Fic: Borrowed Time, Part One
Fic: Borrowed Time, Part One
Author: evil_is_pretty
Series: Sequel to All My Sins Remember'd
Pairing: Ensemble, Mylar
Rating: R
Summary:As the dust begins to settle, Nathan's position as senator, and his very life, are in jeopardy from the last source he'd expect. Mohinder and Zane are adjusting to the fragile bond between them, even as Zane's frustration with his amnesia begins to mount. None seem to realize just how intricately tied together their destinies truly are.
Notes: Being that I decided to jump feet first into an AU with the first story, I pretty much made the decision back then to take the theories that I liked best (and were pure crack anyway) and run with them. Many squishes to forsquilis who is being forced (whether she likes it or not) to hold my hand through all of this.
Too much clarity darkens.
- Blaise Pascal
The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be.
- Paul Valery
Nathan stares at the documents spread before him, the ones his mother handed to him just minutes ago. She’s sitting across from him, all cool and collected, her expression no different than if they were discussing the weather.
He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to think.
This can’t be real. He says it out loud.
“I told you that there is a lot you don’t know about me, Nathan.”
A part of him wants to shake her until she begins behaving like a normal human being again. “You’re sure as hell right about that!” He says. “I mean, my god, mother! How - “
“Oh, Nathan. Stop being so melodramatic. You’re behaving like your brother.”
“Which one?!”
****
“This doesn’t seem like the best decision you’ve ever made.”
“Like you’re one to talk.”
“Shhh. You’ll break his concentration…”
“Said as if he has any.”
“I heard that!”
“You were meant to hear that.”
Matt casts a sideways glance at Claire’s dad before returning his attention to the task before him. Hand steady, he pokes at one of the rectangular blocks, pushing as gently as possible, those gathered around him holding their breath in anxious anticipation. Her dad chuckles, which receives a glare from Janice Parkman, and a “shhh!” from Claire’s mom but none of the silence really matters anyway. The block is only halfway out when the entire tower topples over, the clatter of the pieces across the coffee table causing Claire to wince as Micah yells, “Jenga!”
She’s ready to go home, but the last time she mentioned it, her dad gave her one of those looks. It’s not that she doesn’t like the Parkman’s; and while hanging out with Micah and Molly could be fun at times (like when she was babysitting and getting paid money), the one thing they share in common, they’re not really allowed to talk about. Lyle is happiest when he and Micah get to spend time on the Xbox, but tonight her brother is obviously as bored as she is, staring at the game of Jenga as if it might at any moment morph into some giant robot and terrorize them all.
At least that would be mildly interesting.
“Ready for another?” Matt asks, immediately beginning to pick up the pieces as Claire rolls her eyes heavenward.
God, please, no. Not again.
“Actually, I think it’s time for the kids to get to bed,” his wife says, and Claire has never loved the woman more than at that moment. Even Lyle seems to perk up.
“I’m not tired.”
Everyone glances at Molly who stubbornly continues to help Matt gather the pieces together, while refusing to meet their gazes. Claire flashes a brief grimace of sympathy, understanding all too well that nightmares had a way of making you not want to sleep… like ever again. She suffers from her own; of brilliant flashes lighting up the horizon, of Sylar chasing her down long hallways, and her hero never arriving to save her. She doesn’t know what Molly dreams about - none of them do since she refuses to say - but Claire figures they’re probably linked to everything that happened. She’s more than certain Micah has nightmares too but ever since they made it to California, and the Parkman’s gained guardianship of him and Molly, he’s been playing at being brave. She thinks she got to know him while they were in Las Vegas, though, and she’s almost positive he’s still waiting for his parents to show up on the doorstep, ready to take him home. It’s a hope that no one in either household seems too keen on destroying.
Claire returns her attention to the present when Molly breaks into a mini tantrum, throwing the Jenga pieces across the table before stomping out of the room and up the stairs. The adults all cast worried looks at one another, and Claire just wants to yell at them that she’s a kid, and maybe kids who’ve been through what they have deserve to throw a temper tantrum now and again.
Instead, she gets to her feet, saying, “I’ll go check on her,” before heading into the hallway and up the stairs.
Molly is flopped on her stomach, staring out the window, when Claire enters her room. She takes a seat beside her, saying nothing for a moment, wondering how she can talk about what she’s not supposed to talk about. Finally, she says, “I have nightmares, too.”
The girl beside her is silent.
She tries again. “If we talk about our nightmares, it helps. At least, that’s what they say. I’ve never tried. I mean, sure, when I was younger, and I might dream about zombies or something after seeing a scary movie, and I’d tell my brother about it, but that’s it. Maybe you and I could talk about our nightmares?” She waits but gets no reaction to her suggestion.
“There’s nothing wrong with having nightmares, you know.” Claire threads her fingers together over her knee as she leans forward, trying to catch Molly’s gaze. “It doesn’t make you different or strange… well, I mean, anymore than we all ready are.”
Oops. There she goes mentioning what she isn’t supposed to mention. Oh, well.
