Heroes fic: Smoke on the Horizon

[gaiafaye]

Title: Smoke on the Horizon
Series: Heroes
Pairing: Mylar
Rating: I'm gonna go with NC-17.
Warnings: Insanity. Horribly managed mental institution. Violence & gore. Death. Dubcon.
Summary: After trapping Mohinder in Riverdale Psychiatric Hospital, Hiro never came back for him. But Sylar did.
A/N: Alternate universe stemming from mid-Season 4. Based on this prompt from the Mylar kink meme.



Mohinder follows the steady beat of the windshield wipers. They smear the rain off the glass as Sylar drives, smoothly, quietly, taking his time. They would have flown if not for the weather, but Sylar isn't annoyed. He's not worried about the police coming after the car either; he says their business shouldn't take very long.

Mohinder doesn't know where they're going, but he never knows, and he doesn't ask. He wonders if he should sleep. Maybe he's already asleep. He pinches his leg and it hurts. He wrings his hands together to make sure he can still feel them. He could hardly feel anything in his cell. Sometimes he's afraid he's still there, in Riverdale, and that the present is just another hallucination. Other times he wishes it was, when he tries to sleep and dreams of blood and wakes up crying. He tries to stay quiet, but Sylar always hears him.

Maybe Sylar never sleeps. He never seemed to when he lurked outside Mohinder's cell, hissing cruelly through the glass. Hiro impulsively threw Mohinder into that prison, but Mohinder and Sylar knew he belonged there. Mohinder could never find redemption for the experiments he'd conducted, for the man who'd died, because those actions were done. They were permanent, an incurable crawling infection.

Mohinder tried to tell Sylar that wasn't true at first. Sylar laughed and waited.

Now Sylar says that he was never there, that he didn't know where Mohinder was until he encountered Hiro at Samuel Sullivan's carnival, but Mohinder knows he's lying.

A third hand interrupts Mohinder's two as they twist-- Sylar loosely closes his right hand around Mohinder's left. Mohinder intertwines their fingers, traces the lines across Sylar's palm, presses their hands flat together to compare. He takes hold of Sylar's ring finger and bends it back until--

"Not while driving," Sylar chides as he pulls his hand away.

Mohinder watches it settle back on the steering wheel. They make a right turn, Sylar's left hand pulling the wheel around, and Mohinder can briefly see the watch around his wrist. The second hand is out of beat with the wipers. Mohinder closes his eyes, but he can hear the ticks.

"What's the matter?" Sylar asks.

Mohinder shakes his head. He whispers to himself. "A gene for the expression of an evolved ability can lie dormant into adulthood. The definitive trigger has yet to be discovered, but further investigation of the adrenal glands..."

"We're almost there. Are you nervous?"

He's supposed to know where they're going, Mohinder realizes. He'll probably remember when they get there. Sometimes he forgets why he's here at all, but the track marks on his arms remind him. Sylar likes to kiss the marks and all the other scars; he says Riverdale is part of their destiny.

"Mohinder."

"No," he answers.

Sylar doesn't believe him. "You're upset."

Tick, tick goes the watch. Clunk, clunk go the wipers. They talk over each other rudely. Mohinder knows he should ignore them, but he wants to shatter his fist through the windshield and rip the wipers out of their sockets. He knows he shouldn't. He stares at his hands. "I'm not fixed yet," he says.

He can hear Sylar's smile. "Not yet, but this should be it, okay?"

Mohinder nods. Sylar knows how things work. Fixing things is what he does.

The doctors at Riverdale did not know how to fix Mohinder, not when they only knew the lies Hiro put on his chart. But they probably didn't try, not after Mohinder broke free of his stupor (this memory is bloodless, but there are still screams, still solids crumbling under his hands), not after they realized how much sedative he needed, not after they decided they needed to know why. Dr. Livingston came to see Mohinder the most. He talked about writing grand papers and achieving recognition, but mostly he talked about tests.

He couldn't determine the extent of Mohinder's strength-- Mohinder would have to be coherent for that-- but he could test Mohinder's thresholds, see how much a reinforced body could take. Dr. Livingston's favorite was electroshock. Mohinder would see and feel and taste bright white pain and Dr. Livingston would write on his chart and say, "Amazing, amazing."

