Heroes: Good Intentions, Part 4 - Upheaval
Title: Good Intentions, Part 4 - Upheaval
Author: fool_of_ships
Pairing: Peter/Mohinder
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: through 1.21 "The Hard Part"
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Summary: As if his world turning upside down once wasn't enough.
Author's Notes: See Part 1.
The socks won't go in. Try as he might, Peter can't fit more than two pairs into the duffel bag. He might not need them, he realizes; he has no idea what the weather's like in Nevada this time of year, and if he's going to blow up anyway having extra socks probably won't make a difference one way or another. Clean underwear won't either, but he's not taking any chances.
The coffee table rattles, Peter's phone making the wood echo loudly even without superhuman amplification. He keeps working, mashing some Clif bars and a third book into his already-stuffed backpack, ignoring whoever is calling. They'll probably show up in a half-hour or so, and if he can get his act together he'll be gone by then. Before then, if he can manage it; he has no idea where Mohinder's gone, or how long he'll be out, and Peter doesn't want to have to see him. Not if it'll make him think, as he's sickeningly sure it will, of how the other man looked in the dream. Never mind protection; it has to be better for everyone if he doesn't have to find out what could put an expression like that-or like any of the dream-expressions he remembers-on Mohinder's face.
The phone buzzes again, and Peter tells it to go fuck itself. He's set up the flight, stopped the mail; there's no reason to even have it on at this point. Except if he turns it off, whoever's calling will really think something's wrong. Yeah, well, something is, he thinks. Dreaming that you explode definitely qualifies as wrong. Dreaming a different way to do it…that means pack up and run, because if destiny's rearranging itself around your squished cockroach then it's not going to be donuts that fall from the sky when the fire dies down.
-then-
It's the same as before, almost. He's standing in a deserted street, the sky glowing with the pearly half-light of dreams. Then a doorway catches his eye, a wide bank of glass and pillars, and he feels himself move through it and into a blur of hallway. He takes a step, cautiously, unsure of whether this dream permits movement, and enters a small white room. Isaac is standing at a table against the wall to his left, studying a street map, and he looks up as Peter moves into the center of the room. Peter has no time to say anything, look anywhere before the room begins to revolve around him.
The doorway glides past him, framing a bearded man with a confused expression. He's not familiar from the last dream. Neither is the collection of machinery against the next wall, pipes and access doors and meters intertwined, embedded in paint and plaster. Peter is almost relieved to see Mohinder, despite his look of grave concern; at least something is similar to the last dream, no matter how much he wants the ending to be different.
The table comes back into view, spread with a blueprint. Mr. Bennet looks up from where he's pointing on the page, in time to pass out of Peter's field of vision as the door rotates in. A dark-haired woman wearing a plaid miniskirt is standing in it this time, looking shocked and somehow familiar. Then the machinery is before him, and a man who reminds him of Hiro, might even be some version of him, is stabbing a sword into it, slicing across the wall at head-height, leaving an oozing trail of red. Peter can't take his eyes off it, but the room turns him inexorably around to come face-to-face with Mohinder again. He's smiling, contented, warm and welcoming-like a lover, Peter realizes, with a feeling of dizziness that has nothing to do with the turn of the room.
The table is on fire. Peter tries to back up and looks down instead, at his own glowing hands against the surface. When he looks up again, heart racing, Sylar is standing in the doorway, half headless, eyes filmed, grinning. Peter screams and raises his hands in warding, and flames leap from his fingers to the bleeding machinery, sending streaks of flame along the pipes and up to the ceiling. Mohinder stares at him from inches away, dumbstruck and hurt, and pain lances through him at the sight. It's the last thing he sees before everything is swallowed in a wall of flame.
-now-
It takes Peter several seconds to realize that the next buzzing noise isn't a vibrating phone, but his door. Window, he thinks, turning around to head for the bedroom. The neighbors won't be looking, and anybody else claiming to have seen some guy flying with his luggage and no plane will get sent to a shrink faster than he'll get to the airport. But with the extra momentum his bags are giving him, he can't screech to a fast enough halt, and staggers instead of pivoting before he can start again. That's all the delay it takes for Nathan to throw the door open and zoom at him in a very literal flying tackle.
"Shit!" Peter's head cracks against the doorframe, hard enough that the stars in his vision remind him of Claude. "Cut it out!"
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Nathan demands, trying to pin him to the floor. Peter, his arms held against the carpet, can't bring himself to fight with any real force, not when he's fighting his brother and Nathan's thoughts are only saying
"Get off me," Peter protests, and goes invisible. Too late; Nathan's got his grip established and he's not amused.
"What the-" Claire's voice, and Peter tries to jerk upward, to see if she's really there. "Nn-D-what are you doing?" she goes on, flustered.
"Yes, Peter, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Nathan asks, predictably enough that Peter feels like he's hearing double.
"Leaving," says Peter. "Like I should've done before." Maybe he could just fly off, if only he were sure Nathan wouldn't be right behind him.
"Nonsense," says his mother, and he tries to roll to the side to see just how many people are going to be parading into his apartment. "Really, Peter, if you didn't want us coming to check on you, you should have answered your phone." She steps into view, exuding disapproval in his general direction. "Nathan, let him up, lying on that backpack's got to be ruining his spine."
"He'll live," Nathan mutters, as he lets go.
Peter backs up, getting to his feet. Nathan's swiped his duffel bag; he reaches for it, too late. The socks come out first, and as if they'd been a dam, everything else follows in a compact rush. "Nathan!" Peter protests, scooping up his clothes, feeling unduly embarrassed at the thought of Claire seeing his underwear. "Give that back!"
"Fine." Nathan tosses the mostly-empty bag onto the floor. "You want to leave? Go ahead. See what the police think of that."
"Nathan," his mother says warningly.
"Yeah, you want to see what they think of a guy exploding?" Peter retorts. Police. Did the police finally get around to Mohinder's apartment? If so, they'll be there any minute.
"Peter, we've been over this," says Nathan. "You're not going to explode."
"Yes I am, Nathan," Peter tells him, getting up close as if to wall out his mother and niece from what he has to say. Maybe if he can convince Nathan… "I…I had another dream."
But Nathan has on his politician face, and he's thinking as he says, "Another one."
"Yeah." Peter looks around the room for an exit. Nathan's circled to the bedroom door while Claire guards the front; they've got him pretty well pinned. He sighs. "It was different…but it ended the same."
"Then maybe you can't stop it," his mother puts in, and he joins Nathan and Claire in staring.
"What, you want him to explode?" Claire demands, incredulous. "That's just sick and wrong."
"Claire, stay out of this." Nathan and his mother say it together, and Peter would think it was funny if the situation were less tense.