Realizing that Molly isn’t going to share unless she does, Claire takes a breath before losing her courage and admits, “I hate closing my eyes at night because I know what I’ll see.” She scoots back a little further on the bed, tucking a leg beneath her. “Sometimes my dreams are about the bomb going off. And sometimes they’re about never getting away from Linderman...” She stops herself, not really wanting to continue.
“And?” Molly prods, as if she knows Claire isn’t being completely honest with her.
She sighs. “And sometimes they’re about my uncle, Peter. And my real dad.” She glances out the window before whispering, “And Sylar.” Just saying his name out loud makes her cold suddenly.
Molly nods before resting her chin on her hands. It’s a moment before she says, “He’s not dead, you know.”
Claire yells for her dad.
****
It’s almost half past two in the morning when Mohinder is woke by the sounds of terror coming from the man in the bed across from him. He knows that Zane suffers from nightmares frequently but has never asked about it, has never wished to pry or mention them whatsoever. It’s cowardly, as a matter of fact, but Mohinder has gotten so used to pretending over the last two months that he really doesn’t want to shatter the fragile world he’s created. Whether that means digging an ever deeper hole of lies or not. After all, it’s not as if either of them are innocents in any of this.
Tonight, though, the whimpered cries last longer than usual, and maybe Mohinder is beginning to let sympathy take over. Maybe he doesn’t feel the need for Zane to suffer for crimes committed by someone he doesn’t remember any longer. Or maybe he can’t sleep well with a nagging conscience. Whatever the reason, he gets out of bed and moves over to where Zane is sleeping, thrashing beneath the covers, fists clenched tightly as another guttural cry issues from his throat. Is it Sylar in there? Trying desperately to free himself?
“Zane,” Mohinder whispers softly, reaching out to touch his shoulder, the material of the light t-shirt warm beneath his fingers. “Zane, wake up.”
A chill runs down his spine as the eyes before him snap open, momentarily filled with a look Mohinder has only seen once before - when Sylar had been taunting him, boldly placing his own forehead against the gun Mohinder had held. Whatever it was is gone almost instantly, leaving him to wonder if his mind were simply playing tricks on him. He squeezes the shoulder beneath his fingers, focusing all of his concentration on Zane.
“You were having a nightmare.”
Zane still appears slightly confused, eyes befuddled by sleep and the lingering memories of his nightmares as he pushes himself into a sitting position. He reaches up to run his fingers through his hair, which really needs cutting now that Mohinder is looking closely. He makes a mental note to find a barber for both of them in the morning.
“Are you all right?” He asks when the silence continues.
“Huh? Yeah.” Zane’s response seems less than certain. He refuses to meet Mohinder’s gaze.
“You seem to have them quite frequently.” He sits down on the edge of the bed. “I haven’t wanted to pry but, if you’d like to talk about them…”
Zane frowns, and plucks at the bed sheet. Giving him time to adjust to the idea, Mohinder leans over and turns on the lamp situated between the twin beds. They both blink at the change in the lighting; Zane even turns his head away, his eyes centered on the bathroom door. The silence begins to grow a bit unnerving, especially when the loud ‘click’ of the old analog alarm clock as it flips over to two thirty-five causes Mohinder to jump.
He frowns at the nightstand before saying, “If you’d rather not -“
“No, it’s… “ Zane draws in a deep breath before turning back to him. “I worry about what you’ll think of me if I tell you.”
Mohinder smiles a little. He knows that Zane still harbors a secret fear that one day he’ll just leave him alone in the middle of nowhere. He sometimes wonders if Sylar’s comment to him about not being alone anymore might have had a ring of truth to it… somewhere. Was that fear of isolation manifesting itself in Zane?
“I assure you that nothing you dream about will have any bearing on my opinion of you,” he says. “Who knows? It might even help if you talk about it.”
Zane makes a face that clearly says he doesn’t agree. Obstinacy is only one of the traits Mohinder has noticed Zane exhibit in the last few weeks. There are other more… difficult to decipher traits that he tries his best not to delve into too deeply. Pessimism will gain him nothing.
Or, at least, that’s what he likes to tell himself lately.
“It’s just… “ Zane holds up a hand as if in an attempt to explain, seems to think better of it, and drops it back into his lap. “I don’t really remember them. After I wake up, I mean. Just… images. It’s hard to get rid of those.”
“Images of what?”
“People,” he answers simply. “People… dying. Screaming. Sometimes I think I can still hear their screams when I wake up.”
“After what you’ve been through -“
“It’s not fire or a bomb or anything like that killing them,” Zane responds, an impatient tone to his voice. “There’s so much blood and… and… I think it’s me. I think it’s me killing them.”
Mohinder quickly drops his gaze at Zane’s words, mind working furiously to come up with something to say. His fleeting though that perhaps Sylar is attempting to reveal himself in Zane’s subconscious returns. He’s surprised that he remains as calm as he does; that his expression is carefully neutral as he continues to hold Zane’s fretful gaze. Reaching out, he touches Zane’s hand.
