swallowing hard, he nods, and Mohinder finds himself flat on his back, scrambling to kick his jeans off, then underwear, his cock lying hot and heavy against his belly as he watches Zane strip beside him.
The dark-haired man kneels between Mohinder’s legs, stroking himself absently, running a warm hand across the Indian man’s thigh. Mohinder moans, his mouth dry, shifting his hips forward in encouragement. Zane watches him, biting his lip, but not moving, and it strikes Mohinder that Zane has no idea what to do.
Fuck, Mohinder thinks, rolling over on his side and hanging half off of the bed, digging around in his bag. He finds a rather crushed bottle of hand lotion and tosses it triumphantly on the bed. Zane is still not following, and fuck it, if he has to explain, he’s going to get some kind of foreplay out of it.
Pulling himself shakily to his knees, he reaches out, wrapping an arm around Zane’s waist and bringing them flush up against each other, their erections brushing velvet smooth and it’s enough to set sparks off behind his eyes. Lowering his voice until it becomes little more than silken sex, he whispers in Zane’s ear, telling him exactly what Mohinder wants from him, ghosting his fingers along a sharp hip and back, to that gentle cleft and down…
Zane gasps, shuddering against him, and smiling a wicked smile. Mohinder sits back, lying down and pulling his knees up, gazing at the other man. Zane swallows once, hard, and moves closer, coating his fingers with the lotion, tugging once, twice at Mohinder’s cock and in the midst of the Indian’s moan, pushes in.
The sensation is overwhelming, intoxicating, and it’s been far too long since he’s done this. A second finger soon joins the first, and Mohinder is writhing, sobbing with desire, listening to the fast, shallow breaths of the man above him.
“Now,” he whispers, demands, even though it’s going to fucking hurt like hell, he needs it. Wants it.
When Zane enters him it’s like hot knives piercing his flesh. It burns; rips him apart, it hurts so bad, so clear, but he can’t bring himself to care. He wraps his legs around the other man’s waist, pulling him closer, digging blunt nails into strong arms, rocking back to meet every thrust and god…
He comes so hard he sees stars, feels Zane muffle his cry against his shoulder, collapsing onto him sweaty and sated. Mohinder kisses his ear, his jaw, wraps his arms around that thin waist and tries to breathe.
Love you, he thinks, foolishly, prematurely. Whole-heartedly. Brands it into pale skin with fiery kisses, tries to communicate it.
Love you, he thinks, and is silent.
**
“Do you think people can be saved?”
Gabriel whispers the question against the curve of Mohinder’s shoulder, the room’s darkness pressing down around them. His body is tired, boneless with exhaustion and contentment. He is pressed against Mohinder like a second skin, the scent of spice and sex, foreign in his nostrils.
He doesn’t know whether he wants an answer or not.
Mohinder turns to him, smoothing a hand through his hair. Gabriel closes his eyes, enjoying the sensation, so much so that when the other man speaks, it takes him by surprise.
“I believe,” Mohinder says, his voice soft and slow in the silence, “there is always something to be saved in a person.”
Gabriel’s breath hitches at the words. He presses his forehead against Mohinder’s chest, breathing in slowly, shakily. Long fingers never cease their motions, winding through his short hair, soothing and calm.
“Our lives aren’t set in stone.” Mohinder continues, his tones washed with conviction and comfort. “We have free will.”
He doesn’t reply, just breathes, in and out. Focuses on Mohinder’s touch. His scent. Breathes.
“There’s always a chance.”
His jaw clenches involuntarily. Pulling away, he gazes at Mohinder, wondering if the other man really believes what he’s saying. Mohinder frowns, tracing the line of Gabriel’s jaw with his thumb, and says very, very softly.
““They just have to want to be saved.”
Gabriel closes his eyes.
Mohinder presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, pulling him down and close. “Go to sleep. We have to leave for New York in the morning.”
He submits, lying curled up against Mohinder and breathing in the scent of his shampoo, letting it wrap around him, comfort him. And sleeps.