"No! You brought" "me along, I have a right to say what I think." Claire folds her arms, giving Peter a look that's probably supposed to say I'm on your side but is mostly just angry.
"I don't want him to explode," says Nathan, placating, while his thoughts say Peter backs up a step, dropping the backpack, listening to both of the voices. "But if it does happen" "I want to know when and where." "And I can't know that if-"
"Yes you do," Peter says, hugging his bundle of jeans and T-shirts as he backs toward the living-room window. "You do want me to explode." He's catching more thoughts as he speaks. "Because Linderman told you-"
"Linderman? He has nothing to do…" Nathan looks down, clearly caught off guard. "Where would you get that idea?" His brother is studying him, trying to be discreet. He should know better.
"From you," Peter says, realizing only after he's spoken that his tactical advantage might be blown. Nathan just looks confused, but Claire's eyes go narrow and then wide, and she has the good sense to think rather than saying it aloud. "It's complicated," Peter says in her direction, backing up some more.
"Yeah, no shit it's complicated," Nathan retorts. Peter doesn't hear anything else from him, but he looks as though he hasn't yet put the whole situation together.
"Nathan, watch your language," their mother reproves. "Peter, where did you pick up telepathy?" She makes it sound like a disease, as if it were sexually transmitted or caused a rash.
"In jail. In Texas." Peter watches her fight the urge to roll her eyes. "That's right, I take after you."
"Don't be a smartass, Peter," she returns. "I still have a promise to make good on and you're tempting me."
Nathan's thoughts say.
"Who's Linderman?" Claire asks.
Nathan puts a hand over his eyes. "Ma? You want to handle this one?"
His mother smiles, condescending, thinking. "Mr. Linderman knew your grandfather," she says to Claire. "They were…business partners." Peter is surprised not to hear any elaboration in her mind, or in anyone else's, for that matter. "We haven't really-"
There's the sound of a key in the lock, and everyone turns to watch as the Haitian walks in, holding the door open for an oblivious Mohinder and a pair of grocery bags. "Peter?" Mohinder calls from the kitchen, over the rustle of loading the refrigerator. "Did you know that-" He stops in the living-room doorway, one hand pressed to his side, looking around at the tableau. "Yes, apparently you did."
"Dr. Suresh," says Nathan, looking grateful for the interruption. "Welcome back."
Mohinder looks around the room: socks on the floor, Claire planted resolutely in the best exit path, Peter assessing his chances of getting a good trajectory out the window without losing his entire security deposit. "Have I interrupted a Petrelli family meeting?" he asks.
"A Petrelli family standoff," Claire mutters.
Peter can sense his mother appraising the situation. It's nearly tangible, blocking or no. "Doctor, were you aware that Peter was planning to run off and leave us?" she asks.
"No," Mohinder answers, meeting Peter's eye with a look of hurt bewilderment. "Were you just going to leave and hope I didn't notice?" he asks, indignant.
"No," Peter answers automatically. He's not lying; there's no way Mohinder wouldn't have noticed. "I was going to call you. To come meet me, if I…if I was okay." It seems suddenly crass, somehow, to talk about exploding when Mohinder is the one toying with the aspirin bottle and looking around as if for some container of water. Like he needs to be nicer, to make up for the escape attempt.
"We would have told him not to go," says the Haitian, appearing from behind Mohinder and handing him a glass. "Never believe anyone is who he says he is. Not anymore." And Peter remembers standing in the tub, listening to someone talk about a search for Claire, and realizes the man is right. You'd better be sure that's what you want because you just might get it.
"We've had some experience with that, yes," says Mohinder, nodding his thanks. He tosses back a couple of pills and makes his way to the table to set the glass down. "There are ways to verify identity."
"And there are ways around that as well," the Haitian responds.
"Enough of this," says Nathan. "Peter? Is there something you're not telling us? About why you'd want to leave?"
For a moment, he considers telling Nathan. If he could go quietly into the bedroom, just tell his brother who he knows isn't going to turn him in or think he's a horrible person, it might feel better. It might even get him some help: a cover story, an alibi, or in the worst case a good lawyer. But if it doesn't work, if all the help gets them nowhere…the election hasn't happened yet, and he's not going to be Nathan's downfall. Not if he can help it. Peter shrugs. "I told you. It's just…exploding. I don't want to."
"I thought we'd established you wouldn't," says Mohinder.
"He had another dream," Claire informs him. "A different one."
"And you still exploded?" Mohinder asks, and Peter doesn't need telepathy to know what he's thinking. The dream changed; it might be because of Sylar. Whatever was slated to happen might not have accounted for this particular path. There's no way to be sure. But if they're veering off the rails then everything Nathan denied hearing from Linderman is null and void, the future that Hiro was trying to prevent might be averted already, and destiny is probably trying to regroup. If I hadn't killed him…what would have happened instead? he wonders. Not something to think about just now.
Peter nods. "Yeah. I did." Mohinder shifts his weight, folding his arms, and Peter adds, "I was going to tell you."
"On the phone," Mohinder says, tightly. "From…Kansas, or Nevada, or the bloody airport?" He's angrier than Peter had thought he might be; it would have been obvious even without the cursing. It doesn't take a genius to reason why: all Peter's reassurances of the night before, that everything can be just fine and nobody has to feel bad, have just been thrown into doubt. Peter can feel the exchange of glances: his own, softening to remorse, and Mohinder's in reply saying Good.
"I'm sorry," Peter says, knowing it's not enough. "I…I can stay."
"Stay?" Mohinder chuckles incredulously. "Don't let me dictate where you blow up."
"No, I mean…" He fishes for something good enough, feeling everyone else watching the drama play out. "I don't know what the new dream means. I could use some help figuring it out."
That helps, but not as much as he'd hoped. "You have plenty of help," says Mohinder, gesturing around.
"Yeah, but you're the smart one, right?" asks Claire. "And all you guys-" she indicates the rest of the room with a wave of her hand- "are either busy with the election or going to leave town."
Mohinder's stance softens under the combined assault of praise and reason, and Peter makes a mental note to be sure Claire's gift from him for her next birthday takes into account not only sixteen years of absence but also about that many tons of gratitude. It's odd, he thinks as the rest of the room is discussing the Haitian's imminent return to Texas, how gratified it makes him feel to see Mohinder's anger melting away. It's almost like he was a brother, or another niece like Claire, or something. Peter wants to see him happy, as happy as he can be made under the circumstances, and he wants to be the one responsible. To make up for the last few days-wrecking his apartment, jerking him around, subjecting him to Nathan and his mother-if he knew how. He looks at Mohinder, who's watching someone else with a sort of polite confusion, and wonders what would make him happy like that. Maybe they could work out a way to go anonymously to a play, or a nightclub; or maybe it was something as simple as chocolate, deep and rich to match his eyes-
Oh.