“They’re just dreams.”
He shakes his head. “But what if they aren’t? Mohinder, what if they’re memories?” A pause and then, “What if I’m a monster?”
There isn’t a moment’s hesitation as he says, “You’re not a monster, Zane. The man I see before me would never be capable of such things.”
“But I’m a different man now,” he argues.
Yes, you are. “How can you be so certain? Are you positive that you weren’t exactly as you are now? Why must the man you used to be, be a monster?”
“The dreams - “
“Are manifestations of your fears,” Mohinder lies, feeling as he does so that he is taking some final step, making some last commitment toward the path that lay ahead of him. “I can only believe they’d be normal in cases such as yours. You have no memory of who you were, and so your subconscious latches on to that anxiety you feel over the unknown, allowing those fears to overwhelm and consume you. Couple that with everything that’s happened to all of us and… well, I wouldn’t delve too deeply into the meaning of your nightmares, Zane. Or you’re going to start jumping at shadows that aren’t there.”
He thinks I’m a master of lies. At what point did the manipulator become the manipulated? Peter was right. If the tiger were ever freed from his cage, he would rip Mohinder’s throat out.
Zane’s expression says that he remains unconvinced; maybe Mohinder isn’t as great a liar as he believes.
Knowing that there is an inherent danger in continuing the conversation, Mohinder pats Zane’s thigh before he stands. “Try to get back to sleep. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow. I suggest you put the nightmares from your mind as best you can, but if you wish to talk about them again, I’m here to listen.”
As he moves back to his bed, leaning across the nightstand to switch off the lamp, he hears Zane ask, “What would you do? I mean, if you found out I was that person?”
Mohinder’s fingers brush against the switch, the intended action lost as his mind flails in an attempt to formulate a response.
“Mohinder?”
He closes his eyes, sighing softly. “I don’t know, Zane. I just don’t know.”
It’s the first time he’s been honest in weeks.
****
Sunlight is just beginning to spread across Upstate New York when Nathan moves down the staircase, pausing to gaze at the boughs of pine strung along the railing. It smells like Christmas in the house; it looks like Christmas. But try as he might, Nathan doesn’t get the sense of the approaching holiday whatsoever. Heidi and the kids are in London, visiting relatives and doing some last minute Christmas shopping. Normally, that time would have been spent in Manhattan but other plans obviously had to be made this year; Heidi wasn’t about to let their boys suffer anymore than was necessary. “The innocent shouldn’t be made to deal with our sins,” she’d told Nathan cryptically the night before they’d left. He’d stared after her as she made her way upstairs, wondering what she’d meant by that, wanting to call her back and ask her, but not doing so. Communication hasn’t been Nathan’s strong point over the last few weeks. In actuality, he’d prefer it if everyone would just allow him to crawl into a deep hole, and never come out again.
His mother referred to him as “gloomy”, and wow, there were so many choice words he wished to call her, but none ever made it past his lips. For the most part, he spends their encounters watching her, wondering what made her, and why he has been fated to be so very much like her. He no longer has the strength to hate her; that requires emotions that Nathan fears may be gone all together.
When he reaches the hall, the family’s butler, Ray Iverson, is waiting for him. “Mr. Linderman called, sir. He says to let you know he is running a few minutes late.”
Nathan nods, waves a hand in dismissal and continues on toward the dining room where he will be meeting with Linderman in a short while for their weekly breakfast meeting. Like the rest of the house, the dining room is festively decorated with boughs of pine, red bows and gold candles. Outside, a dusting of snow covers the lawn and street, and if Nathan squints really hard, and pretends he has a lobotomy, he can almost imagine that the last few months never happened. Slipping his hands into his pant pockets, he stands at the window, closes his eyes, and imagines exactly that. When he opens them again, it will all have been a nightmare. The explosion never happened. Peter is safe, spending the holidays here with the family in Nantucket, and the words ‘evolution’ and ‘abilities’ were never once spoken by any of them.
He opens his eyes to find his reflection staring back at him through the glass. One look, and he knows the truth; it’s there in the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hard lines of his mouth, and the recent flecks of gray spreading from his temples along the sides of his hair.
“You’ve looked better,” he remarks, the frosted image remaining silent as he turns away to take a seat at the head of the long table.
Peter would have said something witty in that moment; some offhand comment about how Nathan was past his prime anyway, and what did it really matter? He would have flashed a half smile up at his older brother, and Nathan would have pulled him into a headlock, and everything would have been normal.
Unfortunately, things are decidedly not normal, and never would be normal again.
The chiming of the doorbell causes Nathan to glance down at his watch. Linderman is precisely three minutes late. The staff begins filing into the room, filling the table with coffee and juice, and all of Linderman’s preferred breakfast foods, and Nathan ignores them, his eyes steady on the doorway, thoughts firmly focused on the coming conversation. He’s been preparing for this meeting ever since the bombshell his mother dropped on him the other morning.
You have another brother, Nathan. Peter and Gabriel… twins.
