WIP amnesty!!!
Noah set his mug of coffee on the table and lifted his glasses from his face, rubbing his temples. The paper on the desk before him had been shuffled through a thousand times; the edges were now soft from coffee- and saliva-dampened fingers pulling page from page over and over again.
Nathan watched him over his own mug, through hard marbles of eyes. Behind him on the wall, a pyramid of photographs echoed his stare. "You think you're going to find something else in there?" he said. "It says the same thing it did this afternoon."
"Why me?" Noah said. "My flight experience is middling at best."
"You know these people. You know how to control them. If they get out of hand."
"If they get out of hand," Noah said, setting his mug down decisively and standing up from his chair, "no one man can stop them, whether it's me or anyone else." He turned to face Nathan, adjusting his tie and then reaching back to massage sore shoulders.
"I have more faith in you than that," Nathan said with a grimace.
"You shouldn't."
"I know." The two men shared matching dour smiles.
"So, one more time." Noah turned back to the table, picked up his mug and crossed the room to join Nathan in front of the wall. Taking a sip, he raised his free hand to lay one finger on the picture of Hiro Nakamura. "The Navy's bringing him from Tokyo as we speak."
Nathan shook his head. "They're good, I'll give them that. Hiro was out before he even knew they were there. Poor guy."
A quirk of eyebrows. "Your sympathy's appreciated, I'm sure." Noah slid his finger down to another picture. "Matt Parkman we'll pick up at his apartment. Same with Tracy. I'll handle Mohinder, and..."
"...and I'll take care of Peter," Nathan said grimly. "And Claire..."
"Claire goes untouched." Noah still had the sharp warning of accusation in his voice.
"I know that," Nathan snapped at him. "You think I want her locked up?"
"You're willing to lock up your own brother," Noah reminded him, a curl of disgust in his voice and a darkness in his eyes.
"Peter's one of the most dangerous of all of them," Nathan said. "You of all people ought to know that. You were there when he..."
"Save it," Noah said, smacking the wall hard enough that a picture in the lower left came loose and dove to the tile. "You can give that line to anyone else, but not to me, Nathan. This is all about control, isn't it? Reminding everyone who's the big brother."
"Don't start your psychoanalytical crap with me, Noah. I'm doing this for the safety of the American people. These people are dangerous."
"Except for you," Noah reminded him. "You're perfectly harmless. Because instead of your powers you use the government, just like any other politician would. That makes you one of the good guys."
"Damn right it does." Nathan crossed the room, turning his shoulder inward to knock Noah backward a step as he passed. "And in case you'd forgotten, you're working for me. What does that make you?"
"Your biggest asset," replied Noah evenly.
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Right. How many of these plans could you have made without Company files? How many of these people didn't you even know before I told you about them?" Noah advanced across the room, following him. Cold coffee sloshed uncomfortably in his mug.
"I could have gotten those files from Ma. You were just more convenient."
"And more capable. I have experience in the field, and as much as I respect Angela Petrelli, she does not."
"Listen to me," Nathan said, whirling. He slammed his coffee cup down on the desk beside him and pointed an angry finger at Noah. "I'm in control of this operation, you hear me? You do what I say."
Noah's eyes flew wide open for just a half-second. Then they narrowed to squints, and he smiled, thin-lipped. "Right. I can see just how in control you are," he said.
That brought Nathan to silence. He laid both hands on his desk and looked down, his jaw set.
"Anyway," Noah said, "we do agree on one thing." He lifted his mug in a bittersweet toast. "We both know it's impossible to try to control our daughter."
A brief laugh. "That's true." And Nathan picked his mug back up to knock it against Noah's. Together they drank one last cold sip.
--
A cell phone call was all the warning he got. The quick, gruff rumble of words. "Where are you?" And thirty seconds later, on the doorstep of the local hotel -- kind of a nice one, for once, with pretty blue covers on the beds and fluffed pillows -- Castiel stood. His eyes were downcast and the look on his face was just this side of sorrowful. In one extended hand he held out the soft cord of Dean's necklace. "I came to give you this back," he said.