Afterward, as the drugs made him sink into the cushions of his cell, Mohinder would try to push against the bad, inexcusable thoughts (Dr. Livingston broken, strapped to the table with the electrodes jammed into the roof of his mouth). He tried to pretend he was home instead, teaching at the university, but he couldn't keep himself from wandering into dark places.

The wipers and the watch do not deviate from their disagreement. Mohinder mumbles. "The protein encoded by the fukutin gene is a putative transmembrane protein localized to the cis-Golgi compartment, where it may be involved in the glycosylation of..."

He can feel Sylar's eyes on him, but Sylar doesn't say anything.

Though Hiro didn't come back for Mohinder, eventually Sylar grew tired of restlessly scratching in the asylum walls. The time came when Mohinder found himself able to truly think again. He laid on the soft cushions of his cell, staring at the dead light above him as awareness of his limbs trickled back. He could shift every muscle, twitch every joint. And then the rush of unhindered thought ripped through the cotton in his head, impossible to sort through. He curled on his side as he tried not to think.

As the clamor subsided, he heard the lock shake, click, and then the heavy door screeched open. Light from the hall blinded him until the tall, dark figure drifted in. It curled one hand around the door, nails scraping the metal, and stared down at Mohinder with a close-lipped smile that hid its teeth.

"Surprise wake-up call!" Sylar said cheerfully but quietly. Mohinder did not respond, and Sylar crouched down at his side. "Speechless? I'm flattered." It was strange to see the shadows of the room not gather around him, to hide him from the orderlies and the nurses.

Sylar grabbed the back of Mohinder's straitjacket and sat him up. "The drugs should be out of your system by now. Come on, Suresh," he said, lightly slapping his cheeks.

Mohinder recoiled at the contact, at the solid, warm flesh. It was the first time Sylar had touched him since they'd been there. Something was different. Something had changed.

Sylar laughed as Mohinder tried to pull away. "That's right. This is not a dream. I'm very much alive."

Mohinder already knew that, had known for weeks and weeks how foolish it was to believe Sylar could ever die. But the mockery had escalated. Sylar had rid him of the drugs, had opened his cell. Sylar wanted to take him out of there, knowing how dangerous he was, knowing the terrible thoughts that played throughout his head.

"I don't want to," Mohinder tried.

Sylar frowned. "Don't want to what?"

As if he didn't know, as if his mind wasn't as twisted and wrong. Mohinder hated his games. He shook his head and tried to assure himself. "I won't do it. I won't..."

"What is the matter with you?" Sylar said.

"You can't make me..."

Sylar cupped his face and forced Mohinder to look at him. He stared into Mohinder's eyes and cocked his head as if listening. "Curious," he breathed. "You know, I saw your chart when I messed with the meds. Looks like you've been having quite the time in here."

Mohinder had never seen his chart, but he imagined a long list of sedatives and all the other drugs Dr. Livingston pumped into him, new and old, many experimental and of his own creation. ("Try a higher dosage." "Make sure he doesn't fall asleep." "This one may cause him discomfort, but it will pass.")

"This isn't a very nice place, is it?" Sylar asked.

"It isn't," Mohinder said, trying to look away, but Sylar wouldn't let him. "But I won't..."

Sylar's grin was all teeth. He held onto Mohinder's collar with one hand and traced a line down the front of the straitjacket with the other, slowly pulling the heavy threads apart. "Tell me, Mohinder, what do you want to do?"

Mohinder shook his head and tried to stay buried, but the jacket fell apart around him. "Please," he said, "just kill me."

"They've mistreated you, haven't they?"

"Stop it!" Mohinder grabbed Sylar's wrists and twisted his arms away. His bones cracked loudly and he shouted in pain. A telekinetic wave threw Mohinder back into the wall.

"That hurt," Sylar growled as he adjusted and popped everything back into place.

Mohinder couldn't talk. The wall was padded, but he'd still hit it with dizzying force. The rush of adrenaline made it worse, made it hard to focus, but the strain lit up his brain in ways he hadn't felt in what seemed like years, or possibly never.