“Chilly weather out there this morning,” Linderman says as he walks into the room with a smile. “Happy holidays, Nathan.”
“Daniel,” Nathan greets with a nod, and a flash of his most charming smile, the one his mother says won him the election, even though they both know that’s far from the truth.
There’s barely a falter in Linderman’s step, even though he hates it when Nathan refers to him with such ease by his first name. The moment Nathan realized that, he’s never gone back. Maybe it’s his way of proving he wasn’t afraid of the man anymore, that he considers them to be on equal footing. And maybe that’s one of the reasons they’re having this very meeting.
“Heidi and the kids still in London?” He asks as he takes his usual seat a few chairs down from Nathan and begins to fill his plate with salmon and capers.
Stomach turning at the smell of the fish, Nathan nods, picking up his cup of black coffee. “They’ll be back this weekend.”
“Good, good.”
There’s a momentary silence as Linderman prepares his breakfast. Nathan allows it, enjoys the momentary reprieve as the conversation with his mother continues to play over in his mind.
… An unexpected turn… You may know of him as Sylar…
Sylar’s dead.
That’s what we all thought…
“I thought we should discuss this new bill you’ve put before the legislature,” Linderman finally says, attention still seemingly focused on his breakfast. “I don’t recall having heard of it before.”
Nathan shrugs, finger tapping lightly against the edge of his cup. “That’s because I don’t feel it necessary to share everything with you regarding my position.”
Linderman sets his bagel down, and turns a smile toward him. “If this is your way of acting out against the choices Angela and I have made, I assure you, it is a poor bid for attention. Your behavior ever since the bomb has been rather distasteful, as a matter of fact. I would expect a little more gratitude for everything I have done for you and your family. Instead, I continually discover us at cross purposes. Don’t think for a moment that I didn’t know you had a hand in Claire’s disappearance. I’m not an idiot, Nathan.”
“Never said you were, Daniel.”
Linderman’s color heightens ever so slightly. He returns to his meal, his quick motions the only real outside indication of his mounting anger. “I warned your mother that precautions would need to be taken; that you were getting out of hand. She continued to plead your case. But Peter got to you, didn’t he?” He shakes his head, a touch of sorrow in his expression. “She said you were strong; I’ve always thought you the weaker of the brothers.”
It was an experiment… a necessary experiment. We had to keep them safe… we had to keep them apart.
“Peter has nothing to do with this,” Nathan responds honestly. “This is about right and wrong. I’m trying to right the wrongs that you’ve created.”
“Not just me, Nathan. All of us. Many years and many lives have been spent in creating a world of peace, and if you think we’re just going to sit back and let you destroy that - “ He cuts himself off, almost as if he momentarily lost control and is attempting to rein himself back.
There’s a tight smile. “The problem is your myopic vision. I thought we could work around that, but I see that I was wrong. The person in your position needs a much grander vision of the future. If you are not prepared to approach the future with the clear foresight needed, then I am afraid to say you will have to be replaced.”
Gabriel has always been the back-up plan.
Do you hear yourself, mother? Back-up plan? And Peter was the fodder?
Nathan leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You’re a little late. My mother already had this conversation with me. The sick revelation that Sylar is a Petrelli. That he was the back-up in this little farce of yours. Even though the man may still be alive, I don’t see how you expect the public to suddenly accept someone new in my position. Not now. Not after everything that’s happened. You seem to be ignoring the fact that the public adores me. My approval rating is at ninety percent. You can’t just replace that.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate me or my ability to make things happen, Nathan.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I would prefer not to call it that. Look at it as a… a wake-up call, if you will.” Linderman smiles before tapping a finger on the table in emphasis as he says, “I want that bill to disappear, Nathan. The sooner the better.”
“Or what?” Nathan scoffs. “You’re going to pull Sylar… excuse me, Gabriel out of thin air, convince him that the two of you should become Team Narcissist, and all will be well with the world? You seem to forget, Daniel, I’m the senator here. You’re just the crime boss.”
The expression that appears on Linderman’s face can only be described as sour. Nathan smiles as he leans back in his chair. If he’s learned one thing, it’s that Linderman isn’t the type to cause a scene. He’ll leave quietly and do his plotting behind closed doors, giving Nathan time to make his own move.
“You seem to forget, senator,” Linderman begins, his tone ugly and twisted. “That I’m the one who put you there in the first place. I can easily take that away.”
Nathan raises his brow. “What? Will my completely illegal election suddenly come to light? Trust me, any scandal you choose to throw at me is nothing compared to the hell you and my mother have all ready put me through.”
Remaining silent, Linderman picks the napkin up from his lap, dabbing at his mouth before folding it and laying it neatly to the side of his plate. He stands, turning to smile down at Nathan. “I assure you, Senator Petrelli, you do not understand what Hell truly is. You have three days to make that bill go away, and then you’re going to find out.”
Nathan figures that saying something as cheesy as “bring it on” really doesn’t work for him. So he just smiles and says, “Daniel. It’s been a pleasure.”