Peter feels as if he's been turned upside down and shaken, like a bottle of something ready to explode into a shower of uncertain bubbles. He can't tell if his jaw's dropped, or whether gravity is even still acting on him the same way it's brought his bundle of clothes down onto his feet. And then Mohinder turns to look at him and it's like an electric shock, a heartbeat that bottoms out and spreads those little bubbles through his body, fizzing dread through limbs suddenly hot and clumsy. He's sure he must look like he's about to cry or puke; with his whole nervous system and most of his mind staging a revolt, he's not ruling out either possibility. No crush has ever felt like this, not even Marissa Dillon back in fifth grade. Maybe, he thinks, desperately, it's something else. But the way his heart is pounding as Mohinder watches him with concern, and the way Peter wants to reassure him and wave some wand and make everything magically all right, aren't anything else. He knows it, but he doesn't want to know it.
"Peter?"
"Whuh?" Peter jerks to attention, his mind barely processing that the voice is Nathan's and not Mohinder's, and blinks a couple of times to try to get back the focus that's deserted him in the last few moments.
"I asked you if you were all right," says Nathan, his voice resonating with all the solicitude Mohinder is putting into a silent gaze. "You look like you thought of something important."
You have no idea. "Um…yeah. I mean, no. It's not important." God, what if this is… What does his family actually think? He can't recall the least scrap of a conversation on the subject. Probably, to them, it's just something that happens to other people, like poverty and true love.
"You're not going to go rogue on us again?" Nathan presses.
Peter thinks Go Away at his brother like he hasn't since he was fifteen. "No."
"Are you going to leave?" asks Claire, folding her arms in a perfect replica of her grandmother. Peter has to smile as her mouth tightens just so, making his own pull wider with amusement. There's something about her that just erases the worst of the unease, and he focuses on that. God knows he should run, as far and as fast as he can manage, but with the knowledge of how he'd be hurting Mohinder, it's not an option anymore. Peter shakes his head, and Claire's nose tips up a little in triumph. "Good," she says, elegantly miffed.
"Yes," his mother agrees. "You need to be here and I intend to keep you here. Don't make me report you missing and stop your credit cards."
She'd do it too, he knows, and the reflexive fuming he's doing isn't going to help. "Don't worry about me," Peter says. "You need me to hang out, I'll hang out. I just thought disappearing would help."
"It would, except that if you really do disappear they might actually find you," she answers. "Which would be regrettable."
Peter has to admit he hadn't thought of that. Just because the Haitian's on their side doesn't mean he's either completely loyal or unique. Anything could be out there, searching for him, and even plain old Peter was never good at squirming out of situations where charisma wasn't a help. "Fine. What's going on with the police?"
"We called them," says Nathan. "Anonymously. They blew us off." He turns to Mohinder. "It appears Dr. Suresh lives in a worse part of town than he realized."
Peter doesn't look at him, at either one of them, but he can feel the same uneasy rush as the conversation turns back to Mohinder and the endangerment of his life. And the scariest part isn't that it's happening, but that he's not sure he wants it to stop. I forgot how this feels, he realizes. The beginning's been the past so long with Simone, and there's been so much else happening to push that initial rush from his memory… He catches himself listening to Mohinder without caring what he's saying, and shakes his head as if that's going to help. God, I'm hopeless.
"Peter? Are you all right?"
It's Claire, thank God, but it's only a matter of time before everyone else starts asking how he's feeling, and that's not going to be pretty. "Yeah," he lies. "I'm just tired…can you all just please go?"
"As long as we have your word that you'll refrain from flying out to the desert?" his mother asks, and he can't do anything but nod.
"I promise I won't leave the city," he says. Not a difficult promise, but it seems to satisfy them.
"Good choice," says Nathan. "Come on, Ma, let's let him rest." His good-bye hug, for the first time in years, feels awkward, and it's obvious Nathan's confused. "Don't do anything stupid."
"This is me, remember?" says Peter, and Nathan at least looks relieved. Never mind that the stupid thing's already pretty much a done deal, no matter what stupid thing he's talking about.
"That's why I worry," says his mother, as Claire launches the next hug attack. Peter reflects that whoever said cheerleading wasn't a real sport had obviously never had the breath squeezed out of them by a cheerleader. "Claire, let's go."
"I'm saying good-bye," she retorts, and looks back up at Peter. For a second he's afraid she understands more than she's letting on, more than she's been told, whether about what he's thinking now or what he's done. Then she says, "Do not get yourself killed. You're the only decent uncle I've got."
"I'll be fine," he tells her, wishing he believed it. "Go. You don't wanna be here if the police decide to take stuff seriously."
"I can handle it," says Claire, grinning, and then she's running out the door with the rest of his family and leaving him alone with the last person he wants to be alone with. Before the person can get him trapped in conversation, Peter goes to the kitchen and inspects the groceries. Vegetables, chicken, stuff for sandwiches, a package of Chips Ahoy that somehow ended up in the refrigerator. The thought of chocolate leads to others he doesn't really want, and he shuts the door without moving the cookies.
"So," says Mohinder, behind him, and he squeaks and spins around, locking gazes before he can think of how to avoid it. "I assume that whatever you were talking about regarding a dream has something to do with Sylar?"
"Maybe. I don't know." Peter looks down, noticing for the first time the traces of smudged brown still left in the seams of his shoes. He wonders whether airport security might have noticed, might even have smelled him, maybe even without dogs. Mohinder wouldn't have that worry, with the soft aura of soap and spice that- stop that. "I don't want to talk about it," he says, harshly, and goes to the door.
"Where are you going?" Mohinder asks, confused. "You said you wouldn't-"
"I'm not leaving town," Peter snaps. It'd be better, he thinks. No worries about saying anything idiotic, no need to be careful in case this isn't what it feels like. Just some stupid obsession, natural and probably not likely to hang around. "I just need some air."
"Air?" Mohinder echoes. "You're not going to try to fly, are you? That's not some code word?"
"No." Peter dares a look back at him, and when his stomach flips he knows he can't stay in the apartment. "Just please…please don't try to find me, okay?" And he leaves, closing the door before Mohinder can ask him why not.
He goes invisible just outside the elevator, in case security has actually hooked up the camera they keep threatening to put in the car. It's harder than it ought to be, with his mind occupied by so many emotions that don't remind him of Claude. Another reason to keep away from whatever is happening with Mohinder, he decides: lack of clarity. In this state, he's no good to anyone, least of all himself.