Sylar jerked him to his feet. "If we keep making noise, it's going to ruin my covert ops game. You don't want to stay here. Let's go." He pushed Mohinder to the door, and Mohinder obeyed because he was still reeling, still coping with the sound of blood rushing past his ears.

Once he set foot in the hall, he came face-to-face with a surprised orderly. The man held a ready needle, and he choked on an expletive as Sylar cut off his air. Sylar spoke, saying something lofty and sarcastic, but Mohinder didn't hear him. He stared at the needle in the frozen man's hand, at the elixir meant to numb everything until he could barely breathe, or push his heart until felt like he'd vomit blood, or turn his cell into a living nightmare of twisting shames and bottomless failures. He grabbed the needle and stabbed it into the orderly's neck, jamming down the plunger.

Sylar fell quiet. He let the orderly fall back, knocking into his cart and sending trays clattering, needles scattering. Another scream rang out, and Mohinder looked down the hall to see a horrified nurse with a clipboard. "M-Mr. Ahmadi," she sputtered. "N-now, you just--just get back in your..."

Sylar stepped out and she clutched the clipboard to her chest. "Boo," Sylar said, and she turned and ran. Sylar laughed and sent a bolt of electricity after her. It hit the corner a split second after she turned it, and her frightened wail flung itself from wall to wall. Sylar turned back to Mohinder, glancing at the dead orderly, and again he asked what Mohinder wanted to do.

They took Riverdale apart.

Within thirty minutes half the place was aflame while the other half was flooded by broken pipes. The entire medical wing was no better than rubble. The surviving fire alarms shrieked, flashing red and white lights in the halls. A voice still managed to warble over the intercoms about an emergency lockdown as all the freed patients fled and wandered. The staff was in a panic, struggling to escape, scattering at Sylar's sadistic whims, but there was one face Mohinder did not see.

While Sylar played with the police, Mohinder made his way to the offices upstairs. Dr. Livingston hid behind his desk, screaming on the phone, holding a red-stained handkerchief to his head. He stared up at Mohinder like he was a terrible beast, or a god, Shiva at his worst. And Sylar loomed in the corner and agreed: Mohinder was a monster, incorrigible and without restraint. Sylar watched quietly until the doctor was just a brilliant bloody smear on the wall, streaked across his diplomas and certificates. When it was done, Mohinder looked up to see Sylar in the doorway, a mere fleck of blood on his cheek. Mohinder looked at his own blood-spattered front and laughed until he couldn't stand up anymore.

Sylar says he didn't find Mohinder until then, after Dr. Livingston was dead, but Mohinder knows he's lying.

"We're here."

Outside Mohinder's window sits a two-story suburban house, cloaked in gray from the fog and rain. Sylar gets out of the car, so Mohinder does too, stepping out into the downpour. Sylar pulls the collar of his jacket up over his head. Mohinder doesn't have a coat, and he pauses partway up the walk, raising his face to the sky to feel the water run down his skin, into his clothes and hair.

"Mohinder." Sylar smiles at him and extends his hand. "Come on."

Mohinder takes it. Sylar pulls him up onto the porch, letting go before he knocks on the door. He hums "Singin' in the Rain" while they wait.

An apathetic-looking boy answers the door, but then he recognizes Sylar. His lips part in shock, then stretch into a wary grin. "Um, wow," he says. "What... What are you...?"

"Long time no see," Sylar says, pushing past the boy into the house.

"Yeah," the boy replies, eyes alight until he looks at Mohinder. Mohinder stares back.

Sylar looks over his shoulder, then turns fully. "Inside," he sighs.

The boy closes the door after Mohinder crosses the threshold. He looks around the foyer. Everything is well kept at first glance, but then he sees a crack jagging through the wall, how the staircase banister tilts to one side, that the jacket hanging by the door is worn and torn.

The boy is a teenager with a round, soft face. He looks at Sylar like he can't be real. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

"Why are you here, Luke?" Sylar echoes. "I know I told you to go back to your mom, but I didn't think you'd actually listen."