Borrowed Time - PART TWO
Author: evil_is_pretty
Series: Sequel to All My Sins Remember'd
Pairing: Ensemble, Mylar
Rating: R
Summary:As the dust begins to settle, Nathan's position as senator, and his very life, are in jeopardy from the last source he'd expect. Mohinder and Zane are adjusting to the fragile bond between them, even as Zane's frustration with his amnesia begins to mount. None seem to realize just how intricately tied together their destinies truly are.
Notes: Being that I decided to jump feet first into an AU with the first story, I pretty much made the decision back then to take the theories that I liked best (and were pure crack anyway) and run with them. Many squishes to forsquilis who is being forced (whether she likes it or not) to hold my hand through all of this.
Too much clarity darkens.
- Blaise Pascal
The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be.
- Paul Valery
Nathan stares at the documents spread before him, the ones his mother handed to him just minutes ago. She’s sitting across from him, all cool and collected, her expression no different than if they were discussing the weather.
He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to think.
This can’t be real. He says it out loud.
“I told you that there is a lot you don’t know about me, Nathan.”
A part of him wants to shake her until she begins behaving like a normal human being again. “You’re sure as hell right about that!” He says. “I mean, my god, mother! How - “
“Oh, Nathan. Stop being so melodramatic. You’re behaving like your brother.”
“Which one?!”
****
“This doesn’t seem like the best decision you’ve ever made.”
“Like you’re one to talk.”
“Shhh. You’ll break his concentration…”
“Said as if he has any.”
“I heard that!”
“You were meant to hear that.”
Matt casts a sideways glance at Claire’s dad before returning his attention to the task before him. Hand steady, he pokes at one of the rectangular blocks, pushing as gently as possible, those gathered around him holding their breath in anxious anticipation. Her dad chuckles, which receives a glare from Janice Parkman, and a “shhh!” from Claire’s mom but none of the silence really matters anyway. The block is only halfway out when the entire tower topples over, the clatter of the pieces across the coffee table causing Claire to wince as Micah yells, “Jenga!”
She’s ready to go home, but the last time she mentioned it, her dad gave her one of those looks. It’s not that she doesn’t like the Parkman’s; and while hanging out with Micah and Molly could be fun at times (like when she was babysitting and getting paid money), the one thing they share in common, they’re not really allowed to talk about. Lyle is happiest when he and Micah get to spend time on the Xbox, but tonight her brother is obviously as bored as she is, staring at the game of Jenga as if it might at any moment morph into some giant robot and terrorize them all.
At least that would be mildly interesting.
“Ready for another?” Matt asks, immediately beginning to pick up the pieces as Claire rolls her eyes heavenward.
God, please, no. Not again.
“Actually, I think it’s time for the kids to get to bed,” his wife says, and Claire has never loved the woman more than at that moment. Even Lyle seems to perk up.
“I’m not tired.”
Everyone glances at Molly who stubbornly continues to help Matt gather the pieces together, while refusing to meet their gazes. Claire flashes a brief grimace of sympathy, understanding all too well that nightmares had a way of making you not want to sleep… like ever again. She suffers from her own; of brilliant flashes lighting up the horizon, of Sylar chasing her down long hallways, and her hero never arriving to save her. She doesn’t know what Molly dreams about - none of them do since she refuses to say - but Claire figures they’re probably linked to everything that happened. She’s more than certain Micah has nightmares too but ever since they made it to California, and the Parkman’s gained guardianship of him and Molly, he’s been playing at being brave. She thinks she got to know him while they were in Las Vegas, though, and she’s almost positive he’s still waiting for his parents to show up on the doorstep, ready to take him home. It’s a hope that no one in either household seems too keen on destroying.
Claire returns her attention to the present when Molly breaks into a mini tantrum, throwing the Jenga pieces across the table before stomping out of the room and up the stairs. The adults all cast worried looks at one another, and Claire just wants to yell at them that she’s a kid, and maybe kids who’ve been through what they have deserve to throw a temper tantrum now and again.
Instead, she gets to her feet, saying, “I’ll go check on her,” before heading into the hallway and up the stairs.
Molly is flopped on her stomach, staring out the window, when Claire enters her room. She takes a seat beside her, saying nothing for a moment, wondering how she can talk about what she’s not supposed to talk about. Finally, she says, “I have nightmares, too.”
The girl beside her is silent.
She tries again. “If we talk about our nightmares, it helps. At least, that’s what they say. I’ve never tried. I mean, sure, when I was younger, and I might dream about zombies or something after seeing a scary movie, and I’d tell my brother about it, but that’s it. Maybe you and I could talk about our nightmares?” She waits but gets no reaction to her suggestion.
“There’s nothing wrong with having nightmares, you know.” Claire threads her fingers together over her knee as she leans forward, trying to catch Molly’s gaze. “It doesn’t make you different or strange… well, I mean, anymore than we all ready are.”
Oops. There she goes mentioning what she isn’t supposed to mention. Oh, well.
