Heroes: Good Intentions, Part 6 - Laid Bare
Title: Good Intentions, Part 6 - Laid Bare
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: Maybe the real danger isn't the one they're afraid of.
Author's Notes: See Part 1.
Peter skids to a stop at Isaac's door, pounding on it and hoping he's not too late. He's been warned not to be there, but he hasn't been too concerned with what he's being told to do or not do these last few days. In a choice between a devil others fear and one he knows not to be a threat he can't handle, this seems like his best option.
"Isaac!" he yells at the door, not caring what time it is, peering through the windows to try to see what's happening inside. Wouldn't it be a huge bitch if he wasn't there? He can't see anything, so he listens. There's breathing inside for one, and a skritch-swipe that means painting, and that means Isaac. Probably entranced, he thinks, and yells again, even though he knows it won't do him any good. "I know you're in there. Put the fucking brush down and talk to me!"
Nothing. He wonders if he could melt his way in, if he might manage to make a hole in the window or dissolve the door handle. Maybe even put it back when he leaves, if that's part and parcel of the ability. But he hasn't practiced enough, not nearly. Well, use this as practice then, he thinks, and he's raising a hand to the door when it opens and he's standing there with his finger half-pointed at Isaac's chest.
"What are you doing here?" Isaac asks, glowering. "I don't have any more girlfriends to kill, you know."
It takes a huge effort, but Peter doesn't snipe back. He lets his hand fall and gets to the point instead. "I know you helped Primatech find me. Are you working for them again? Right now?"
Isaac is surprised enough that he lets Peter walk past him into the loft before responding. "So what if I am? They've been nicer to me than some people I could name."
And here he's gone and proven that point when he's supposed to be trying to get on Isaac's good side. Shit. "Look, I…saying sorry's not gonna cut it, I know."
Isaac slams the door closed, rattling some brushes. "You think?"
"I wish I could go back, you know?" Peter says, looking around at the loft. There are a lot more paintings, with a lot more red in them, than there were last time. He wonders if they're future-paintings or just an exorcism of Isaac's own demons. "Not be…not be stupid."
"So go find Hiro and go back. Be my guest." Isaac stalks past him, toward a canvas depicting a rough face-shaped blur amid a swirl of red and concrete gray. Oddly, it seems to be finished. "Try not being stupid," Isaac continues. "If you're capable."
Peter's aware he's not welcome, but the insults are starting to piss him off. The realization that he's surrounded by images of brainsliced corpses isn't helping either. "Look, just lay off for a goddamn minute, okay? This isn't all about me."
Isaac fakes surprise, eyes wide and mocking. "Wow. What a revelation."
Don't rise to the bait, Peter thinks. "I'm serious. That cheerleader? The one I went to save? They want her too."
"Who, Bennet's daughter? What do they want with her?"
"They just…want her." He doesn't really want to explain the details now, not just because he doesn't know them all-or want to. "She can't get taken. You can't tell them if you find her."
"Why not? If that's what they want me to do, and they're paying…" Isaac shrugs, and Peter knows he's made a mistake. Mr. Bennet had told him not to go looking for Isaac, but that had seemed like so much of the same crap he was hearing from everyone else that he hadn't thought twice. Well, now he's thinking a lot more times than that.
-before-
It's become a nightly ritual: opposite ends of the couch, feet tucked up, mugs of tea or hot chocolate on the table beside them while they talk, or read, or play computer solitaire. Mohinder's sworn to wipe the floor with Peter for introducing that last, once he figures out how. Peter would believe him, except that he knows there's no chance of them ever wrestling without ending up in a tumble of kisses. Tonight, Monday, they've taken their corners early, just out of the general feeling they've had all day that something is holding its breath waiting for an event not the next day's election. Peter is inching his toes along the middle cushion, grinning behind his book, ready to pounce on Mohinder's feet with his own once that night's chai is safely away from the laptop, when there's a barrage of knocking on the door.
"Nobody called?" Mohinder asks, sotto voce.
Peter shakes his head and listens, hearing breathing and a pounding heart outside, then crackling paper. He holds up one finger, taps it against his temple: only one person is there, and Peter is going to try to hear thoughts. He was surprised to find he could do it through a door, but it makes for a good plan. he hears, and the voice is familiar. "Mr. Bennet," he whispers, and slides off the couch to get the door.
"Bennet?" Mohinder whispers back, following him. "The real one?"
Peter nods in his direction-he doesn't know of any way someone might be able to fake thoughts-and turns toward the door. "Mr. Bennet?" he asks. "Are you okay?"
"Peter," says Mr. Bennet, barely audible through the door. "I need to talk to you."
"Just a second," Peter says, and starts undoing locks. Mohinder backs out of the entryway as the door opens, and gives Mr. Bennet a nod of recognition as he slips inside.
"I'm glad I found you," says Mr. Bennet as Peter locks the door. "There are very few trustworthy people in New York right now."
Peter's not sure "trustworthy" is even descriptive of himself anymore. "Are you looking for Claire?" he asks.
Mr. Bennet hesitates a moment, figuring it out. "You've talked with her," he deduces.
"Yeah, she was here," Peter confirms. "She's okay, she's staying with my family." He ignores the thought from Mohinder that asks whether that statement isn't an oxymoron.
The information doesn't put Mr. Bennet at ease nearly as much as Peter had hoped. "Does anyone else know that?" he asks.
"Just that Haitian guy," says Peter.
"Then all we have to worry about is how far the company's willing to go to find her." Mr. Bennet looks as grim as he does relieved. "Dr. Suresh. I wouldn't have thought to find you here."