The boy seems embarrassed. "I didn't really know what to do. I--"

"Didn't she teach you anything about hospitality?" Sylar interrupts. "You could at least offer my friend a towel."

Luke apologizes quickly and disappears upstairs, and Sylar takes Mohinder into the living room. Luke finds them side-by-side on the couch and tosses a pink towel onto Mohinder's lap. The edges are frayed, but it's soft. Mohinder runs his hand across the terrycloth. Sylar takes it from him and unfolds it, draping it over his head and scrunching his hair dry.

The boy sits in a stuffed chair. "What, is he your pet or something?" he asks as Sylar pats at Mohinder's face with the corner of the towel.

Sylar pauses. When he speaks, he smiles crookedly. "Are you still hoping for that position?"

Luke's mouth works wordlessly for a moment, then he bursts, "No, I- I just... I was hoping that you rethought--"

"You were hoping that I came back for you, to take you away from Mommy?"

"You came back once..."

Sylar drapes the towel over Mohinder's shoulders. "And you've been waiting since then for it to happen again? You sure invested a lot in a guy you knew for two days."

"Three..." Luke corrects halfheartedly. "So what happened with your dad? Is he dead? I thought for sure I'd read about him being crucified out in the woods."

"I'm sure he's still stuffing squirrels in the middle of nowhere," Sylar says. "But seeing someone else's pathetic life can give you quite the kickstart about figuring out what to do with your own."

"I thought you gave up on that. 'There's no escape, only pain you can't outrun,' and so on?"

"Yeah, well, that was one of my more dramatic days."

"But you can't," Mohinder says.

Luke jumps. Sylar raises an eyebrow and says, "Can't what?"

"You can't outrun it."

Sylar smiles. "That's right. But we can embrace it, can't we?"

Mohinder stares at him.

"That's what today is about," Sylar says carefully, like they're sharing a secret.

"He's British?" Luke says.

"He's Indian. You learned about British imperialism in school, didn't you?"

"Um, probably?"

"Gandhi?"

"The guy in the diaper."

"Oh, well, as long as you know the basics," Sylar says dryly. He looks to Mohinder. "As you can tell, Luke here is the epitomical product of our public education system. Or of a stretched-too-thin single parent. I forget who gets the blame these days." Sylar rests his arms on the back of the couch. "Where is Mary anyway?"

"It's one o'clock on a Monday," Luke says. "She's at work like all the other normal adults."

"And you're not at school because you're not like all the other normal kids."

Luke laughs. "I think it's obvious that my future does not lie among the up and coming drones of America."

"It lies in mooching off Mom until she kicks you out?"

"What are you, a life coach?"

"I just think it's funny that you tell yourself you're going to be this tough badass, but you can't even leave home without a chaperone."

"I'm coming up with a plan," Luke says. "Always know your objective, remember?"

"Aw, I'm touched. So what's your plan so far?"

Luke seems excited. "I was thinking it would be cool to be... like an urban legend. To travel the country, leave victims with their blood oozing out their pores with no clue as to how it was done. I just gotta decide what it is that'll mark them for me, that innocent little thing that earns my scorn, you know?"

"Wow," Sylar deadpans. "That's fanciful."

The boy deflates and folds his arms. His eyes flit to Mohinder. "So what's he hanging around you for? Can he do anything cool?"

Sylar looks around the room. He uses telekinesis to pull over an aluminum baseball bat, then gives it to Mohinder. Mohinder holds it in both hands, and Sylar nudges his side, saying quietly, "Go on." Mohinder breaks the fat end of the bat over his knee. It snaps sharply, leaving a lingering ring in the air.

Luke fidgets. "I've seen karate guys do that kind of thing on TV."

Sylar taps the jagged point on the handle half of the bat. "Do you think those karate guys could impale this through your head in one shot?" he asks.

Luke swallows. "Maybe."

"Yeah, well, unlike martial artists, Mohinder doesn't have to give much thought to something like that." Sylar smirks. "What did you think his power was?"

"I dunno. Looking pretty?"

"All the better for a predator."

Luke looks very disappointed with this visit, but suddenly he sits up. "I found something last week," he says. He gets up and gestures to the stairs in the foyer. "I'll be right back."