Realizing that Molly isn’t going to share unless she does, Claire takes a breath before losing her courage and admits, “I hate closing my eyes at night because I know what I’ll see.” She scoots back a little further on the bed, tucking a leg beneath her. “Sometimes my dreams are about the bomb going off. And sometimes they’re about never getting away from Linderman...” She stops herself, not really wanting to continue.
“And?” Molly prods, as if she knows Claire isn’t being completely honest with her.
She sighs. “And sometimes they’re about my uncle, Peter. And my real dad.” She glances out the window before whispering, “And Sylar.” Just saying his name out loud makes her cold suddenly.
Molly nods before resting her chin on her hands. It’s a moment before she says, “He’s not dead, you know.”
Claire yells for her dad.
****
It’s almost half past two in the morning when Mohinder is woke by the sounds of terror coming from the man in the bed across from him. He knows that Zane suffers from nightmares frequently but has never asked about it, has never wished to pry or mention them whatsoever. It’s cowardly, as a matter of fact, but Mohinder has gotten so used to pretending over the last two months that he really doesn’t want to shatter the fragile world he’s created. Whether that means digging an ever deeper hole of lies or not. After all, it’s not as if either of them are innocents in any of this.
Tonight, though, the whimpered cries last longer than usual, and maybe Mohinder is beginning to let sympathy take over. Maybe he doesn’t feel the need for Zane to suffer for crimes committed by someone he doesn’t remember any longer. Or maybe he can’t sleep well with a nagging conscience. Whatever the reason, he gets out of bed and moves over to where Zane is sleeping, thrashing beneath the covers, fists clenched tightly as another guttural cry issues from his throat. Is it Sylar in there? Trying desperately to free himself?
“Zane,” Mohinder whispers softly, reaching out to touch his shoulder, the material of the light t-shirt warm beneath his fingers. “Zane, wake up.”
A chill runs down his spine as the eyes before him snap open, momentarily filled with a look Mohinder has only seen once before - when Sylar had been taunting him, boldly placing his own forehead against the gun Mohinder had held. Whatever it was is gone almost instantly, leaving him to wonder if his mind were simply playing tricks on him. He squeezes the shoulder beneath his fingers, focusing all of his concentration on Zane.
“You were having a nightmare.”
Zane still appears slightly confused, eyes befuddled by sleep and the lingering memories of his nightmares as he pushes himself into a sitting position. He reaches up to run his fingers through his hair, which really needs cutting now that Mohinder is looking closely. He makes a mental note to find a barber for both of them in the morning.
“Are you all right?” He asks when the silence continues.
“Huh? Yeah.” Zane’s response seems less than certain. He refuses to meet Mohinder’s gaze.
“You seem to have them quite frequently.” He sits down on the edge of the bed. “I haven’t wanted to pry but, if you’d like to talk about them…”
Zane frowns, and plucks at the bed sheet. Giving him time to adjust to the idea, Mohinder leans over and turns on the lamp situated between the twin beds. They both blink at the change in the lighting; Zane even turns his head away, his eyes centered on the bathroom door. The silence begins to grow a bit unnerving, especially when the loud ‘click’ of the old analog alarm clock as it flips over to two thirty-five causes Mohinder to jump.
He frowns at the nightstand before saying, “If you’d rather not -“
“No, it’s… “ Zane draws in a deep breath before turning back to him. “I worry about what you’ll think of me if I tell you.”
Mohinder smiles a little. He knows that Zane still harbors a secret fear that one day he’ll just leave him alone in the middle of nowhere. He sometimes wonders if Sylar’s comment to him about not being alone anymore might have had a ring of truth to it… somewhere. Was that fear of isolation manifesting itself in Zane?
“I assure you that nothing you dream about will have any bearing on my opinion of you,” he says. “Who knows? It might even help if you talk about it.”
Zane makes a face that clearly says he doesn’t agree. Obstinacy is only one of the traits Mohinder has noticed Zane exhibit in the last few weeks. There are other more… difficult to decipher traits that he tries his best not to delve into too deeply. Pessimism will gain him nothing.
Or, at least, that’s what he likes to tell himself lately.
“It’s just… “ Zane holds up a hand as if in an attempt to explain, seems to think better of it, and drops it back into his lap. “I don’t really remember them. After I wake up, I mean. Just… images. It’s hard to get rid of those.”
“Images of what?”
“People,” he answers simply. “People… dying. Screaming. Sometimes I think I can still hear their screams when I wake up.”
“After what you’ve been through -“
“It’s not fire or a bomb or anything like that killing them,” Zane responds, an impatient tone to his voice. “There’s so much blood and… and… I think it’s me. I think it’s me killing them.”
Mohinder quickly drops his gaze at Zane’s words, mind working furiously to come up with something to say. His fleeting though that perhaps Sylar is attempting to reveal himself in Zane’s subconscious returns. He’s surprised that he remains as calm as he does; that his expression is carefully neutral as he continues to hold Zane’s fretful gaze. Reaching out, he touches Zane’s hand.
