On the Boulevard
Characters: Mohinder and Sylar
Rating: PG
Words: 1700
Spoilers: Season 2? None, really
Summary: Mohinder and Sylar have a chat.
A/N: Written for kuwdora for the X-Mas in July challenge at mylar_fic. Prompts used were (hopefully?) antagonism, existentialism, UST. Hope this is close to canon enough. Very stressful, but a really good challenge for me to try to be a little more serious! Also, must confess that a high school friend helped me brainstorm.
Mohinder stalked down Boulevard Saint-Germain with his head held high and his mood defeated.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that shouldn’t have been there. He swung himself around and backtracked a couple of steps.
Rolling his eyes, he addressed the occupant of one of the outdoor tables at Café de Flor. “Clearly.”
“Nice to see you, too, Mohinder,” Sylar smirked.
“How did you know I would be here right now?”
“Have a seat,” Sylar ordered with an inviting gesture at the empty seat beside him.
Mohinder stood with his arms crossed. He looked around him at the busy intersection, with a thousand Parisians going about their shopping and their lives, unaware of the danger in their midst. But was Sylar actually a danger at this moment?
Still standing, Mohinder repeated, “I asked you a serious question. How did you know I would walk by here right now?”
Sylar shrugged. “Maybe I was following only a few steps behind you, ran in front, and sat down just a minute ago.”
Mohinder looked at the cup of cappuccino on Sylar’s table and shook his head. “No, there’s no way you could have gotten service that quickly. Not here.”
Despite themselves, the two men exchanged a very tiny, wry smile at the expense of the French.
“Come on, Mohinder. Sit down,” Sylar urged. When Mohinder continued not to budge, he applied a twinge of telekinesis to the small of the other man’s back. Mohinder staggered forward a couple of steps, but continued to stand. He glared at Sylar with venom. Sylar released the mental push and uttered an almost inaudible, “Please.”
Realizing that he was making a scene, Mohinder begrudgingly pulled out the chair and sat down at the tiny round table with the man who never failed to conjure up myriad confused---but mainly angry---emotions in him. Their knees brushed and he accidentally stepped on Sylar’s toe. Mohinder tried arranging his legs so as to avoid contact, but the restaurant was so crowded and the tables so tiny and on top of one another that he couldn’t.
“Never do that again,” Mohinder hissed, acutely aware of the now physical pressure being applied to his thigh by the other man’s leg.
The wry smile hadn’t left Sylar’s lips.
“What do you want?” Mohinder tasked tersely.
“That’s what I was just about to ask you. Should I get the waiter? You should have a coffee. For such a touristy place, they brew a pretty decent cup,” Sylar offered, and made a sign at the waiter. Obviously, it went unheeded, both by the waiter and by Mohinder, who continued on the offensive.
“I could call the police. I could call the Company. I could---”
“Yes, you could pick up the phone, and, in your---atrociously bad by the way---French accent, attempt to call someone for help. But you won’t.”
“Why not?” Mohinder asked.
Sylar’s voice was chillingly calm. “Because if you make one move, the head of that little boy over there goes inexplicably rolling.”
Mohinder turned with horror to look at a family of Australian tourists happily enjoying some ice cream. “You wouldn’t…” he began.
Sylar nudged Mohinder with his knee. “It’s pretty simple. You sit here nicely with me and it’s all fine. Or you don’t. It’s your choice.”
“That isn’t a choice,” Mohinder argued.
“That’s always been your problem Mohinder, your weakness. You fail to grasp your own power. You could, you know, do whatever you want. If you really despised my company that much, you could very well just get up and go improve your awful wardrobe at that Zara across the street… although Le Bon Marché is only a few blocks away and would be a much better use of your money… and yet you don’t. Therefore, I can only assume that you really do enjoy sitting here with me.” Sylar winked mischievously. Mohinder felt slightly sickened and yet couldn’t look away.
“A choice in which the only other option is to sign someone’s death warrant is not a choice,” he retorted obstinately, and cast another glance at the family.
Sylar shrugged. “You don’t have to see it that way. You choose to look out for other people. I can imagine a world in which you had decided for yourself to do exactly as you pleased. A world in which you could easily decide ‘to hell with it’ and go shopping and let that boy die.”
“A world in which I’m horribly selfish. In which we’re the same,” Mohinder raged quietly. “Why do you want to see that so much?”
Sylar avoided the question and stayed on topic. “You could never be like me. That’s what makes me unique.” He smiled tried to smile winningly, but it came out rather creepily instead.