As Luke runs upstairs again, Sylar sighs. Mohinder lets the bat pieces drop to the floor. He slides the towel back over his head and pulls it tight. It feels warm. He doesn't realize he's shivering until Sylar asks if he's cold.

"Luke would boil your blood," Sylar says quietly, "but I can take care of it."

Luke comes back, hand outstretched, and puts a watch into Sylar's hand. Sylar examines it, his eyebrows elevated in surprise. It is strange; Mohinder has had few occasions to see Sylar surprised. Then Sylar's eyes light up in pleasure, which is more familiar.

"Where did you get this?" he asks.

Luke grins. "This little shop near New Hope. They're rare, aren't they?"

Sylar shows the watch to Mohinder. The casing is gold-plated, with a brown leather strap. Gold digits and notches circle the edge of the white face. The hour and minute hands are suspended at two-seventeen, obscuring the manufacturer name: SYLAR. The second hand doesn't move.

Sylar briefly holds the watch to his ear before slipping it into his pocket. "Thanks, kid."

Luke's jaw sets. "I was thinking, you know, I could hold onto that, and maybe--"

"You still wanna follow me around? Play my apprentice?" Sylar rolls his eyes. "I'm not in the market for a sidekick."

Luke gestures to Mohinder. "What about him?"

"Mohinder is much more than a chattering tag-along."

Luke laughs unhappily. "Wow. Thanks, buddy. Why don't you just get to the point? Why are you here?"

"I just thought of you the other night, is all."

"Yeah?" Luke says skeptically.

"Yeah. I was sitting in a motel with my friend here, watching a movie, and I thought to myself, I would really love some popcorn right now. And not that shit kind that comes pre-popped in a bag. Motel rooms don't have microwaves, though, and I thought, wouldn't it be nice if Luke was here to cook some up?"

Luke stares. "So you came here for some popcorn?"

"No, I came here because my next thought was, wouldn't it be nicer if I could just do it myself?"

Luke flies up out of his chair and smashes into the ceiling. Sylar drops him onto the floor, face down, forcing his wrists to cross behind his back. Then he's flipped over, staring dazedly at the ceiling. Blood leaks from his mouth.

Mohinder remembers why they're here now. He presses his fists against his forehead and curls into his chest. "Even in humans who will never naturally express a special ability, it's possible the capability could reside unactivated within junk DNA--"

Sylar forces his arms down and tuts. "Don't be such a spoilsport. I want to share this with you."

"You prick," Luke chokes out. "I saved your life once."

"That's a mistake too many people have made," Sylar says. He pulls Mohinder to his feet and bends over to pick up the broken bat. "It'll be so quick," he whispers, closing Mohinder's hand around the handle.

"Sylar, man, come on, please!" Luke pleads. "I'm sorry I was a pain, I'm sorry, don't--"

"This isn't about you!" Sylar snaps.

"He's just a boy," Mohinder says shakily.

"He's weak. He's prey. Entertaining his existence more than that is useless. Trust me."

"You said you would fix me."

"I am!" Sylar says urgently, coming in close. "This is what we talked about, giving yourself up to what you truly are." He lowers his voice. "Come on, Mohinder. What does he matter? Do you really care? You didn't care about that orderly, did you? He was only doing his job. He probably knew jack shit about what that doctor was doing. He probably had a wife, kids, dog."

A headache pulses behind Mohinder's eyes and he shuts them. "Nicotinic acetylcholine receptor proteins form pentameric--"

Sylar shakes him roughly by the shoulders. "Don't deny it. That's why you're broken, Mohinder. You can't accept that you are beyond petty fucking morals. You're the monster you deserve to be." He strokes Mohinder's fingers, curled painfully around the bat. "You're fulfilling the potential I've always seen in you."

The only potential ever he truly had. Where did he get with his father's research, or even avenging his father's death? How could he take care of Molly if he was too afraid trust his own judgment around her? And what of being a husband when Mira couldn't trust him? What had he ever seen for himself beyond any of those things? He stares into the jagged, hollow end of the bat.

"Help me, Mohinder."