Dean looked around. Nobody in the lobby was looking at him, but he still didn't like the concept of standing around with a sad-looking dude giving him back his jewelry. Suddenly his ring felt kind of itchy. He fumbled with it. "Come on up," he said, nudging his head toward the stairs.
This was a local hotel. No elevators. Only three floors, but they were well-lit and not too shabby. "This is a step up," Castiel noted as they ascended.
"Never heard of a town without a motel before," Dean said, and his tone made it clear that he did not consider it much of a step up at all. He climbed several steps ahead of Castiel, stopping to turn and frown when he thought he heard a noise akin to a snicker. Cas was getting mighty snarky in his old age.
He led Castiel into the room. Sam was in the bathroom, apparently singing in the shower. Castiel's eyebrows rose. This time Dean did share the snicker. "Try living with the guy," he said with a nonchalant shrug.
Across the room to the mini-fridge (this town's hotel wasn't completely useless), and Dean pulled out a cold one and sat down on the bed. "So what's with the necklace? I thought it was key to finding Dad. Didn't work the way you wanted it to?"
"It works," Castiel says. "It should work. I still haven't seen it."
"So you haven't found him yet." Dean shrugged. "Why stop now?"
In answer, Castiel thrust the pendant forward again. "Take it."
Dean crossed his arms. The beer bottle dangled uncomfortably beneath one elbow. "Why?"
"Put it back on." Castiel's face was unmoving, stern and grave.
"Cas, I'm used to you being cryptic as hell, but for once could you please explain--"
Too late. The rough hands were already over his neck, slipping the pendant back on. Dean wasn't fond of getting forced to wear anything, even his favorite pendant. His first instinct was to rise up in protest. But the closer he got to standing up straight, the easier Castiel's lithe fingers moved, until the pendant was around his neck and Castiel's hands were on his shoulders and he was standing face to face with the stonily determined expression.
"This is where it belongs," Castiel said. "It belongs with you."
"Cas, I don't understand--"
---
The phone was buzzing, or Mohinder might not have even noticed it. He was deep in research and hip-deep in dust, and he certainly had even forgotten, for the time being, that he owned a cell phone at all. When he left the libraries and headed out for dinner, of course, that was one thing. But when he was researching, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
Except for the buzzing phone. He dove for it and missed by several inches, knocking it backward and across the floor of the shack. Cursing, he lifted himself over the pile of files and chased it down. No service. As usual.
It took him a good good five minutes to find a pocket where AT&T had pierced the veil of the desert. He didn't recognize the number. But the voice, that he recognized.
He called back and didn't get an answer. He called again and on the first ring, "'Lo."
Mohinder smiled. Matt had probably had to do the same chasing-down-the-phone routine he'd just gotten through with. "Matt, it's Mohinder. Where are you?"
"Hunh? Whassa. ...M'inder?"
"Matt. Are you drunk?"
"Yeah, but... s'not what you think. He's quiet."
Mohinder shook his head. This was not the man he knew from four years of sharing a tiny apartment. Matt was a control freak. He didn't much relish getting drunk. And he didn'tlike anything that slowed him down. "What's wrong? I haven't heard from you."
"Yeah. Sorry b't that-- 'm in Caflorna."
"In California? Matt, you're not making a lot of sense."
"Need you to c'mover. Please."
The please was the first word that really rung true. Mohinder couldn't very well ignore it.
*
Sylar had taken over by the time Matt awoke the next morning. He stood triumphantly at the mirror, as Matt tried to fight his way through, and calmly deflected any criticism. "We're taking the old beer gut out for a spin," he said happily.
Matt's mind whirled. "We're not going anywhere."
"The royal we, is it? Because trust me, if you want to just lie down dead, Matt, I'm not going to stop you. Too bad, though. You can have this body back when I find my own."
"You'd like that, if I just lay down and shut up?"
"Well, yes. But even I know not to expect the impossible. So I'm just going to tune you out, all right?" A leering grin into the mirror. Matt tried to shout a response, but it was as though his mouth had been stuffed with cotton. He could only manage to make a gurgling sound, and even that was only in their mind.