“They’re just dreams.”
He shakes his head. “But what if they aren’t? Mohinder, what if they’re memories?” A pause and then, “What if I’m a monster?”
There isn’t a moment’s hesitation as he says, “You’re not a monster, Zane. The man I see before me would never be capable of such things.”
“But I’m a different man now,” he argues.
Yes, you are. “How can you be so certain? Are you positive that you weren’t exactly as you are now? Why must the man you used to be, be a monster?”
“The dreams - “
“Are manifestations of your fears,” Mohinder lies, feeling as he does so that he is taking some final step, making some last commitment toward the path that lay ahead of him. “I can only believe they’d be normal in cases such as yours. You have no memory of who you were, and so your subconscious latches on to that anxiety you feel over the unknown, allowing those fears to overwhelm and consume you. Couple that with everything that’s happened to all of us and… well, I wouldn’t delve too deeply into the meaning of your nightmares, Zane. Or you’re going to start jumping at shadows that aren’t there.”
He thinks I’m a master of lies. At what point did the manipulator become the manipulated? Peter was right. If the tiger were ever freed from his cage, he would rip Mohinder’s throat out.
Zane’s expression says that he remains unconvinced; maybe Mohinder isn’t as great a liar as he believes.
Knowing that there is an inherent danger in continuing the conversation, Mohinder pats Zane’s thigh before he stands. “Try to get back to sleep. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow. I suggest you put the nightmares from your mind as best you can, but if you wish to talk about them again, I’m here to listen.”
As he moves back to his bed, leaning across the nightstand to switch off the lamp, he hears Zane ask, “What would you do? I mean, if you found out I was that person?”
Mohinder’s fingers brush against the switch, the intended action lost as his mind flails in an attempt to formulate a response.
“Mohinder?”
He closes his eyes, sighing softly. “I don’t know, Zane. I just don’t know.”
It’s the first time he’s been honest in weeks.
****
Sunlight is just beginning to spread across Upstate New York when Nathan moves down the staircase, pausing to gaze at the boughs of pine strung along the railing. It smells like Christmas in the house; it looks like Christmas. But try as he might, Nathan doesn’t get the sense of the approaching holiday whatsoever. Heidi and the kids are in London, visiting relatives and doing some last minute Christmas shopping. Normally, that time would have been spent in Manhattan but other plans obviously had to be made this year; Heidi wasn’t about to let their boys suffer anymore than was necessary. “The innocent shouldn’t be made to deal with our sins,” she’d told Nathan cryptically the night before they’d left. He’d stared after her as she made her way upstairs, wondering what she’d meant by that, wanting to call her back and ask her, but not doing so. Communication hasn’t been Nathan’s strong point over the last few weeks. In actuality, he’d prefer it if everyone would just allow him to crawl into a deep hole, and never come out again.
His mother referred to him as “gloomy”, and wow, there were so many choice words he wished to call her, but none ever made it past his lips. For the most part, he spends their encounters watching her, wondering what made her, and why he has been fated to be so very much like her. He no longer has the strength to hate her; that requires emotions that Nathan fears may be gone all together.
When he reaches the hall, the family’s butler, Ray Iverson, is waiting for him. “Mr. Linderman called, sir. He says to let you know he is running a few minutes late.”
Nathan nods, waves a hand in dismissal and continues on toward the dining room where he will be meeting with Linderman in a short while for their weekly breakfast meeting. Like the rest of the house, the dining room is festively decorated with boughs of pine, red bows and gold candles. Outside, a dusting of snow covers the lawn and street, and if Nathan squints really hard, and pretends he has a lobotomy, he can almost imagine that the last few months never happened. Slipping his hands into his pant pockets, he stands at the window, closes his eyes, and imagines exactly that. When he opens them again, it will all have been a nightmare. The explosion never happened. Peter is safe, spending the holidays here with the family in Nantucket, and the words ‘evolution’ and ‘abilities’ were never once spoken by any of them.
He opens his eyes to find his reflection staring back at him through the glass. One look, and he knows the truth; it’s there in the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hard lines of his mouth, and the recent flecks of gray spreading from his temples along the sides of his hair.
“You’ve looked better,” he remarks, the frosted image remaining silent as he turns away to take a seat at the head of the long table.
Peter would have said something witty in that moment; some offhand comment about how Nathan was past his prime anyway, and what did it really matter? He would have flashed a half smile up at his older brother, and Nathan would have pulled him into a headlock, and everything would have been normal.
Unfortunately, things are decidedly not normal, and never would be normal again.
The chiming of the doorbell causes Nathan to glance down at his watch. Linderman is precisely three minutes late. The staff begins filing into the room, filling the table with coffee and juice, and all of Linderman’s preferred breakfast foods, and Nathan ignores them, his eyes steady on the doorway, thoughts firmly focused on the coming conversation. He’s been preparing for this meeting ever since the bombshell his mother dropped on him the other morning.
You have another brother, Nathan. Peter and Gabriel… twins.