"Yes, well, I have a history of living in other people's apartments," says Mohinder, but Peter is thinking of the Company, capital ringing ominous, and how far they've gone to find people…
"Isaac," he says, into the middle of the conversation. "Shit. Isaac could…he found me."
Mohinder blinks incomprehension, but Mr. Bennet nods. "He could. But there's still a tap on his phone, and I need to stay out of sight. We can't do anything about that but hope nobody realizes what resources they have."
"He's got the mark, they can track him," says Peter. He's pacing, trying to think of something besides nameless people dragging Claire out the window of his mother's guest bedroom. "They could-"
"The tracking system should be disabled," Mr. Bennet tells him. "They have another one, but it won't be able to pick him up unless the Texas facility ships his data profile to the facility here."
This is news, but not good enough. Peter doesn't know much about tracking systems, but he knows he doesn't appear on Company rosters. He doesn't have to appear at all. He sweeps into his bedroom, slips on a heavy black sweater, and meets Mohinder's questions and Mr. Bennet's quiet disapproval with resolve. "I'm going over. Nobody will see me if I don't want them to, you know that."
"Don't do it," says Mr. Bennet, levelly, in the tone of a parent who knows the neighbor's dog will nip hard enough for a lesson.
"I have to," says Peter, and as he leaves he can't stop regretting the impossibility of giving Mohinder a good-bye kiss.
-after-
"Please, Isaac. I'm begging you." It hurts his pride to say it, but it's an admission he can live with
"I like that. What's your motivation?"
"Her dad doesn't want her hurt. And neither do I."
"Her dad, huh?" Isaac looks surprised, as if he expected a different answer. "And he'd know what he's hiding her from…" he muses, as Peter fights the urge to shake him. "Fine. The cheerleader, if I find her, stays hidden."
"Thank you," says Peter, feeling as if he's been handed a working "Get Out of Jail Free" card. "You have no idea what this means to me."
"You?" Isaac snorts. "Who said anything about you?"
The relief shatters as Peter feels his pulse rate creep up again. "Isaac, don't you get it? They'd use her to get to me, they'll use me to get to her."
Isaac raises his eyebrows, smirking. "Kinky." Peter's too flustered at having someone even think that to answer. As he's trying to figure it out, Isaac goes on. "Maybe you're not bright enough to resist bait, but if she's anything like her dad she'll be fine. I'd really just like to see you go down."
His eyebrows do some calisthenics, and Peter can't keep the anger down any longer. "What, you haven't painted it yet?"
"I'm an artist, not a pornographer."
"Yeah, an artist of bloodbaths," says Peter, indicating the gory canvas in the corner. "Is that supposed to be you?"
Isaac's expression changes to a very satisfactorily dark scowl. "Leave that alone."
Peter pretends to study the painting as Isaac tries to conceal it in a stack. The rest of the canvases in the stack look a lot like it, he notices. "Oh, it's part of a series? 'The Many Decapitations of Isaac Mendez?'"
"Fuck off," Isaac snarls, and he's thinking
"So…what, is this the future?" Peter asks, pressing his advantage.
"You think I'd paint this if I had a fucking choice?" Isaac demands, gesturing at the stack of bloody paintings. "You think I want to get owned by Sylar?"
"No, I just don't think it's gonna happen," says Peter.
"What, you gonna stop him?" Isaac is smiling, mockingly, thinking something in Spanish that sounds vulgar. "You got him outside waiting for me to shoot at you, is that it?"
It's too close to the bone for Peter to ignore. "Sylar's dead," he blurts out, and immediately he feels his face betraying the realization of his mistake. Shit shit shit stupid fucking-
"Dead?" Isaac asks, doubtfully. "Last I heard he was killing some guy with a fake name in Brooklyn."
"You're tracking him?" asks Peter. "That's fucked up." Maybe if he can keep Isaac arguing he'll forget-
"Fucked up?" Isaac echoes, advancing on Peter, half-formed thoughts flying through his mind. "Fucked up is painting this shit-" he indicates the canvases around him- "every time I try to see what's coming. Fucked up is feeling like there's another picture under every painting and not knowing which one you did first. Keeping track of somebody who's a threat to you, that's not fucked up. So yeah, I know what he's been up to. And if he were dead, I'd know that too. Because I wouldn't be stuck painting morbid shit like that."
Peter wants to hurt him, the only way he trusts himself to do. "Then I guess you're just high, because he's dead," he says.
"Did you see him?" asks Isaac, gazing at Peter with a sudden intensity. "Did you see a body?"
Peter doesn't know why he's asking until he remembers what pays Isaac's rent. Never expect a comics guy to take death for granted. He could answer, but from the time it's taken him to process the question, it won't matter.
"I think you did. You know what, I think you actually did." Isaac is coming closer, probably oblivious to what he's saying, but Peter is starting to hear heartbeats and Reed Street and he can't make himself head for the door. "Where was it? Some alley? That guy's apartment? A fucking playground?"
Peter knows the gambit, the game of questions and denials and made-you-say, and he knows he can't help but fall into it; it's the nature of this juvenile dick-waving and he doesn't have time or patience for much more. "I didn't-"
"You did," says Isaac, a smile of disbelief creeping across his face. "You little shit, you did see him and you didn't say anything."
"It wasn't like that," Peter protests, and bites his tongue. With that little bit of desperation, he knows, he's lost the game beyond all hope of salvage. But it's not just his own skin he's playing for, and he's ready to fight for Mohinder's with anything left at his disposal.
Isaac points at him in triumph. "Damn, man, you coulda been my fucking hero," he exclaims. "Take a load off my mind. Why didn't you?"