"Don't listen to him!" Luke shouts as he struggles. "You're right. I'm just a kid!" He trembles on the floor, arms jerking only slightly, unable to free himself from Sylar's hold.

"Avoid the head," Sylar says.

"I'm just a kid!" Luke rambles. "Christ, I'll do anything! I'll go back to school, get a part time job, help out my mom. God, I'll-- I'll improve my grades, go to college, join a fucking honor society..."

Mohinder listens to the panic in his voice, the desperation, the blind promises. He smiles. Luke falls silent.

"No, you won't," Mohinder says. "You could. You're young. You have a long life ahead. All the right choices are clear enough. So many opportunities are just waiting for you." He grips the bat with both hands, broken end pointing down. "But you won't take any of them."

He drives the metal into Luke's chest, and the boy manages a choked scream. "You'll just make the same mistakes," Mohinder growls, twisting the bat before yanking it upwards, only to drive it back down before the wound fills with blood. "Over and over and over..." Luke hardly gurgles as his chest caves, ribs snapping. "It's too late," Mohinder snarls, falling to his knees. "You're damaged! Rotting from the inside." Even as the boy's torso becomes just an open, gruesome cavity, Mohinder slams the bat through him, feeling every strike shudder through the floor.

The bat suddenly refuses to come down. The force of Sylar's telekinesis keeps Mohinder's arms straining in the air as his careful touch encircles Mohinder's wrists. Luke's limbs twitch, but he is gone.

"It's okay," Sylar whispers into Mohinder's ear. Telekinesis helps pry the bat from Mohinder's strength and Sylar tosses it aside. He settles on the floor behind Mohinder and holds him close. "That wasn't so hard, now was it?" he asks.

No. It wasn't. It was easy. Mohinder thinks back to Dr. Livingston's office, to how he clung to Sylar and cried, telling him he was right about everything. But now he hardly feels anything, just a fading rush of adrenaline, even though this murder was of a boy he hardly knew.

Just a boy, but broken, wrong, like the doctor.

But Sylar makes the best of the parts. He rests his chin on Mohinder's shoulder as he extends his arm, drawing a line with his finger. A red trail shrieks across Luke's forehead, disappearing into his hairline, and soon the top of his skull-- skin, hair, and all-- simply pops off. Blood leaks out around the brain matter and into the carpet.

Sylar prods at the wet, pink segments. It takes him some time, but he is patient, relaxed, comfortable with Mohinder against him. Mohinder watches, his heart and lungs still working overtime. He's not sure what he's looking for, only that Sylar knows when he's found it and draws back. He hovers his hand over Mohinder's damp clothes, radiating heat until they're dry. He smiles, satisfied, and shifts a little to turn Mohinder's head and kiss him on the mouth. "The killing still feels right," he says.

It feels satisfying, to have something in your hands, to have a say over its existence. To leave evidence, make a mark. To control. To play God.

But that's wrong. Mohinder hates it, doesn't understand how Sylar can function when he must be so broken. But Sylar isn't broken at all, so maybe Mohinder isn't either. Maybe he just doesn't know how this works.

Sylar kisses him again, then lifts Mohinder's arm to kiss the scars there. He slides back up onto the couch, pulling Mohinder with him, onto his lap. Mohinder rocks his hips intently. The warmth, the friction, it feels good even though he knows it shouldn't, even with the coppery stench of the hollowed body beside them. He clutches Sylar's shoulders as Sylar's mouth bruises his throat. He wants stimulation, overload, needs to white out all the black scorches and stains. He groans and pulls at the barrier of Sylar's jacket.

Sylar helps remove their clothes and shudders as their erections slide against each other. Mohinder holds him tightly, pressing his lips to Sylar's forehead. He wants him now, but Sylar makes him suck on his fingers first. Mohinder kisses Sylar fiercely as the fingers push into him, and he breaks away only when Sylar prods at that spot deep inside. He throws his head back, panting, pushing back against Sylar's hand. Sylar whispers but Mohinder just needs more of this feeling, needs it to overtake him.