“We’ll see about that,” Mohinder muttered, and something playing behind his eyes gave Sylar pause for thought. The doctor would bear even closer watching, he thought to himself.
The waiter finally came over to take Mohinder’s order. He was too angry to formulate the words, so Sylar ordered an espresso for him.
“Tea, please,” Mohinder corrected, if only out of spleen. The waiter wrinkled his nose and glided away.
“So, how was the new patient?” Sylar asked softly, while stirring the sugar into his coffee. He watched as the grains sank slowly below the layer of foam.
As expected, this only served to exasperate Mohinder even further. “Don’t you have better things to do?”
Moving his head up to match his glance, Sylar calmly replied, “This is what I do.”
“What, follow me around the world and taunt me in a pathetic attempt to... to… I don’t even know what!” Mohinder sputtered.
“No, spending pleasant afternoons with you such as this is merely a bonus. I do what I was meant to do. I find lesser people than myself and do and take what I have the power to take. Just as you do what you have the ability to do.”
“And what is that?” Despite himself, Mohinder had stopped trying to find ways to leave. It didn’t escape Sylar’s notice.
“You find people and try, through your own misguided and misinformed way, to help them. That’s how you feel meaningful, and that’s how I do. But it’s funny how those two purposes seem to keep leading us together.”
“Hilarious,” Mohinder spat.
“It's just a shame to see you continuing to hanker after these lowly specimens,” Sylar sighed dismissively.
Mohinder perked up, always ready to defend the underdogs… and anyone else. “I work with those who need my help,” he countered.
“You work with those too weak to help themselves. You’re a great scientist, Mohinder. Or you could be if you went about this differently, more pointedly.”
“And what would you suggest?” Mohinder asked, the derision dripping liberally in his voice.
“I could let you study me,” Sylar offered simply.
Mohinder goggled. “What’s the catch?” he asked suspiciously.
“No catch,” Sylar explained. “You want to do research. I’m Patient Zero. I’ve already told you that you are a greater version of your father. Finish what he started but was foolish enough to turn away.”
“What would be in it for you?” Mohinder pressed.
Sylar shrugged. “The satisfaction of seeing you come closer to fulfilling your true potential. That’s all.”
“What do you care about my true potential?”
Sylar pondered this, but didn’t break eye contact. “I can be of service to you, and there’s little harm in it for me. It can keep me occupied until I find my next target.”
A crafty smile spread over Mohinder’s lips. “So cocky. I’ve managed to harm you enough to warrant something more than for you to discount me like that. Not like my father.”
Now it was Sylar’s turn to roll his eyes. “Not this again. We both know that you are so much more than your father ever was. Why don’t you take that fact to heart? Why don’t you take advantage of what I’m offering you, finish what both of you started, do what I know you secretly want. I could come by your laboratory and let you run some tests on me…” During this speech, his face had inched just closer to Mohinder’s.
Mohinder stood up hurriedly, and it was unclear if it was because Sylar had finally become too obnoxious to bear, or if he was taken aback by their new and uncomfortable proximity. “Are we done here, or do I have to put in more time with you to save an unnecessarily threatened life?”
Sylar sighed. Mohinder wasn’t going to be any more fun, he could tell. “We’re done. You may leave.”
“Thank you for the permission," Mohinder seethed. He left a few euros on the table. “I don’t regret to inform you that my latest patient is dead. Unless the main purpose for your being in Paris was to sample the coffees, you went through a lot of trouble for nothing,” he sneered.
For the first time in the conversation, Sylar felt wholly at a loss. He thought he had tailed Mohinder thoroughly, allowing no time for a visit to the victim. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied, but in his current confusion, it came out as a question. Mohinder chuckled at the change in power roles.
“For once, I wish you had indeed gotten to him before the stroke. It’s a shame, really…” Mohinder was looking at him intensely and relishing the turn of the tables.
Sylar was more and more confused. “Why?”
“Because he had the ability to cancel out another person’s abilities. Permanently.”
Upon delivering that bombshell, Mohinder started walking away.
Sylar took the news quietly. “Well, it was nice seeing you, as always, doctor. Don’t forget to consider my offer,” he said just before Mohinder got out of earshot.
He watched as Mohinder walked huffily away. It didn’t escape him when the other man turned around halfway across the street to look back at him curiously. But Sylar had already left the table. Without knowing that anyone could see, Mohinder allowed a wistful expression to cross his face before disappearing into the Metro.