"Because I didn't see anything," says Peter, and turns to leave, but Isaac grabs him by the wrist.
"Yes you did," Isaac says, comprehension dawning on his face and in his mind. "And you know what, I think you were part of it. You're scaring the shit out of everybody just to save your sorry ass."
"Let me go!" Peter tries to pull away, and surprisingly, Isaac lets him. He spins down, landing in a heap on the floor and looking up in time to see Isaac heading for the telephone. The powers are rushing through him again and he hears <911> and knows he's not going to be able to run fast or far enough. He thinks, involuntarily, of Mohinder in danger, and suddenly the phone is exploding against the wall of the loft in a shower of wire and plastic shards.
Isaac looks over to where Peter is standing up, moves sideways a few echoing steps. There's a blur of thought, and Isaac is reaching, moving in on the same gun that set off the whole mess. Peter lunges for him, grabbing him by the arm and spinning them both around, as the gun comes off the table behind them and moves through time Peter knows he hasn't slowed. Too late, he realizes strength is one power he hasn't picked up, and without it he's not going to win this.
Isaac knows it too, and Peter's fingers scrabbling against slick metal and rickety wood are obviously music to his ears. Peter thinks of throwing him, like before, but then the muzzle of the gun is digging into his chest and he frantically shoves it instead. Even though he knows bullets wouldn't hurt him, the instinct is too new, slower than the one that says Protect. His hand is on the gun, sweating his grip to uselessness, when he looks up and sees the set of Isaac's jaw, the determination in his eyes. There's no way out now, if there ever was in the first place. Peter feels his fingers twisting, one hand skidding painfully against bitten fingernails, and the shove he means to deal out isn't what leaps from his mind. It's immediate, the realization that something furious and decisive has taken over, but he doesn't quite realize what until the streams of red begin their slow framing of Isaac's features. Peter lets go of his arm and backs away, against the table, hearing Isaac's heartbeat speed up and then slow, watching the gun fall to the floor so he doesn't have to see Isaac follow it.
It's over, finally, confirmed by relative silence, not as fast as Sylar, and Peter is-relieved. He doesn't know why it feels different, why he should be looking calmly at a familiar corpse when a stranger's-an enemy's-death rendered him immobile and traumatized. Maybe the painted carnage on display all around is detracting from the impact of a reality just a shade duller than the red on the canvas.
One thing he does know: he can't get caught. The thought pounds in his head, coloring his vision with panic where the scene failed. He knows the steps, the careful dance of touching nothing, leaving no trail. A quick pull, a razor sweep of air, and he's nearly too numb to pray for forgiveness. If there's anything out there capable of forgiving him.
The dissolution is easier this time, a simple twist of focus. He doesn't feel any different as he runs the tap in the paint-spattered sink, and the lack of a surge in his emotions brings feeling at last. Terror, at the possibility of sliding effortlessly across the barrier between himself and the ghost of a monster. If I'm scared of it, it can't be happening, Peter thinks. It can't.
There's water splashed on his sweater, and he picks up a rag to blot it. The rag comes away red, pulling up sticky filaments from the wool of the sweater. Peter stares at it for a second, not sure what to do. Then revulsion takes over, and he rips the sweater off over his head and throws it, along with the rag, into the sink. The water runs red, and he thinks unbidden of multitudinous seas and drowned sailors even after a fierce bout of pounding and wringing has put it clear and right again. He twists to fit his head beneath the faucet, taking deep gasping breaths as he scrubs his face and hair, not looking to see whether anything comes of it; then takes off his T-shirt, searching for any speck of red and finding none there or on his jeans. It could be there anyway, he thinks, but stops halfway through unbuckling his belt. Home. He has to get home, and soaking wet he's going to attract some kind of attention. He doesn't want to answer any questions…
Mohinder. Oh God, Mohinder. What is he going to say, how is he going to explain this…he can't explain it. Anger, fear, confusion, that feeling that there's no way out-he'd never expected those emotions to converge again. If he can't be trusted to keep his powers in check, Mohinder will leave and he can't stand that thought. He can't say anything, not to Mohinder, not to anyone. It was Sylar again, it had to be. Isaac won't tell on us, he thinks, rehearsing, mechanically putting the shirt and sweater back on. It'll be okay, nobody will find us.
Peter walks back through the loft, feeling his hair drip, and almost reaches to turn off the lights before realizing Sylar wouldn't bother. He looks back, not knowing why, and sees the blurry painting. It could be his face, seen through a dying haze. It's all he can think of as he makes his way to the door, the hall. He can't be near people, knows it won't be possible to walk back, catch a cab. That leaves flying. He'd be invisible if he could, he thinks as he finds a fire escape, but he knows he can't, not if he's flying too. He doesn't want to think about any more people he's disappointed anyway.
The wind is faster when you're moving through it, and colder when you're wearing a wet wool sweater and suffering from shock. Peter doesn't look down, aiming for home on instinct and the thought that Nathan will kill him if he ever finds out enough of the truth. It's not far, and he's not moving nearly as fast as he might be, but he's still shivering when he gets back, feeling as if there should be icicles forming somewhere on his body. The door's locked, and he drops the keys twice before he can get his fingers to hold them steady long enough to turn. Moisture, windchill, exposure, his clinical side thinks as he pushes the door open. Got to get warm before I stop shivering.
"Peter?" Mohinder rushes over as he's trying to get the door shut. "What happened?"
"I…" He realizes he doesn't have a plan. No story, no believable facsimile of the truth, no way to explain why his teeth are chattering too hard to answer and his hand won't grasp the doorknob.