But what state is it? he asks himself, stepping out of the building onto the sidewalk. Confusion, or what? How's he supposed to figure it out when he doesn't know what to think in the first place? It's not something he's primed to think about at all, really. Growing up in America meant assuming oneself to be straight, until and unless incontrovertible proof to the contrary might arise. Growing up Petrelli meant assuming one would never have the opportunity to explore that kind of proof. He's not sure of the situation in Chennai, but he's betting it's more of the same. It occurs to him that the best resource for that answer is the last one he'd consider asking, and he keeps walking.
He keeps walking, head down, holding the feeling of being hunted and not measuring up. When he thinks about it in those terms, it's easier than trying to feel like he's around Claude. He wonders, though he can't figure out a reason for it, if he's subconsciously looking for the invisible man. Like he'd do anything but laugh his ass off at me. Hell, maybe that would actually help.
Museums, parks, restaurants, even a tattoo parlor: he wanders all over, hoping something will give him an answer or a new distraction. Nothing sticks, and it's getting dark. Air can only go so far as an excuse for being out and about, and he'd better get back to face whatever music is waiting for him. It comes to him on the elevator, where there's no music at all. He can't figure this out logically because it's not logical. It's biology but it's not science. Just do what it feels like you have to do, he thinks, and he can feel his pulse racing as the flickering bulb under the 14 button blinks out. He's getting a little tired of being in new territory all the time. Even the familiarity of how his door sticks, the slight tingle as he lets himself turn visible again, aren't enough to put him at ease. And the sound of footsteps inside the apartment would have been enough to get him nervous again anyway.
"Where have you been?" Mohinder demands the second the door's closed. "Do you have any idea-"
"Out," says Peter, loudly, walking past without looking up so he won't get lost in those bottomless eyes. "I've been out. And no, I have no idea. So tell me."
"The FBI was here," Mohinder says. Peter can feel an accusing laser stare being leveled at him, and he stops. "Looking for us."
"Maybe it's better I wasn't around then," Peter says. For one thing, he'd have been hard pressed to stay quiet if they were playing Mohinder as a lone guest again; and if he'd had to be visible he'd probably have messed up the story. He wonders idly why the FBI, what happened to the plain old police.
"Maybe," says Mohinder, tightly. "Nice job protecting me though. Remotely, even. I wasn't afraid at all, it must be a new power you've dug up. On your mission for air, perhaps?"
"Shut up," Peter mutters, resuming his stalk through the living room. He can hear Mohinder following, and ignores him. There's more than one way of protecting people.
"What happened to you today?" Mohinder asks, cutting in front of him, and he nearly bowls the other man over before lurching to a stop. Peter stares at their feet as Mohinder lists offenses, each one adding to the morass of unfamiliar anguish in his mind. "You try to leave, not once but twice, you look like someone's killed your dog, you won't talk to me-"
"I think I killed you," Peter bursts out, finally looking up. Mohinder's expression is frighteningly close to the shock from the dream, but there's…curiosity, concern tempering it instead of pain. And the fact that Peter's not feeling the need to stare, the way he was so sure he would be, is messing with his head, but he makes himself continue. "In the dream."
Mohinder is silent for a second, as Peter studies him and wonders why the arresting beauty, so clear just hours before, isn't making itself known. "Didn't you…before?" he asks, brow crinkling in confusion. "In the other dream? You said I was there."
Peter had almost forgotten that. He's almost forgotten a lot in the last minute or so. "Yeah," he acknowledges. "You were. But…this was different. You were…" He gestures in the meager space between them, trying vainly to communicate the immediacy of the vision. "You showed up over and over. Not like before."
Mohinder's still puzzled, but not shocked anymore, and Peter feels himself calming as the uncanny projection dissolves. "What else did you see?" Mohinder asks, sounding as if he's not sure whether he wants to know.
Peter closes his eyes, the better to remember. "A room, white, really small. With a table and a bunch of machines. Isaac was there, the painter, and some guy with a beard. And you." Looking like you were going to kiss me. Dammit, Peter, concentrate. "And it kind of kept swirling, you know, like I was spinning around?" He opens his eyes to see Mohinder nodding at his unconscious finger-twirling gestures, and he feels better. "So Isaac turns into Claire's dad, and the guy turns into this girl in a plaid miniskirt, and-what?"
Mohinder is smirking. "A plaid miniskirt?"
"Yes, a plaid miniskirt," Peter retorts. What, you think I don't notice girls? "And this Japanese guy, who I think is supposed to be Hiro from the train, he stabbed the machines with a sword and they…bled. Blood." He notes the flit of unease in Mohinder's eyes, and skips the image that comes next, the tender smile he's no longer sure he wants to see again. "Then my hands were glowing, and the table was on fire, and Sylar…" He swallows, remembering the twisted grin and hollow skull. "Sylar was there instead of the girl, and I set the machines on fire, and then I saw you for just a second, and then everything was on fire."
"I was in the fire?" Mohinder asks.
Peter shakes his head. "There was fire, and there was you. Not together. But…" He tries to find words to explain the way that single expression had pierced him, even before that afternoon, and can't. "You looked like somebody punched you. Or killed you. Or something."
"There's quite a difference between the two," Mohinder remarks. "Is there a reason you didn't tell your family about what you dreamed?"
"Only Nathan knows what I saw the first time," Peter says, "and he'd want to know what changed. Why it was a different way of exploding, a different place." Why he wasn't there.
Mohinder nods. "And you can't lie to him," he says, a simple statement of fact. Peter doesn't understand how anyone can have absorbed that much about him in so little time. Then again, maybe he does understand. If he wants to be around Peter, he has reasons to work at understanding.
Peter remembers where the conversation began. "What did you tell the FBI?"
"The same story," Mohinder says, leaning against the back of an armchair and looking suddenly tired. "You weren't involved, just came in at the wrong time. They also think you've left town. Your luggage helped with that. Where did you go, anyway?"
Peter shrugs. "Around."
"Ar-" Mohinder stands up straight in disbelief. "You went out in public? Peter, what if they'd seen you?"
And just like that, he's in turmoil again from being cared about. Or from being thought some variety of imbecile; he can't quite tell. "I was invisible," he says, hearing the derision as the words come out but unable to stop himself. He feels as if he needs to be sent to his room, and a second later he's turning and going there. "I'm not that big an idiot."
"Right." Mohinder manages to infuse enough snark into the word to redefine it. "Are you going to shut the door again?" he asks archly, as Peter reaches the bed.