Sylar knew they’d meet again in New York.
Rating: PG
Words: 1700
Spoilers: Season 2? None, really
Summary: Mohinder and Sylar have a chat.
A/N: Written for kuwdora for the X-Mas in July challenge at mylar_fic. Prompts used were (hopefully?) antagonism, existentialism, UST. Hope this is close to canon enough. Very stressful, but a really good challenge for me to try to be a little more serious! Also, must confess that a high school friend helped me brainstorm.
Mohinder stalked down Boulevard Saint-Germain with his head held high and his mood defeated.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that shouldn’t have been there. He swung himself around and backtracked a couple of steps.
Rolling his eyes, he addressed the occupant of one of the outdoor tables at Café de Flor. “Clearly.”
“Nice to see you, too, Mohinder,” Sylar smirked.
“How did you know I would be here right now?”
“Have a seat,” Sylar ordered with an inviting gesture at the empty seat beside him.
Mohinder stood with his arms crossed. He looked around him at the busy intersection, with a thousand Parisians going about their shopping and their lives, unaware of the danger in their midst. But was Sylar actually a danger at this moment?
Still standing, Mohinder repeated, “I asked you a serious question. How did you know I would walk by here right now?”
Sylar shrugged. “Maybe I was following only a few steps behind you, ran in front, and sat down just a minute ago.”
Mohinder looked at the cup of cappuccino on Sylar’s table and shook his head. “No, there’s no way you could have gotten service that quickly. Not here.”
Despite themselves, the two men exchanged a very tiny, wry smile at the expense of the French.
“Come on, Mohinder. Sit down,” Sylar urged. When Mohinder continued not to budge, he applied a twinge of telekinesis to the small of the other man’s back. Mohinder staggered forward a couple of steps, but continued to stand. He glared at Sylar with venom. Sylar released the mental push and uttered an almost inaudible, “Please.”
Realizing that he was making a scene, Mohinder begrudgingly pulled out the chair and sat down at the tiny round table with the man who never failed to conjure up myriad confused---but mainly angry---emotions in him. Their knees brushed and he accidentally stepped on Sylar’s toe. Mohinder tried arranging his legs so as to avoid contact, but the restaurant was so crowded and the tables so tiny and on top of one another that he couldn’t.
“Never do that again,” Mohinder hissed, acutely aware of the now physical pressure being applied to his thigh by the other man’s leg.
The wry smile hadn’t left Sylar’s lips.
“What do you want?” Mohinder tasked tersely.
“That’s what I was just about to ask you. Should I get the waiter? You should have a coffee. For such a touristy place, they brew a pretty decent cup,” Sylar offered, and made a sign at the waiter. Obviously, it went unheeded, both by the waiter and by Mohinder, who continued on the offensive.
“I could call the police. I could call the Company. I could---”
“Yes, you could pick up the phone, and, in your---atrociously bad by the way---French accent, attempt to call someone for help. But you won’t.”
“Why not?” Mohinder asked.
Sylar’s voice was chillingly calm. “Because if you make one move, the head of that little boy over there goes inexplicably rolling.”
Mohinder turned with horror to look at a family of Australian tourists happily enjoying some ice cream. “You wouldn’t…” he began.
Sylar nudged Mohinder with his knee. “It’s pretty simple. You sit here nicely with me and it’s all fine. Or you don’t. It’s your choice.”
“That isn’t a choice,” Mohinder argued.
“That’s always been your problem Mohinder, your weakness. You fail to grasp your own power. You could, you know, do whatever you want. If you really despised my company that much, you could very well just get up and go improve your awful wardrobe at that Zara across the street… although Le Bon Marché is only a few blocks away and would be a much better use of your money… and yet you don’t. Therefore, I can only assume that you really do enjoy sitting here with me.” Sylar winked mischievously. Mohinder felt slightly sickened and yet couldn’t look away.
“A choice in which the only other option is to sign someone’s death warrant is not a choice,” he retorted obstinately, and cast another glance at the family.
Sylar shrugged. “You don’t have to see it that way. You choose to look out for other people. I can imagine a world in which you had decided for yourself to do exactly as you pleased. A world in which you could easily decide ‘to hell with it’ and go shopping and let that boy die.”
“A world in which I’m horribly selfish. In which we’re the same,” Mohinder raged quietly. “Why do you want to see that so much?”
Sylar avoided the question and stayed on topic. “You could never be like me. That’s what makes me unique.” He smiled tried to smile winningly, but it came out rather creepily instead.