"You're all wet," Mohinder exclaims, locking the door and feeling at a handful of Peter's sweater. "Did you walk all the way back here like that?"
Peter shakes his head, letting Mohinder lead him to the bedroom. "Flew," he says, and meets the expected look of astonishment with what he hopes is simple confusion.
"You flew?" Mohinder repeats, taking him by the shoulders. "Peter, what if someone saw you? You can't be invisible at the same time."
"I'm…wearing black," Peter says. "It'll be…fine." They're in the bedroom now, and Mohinder goes over to kick the heating grate and adjust the thermostat. Peter sinks onto the bed, taking off the sweater, as Mohinder runs out to grab blankets from the couch. "Th…thanks."
"Here," Mohinder murmurs, helping him out of his shoes and socks. "Why did you go?" he asks. "Mr. Bennet told you not to." Bennet's gone, obviously; Peter doesn't ask where.
"Because…" Peter doesn't have a really good reason. "I had to try," he says, lamely, as his jeans come off.
"Well, I hope you succeeded," says Mohinder. "Here, get in there and get warm." Peter climbs gratefully under the covers, feeling more blankets being spread over him. It's not long before Mohinder climbs in beside him, hissing as he wraps his warm body around the back of Peter's chilled one. "Good God, you're freezing. What got you wet like that?"
"I was…washing off," Peter says. He realizes he has to have been washing something off, and adds the first thing he thinks of. "Paint."
"Must have been a lot of paint," Mohinder remarks.
"I…I fell on a palette," Peter lies. That'll explain his hair too, the dampness he can feel soaking into the pillows as Mohinder strokes fingers through the strands. He can't believe he's lying like this, without rehearsal; he can't believe it's this easy to mislead a lover who's dropped his own evening's activities to bring Peter back from hypothermia. It shouldn't be this easy.
"You weren't fighting with him, were you?" Mohinder sounds as if he wants to twist Peter around and look him in the eye, and right now Peter wouldn't have the strength to fight him. And if he tried, he might fight too hard, trying to compensate for the shivering. But he can't tell Mohinder what happened…
"He…won't tell on us," he says, pressing back against Mohinder's warm solidity. "I don't…want to talk about it. Please."
Mohinder is still for a moment, then kisses him on the back of the neck. "Okay."
Peter can't stand it anymore; he needs something to hold. He turns over, burying his face in Mohinder's shoulder and hoping his tears, if they come, will be as cold as the rest of him. But he's getting warmer, held securely with blankets and reassuring arms, and the closer he presses, the closer he wants to be. He whimpers, squirming, feeling kisses against his wet hair and hands running over his back, realizing that Mohinder is naked and just as hard as he is. He's sure it's nothing to do with the cold, now.
There's no pleading, no questions. Mohinder can feel need the same as Peter can, and he helps with the briefs and shirt when he can coax Peter to let go for a moment. Peter doesn't want to let go; if he could teleport his clothes off, he would, just to keep from losing the contact. He needs this like absolution, some kind of straw to grasp at and believe he's not damned. If he were tainted, evil, Mohinder wouldn't touch him, not like this, strong fingers stroking down the ridge of his shoulder blade to that spot it's been years since anyone found. If he were evil Mohinder would be able to tell, and he'd stop, and leave. And Mohinder isn't leaving, or stopping either. "You feel so good," Peter whispers, between kisses.
"You're…good to feel," Mohinder says, in his ear, the tickle of breath against his cheek a ghost of redemption. Peter could say the same, but he's too busy being kissed and stroked and licked to say anything. Better that way, not to have to explain why he's so hungry for the tongue teasing his nipples, the fingers traveling over his cock, down, backward. He touches in return, kissing everywhere he can reach, clutching so tightly that he's dragged along when Mohinder rolls over and reaches into the nightstand for the lube. Slick fingers spiral around him, head to shaft and back up again, and he moans, pushing into Mohinder's palm. He's numb and aching all at once, needing to feel something in him besides cold and pain and the fingers Mohinder is slipping in. Peter rolls to hands and knees, wanting in a way he can't explain. It's going to hurt, he knows, but he doesn't care.
And then Mohinder is behind him, pressing, body heat radiating in a way Peter's never felt from him. They've played, testing boundaries, growing accustomed to fingers and plastic, but never…God. The heat, the raw pounding need washes over Peter in waves, making concentration impossible. He's pushing back before he knows it, teeth gritted, burning and gasping and wanting nothing more than…more. Mohinder's body fits against his, chest to back, hips to buttocks, hands to chest in a slow grinding embrace. Peter groans, burying his face in the sheets, feeling the thrum of blood in his ears with every thrust. It's all-consuming, agonizing, the build with no release, the feeling that he might become that glowing menace tonight, here, nuclear with desire. When Mohinder reaches around to take hold of Peter's cock, it's so much more than a touch; it's a complete circle, pleasure given and received and obvious in the panting moans he can't tell the origin of. And the sensation…dear God, the way it feels-
Peter comes with a sound he can't remember ever making before, can't stop himself from thrusting forward and back. He gives up control, the loss at once searing and beautiful, and when Mohinder reaches his own orgasm moments later Peter sees red lightning and stars. He collapses into wet sheets, panting, and Mohinder pulls back leaving him empty and aching. His mind is too full of his lover to think to heal, but he doesn't care. This is normal, he thinks, fastening his mouth to Mohinder's, caressing all the sensitive places with the tip of his tongue. This is how people feel, after. Normal people, who don't fly home and don't need to, who haven't done things…who aren't evil. This, he could talk about, to anyone, the police, his family, Claire, just let him never go back to where the lights are still on and…
"Are you all right?" Mohinder asks, brushing Peter's hair back. The sound is loud enough in the newfound silence of the apartment that Peter thinks he might be afraid again, deathly afraid. But there's only security, warm skin and the shine of dark caring eyes. Peter is warm now, more than warm, and safe; but though he can nod, he can't say the words.