When Sylar finally enters him, Mohinder drives his hips down, too fast, too soon, but he doesn't care. The burn sets every cell alight. Sylar matches each thrust, panting against Mohinder's throat, clinging tightly. He doesn't try to slow down and they rock together wildly. The pain and pleasure coalesce, surging up Mohinder's spine, and he throws his head back as he comes.

And then he is nothing.

When he opens his eyes, he feels calm, nearly empty, so far from everything. Breathing heavily, Sylar reaches up to smear away a spot of blood on Mohinder's cheek, and Mohinder cups his face and kisses him.

They stay on the couch for an hour. Mohinder knows because he can see Sylar's watch as he bends back each finger on his left hand until it snaps and Sylar muffles the pain. They sit with their legs stretched across the cushions, Sylar laying back against the arm of the couch and Mohinder against his chest, watching as each digit heals without a blemish.

The watch reads two-nineteen when, after Sylar's bones crack back into place, he flexes his fingers and draws his hand back, up through Mohinder's hair. Mohinder draws his arms to his chest and stares at the corpse on the floor.

"Would you like to be able to heal?" Sylar asks quietly. His fingers feel soothing on Mohinder's scalp. "I think we could manage it, one way or another."

It's not something Mohinder has thought about, not recently. When he first encountered Claire's ability, he of course reacted with amazement and had thought how incredible it would be to heal from anything. But it wasn't in the cards for him, and it was just a momentary idle fantasy.

But now the idea plucks at a string in his mind. He pulls Sylar's hand from his hair and examines it again. Mohinder has broken the fingers dozens of times, but the flesh is flawless and the bones solid under careful pressure. Mohinder feels his stomach twist, feels a terrible want. "Alright," he says.

Sylar tips Mohinder's head to the side and kisses his forehead. "Everything is finally back on track," he murmurs, closing his limbs more around Mohinder. "We're where we're supposed to be. Zane Taylor called you to his house in time for us to meet. Maya found me on her way to see you. Memories as Nathan with his family and even seeing Parkman with his kid spurred me to seek you out at just the right time."

Before, Mohinder considered his run-ins with Sylar to be unfortunate coincidences, but now what he says sounds right, fits their lives together like pieces of a puzzle.

And yet as Sylar stares into his eyes, his enthusiasm fades. "Maybe regeneration will help you think clearly."

Mohinder looks away and traces each of Sylar's fingers. "You said I was fixed."

"You are," Sylar says quickly, lips traveling the side of Mohinder's face. "You are perfect."

Mohinder bends a pale digit back and knows he's lying.

= / = / = / =

Sylar stops at a small clock shop on a bare little main street somewhere, and when he comes out again he has a little kit of tools. In a motel room that night, he sits at a rickety table and sets the tools in a row under a flickering lamp. He pries open the gold watch Luke gave him and works.

Mohinder sits at the end of the bed and stares at the television. Something has happened in New York City, in Central Park, some kind of disaster at the Sullivan Brothers Carnival. The news is hesitant on what to call it, and settles on "disturbance" as they report wild witness accounts of people flying, running at the speed of light, moving the earth. Authorities at the park say it was all a wild stunt pulled off by using tricks of the carnival trade, but the station has four cell phone videos that they play on repeat. One is of Claire, diving out of the way of a fantastic blur, only to be hit by a falling strength tester tower. An incongruous bell rings over people's screams, but of course she struggles out from under it, pops her knee back into place, and stares briefly at the camera as the gash across her face heals.

There is also no explanation for how the entire carnival seemingly vanished not long after its proprietor was slashed to ribbons by an unknown assailant.

So Samuel was stopped. The others may be exposed. But Mohinder feels removed from it all.

Sylar gets up and stands by the bed, watching for a moment. As a blonde woman beside Bennet talks to microphones about smoke and mirrors, he snorts and flicks the television off. Mohinder watches him as he kneels down.

"Give me your hand," Sylar says, and he fastens the gold watch around Mohinder's left wrist.

Mohinder brings it closer to his face. Sylar reaches up to stroke Mohinder's hair, and the ticks by Mohinder's ear sound simultaneously with the twitches of the second hand in front of his eyes. Crossing his arm over his chest, Mohinder closes his hand over Sylar's and shuts his eyes, listening to them tick together softly in time.