"Fuck off," Peter grumbles, flops atop the comforter, and does his best to ignore Mohinder. He concentrates on ignoring everything he doesn't understand, for good measure. His own mind, the situation he's in, most of the outside world. And Mohinder…especially Mohinder. He's not intending to fall asleep, but the next time he looks at the clock it's the brightest spot in the room and he's cold. Bed, proper, is looking like his best idea all day. He's down to T-shirt and briefs before he remembers he's not alone in the apartment and he has no idea as to the location of the guy who's crushing on him. He scrabbles for pajama pants, wishing for super-speed, and gets them on and himself into bed without interruption. If there's some corner of his mind that's sorry Mohinder is nowhere to be seen, it keeps quiet long enough for him to get back to sleep.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
Author: fool_of_ships
Pairing: Peter/Mohinder
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: through 1.21 "The Hard Part"
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Summary: As if his world turning upside down once wasn't enough.
Author's Notes: See Part 1.
The socks won't go in. Try as he might, Peter can't fit more than two pairs into the duffel bag. He might not need them, he realizes; he has no idea what the weather's like in Nevada this time of year, and if he's going to blow up anyway having extra socks probably won't make a difference one way or another. Clean underwear won't either, but he's not taking any chances.
The coffee table rattles, Peter's phone making the wood echo loudly even without superhuman amplification. He keeps working, mashing some Clif bars and a third book into his already-stuffed backpack, ignoring whoever is calling. They'll probably show up in a half-hour or so, and if he can get his act together he'll be gone by then. Before then, if he can manage it; he has no idea where Mohinder's gone, or how long he'll be out, and Peter doesn't want to have to see him. Not if it'll make him think, as he's sickeningly sure it will, of how the other man looked in the dream. Never mind protection; it has to be better for everyone if he doesn't have to find out what could put an expression like that-or like any of the dream-expressions he remembers-on Mohinder's face.
The phone buzzes again, and Peter tells it to go fuck itself. He's set up the flight, stopped the mail; there's no reason to even have it on at this point. Except if he turns it off, whoever's calling will really think something's wrong. Yeah, well, something is, he thinks. Dreaming that you explode definitely qualifies as wrong. Dreaming a different way to do it…that means pack up and run, because if destiny's rearranging itself around your squished cockroach then it's not going to be donuts that fall from the sky when the fire dies down.
-then-
It's the same as before, almost. He's standing in a deserted street, the sky glowing with the pearly half-light of dreams. Then a doorway catches his eye, a wide bank of glass and pillars, and he feels himself move through it and into a blur of hallway. He takes a step, cautiously, unsure of whether this dream permits movement, and enters a small white room. Isaac is standing at a table against the wall to his left, studying a street map, and he looks up as Peter moves into the center of the room. Peter has no time to say anything, look anywhere before the room begins to revolve around him.
The doorway glides past him, framing a bearded man with a confused expression. He's not familiar from the last dream. Neither is the collection of machinery against the next wall, pipes and access doors and meters intertwined, embedded in paint and plaster. Peter is almost relieved to see Mohinder, despite his look of grave concern; at least something is similar to the last dream, no matter how much he wants the ending to be different.
The table comes back into view, spread with a blueprint. Mr. Bennet looks up from where he's pointing on the page, in time to pass out of Peter's field of vision as the door rotates in. A dark-haired woman wearing a plaid miniskirt is standing in it this time, looking shocked and somehow familiar. Then the machinery is before him, and a man who reminds him of Hiro, might even be some version of him, is stabbing a sword into it, slicing across the wall at head-height, leaving an oozing trail of red. Peter can't take his eyes off it, but the room turns him inexorably around to come face-to-face with Mohinder again. He's smiling, contented, warm and welcoming-like a lover, Peter realizes, with a feeling of dizziness that has nothing to do with the turn of the room.
The table is on fire. Peter tries to back up and looks down instead, at his own glowing hands against the surface. When he looks up again, heart racing, Sylar is standing in the doorway, half headless, eyes filmed, grinning. Peter screams and raises his hands in warding, and flames leap from his fingers to the bleeding machinery, sending streaks of flame along the pipes and up to the ceiling. Mohinder stares at him from inches away, dumbstruck and hurt, and pain lances through him at the sight. It's the last thing he sees before everything is swallowed in a wall of flame.
-now-
It takes Peter several seconds to realize that the next buzzing noise isn't a vibrating phone, but his door. Window, he thinks, turning around to head for the bedroom. The neighbors won't be looking, and anybody else claiming to have seen some guy flying with his luggage and no plane will get sent to a shrink faster than he'll get to the airport. But with the extra momentum his bags are giving him, he can't screech to a fast enough halt, and staggers instead of pivoting before he can start again. That's all the delay it takes for Nathan to throw the door open and zoom at him in a very literal flying tackle.
"Shit!" Peter's head cracks against the doorframe, hard enough that the stars in his vision remind him of Claude. "Cut it out!"
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Nathan demands, trying to pin him to the floor. Peter, his arms held against the carpet, can't bring himself to fight with any real force, not when he's fighting his brother and Nathan's thoughts are only saying
"Get off me," Peter protests, and goes invisible. Too late; Nathan's got his grip established and he's not amused.
"What the-" Claire's voice, and Peter tries to jerk upward, to see if she's really there. "Nn-D-what are you doing?" she goes on, flustered.
"Yes, Peter, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Nathan asks, predictably enough that Peter feels like he's hearing double.
"Leaving," says Peter. "Like I should've done before." Maybe he could just fly off, if only he were sure Nathan wouldn't be right behind him.
"Nonsense," says his mother, and he tries to roll to the side to see just how many people are going to be parading into his apartment. "Really, Peter, if you didn't want us coming to check on you, you should have answered your phone." She steps into view, exuding disapproval in his general direction. "Nathan, let him up, lying on that backpack's got to be ruining his spine."
"He'll live," Nathan mutters, as he lets go.
Peter backs up, getting to his feet. Nathan's swiped his duffel bag; he reaches for it, too late. The socks come out first, and as if they'd been a dam, everything else follows in a compact rush. "Nathan!" Peter protests, scooping up his clothes, feeling unduly embarrassed at the thought of Claire seeing his underwear. "Give that back!"
"Fine." Nathan tosses the mostly-empty bag onto the floor. "You want to leave? Go ahead. See what the police think of that."
"Nathan," his mother says warningly.
"Yeah, you want to see what they think of a guy exploding?" Peter retorts. Police. Did the police finally get around to Mohinder's apartment? If so, they'll be there any minute.
"Peter, we've been over this," says Nathan. "You're not going to explode."
"Yes I am, Nathan," Peter tells him, getting up close as if to wall out his mother and niece from what he has to say. Maybe if he can convince Nathan… "I…I had another dream."
But Nathan has on his politician face, and he's thinking
"Yeah." Peter looks around the room for an exit. Nathan's circled to the bedroom door while Claire guards the front; they've got him pretty well pinned. He sighs. "It was different…but it ended the same."