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: Maybe the real danger isn't the one they're afraid of.
Author's Notes: See Part 1.
Peter skids to a stop at Isaac's door, pounding on it and hoping he's not too late. He's been warned not to be there, but he hasn't been too concerned with what he's being told to do or not do these last few days. In a choice between a devil others fear and one he knows not to be a threat he can't handle, this seems like his best option.
"Isaac!" he yells at the door, not caring what time it is, peering through the windows to try to see what's happening inside. Wouldn't it be a huge bitch if he wasn't there? He can't see anything, so he listens. There's breathing inside for one, and a skritch-swipe that means painting, and that means Isaac. Probably entranced, he thinks, and yells again, even though he knows it won't do him any good. "I know you're in there. Put the fucking brush down and talk to me!"
Nothing. He wonders if he could melt his way in, if he might manage to make a hole in the window or dissolve the door handle. Maybe even put it back when he leaves, if that's part and parcel of the ability. But he hasn't practiced enough, not nearly. Well, use this as practice then, he thinks, and he's raising a hand to the door when it opens and he's standing there with his finger half-pointed at Isaac's chest.
"What are you doing here?" Isaac asks, glowering. "I don't have any more girlfriends to kill, you know."
It takes a huge effort, but Peter doesn't snipe back. He lets his hand fall and gets to the point instead. "I know you helped Primatech find me. Are you working for them again? Right now?"
Isaac is surprised enough that he lets Peter walk past him into the loft before responding. "So what if I am? They've been nicer to me than some people I could name."
And here he's gone and proven that point when he's supposed to be trying to get on Isaac's good side. Shit. "Look, I…saying sorry's not gonna cut it, I know."
Isaac slams the door closed, rattling some brushes. "You think?"
"I wish I could go back, you know?" Peter says, looking around at the loft. There are a lot more paintings, with a lot more red in them, than there were last time. He wonders if they're future-paintings or just an exorcism of Isaac's own demons. "Not be…not be stupid."
"So go find Hiro and go back. Be my guest." Isaac stalks past him, toward a canvas depicting a rough face-shaped blur amid a swirl of red and concrete gray. Oddly, it seems to be finished. "Try not being stupid," Isaac continues. "If you're capable."
Peter's aware he's not welcome, but the insults are starting to piss him off. The realization that he's surrounded by images of brainsliced corpses isn't helping either. "Look, just lay off for a goddamn minute, okay? This isn't all about me."
Isaac fakes surprise, eyes wide and mocking. "Wow. What a revelation."
Don't rise to the bait, Peter thinks. "I'm serious. That cheerleader? The one I went to save? They want her too."
"Who, Bennet's daughter? What do they want with her?"
"They just…want her." He doesn't really want to explain the details now, not just because he doesn't know them all-or want to. "She can't get taken. You can't tell them if you find her."
"Why not? If that's what they want me to do, and they're paying…" Isaac shrugs, and Peter knows he's made a mistake. Mr. Bennet had told him not to go looking for Isaac, but that had seemed like so much of the same crap he was hearing from everyone else that he hadn't thought twice. Well, now he's thinking a lot more times than that.
-before-
It's become a nightly ritual: opposite ends of the couch, feet tucked up, mugs of tea or hot chocolate on the table beside them while they talk, or read, or play computer solitaire. Mohinder's sworn to wipe the floor with Peter for introducing that last, once he figures out how. Peter would believe him, except that he knows there's no chance of them ever wrestling without ending up in a tumble of kisses. Tonight, Monday, they've taken their corners early, just out of the general feeling they've had all day that something is holding its breath waiting for an event not the next day's election. Peter is inching his toes along the middle cushion, grinning behind his book, ready to pounce on Mohinder's feet with his own once that night's chai is safely away from the laptop, when there's a barrage of knocking on the door.
"Nobody called?" Mohinder asks, sotto voce.
Peter shakes his head and listens, hearing breathing and a pounding heart outside, then crackling paper. He holds up one finger, taps it against his temple: only one person is there, and Peter is going to try to hear thoughts. He was surprised to find he could do it through a door, but it makes for a good plan.
"Bennet?" Mohinder whispers back, following him. "The real one?"
Peter nods in his direction-he doesn't know of any way someone might be able to fake thoughts-and turns toward the door. "Mr. Bennet?" he asks. "Are you okay?"
"Peter," says Mr. Bennet, barely audible through the door. "I need to talk to you."
"Just a second," Peter says, and starts undoing locks. Mohinder backs out of the entryway as the door opens, and gives Mr. Bennet a nod of recognition as he slips inside.
"I'm glad I found you," says Mr. Bennet as Peter locks the door. "There are very few trustworthy people in New York right now."
Peter's not sure "trustworthy" is even descriptive of himself anymore. "Are you looking for Claire?" he asks.
Mr. Bennet hesitates a moment, figuring it out. "You've talked with her," he deduces.
"Yeah, she was here," Peter confirms. "She's okay, she's staying with my family." He ignores the thought from Mohinder that asks whether that statement isn't an oxymoron.
The information doesn't put Mr. Bennet at ease nearly as much as Peter had hoped. "Does anyone else know that?" he asks.
"Just that Haitian guy," says Peter.
"Then all we have to worry about is how far the company's willing to go to find her." Mr. Bennet looks as grim as he does relieved. "Dr. Suresh. I wouldn't have thought to find you here."