**
It’s early when he wakes.
Grey light is creeping through the blinds, bathing the room in a pale glow. Mohinder yawns quietly, glancing at the clock and beginning to extricate himself carefully from Zane’s sleep-heavy limbs. He can’t help smiling as he does so, the other man mumbling indiscernibly into the pillow. Leaning down, he presses a soft kiss against Zane’s dark hair, feeling rather foolish, but pleasantly so, and ambles out into the living room.
They’d arrived in New York late last night, predictably enough, in the pouring rain. There’d been tea, and a brief, frantic search for Mohinder of the reptilian persuasion, thankfully found alive. There’d been sleepy conversation, half-hearted unpacking, and slow, lazy sex to the sounds of passing traffic.
Smiling around a yawn, he sprawls into the wooden desk chair, turning on the laptop and wishing for a bit of coffee. As much as he would’ve liked to stay in bed, to honestly forget the whole sorry mess, worry has been gnawing quietly at his stomach for days now. Ever since Dale…the idea that Sylar has been following them has weighed heavily on his conscience. He’s stopped himself from phoning Nicole Sanders several times now, fearing the woman’s reaction, but he has to know. Has to know that both her and Adeline are safe.
Feeling the familiar knot in his stomach return, he shakes off the last vestiges of sleep and performs a search, wincing as he types the words in. At least a dozen gruesome articles spring to the screen, complete with pictures. Sickened, he scans the first few articles quickly, a cold kind of comfort washing over him when both women’s names are nowhere to be found. And then…then he sees it.
Young Musician Found Slain.
Mohinder swallows hard, a strange feeling of dread crawling up his spine. Taking a shaky breath, he clicks on the article, flinching when it appears in all its horrid detail.
Zane Taylor, 28, was found dead in his home on Thursday afternoon with his head partially removed. This appears to be the eighth in a serial of murders with the victims left in this manner. Police suspect…
He feels numb. The blood in his veins has turned to ice, his stomach disappearing into his feet as the room bends and spins around him. The words on the screen stare back at him, damning him, mocking him for being such a fool, such a fool and oh god, he led him to them, he…
He fights the urge to vomit, his breathing harsh and heavy in his ears. With shaking hands, he goes back, scans the articles until…
Female Ex-Con Murdered In Suburban Home.
Choking on his own bile, Mohinder snaps the laptop shut, lurching to his feet. Dizziness washes over him as he recalls Zane no, not Zane standing on his doorstep, bleeding and beaten, glass in his wounds. And he had thought…Mohinder buries his face in his hands, wondering whether he’s going to scream or cry or both.
“Mohinder?”
Zane no, not Zane is standing behind him, rumpled and bleary-eyed, smiling hesitantly. “Morning,” he murmurs, then with a small frown, “Are you okay?”
The words sound far away, dull and drowned beneath the rushing noise in his ears. He feels shattered, like a broken teacup; witness to everything he thought he knew as it is laid bare and spit upon. Numbly, he feels himself reply, his voice mechanical and detached.
“Fine, Zane. Just tired.”
Zane not Zane, Sylar, oh god nods sympathetically, taking a couple of hesitant steps forward and pressing a soft, quick kiss to Mohinder’s lips. He steps back, tucking his hands in his sleeves. “I’ll make you some tea,” he offers quietly, smiling briefly and turning towards the kitchen.
Something numb and frozen inside Mohinder’s chest snaps at the contact, and as soon as the other’s back is turned, he snatches up the metal double-helix from his father’s his father, oh god desk, and with shaking hands and a cry of rage, smashes it across the back of Sylar’s head, watching in dark fury as he crumbles to the ground, blood streaming from his skull, spattered against the walls.
Trembling, he kneels, placing a hand at the other man’s neck, feeling for his pulse. It’s light and thready, but there, and Mohinder takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, trying to resist the urge to smooth his thumb along Zane’s jaw.
Not Zane.
Not anymore.
**
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