“We’ll see about that,” Mohinder muttered, and something playing behind his eyes gave Sylar pause for thought. The doctor would bear even closer watching, he thought to himself.
The waiter finally came over to take Mohinder’s order. He was too angry to formulate the words, so Sylar ordered an espresso for him.
“Tea, please,” Mohinder corrected, if only out of spleen. The waiter wrinkled his nose and glided away.
“So, how was the new patient?” Sylar asked softly, while stirring the sugar into his coffee. He watched as the grains sank slowly below the layer of foam.
As expected, this only served to exasperate Mohinder even further. “Don’t you have better things to do?”
Moving his head up to match his glance, Sylar calmly replied, “This is what I do.”
“What, follow me around the world and taunt me in a pathetic attempt to... to… I don’t even know what!” Mohinder sputtered.
“No, spending pleasant afternoons with you such as this is merely a bonus. I do what I was meant to do. I find lesser people than myself and do and take what I have the power to take. Just as you do what you have the ability to do.”
“And what is that?” Despite himself, Mohinder had stopped trying to find ways to leave. It didn’t escape Sylar’s notice.
“You find people and try, through your own misguided and misinformed way, to help them. That’s how you feel meaningful, and that’s how I do. But it’s funny how those two purposes seem to keep leading us together.”
“Hilarious,” Mohinder spat.
“It's just a shame to see you continuing to hanker after these lowly specimens,” Sylar sighed dismissively.
Mohinder perked up, always ready to defend the underdogs… and anyone else. “I work with those who need my help,” he countered.
“You work with those too weak to help themselves. You’re a great scientist, Mohinder. Or you could be if you went about this differently, more pointedly.”
“And what would you suggest?” Mohinder asked, the derision dripping liberally in his voice.
“I could let you study me,” Sylar offered simply.
Mohinder goggled. “What’s the catch?” he asked suspiciously.
“No catch,” Sylar explained. “You want to do research. I’m Patient Zero. I’ve already told you that you are a greater version of your father. Finish what he started but was foolish enough to turn away.”
“What would be in it for you?” Mohinder pressed.
Sylar shrugged. “The satisfaction of seeing you come closer to fulfilling your true potential. That’s all.”
“What do you care about my true potential?”
Sylar pondered this, but didn’t break eye contact. “I can be of service to you, and there’s little harm in it for me. It can keep me occupied until I find my next target.”
A crafty smile spread over Mohinder’s lips. “So cocky. I’ve managed to harm you enough to warrant something more than for you to discount me like that. Not like my father.”
Now it was Sylar’s turn to roll his eyes. “Not this again. We both know that you are so much more than your father ever was. Why don’t you take that fact to heart? Why don’t you take advantage of what I’m offering you, finish what both of you started, do what I know you secretly want. I could come by your laboratory and let you run some tests on me…” During this speech, his face had inched just closer to Mohinder’s.
Mohinder stood up hurriedly, and it was unclear if it was because Sylar had finally become too obnoxious to bear, or if he was taken aback by their new and uncomfortable proximity. “Are we done here, or do I have to put in more time with you to save an unnecessarily threatened life?”
Sylar sighed. Mohinder wasn’t going to be any more fun, he could tell. “We’re done. You may leave.”
“Thank you for the permission," Mohinder seethed. He left a few euros on the table. “I don’t regret to inform you that my latest patient is dead. Unless the main purpose for your being in Paris was to sample the coffees, you went through a lot of trouble for nothing,” he sneered.
For the first time in the conversation, Sylar felt wholly at a loss. He thought he had tailed Mohinder thoroughly, allowing no time for a visit to the victim. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied, but in his current confusion, it came out as a question. Mohinder chuckled at the change in power roles.
“For once, I wish you had indeed gotten to him before the stroke. It’s a shame, really…” Mohinder was looking at him intensely and relishing the turn of the tables.
Sylar was more and more confused. “Why?”
“Because he had the ability to cancel out another person’s abilities. Permanently.”
Upon delivering that bombshell, Mohinder started walking away.
Sylar took the news quietly. “Well, it was nice seeing you, as always, doctor. Don’t forget to consider my offer,” he said just before Mohinder got out of earshot.
He watched as Mohinder walked huffily away. It didn’t escape him when the other man turned around halfway across the street to look back at him curiously. But Sylar had already left the table. Without knowing that anyone could see, Mohinder allowed a wistful expression to cross his face before disappearing into the Metro.
Sylar knew they’d meet again in New York.