"Yes, well, I have a history of living in other people's apartments," says Mohinder, but Peter is thinking of the Company, capital ringing ominous, and how far they've gone to find people…
"Isaac," he says, into the middle of the conversation. "Shit. Isaac could…he found me."
Mohinder blinks incomprehension, but Mr. Bennet nods. "He could. But there's still a tap on his phone, and I need to stay out of sight. We can't do anything about that but hope nobody realizes what resources they have."
"He's got the mark, they can track him," says Peter. He's pacing, trying to think of something besides nameless people dragging Claire out the window of his mother's guest bedroom. "They could-"
"The tracking system should be disabled," Mr. Bennet tells him. "They have another one, but it won't be able to pick him up unless the Texas facility ships his data profile to the facility here."
This is news, but not good enough. Peter doesn't know much about tracking systems, but he knows he doesn't appear on Company rosters. He doesn't have to appear at all. He sweeps into his bedroom, slips on a heavy black sweater, and meets Mohinder's questions and Mr. Bennet's quiet disapproval with resolve. "I'm going over. Nobody will see me if I don't want them to, you know that."
"Don't do it," says Mr. Bennet, levelly, in the tone of a parent who knows the neighbor's dog will nip hard enough for a lesson.
"I have to," says Peter, and as he leaves he can't stop regretting the impossibility of giving Mohinder a good-bye kiss.
-after-
"Please, Isaac. I'm begging you." It hurts his pride to say it, but it's an admission he can live with
"I like that. What's your motivation?"
"Her dad doesn't want her hurt. And neither do I."
"Her dad, huh?" Isaac looks surprised, as if he expected a different answer. "And he'd know what he's hiding her from…" he muses, as Peter fights the urge to shake him. "Fine. The cheerleader, if I find her, stays hidden."
"Thank you," says Peter, feeling as if he's been handed a working "Get Out of Jail Free" card. "You have no idea what this means to me."
"You?" Isaac snorts. "Who said anything about you?"
The relief shatters as Peter feels his pulse rate creep up again. "Isaac, don't you get it? They'd use her to get to me, they'll use me to get to her."
Isaac raises his eyebrows, smirking. "Kinky." Peter's too flustered at having someone even think that to answer. As he's trying to figure it out, Isaac goes on. "Maybe you're not bright enough to resist bait, but if she's anything like her dad she'll be fine. I'd really just like to see you go down."
His eyebrows do some calisthenics, and Peter can't keep the anger down any longer. "What, you haven't painted it yet?"
"I'm an artist, not a pornographer."
"Yeah, an artist of bloodbaths," says Peter, indicating the gory canvas in the corner. "Is that supposed to be you?"
Isaac's expression changes to a very satisfactorily dark scowl. "Leave that alone."
Peter pretends to study the painting as Isaac tries to conceal it in a stack. The rest of the canvases in the stack look a lot like it, he notices. "Oh, it's part of a series? 'The Many Decapitations of Isaac Mendez?'"
"Fuck off," Isaac snarls, and he's thinking
"So…what, is this the future?" Peter asks, pressing his advantage.
"You think I'd paint this if I had a fucking choice?" Isaac demands, gesturing at the stack of bloody paintings. "You think I want to get owned by Sylar?"
"No, I just don't think it's gonna happen," says Peter.
"What, you gonna stop him?" Isaac is smiling, mockingly, thinking something in Spanish that sounds vulgar. "You got him outside waiting for me to shoot at you, is that it?"
It's too close to the bone for Peter to ignore. "Sylar's dead," he blurts out, and immediately he feels his face betraying the realization of his mistake. Shit shit shit stupid fucking-
"Dead?" Isaac asks, doubtfully. "Last I heard he was killing some guy with a fake name in Brooklyn."
"You're tracking him?" asks Peter. "That's fucked up." Maybe if he can keep Isaac arguing he'll forget-
"Fucked up?" Isaac echoes, advancing on Peter, half-formed thoughts flying through his mind. "Fucked up is painting this shit-" he indicates the canvases around him- "every time I try to see what's coming. Fucked up is feeling like there's another picture under every painting and not knowing which one you did first. Keeping track of somebody who's a threat to you, that's not fucked up. So yeah, I know what he's been up to. And if he were dead, I'd know that too. Because I wouldn't be stuck painting morbid shit like that."
Peter wants to hurt him, the only way he trusts himself to do. "Then I guess you're just high, because he's dead," he says.
"Did you see him?" asks Isaac, gazing at Peter with a sudden intensity. "Did you see a body?"
Peter doesn't know why he's asking until he remembers what pays Isaac's rent. Never expect a comics guy to take death for granted. He could answer, but from the time it's taken him to process the question, it won't matter.
"I think you did. You know what, I think you actually did." Isaac is coming closer, probably oblivious to what he's saying, but Peter is starting to hear heartbeats and Reed Street and he can't make himself head for the door. "Where was it? Some alley? That guy's apartment? A fucking playground?"
Peter knows the gambit, the game of questions and denials and made-you-say, and he knows he can't help but fall into it; it's the nature of this juvenile dick-waving and he doesn't have time or patience for much more. "I didn't-"
"You did," says Isaac, a smile of disbelief creeping across his face. "You little shit, you did see him and you didn't say anything."
"It wasn't like that," Peter protests, and bites his tongue. With that little bit of desperation, he knows, he's lost the game beyond all hope of salvage. But it's not just his own skin he's playing for, and he's ready to fight for Mohinder's with anything left at his disposal.
Isaac points at him in triumph. "Damn, man, you coulda been my fucking hero," he exclaims. "Take a load off my mind. Why didn't you?"