"Then maybe you can't stop it," his mother puts in, and he joins Nathan and Claire in staring.
"What, you want him to explode?" Claire demands, incredulous. "That's just sick and wrong."
"Claire, stay out of this." Nathan and his mother say it together, and Peter would think it was funny if the situation were less tense.
"No! You brought"
"I don't want him to explode," says Nathan, placating, while his thoughts say
"Yes you do," Peter says, hugging his bundle of jeans and T-shirts as he backs toward the living-room window. "You do want me to explode." He's catching more thoughts as he speaks. "Because Linderman told you-"
"Linderman? He has nothing to do…" Nathan looks down, clearly caught off guard.
"From you," Peter says, realizing only after he's spoken that his tactical advantage might be blown. Nathan just looks confused, but Claire's eyes go narrow and then wide, and she has the good sense to think
"Yeah, no shit it's complicated," Nathan retorts. Peter doesn't hear anything else from him, but he looks as though he hasn't yet put the whole situation together.
"Nathan, watch your language," their mother reproves. "Peter, where did you pick up telepathy?" She makes it sound like a disease, as if it were sexually transmitted or caused a rash.
"In jail. In Texas." Peter watches her fight the urge to roll her eyes. "That's right, I take after you."
"Don't be a smartass, Peter," she returns. "I still have a promise to make good on and you're tempting me."
"Who's Linderman?" Claire asks.
Nathan puts a hand over his eyes. "Ma? You want to handle this one?"
His mother smiles, condescending, thinking
There's the sound of a key in the lock, and everyone turns to watch as the Haitian walks in, holding the door open for an oblivious Mohinder and a pair of grocery bags. "Peter?" Mohinder calls from the kitchen, over the rustle of loading the refrigerator. "Did you know that-" He stops in the living-room doorway, one hand pressed to his side, looking around at the tableau. "Yes, apparently you did."
"Dr. Suresh," says Nathan, looking grateful for the interruption. "Welcome back."
Mohinder looks around the room: socks on the floor, Claire planted resolutely in the best exit path, Peter assessing his chances of getting a good trajectory out the window without losing his entire security deposit. "Have I interrupted a Petrelli family meeting?" he asks.
"A Petrelli family standoff," Claire mutters.
Peter can sense his mother appraising the situation. It's nearly tangible, blocking or no. "Doctor, were you aware that Peter was planning to run off and leave us?" she asks.
"No," Mohinder answers, meeting Peter's eye with a look of hurt bewilderment. "Were you just going to leave and hope I didn't notice?" he asks, indignant.
"No," Peter answers automatically. He's not lying; there's no way Mohinder wouldn't have noticed. "I was going to call you. To come meet me, if I…if I was okay." It seems suddenly crass, somehow, to talk about exploding when Mohinder is the one toying with the aspirin bottle and looking around as if for some container of water. Like he needs to be nicer, to make up for the escape attempt.
"We would have told him not to go," says the Haitian, appearing from behind Mohinder and handing him a glass. "Never believe anyone is who he says he is. Not anymore." And Peter remembers standing in the tub, listening to someone talk about a search for Claire, and realizes the man is right. You'd better be sure that's what you want because you just might get it.
"We've had some experience with that, yes," says Mohinder, nodding his thanks. He tosses back a couple of pills and makes his way to the table to set the glass down. "There are ways to verify identity."
"And there are ways around that as well," the Haitian responds.
"Enough of this," says Nathan. "Peter? Is there something you're not telling us? About why you'd want to leave?"
For a moment, he considers telling Nathan. If he could go quietly into the bedroom, just tell his brother who he knows isn't going to turn him in or think he's a horrible person, it might feel better. It might even get him some help: a cover story, an alibi, or in the worst case a good lawyer. But if it doesn't work, if all the help gets them nowhere…the election hasn't happened yet, and he's not going to be Nathan's downfall. Not if he can help it. Peter shrugs. "I told you. It's just…exploding. I don't want to."
"I thought we'd established you wouldn't," says Mohinder.
"He had another dream," Claire informs him. "A different one."
"And you still exploded?" Mohinder asks, and Peter doesn't need telepathy to know what he's thinking. The dream changed; it might be because of Sylar. Whatever was slated to happen might not have accounted for this particular path. There's no way to be sure. But if they're veering off the rails then everything Nathan denied hearing from Linderman is null and void, the future that Hiro was trying to prevent might be averted already, and destiny is probably trying to regroup. If I hadn't killed him…what would have happened instead? he wonders. Not something to think about just now.
Peter nods. "Yeah. I did." Mohinder shifts his weight, folding his arms, and Peter adds, "I was going to tell you."
"On the phone," Mohinder says, tightly. "From…Kansas, or Nevada, or the bloody airport?" He's angrier than Peter had thought he might be; it would have been obvious even without the cursing. It doesn't take a genius to reason why: all Peter's reassurances of the night before, that everything can be just fine and nobody has to feel bad, have just been thrown into doubt. Peter can feel the exchange of glances: his own, softening to remorse, and Mohinder's in reply saying Good.
"I'm sorry," Peter says, knowing it's not enough. "I…I can stay."
"Stay?" Mohinder chuckles incredulously. "Don't let me dictate where you blow up."
"No, I mean…" He fishes for something good enough, feeling everyone else watching the drama play out. "I don't know what the new dream means. I could use some help figuring it out."
That helps, but not as much as he'd hoped. "You have plenty of help," says Mohinder, gesturing around.
"Yeah, but you're the smart one, right?" asks Claire. "And all you guys-" she indicates the rest of the room with a wave of her hand- "are either busy with the election or going to leave town."
Mohinder's stance softens under the combined assault of praise and reason, and Peter makes a mental note to be sure Claire's gift from him for her next birthday takes into account not only sixteen years of absence but also about that many tons of gratitude. It's odd, he thinks as the rest of the room is discussing the Haitian's imminent return to Texas, how gratified it makes him feel to see Mohinder's anger melting away. It's almost like he was a brother, or another niece like Claire, or something. Peter wants to see him happy, as happy as he can be made under the circumstances, and he wants to be the one responsible. To make up for the last few days-wrecking his apartment, jerking him around, subjecting him to Nathan and his mother-if he knew how. He looks at Mohinder, who's watching someone else with a sort of polite confusion, and wonders what would make him happy like that. Maybe they could work out a way to go anonymously to a play, or a nightclub; or maybe it was something as simple as chocolate, deep and rich to match his eyes-
Oh.