What a strange sensation it was, being locked in one's onwn mind. Matt knew what to do when faced with an impossible situation: look around, try to find a way out. So he fell silent for the time being, took stock of what he could work with. Sylar had firm control of his muscles, his speech. But Matt could still see from behind his eyes, could still use his own faculties to think. And, best of all, he still hold the reins of his own power. This would be a trump card to use for later, he figured.
For now he'd lie low. And if he still had his memory intact from last night, he had another card up his sleeve.
The doorbell rang, and Sylar cocked his head in surprise. Oh, thank God, Matt sighed . Thank god.
*
Mohinder almost broke down the door when Matt didn't answer it immediately. But answer he did, looking actually quite well in his bathrobe, freshly showered and clean-shaven like a man poised to take over the world. "Mohinder?" he said. "What are you doing here?"
"What am I doing? You called me. You told me to come, don't you remember?"
Matt blinked. "I didn't..." Ascowl crossed his face. "Of course. I'm sorry. I was a little bit south of sober when I called."
"I noticed." Mohinder couldn't decide between relief and annoyance. Matt had sounded half out of his mind when he'd called. And so who was this cool character behind the screen door?
More importantly, why was he behind the screen door?
"Oh. Sorry. My bad." Matt smiled genially. "Come on in. I'll explain everything to you over a cup of tea."
"Tea?" Mohinder's brow furrowed. "You drink tea now?"
"Yeah, the wife got me into it," Matt said easily, but Mohinder thought for a moment that there was certainly a hesitant pause before the words.
*
You stupid idiot. What did you do?
What, you don't want to see your old friend? I thought you and Mohinder were close.
I'm not sure I know what he told you, but I shudder to think.
What, are you afraid he'll figure out something's up? Let's see how good your impression of me is.
Pfft. I've been living inside you for how long now? I'm not worried.
Not as long as Mohinder lived with me. I bet you it takes twenty minutes for him to figure it out.
You wish.
Twenty minutes. Mark my words.
*
"So basically," Matt said as he pushed the teacup across the surface of the table, "I promised my wife I wouldn't use m powers anymore."
"You keep referring to her as your wife. Are you two that close again?"
"Closer." A big, pleased grin. "Mohinder, this baby... it's been a miracle. Really."
Mohinder sat back, circumspect. "Really."
"Really." Another big smile.
"You seem happy enough." Mohinder took the cup in both hands, blew on it, and took a sip. He closed his eyes, briefly savoring the flavor. "Good tea," he said. Matt knew that small voice it was the voice of an utterly contented Mohinder, and he thought with a wild gallop of triumph that no matter how close Sylar and Mohinder had been, no matter how complicated their relationship, he'd probably never know what it was to see Mohinder completely happy. A small ringing bell of triumph kept him inide, waiting.
"So I guess I'm just confused as to why you called me in the first place," Mohinder said after another long draught. "Your wife wants you to not use your powers anymore, that's fine, but what does that have to do with me?"
Sylar hesitated a moment. Matt cackled at his discomfort.
"My problem is," he said, "it's hard for me to stop. I feel like there's always something going on in here--" he put a hand on his own forehead-- "that I can't keep quiet. "
Yeah, that's called me, you stupid son of a bitch.
"So?"
"So, you're a doctor. Can't you figure out a way to shut up the voices in my head?"
Oh.
The inner Sylar grinned at him meanly. Matt heaved a long sigh. This was going to be tougher than he thought.
--
They didn't know much about the situation. Just that angels were dropping like flies, and it had something to do with Lucifer. When Gabriel regained consciousness, he gasped the details out between ragged breaths. "He's called in our debt, so to speak. The more powerful Lucifer gets, the more he can affect us. Now he's trying to pull us out of our vessels."
"No." Dean gave a quick, panicked look to Sam. "No, we need you guys. We need you down here, with us."
Castiel gasped and held fast to the arm of the chair where he slumped. Every so often his figure blurred, like a photograph taken with a shaky hand. Light erupted in white flashes at odd intervals. "Can't be helped," he said. "Too much... angel. Too tied to him."