"Because I didn't see anything," says Peter, and turns to leave, but Isaac grabs him by the wrist.
"Yes you did," Isaac says, comprehension dawning on his face and in his mind. "And you know what, I think you were part of it. You're scaring the shit out of everybody just to save your sorry ass."
"Let me go!" Peter tries to pull away, and surprisingly, Isaac lets him. He spins down, landing in a heap on the floor and looking up in time to see Isaac heading for the telephone. The powers are rushing through him again and he hears <911> and knows he's not going to be able to run fast or far enough. He thinks, involuntarily, of Mohinder in danger, and suddenly the phone is exploding against the wall of the loft in a shower of wire and plastic shards.
Isaac looks over to where Peter is standing up, moves sideways a few echoing steps. There's a blur of thought,
Isaac knows it too, and Peter's fingers scrabbling against slick metal and rickety wood are obviously music to his ears. Peter thinks of throwing him, like before, but then the muzzle of the gun is digging into his chest and he frantically shoves it instead. Even though he knows bullets wouldn't hurt him, the instinct is too new, slower than the one that says Protect. His hand is on the gun, sweating his grip to uselessness, when he looks up and sees the set of Isaac's jaw, the determination in his eyes. There's no way out now, if there ever was in the first place. Peter feels his fingers twisting, one hand skidding painfully against bitten fingernails, and the shove he means to deal out isn't what leaps from his mind. It's immediate, the realization that something furious and decisive has taken over, but he doesn't quite realize what until the streams of red begin their slow framing of Isaac's features. Peter lets go of his arm and backs away, against the table, hearing Isaac's heartbeat speed up and then slow, watching the gun fall to the floor so he doesn't have to see Isaac follow it.
It's over, finally, confirmed by relative silence, not as fast as Sylar, and Peter is-relieved. He doesn't know why it feels different, why he should be looking calmly at a familiar corpse when a stranger's-an enemy's-death rendered him immobile and traumatized. Maybe the painted carnage on display all around is detracting from the impact of a reality just a shade duller than the red on the canvas.
One thing he does know: he can't get caught. The thought pounds in his head, coloring his vision with panic where the scene failed. He knows the steps, the careful dance of touching nothing, leaving no trail. A quick pull, a razor sweep of air, and he's nearly too numb to pray for forgiveness. If there's anything out there capable of forgiving him.
The dissolution is easier this time, a simple twist of focus. He doesn't feel any different as he runs the tap in the paint-spattered sink, and the lack of a surge in his emotions brings feeling at last. Terror, at the possibility of sliding effortlessly across the barrier between himself and the ghost of a monster. If I'm scared of it, it can't be happening, Peter thinks. It can't.
There's water splashed on his sweater, and he picks up a rag to blot it. The rag comes away red, pulling up sticky filaments from the wool of the sweater. Peter stares at it for a second, not sure what to do. Then revulsion takes over, and he rips the sweater off over his head and throws it, along with the rag, into the sink. The water runs red, and he thinks unbidden of multitudinous seas and drowned sailors even after a fierce bout of pounding and wringing has put it clear and right again. He twists to fit his head beneath the faucet, taking deep gasping breaths as he scrubs his face and hair, not looking to see whether anything comes of it; then takes off his T-shirt, searching for any speck of red and finding none there or on his jeans. It could be there anyway, he thinks, but stops halfway through unbuckling his belt. Home. He has to get home, and soaking wet he's going to attract some kind of attention. He doesn't want to answer any questions…
Mohinder. Oh God, Mohinder. What is he going to say, how is he going to explain this…he can't explain it. Anger, fear, confusion, that feeling that there's no way out-he'd never expected those emotions to converge again. If he can't be trusted to keep his powers in check, Mohinder will leave and he can't stand that thought. He can't say anything, not to Mohinder, not to anyone. It was Sylar again, it had to be. Isaac won't tell on us, he thinks, rehearsing, mechanically putting the shirt and sweater back on. It'll be okay, nobody will find us.
Peter walks back through the loft, feeling his hair drip, and almost reaches to turn off the lights before realizing Sylar wouldn't bother. He looks back, not knowing why, and sees the blurry painting. It could be his face, seen through a dying haze. It's all he can think of as he makes his way to the door, the hall. He can't be near people, knows it won't be possible to walk back, catch a cab. That leaves flying. He'd be invisible if he could, he thinks as he finds a fire escape, but he knows he can't, not if he's flying too. He doesn't want to think about any more people he's disappointed anyway.
The wind is faster when you're moving through it, and colder when you're wearing a wet wool sweater and suffering from shock. Peter doesn't look down, aiming for home on instinct and the thought that Nathan will kill him if he ever finds out enough of the truth. It's not far, and he's not moving nearly as fast as he might be, but he's still shivering when he gets back, feeling as if there should be icicles forming somewhere on his body. The door's locked, and he drops the keys twice before he can get his fingers to hold them steady long enough to turn. Moisture, windchill, exposure, his clinical side thinks as he pushes the door open. Got to get warm before I stop shivering.
"Peter?" Mohinder rushes over as he's trying to get the door shut. "What happened?"
"I…" He realizes he doesn't have a plan. No story, no believable facsimile of the truth, no way to explain why his teeth are chattering too hard to answer and his hand won't grasp the doorknob.
"You're all wet," Mohinder exclaims, locking the door and feeling at a handful of Peter's sweater. "Did you walk all the way back here like that?"
Peter shakes his head, letting Mohinder lead him to the bedroom. "Flew," he says, and meets the expected look of astonishment with what he hopes is simple confusion.