“Chilly weather out there this morning,” Linderman says as he walks into the room with a smile. “Happy holidays, Nathan.”
“Daniel,” Nathan greets with a nod, and a flash of his most charming smile, the one his mother says won him the election, even though they both know that’s far from the truth.
There’s barely a falter in Linderman’s step, even though he hates it when Nathan refers to him with such ease by his first name. The moment Nathan realized that, he’s never gone back. Maybe it’s his way of proving he wasn’t afraid of the man anymore, that he considers them to be on equal footing. And maybe that’s one of the reasons they’re having this very meeting.
“Heidi and the kids still in London?” He asks as he takes his usual seat a few chairs down from Nathan and begins to fill his plate with salmon and capers.
Stomach turning at the smell of the fish, Nathan nods, picking up his cup of black coffee. “They’ll be back this weekend.”
“Good, good.”
There’s a momentary silence as Linderman prepares his breakfast. Nathan allows it, enjoys the momentary reprieve as the conversation with his mother continues to play over in his mind.
… An unexpected turn… You may know of him as Sylar…
Sylar’s dead.
That’s what we all thought…
“I thought we should discuss this new bill you’ve put before the legislature,” Linderman finally says, attention still seemingly focused on his breakfast. “I don’t recall having heard of it before.”
Nathan shrugs, finger tapping lightly against the edge of his cup. “That’s because I don’t feel it necessary to share everything with you regarding my position.”
Linderman sets his bagel down, and turns a smile toward him. “If this is your way of acting out against the choices Angela and I have made, I assure you, it is a poor bid for attention. Your behavior ever since the bomb has been rather distasteful, as a matter of fact. I would expect a little more gratitude for everything I have done for you and your family. Instead, I continually discover us at cross purposes. Don’t think for a moment that I didn’t know you had a hand in Claire’s disappearance. I’m not an idiot, Nathan.”
“Never said you were, Daniel.”
Linderman’s color heightens ever so slightly. He returns to his meal, his quick motions the only real outside indication of his mounting anger. “I warned your mother that precautions would need to be taken; that you were getting out of hand. She continued to plead your case. But Peter got to you, didn’t he?” He shakes his head, a touch of sorrow in his expression. “She said you were strong; I’ve always thought you the weaker of the brothers.”
It was an experiment… a necessary experiment. We had to keep them safe… we had to keep them apart.
“Peter has nothing to do with this,” Nathan responds honestly. “This is about right and wrong. I’m trying to right the wrongs that you’ve created.”
“Not just me, Nathan. All of us. Many years and many lives have been spent in creating a world of peace, and if you think we’re just going to sit back and let you destroy that - “ He cuts himself off, almost as if he momentarily lost control and is attempting to rein himself back.
There’s a tight smile. “The problem is your myopic vision. I thought we could work around that, but I see that I was wrong. The person in your position needs a much grander vision of the future. If you are not prepared to approach the future with the clear foresight needed, then I am afraid to say you will have to be replaced.”
Gabriel has always been the back-up plan.
Do you hear yourself, mother? Back-up plan? And Peter was the fodder?
Nathan leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You’re a little late. My mother already had this conversation with me. The sick revelation that Sylar is a Petrelli. That he was the back-up in this little farce of yours. Even though the man may still be alive, I don’t see how you expect the public to suddenly accept someone new in my position. Not now. Not after everything that’s happened. You seem to be ignoring the fact that the public adores me. My approval rating is at ninety percent. You can’t just replace that.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate me or my ability to make things happen, Nathan.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I would prefer not to call it that. Look at it as a… a wake-up call, if you will.” Linderman smiles before tapping a finger on the table in emphasis as he says, “I want that bill to disappear, Nathan. The sooner the better.”
“Or what?” Nathan scoffs. “You’re going to pull Sylar… excuse me, Gabriel out of thin air, convince him that the two of you should become Team Narcissist, and all will be well with the world? You seem to forget, Daniel, I’m the senator here. You’re just the crime boss.”
The expression that appears on Linderman’s face can only be described as sour. Nathan smiles as he leans back in his chair. If he’s learned one thing, it’s that Linderman isn’t the type to cause a scene. He’ll leave quietly and do his plotting behind closed doors, giving Nathan time to make his own move.
“You seem to forget, senator,” Linderman begins, his tone ugly and twisted. “That I’m the one who put you there in the first place. I can easily take that away.”
Nathan raises his brow. “What? Will my completely illegal election suddenly come to light? Trust me, any scandal you choose to throw at me is nothing compared to the hell you and my mother have all ready put me through.”
Remaining silent, Linderman picks the napkin up from his lap, dabbing at his mouth before folding it and laying it neatly to the side of his plate. He stands, turning to smile down at Nathan. “I assure you, Senator Petrelli, you do not understand what Hell truly is. You have three days to make that bill go away, and then you’re going to find out.”
Nathan figures that saying something as cheesy as “bring it on” really doesn’t work for him. So he just smiles and says, “Daniel. It’s been a pleasure.”
Borrowed Time - PART TWO