Peter feels as if he's been turned upside down and shaken, like a bottle of something ready to explode into a shower of uncertain bubbles. He can't tell if his jaw's dropped, or whether gravity is even still acting on him the same way it's brought his bundle of clothes down onto his feet. And then Mohinder turns to look at him and it's like an electric shock, a heartbeat that bottoms out and spreads those little bubbles through his body, fizzing dread through limbs suddenly hot and clumsy. He's sure he must look like he's about to cry or puke; with his whole nervous system and most of his mind staging a revolt, he's not ruling out either possibility. No crush has ever felt like this, not even Marissa Dillon back in fifth grade. Maybe, he thinks, desperately, it's something else. But the way his heart is pounding as Mohinder watches him with concern, and the way Peter wants to reassure him and wave some wand and make everything magically all right, aren't anything else. He knows it, but he doesn't want to know it.
"Peter?"
"Whuh?" Peter jerks to attention, his mind barely processing that the voice is Nathan's and not Mohinder's, and blinks a couple of times to try to get back the focus that's deserted him in the last few moments.
"I asked you if you were all right," says Nathan, his voice resonating with all the solicitude Mohinder is putting into a silent gaze. "You look like you thought of something important."
You have no idea. "Um…yeah. I mean, no. It's not important." God, what if this is… What does his family actually think? He can't recall the least scrap of a conversation on the subject. Probably, to them, it's just something that happens to other people, like poverty and true love.
"You're not going to go rogue on us again?" Nathan presses.
Peter thinks Go Away at his brother like he hasn't since he was fifteen. "No."
"Are you going to leave?" asks Claire, folding her arms in a perfect replica of her grandmother. Peter has to smile as her mouth tightens just so, making his own pull wider with amusement. There's something about her that just erases the worst of the unease, and he focuses on that. God knows he should run, as far and as fast as he can manage, but with the knowledge of how he'd be hurting Mohinder, it's not an option anymore. Peter shakes his head, and Claire's nose tips up a little in triumph. "Good," she says, elegantly miffed.
"Yes," his mother agrees. "You need to be here and I intend to keep you here. Don't make me report you missing and stop your credit cards."
She'd do it too, he knows, and the reflexive fuming he's doing isn't going to help. "Don't worry about me," Peter says. "You need me to hang out, I'll hang out. I just thought disappearing would help."
"It would, except that if you really do disappear they might actually find you," she answers. "Which would be regrettable."
Peter has to admit he hadn't thought of that. Just because the Haitian's on their side doesn't mean he's either completely loyal or unique. Anything could be out there, searching for him, and even plain old Peter was never good at squirming out of situations where charisma wasn't a help. "Fine. What's going on with the police?"
"We called them," says Nathan. "Anonymously. They blew us off." He turns to Mohinder. "It appears Dr. Suresh lives in a worse part of town than he realized."
Peter doesn't look at him, at either one of them, but he can feel the same uneasy rush as the conversation turns back to Mohinder and the endangerment of his life. And the scariest part isn't that it's happening, but that he's not sure he wants it to stop. I forgot how this feels, he realizes. The beginning's been the past so long with Simone, and there's been so much else happening to push that initial rush from his memory… He catches himself listening to Mohinder without caring what he's saying, and shakes his head as if that's going to help. God, I'm hopeless.
"Peter? Are you all right?"
It's Claire, thank God, but it's only a matter of time before everyone else starts asking how he's feeling, and that's not going to be pretty. "Yeah," he lies. "I'm just tired…can you all just please go?"
"As long as we have your word that you'll refrain from flying out to the desert?" his mother asks, and he can't do anything but nod.
"I promise I won't leave the city," he says. Not a difficult promise, but it seems to satisfy them.
"Good choice," says Nathan. "Come on, Ma, let's let him rest." His good-bye hug, for the first time in years, feels awkward, and it's obvious Nathan's confused. "Don't do anything stupid."
"This is me, remember?" says Peter, and Nathan at least looks relieved. Never mind that the stupid thing's already pretty much a done deal, no matter what stupid thing he's talking about.
"That's why I worry," says his mother, as Claire launches the next hug attack. Peter reflects that whoever said cheerleading wasn't a real sport had obviously never had the breath squeezed out of them by a cheerleader. "Claire, let's go."
"I'm saying good-bye," she retorts, and looks back up at Peter. For a second he's afraid she understands more than she's letting on, more than she's been told, whether about what he's thinking now or what he's done. Then she says, "Do not get yourself killed. You're the only decent uncle I've got."
"I'll be fine," he tells her, wishing he believed it. "Go. You don't wanna be here if the police decide to take stuff seriously."
"I can handle it," says Claire, grinning, and then she's running out the door with the rest of his family and leaving him alone with the last person he wants to be alone with. Before the person can get him trapped in conversation, Peter goes to the kitchen and inspects the groceries. Vegetables, chicken, stuff for sandwiches, a package of Chips Ahoy that somehow ended up in the refrigerator. The thought of chocolate leads to others he doesn't really want, and he shuts the door without moving the cookies.
"So," says Mohinder, behind him, and he squeaks and spins around, locking gazes before he can think of how to avoid it. "I assume that whatever you were talking about regarding a dream has something to do with Sylar?"
"Maybe. I don't know." Peter looks down, noticing for the first time the traces of smudged brown still left in the seams of his shoes. He wonders whether airport security might have noticed, might even have smelled him, maybe even without dogs. Mohinder wouldn't have that worry, with the soft aura of soap and spice that- stop that. "I don't want to talk about it," he says, harshly, and goes to the door.
"Where are you going?" Mohinder asks, confused. "You said you wouldn't-"
"I'm not leaving town," Peter snaps. It'd be better, he thinks. No worries about saying anything idiotic, no need to be careful in case this isn't what it feels like. Just some stupid obsession, natural and probably not likely to hang around. "I just need some air."
"Air?" Mohinder echoes. "You're not going to try to fly, are you? That's not some code word?"
"No." Peter dares a look back at him, and when his stomach flips he knows he can't stay in the apartment. "Just please…please don't try to find me, okay?" And he leaves, closing the door before Mohinder can ask him why not.
He goes invisible just outside the elevator, in case security has actually hooked up the camera they keep threatening to put in the car. It's harder than it ought to be, with his mind occupied by so many emotions that don't remind him of Claude. Another reason to keep away from whatever is happening with Mohinder, he decides: lack of clarity. In this state, he's no good to anyone, least of all himself.
But what state is it? he asks himself, stepping out of the building onto the sidewalk. Confusion, or what? How's he supposed to figure it out when he doesn't know what to think in the first place? It's not something he's primed to think about at all, really. Growing up in America meant assuming oneself to be straight, until and unless incontrovertible proof to the contrary might arise. Growing up Petrelli meant assuming one would never have the opportunity to explore that kind of proof. He's not sure of the situation in Chennai, but he's betting it's more of the same. It occurs to him that the best resource for that answer is the last one he'd consider asking, and he keeps walking.