"You flew?" Mohinder repeats, taking him by the shoulders. "Peter, what if someone saw you? You can't be invisible at the same time."
"I'm…wearing black," Peter says. "It'll be…fine." They're in the bedroom now, and Mohinder goes over to kick the heating grate and adjust the thermostat. Peter sinks onto the bed, taking off the sweater, as Mohinder runs out to grab blankets from the couch. "Th…thanks."
"Here," Mohinder murmurs, helping him out of his shoes and socks. "Why did you go?" he asks. "Mr. Bennet told you not to." Bennet's gone, obviously; Peter doesn't ask where.
"Because…" Peter doesn't have a really good reason. "I had to try," he says, lamely, as his jeans come off.
"Well, I hope you succeeded," says Mohinder. "Here, get in there and get warm." Peter climbs gratefully under the covers, feeling more blankets being spread over him. It's not long before Mohinder climbs in beside him, hissing as he wraps his warm body around the back of Peter's chilled one. "Good God, you're freezing. What got you wet like that?"
"I was…washing off," Peter says. He realizes he has to have been washing something off, and adds the first thing he thinks of. "Paint."
"Must have been a lot of paint," Mohinder remarks.
"I…I fell on a palette," Peter lies. That'll explain his hair too, the dampness he can feel soaking into the pillows as Mohinder strokes fingers through the strands. He can't believe he's lying like this, without rehearsal; he can't believe it's this easy to mislead a lover who's dropped his own evening's activities to bring Peter back from hypothermia. It shouldn't be this easy.
"You weren't fighting with him, were you?" Mohinder sounds as if he wants to twist Peter around and look him in the eye, and right now Peter wouldn't have the strength to fight him. And if he tried, he might fight too hard, trying to compensate for the shivering. But he can't tell Mohinder what happened…
"He…won't tell on us," he says, pressing back against Mohinder's warm solidity. "I don't…want to talk about it. Please."
Mohinder is still for a moment, then kisses him on the back of the neck. "Okay."
Peter can't stand it anymore; he needs something to hold. He turns over, burying his face in Mohinder's shoulder and hoping his tears, if they come, will be as cold as the rest of him. But he's getting warmer, held securely with blankets and reassuring arms, and the closer he presses, the closer he wants to be. He whimpers, squirming, feeling kisses against his wet hair and hands running over his back, realizing that Mohinder is naked and just as hard as he is. He's sure it's nothing to do with the cold, now.
There's no pleading, no questions. Mohinder can feel need the same as Peter can, and he helps with the briefs and shirt when he can coax Peter to let go for a moment. Peter doesn't want to let go; if he could teleport his clothes off, he would, just to keep from losing the contact. He needs this like absolution, some kind of straw to grasp at and believe he's not damned. If he were tainted, evil, Mohinder wouldn't touch him, not like this, strong fingers stroking down the ridge of his shoulder blade to that spot it's been years since anyone found. If he were evil Mohinder would be able to tell, and he'd stop, and leave. And Mohinder isn't leaving, or stopping either. "You feel so good," Peter whispers, between kisses.
"You're…good to feel," Mohinder says, in his ear, the tickle of breath against his cheek a ghost of redemption. Peter could say the same, but he's too busy being kissed and stroked and licked to say anything. Better that way, not to have to explain why he's so hungry for the tongue teasing his nipples, the fingers traveling over his cock, down, backward. He touches in return, kissing everywhere he can reach, clutching so tightly that he's dragged along when Mohinder rolls over and reaches into the nightstand for the lube. Slick fingers spiral around him, head to shaft and back up again, and he moans, pushing into Mohinder's palm. He's numb and aching all at once, needing to feel something in him besides cold and pain and the fingers Mohinder is slipping in. Peter rolls to hands and knees, wanting in a way he can't explain. It's going to hurt, he knows, but he doesn't care.
And then Mohinder is behind him, pressing, body heat radiating in a way Peter's never felt from him. They've played, testing boundaries, growing accustomed to fingers and plastic, but never…God. The heat, the raw pounding need washes over Peter in waves, making concentration impossible. He's pushing back before he knows it, teeth gritted, burning and gasping and wanting nothing more than…more. Mohinder's body fits against his, chest to back, hips to buttocks, hands to chest in a slow grinding embrace. Peter groans, burying his face in the sheets, feeling the thrum of blood in his ears with every thrust. It's all-consuming, agonizing, the build with no release, the feeling that he might become that glowing menace tonight, here, nuclear with desire. When Mohinder reaches around to take hold of Peter's cock, it's so much more than a touch; it's a complete circle, pleasure given and received and obvious in the panting moans he can't tell the origin of. And the sensation…dear God, the way it feels-
Peter comes with a sound he can't remember ever making before, can't stop himself from thrusting forward and back. He gives up control, the loss at once searing and beautiful, and when Mohinder reaches his own orgasm moments later Peter sees red lightning and stars. He collapses into wet sheets, panting, and Mohinder pulls back leaving him empty and aching. His mind is too full of his lover to think to heal, but he doesn't care. This is normal, he thinks, fastening his mouth to Mohinder's, caressing all the sensitive places with the tip of his tongue. This is how people feel, after. Normal people, who don't fly home and don't need to, who haven't done things…who aren't evil. This, he could talk about, to anyone, the police, his family, Claire, just let him never go back to where the lights are still on and…
"Are you all right?" Mohinder asks, brushing Peter's hair back. The sound is loud enough in the newfound silence of the apartment that Peter thinks he might be afraid again, deathly afraid. But there's only security, warm skin and the shine of dark caring eyes. Peter is warm now, more than warm, and safe; but though he can nod, he can't say the words.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7