"But... but you've been getting more human," Dean protested. "You were cut off from heaven."
Gabriel crawled across the floor. "Kept us safe, too, for a while," he said, though breath was coming only with difficulty. "Being exiles. Not anymore."
"There has to be some way to stop this." Sam's jaw was set.
"Oh, there is," Gabriel said, looking up at him. "But you're not gonna like it, champ."
He doubled over, and Sam went to his knees immediately, grabbed him and pulled him upright. "Tell us. Whatever it is, we'll do it."
Clutching Sam's shoulders, Gabriel leaned forward with great exertion and whispered in his ear.
Sam dropped him like the proverbial hot potato. "No way."
"There's no other way, Sam, there's no time!" Gabriel's voice was urgent. "In a few minutes we're going to be gone."
"What? What did he say?" Dean tugged at Sam's sleeve, but Sam ignored him.
Instead, he went to the door. "We'll have to find some girls," he said. "Some hookers or something."
Dean's eyes widened. "He did not just..." He caught a glimpse of Sam's gaze and his jaw dropped dumbly.
Sam answered him with a grim nod.
"What good will that do?" Dean's voice hit a frequency it hadn't since he was about eight years old.
"It ties us to the physical world," said Castiel in his usual grim voice. Dean looked back and saw the eyes boring into him, those eyes that always made him stop and sare. His hands fell uselessly to his sides. "It keeps us connected to our bodies."
"And you..." Dean's voice was hoarse. "You'd be OK with that?"
Castiel's eyes shifted from place to place for a moment. Then pain jolted through him, and he looked back at Dean. "I want to stay here."
In the end, after all the exploding men and viruses and portents of doom, it was global warming that did them in.
They thought they had a few days to get ready. The first reports came from climate scientist stations in the Antarctic. Or, rather, they didn't come in -- there was a garbled shout and then silence. There were scattered reports, but nothing conclusive. Some folks tried to get away; others pooh-poohed the warnings. Then the most apt declaration of "Houston, we have a problem" ever uttered, by scientists aboard the International Space Station, rang through the airwaves and chaos ensued.
Matt, of course, could never even think of leaving. He had a duty; he was a public safety officer. If it meant he drowned, he would save lives. But he didn't drown, at least, not in the initial deluge. The wave broke well east of the city proper, and it was more like a welling up than a crashing down. Water flowed into the streets in ten-foot rushes, but Matt was on an upper floor, and when the water came he was on a raft made of his apartment's front door.
It was a good hour before the Coast Guard started showing up, and Matt immediately flagged down one of the officers.
"Listen," he said. "You're not going to believe me, but you have to, because this is an emergency. I can hear people's thoughts. If you let me listen, I can find people who are trapped underwater. Just give me a chance. Give me one boat."
They didn't believe him, but that didn't matter. The city was underwater. They took any lifeline they could.
He did what he could, but when bodies started to float to the surface by the dozens, and the water started to look like a mass grave, Matt had to take a moment to put his head in his hands and cry. He wasn't as strong as these military folks; he couldn't handle this much death. He was alone in a city of the dead, and although after a moment he dried his tears and continued in the rescue effort, he felt as though life and hope had sapped his last bit of strength.
Until somewhere in the shivering dark recesses of drowning minds, he heard a voice.
Damn everything, damn super strength, damn all the knowledge in the world for letting this happen.
"This way," Matt called with new urgency. "This way, please."
--
He saw the child die, and that was enough.
Mohinder had clung like King Kong to the side of a building, muscles like the steel keeping him in place. He could no longer hang from ceilings, but if he put all his strength into clinging tight to metal that was too solid to break even under a flood of water, he would not be dislodged. He climbed as high as he could, rationalizing it by telling himself he'd look for help, but in truth he'd just wanted to get away, to avoid the faces.
Until he heard the cry of a child.