He keeps walking, head down, holding the feeling of being hunted and not measuring up. When he thinks about it in those terms, it's easier than trying to feel like he's around Claude. He wonders, though he can't figure out a reason for it, if he's subconsciously looking for the invisible man. Like he'd do anything but laugh his ass off at me. Hell, maybe that would actually help.
Museums, parks, restaurants, even a tattoo parlor: he wanders all over, hoping something will give him an answer or a new distraction. Nothing sticks, and it's getting dark. Air can only go so far as an excuse for being out and about, and he'd better get back to face whatever music is waiting for him. It comes to him on the elevator, where there's no music at all. He can't figure this out logically because it's not logical. It's biology but it's not science. Just do what it feels like you have to do, he thinks, and he can feel his pulse racing as the flickering bulb under the 14 button blinks out. He's getting a little tired of being in new territory all the time. Even the familiarity of how his door sticks, the slight tingle as he lets himself turn visible again, aren't enough to put him at ease. And the sound of footsteps inside the apartment would have been enough to get him nervous again anyway.
"Where have you been?" Mohinder demands the second the door's closed. "Do you have any idea-"
"Out," says Peter, loudly, walking past without looking up so he won't get lost in those bottomless eyes. "I've been out. And no, I have no idea. So tell me."
"The FBI was here," Mohinder says. Peter can feel an accusing laser stare being leveled at him, and he stops. "Looking for us."
"Maybe it's better I wasn't around then," Peter says. For one thing, he'd have been hard pressed to stay quiet if they were playing Mohinder as a lone guest again; and if he'd had to be visible he'd probably have messed up the story. He wonders idly why the FBI, what happened to the plain old police.
"Maybe," says Mohinder, tightly. "Nice job protecting me though. Remotely, even. I wasn't afraid at all, it must be a new power you've dug up. On your mission for air, perhaps?"
"Shut up," Peter mutters, resuming his stalk through the living room. He can hear Mohinder following, and ignores him. There's more than one way of protecting people.
"What happened to you today?" Mohinder asks, cutting in front of him, and he nearly bowls the other man over before lurching to a stop. Peter stares at their feet as Mohinder lists offenses, each one adding to the morass of unfamiliar anguish in his mind. "You try to leave, not once but twice, you look like someone's killed your dog, you won't talk to me-"
"I think I killed you," Peter bursts out, finally looking up. Mohinder's expression is frighteningly close to the shock from the dream, but there's…curiosity, concern tempering it instead of pain. And the fact that Peter's not feeling the need to stare, the way he was so sure he would be, is messing with his head, but he makes himself continue. "In the dream."
Mohinder is silent for a second, as Peter studies him and wonders why the arresting beauty, so clear just hours before, isn't making itself known. "Didn't you…before?" he asks, brow crinkling in confusion. "In the other dream? You said I was there."
Peter had almost forgotten that. He's almost forgotten a lot in the last minute or so. "Yeah," he acknowledges. "You were. But…this was different. You were…" He gestures in the meager space between them, trying vainly to communicate the immediacy of the vision. "You showed up over and over. Not like before."
Mohinder's still puzzled, but not shocked anymore, and Peter feels himself calming as the uncanny projection dissolves. "What else did you see?" Mohinder asks, sounding as if he's not sure whether he wants to know.
Peter closes his eyes, the better to remember. "A room, white, really small. With a table and a bunch of machines. Isaac was there, the painter, and some guy with a beard. And you." Looking like you were going to kiss me. Dammit, Peter, concentrate. "And it kind of kept swirling, you know, like I was spinning around?" He opens his eyes to see Mohinder nodding at his unconscious finger-twirling gestures, and he feels better. "So Isaac turns into Claire's dad, and the guy turns into this girl in a plaid miniskirt, and-what?"
Mohinder is smirking. "A plaid miniskirt?"
"Yes, a plaid miniskirt," Peter retorts. What, you think I don't notice girls? "And this Japanese guy, who I think is supposed to be Hiro from the train, he stabbed the machines with a sword and they…bled. Blood." He notes the flit of unease in Mohinder's eyes, and skips the image that comes next, the tender smile he's no longer sure he wants to see again. "Then my hands were glowing, and the table was on fire, and Sylar…" He swallows, remembering the twisted grin and hollow skull. "Sylar was there instead of the girl, and I set the machines on fire, and then I saw you for just a second, and then everything was on fire."
"I was in the fire?" Mohinder asks.
Peter shakes his head. "There was fire, and there was you. Not together. But…" He tries to find words to explain the way that single expression had pierced him, even before that afternoon, and can't. "You looked like somebody punched you. Or killed you. Or something."
"There's quite a difference between the two," Mohinder remarks. "Is there a reason you didn't tell your family about what you dreamed?"
"Only Nathan knows what I saw the first time," Peter says, "and he'd want to know what changed. Why it was a different way of exploding, a different place." Why he wasn't there.
Mohinder nods. "And you can't lie to him," he says, a simple statement of fact. Peter doesn't understand how anyone can have absorbed that much about him in so little time. Then again, maybe he does understand. If he wants to be around Peter, he has reasons to work at understanding.
Peter remembers where the conversation began. "What did you tell the FBI?"
"The same story," Mohinder says, leaning against the back of an armchair and looking suddenly tired. "You weren't involved, just came in at the wrong time. They also think you've left town. Your luggage helped with that. Where did you go, anyway?"
Peter shrugs. "Around."
"Ar-" Mohinder stands up straight in disbelief. "You went out in public? Peter, what if they'd seen you?"
And just like that, he's in turmoil again from being cared about. Or from being thought some variety of imbecile; he can't quite tell. "I was invisible," he says, hearing the derision as the words come out but unable to stop himself. He feels as if he needs to be sent to his room, and a second later he's turning and going there. "I'm not that big an idiot."
"Right." Mohinder manages to infuse enough snark into the word to redefine it. "Are you going to shut the door again?" he asks archly, as Peter reaches the bed.
"Fuck off," Peter grumbles, flops atop the comforter, and does his best to ignore Mohinder. He concentrates on ignoring everything he doesn't understand, for good measure. His own mind, the situation he's in, most of the outside world. And Mohinder…especially Mohinder. He's not intending to fall asleep, but the next time he looks at the clock it's the brightest spot in the room and he's cold. Bed, proper, is looking like his best idea all day. He's down to T-shirt and briefs before he remembers he's not alone in the apartment and he has no idea as to the location of the guy who's crushing on him. He scrabbles for pajama pants, wishing for super-speed, and gets them on and himself into bed without interruption. If there's some corner of his mind that's sorry Mohinder is nowhere to be seen, it keeps quiet long enough for him to get back to sleep.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7