A child, one child, one life he could save. He shimmied down the side of the building fast as he could go, and as he descended the cry became choked with water, devolving into coughs and sputters as the water rose to meet him. There the child was, just below him, and her eyes lit up with hope as their eyes met. Mohinder called down, but as soon as her eyes went wide her arms ceased struggling, and water streamed from her nose as her lungs contracted and tried to draw in air despite her. They met only water, and eyes frozen in horror, her face sank beneath the surface. He was able to touch only one fingertip before she sank out of reach.
Damn everything, damn super strength, damn all the knowledge in the world for letting this happen.
He should jump in and just allow himself to drown with the rest of them. This was more than any man could bear without going mad. Mohinder had often felt the weight of the world on his shoulder, but only now did he allow it to crumple him, and he clung to his metal life raft and sobbed bitterly. Thus surrounded by death, he thought it was madness or death calling out his name, beside itself with joy,
"Mohinder! Mohinder, God, down here! You're alive! Oh, jeez, God, you're alive!"
And then the dawn broke.
--
He goes red, heat rising up around his face like a cloud of steam. His lips start to move and he's talking in double time, needing to fill the silence. "I didn't expect to do that," he says. "I didn't think I was going to... I didn't mean to do that. I..."
He trails off. Starts again.
"...Can I do that again?"
Mohinder barely nods. He's trying to fight a smile that's sneaking persistently onto the corners of his mouth.
Matt throws his arms around him and kisses him again, and suddenly it's a wrestling match with these two huge frames trying to find a way together and succeeding only in pushing and pulling each other awkwardly. Then something shifts, their mouths find an angle and their bodies hit equilibrium, and the brawling nature of it is drowned in exploding heat. Mohinder's digging his hands into Matt's back pockets, dragging his tongue low against Matt's teeth, and Matt's stunned, kerflummoxed at how intensely this man who until now had pretended he didn't care is kissing him, how forcefully he's holding him. Mohinder's thoughts are so far beyond a kiss, it's embarrassing.
They break apart, panting. Mohinder leans his forehead against the bridge of Matt's nose and struggles for breath. His hands slide out of Matt's pockets and find his shoulders, his elbows folding over Matt's chest. Matt's breath buffets against his eyelids.
--
Everybody Loves Matt
(or, It's a Sylarful Life)
Matt was at the end of his rope. Literally. He'd gotten as high as he could comfortably climb, and now all that remained was to put the damn thing around his neck and go for one final swing. If only his hands would stop shaking. If only he weren't so petrified of what he knew was the right thing to do.
If only Sylar weren't sitting right next to him.
"Jesus!" Matt said. "You scared me."
Sylar laughed, but sweat was beading on his brow. "I scare you?" he said. "That's a good one. What in the hell do you think you're doing?"
"I'm getting rid of you," Matt said, "once and for all. You've already cost me my sanity. You're about to cost me my wife and my career. And I'm sick of it."
"Oh, and so you're going to cost yourself everything, just to rid yourself of me?"
"It's not just that," Matt said, still fumbling with the rope. "You're right, you know. Everything you've said about me. I'm a pathetic, overweight loser whose life is full of disappointment. If you didn't want to drive me to suicide, maybe you shouldn't have kept reminding me I was worthless."
"You don't believe that," Sylar protested. "I'm in your brain. I know how you really feel."
"What you don't know about me could fill a book" Matt snapped. "You might be a clever fucker, but I'm the one who's had the mind control powers for ages. You don't think I know how to set up a firewall against an intruder like you?"
Sylar began to visibly panic. "Look. Matt. I know you're upset. But there's no reason for you to go this far."
"The hell there isn't." Tears welled up in Matt's eyes, and Sylar stared, agape. "How many of my memories have you looked through, anyway? Did you see the part when my wife betrayed me? When I held an innocent family captive in their own home? When I was let out in the middle of the National Mall with a bomb strapped to my chest?
"How about when you shot me? Did you see how much that hurt? Did you see my heart break every time Molly Walker dreamed of you and woke up screaming? Did you see the look on her face when she came out from hiding and saw what you did to her parents? That's what I've been living with, long before you came along. So don't tell me I have no reasons. I have plenty of reasons."
For once shocked beyond words, Sylar watched Matt's face contort as he tried to hold back the tears.