Empire State 5/?
Title: Empire State, part 5 of ?
Summary: In a 19th Century America still under British control, the West India Company has a special assignment for Captain Suresh.
Rating: PG this chapter, eventual NC-17 for arty, frothy sex.
Pairings: Mylar and Plaude, so far, Petrellicest if you squint and tilt your head (hell, probably less than canon, actually), hints of possible one-sided Matt > Mohinder.
Other characters: Bob, Nathan, Molly, Matt, Elle, mentions of Bennet and others.
Warnings: Oh my god, schmoop. Seriously, if you're diabetic, or if you can't take fluff, I highly recommend you turn around now, lest you fall into a coma, because ho boy, fluff, sugar, fluff. Pre-Mylar (ever so slightly closer still again than last chapter), mangling Victorian history, standard AU OOCness, general flounciness of prose. Unbetaed, so I am responsible for all steam-enginge-typo-gremlins. Spoilers til the end of S2 if there's any at all, beyond the basic who's who.
Wordcount: 2,890
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes, and I don't own history.
A/N: Still more Merchant Ivory than Stephenson, but I promise there will be gears and difference engines in the near future. Very frothy.
A/N2: In which a misunderstanding occurrs, and a change of plans ensues.
A/N3: Just to be clear (and the fact that I'm explaining it here means it's kind of a failairous technique, but ah well), Sylar and Gabriel are not separate personalities- they're the division that Gabriel has created in himself as would-be monarch who must show no weakness and vulnerable young man.
It was just a jacket.
It was just a jacket, but in his stubborn refusal to admit, despite his desire, that he wanted to see Mohinder, it became the center of Sylar's universe. He knew its texture by heart by the end of the first day, all the places where it had grown thinner, where there were picks in the thread. He was so curious about every flaw; what had Mohinder been doing when it tore here? What about there? Did he patch it himself?
While his obsession seemed like madness, in reality, it was keeping him from going mad when, three days in a row, neither Matthew or Mohinder appeared at dinner. Sylar had cast about the fortress with his hearing, but neither man's voice was audible anywhere.
"Stop pouting and go talk to him if it's bothering you!" Claude insisted with no small amount of derision. Nathan said much the same, but with the proper deference. After three days of focusing on a threadbare garment, working with it hanging from his chair, sleeping with it clutched in his hands, Sylar relented.
Mohinder might be chilly, he thought, striding down the hallway to Mohinder's room and opening the door.
Mohinder was reclined with his back against Matt's chest, seated between his legs. Matt's eyes were shut, his hand on Mohinder's head, nestled deep in those curls, and Mohinder's focus was all on the book in his hands, the one on fevers that Sylar had suggested.
He did not look chilled in the slightest.
Mohinder looked up and smiled, but his expression turned grave and sickly as the jacket slipped from Sylar's hand and fell to the floor.
Matt startled as he caught all the turmoil in the room and opened his eyes.
"Oh god..." Matt said, swallowing.
"What-" Mohinder started, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and reaching out to Sylar.
"Don't touch me!" Sylar roared, and every bit of glass in the room shattered. Matt let out a startled cry, and Mohinder flinched, but didn't shout, rising to his feet.
"Excellency-" he started, looking confused.
"Don't speak to me," Sylar railed. "Don't touch me. Don't... don't even look at me!"
Mohinder's jaw dropped as Sylar spun and left the room, and he glanced at Matt.
"What was that?" Mohinder asked, stunned. Matt was nearly shaking.
"He thinks that we've become lovers," Matt confessed. Mohinder sputtered.
"What?" he cried. "But he knows what we're doing, and it's-" Mohinder made a frustrated noise and got up, storming towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Matt asked. Mohinder picked his jacket up off the floor and stood up straight.
"I'm going to go straighten him out!" he snapped. "All this bloody misunderstanding."
"That's not a good idea," Matt protested, getting up and grabbing Mohinder's arm. "He's really angry."
"And I'm going to let him know that he's got absolutely no reason to be!" Mohinder replied, shrugging him off.
"He doesn't handle reason particularly well when he gets like this!" Matt argued, following after him. "You have to let him calm down!"
Mohinder turned and gave him a withering look.
"I do not have to do a bloody thing, Matthew," he replied icily.
He swept down the corridor, through the dining room and threw the door to the study open, not bothering to knock much as Sylar had not, and found himself faced with Gabriel kneeling on the floor, shoulders slumped, a fine ivory curtain puddled on the floor.
"Excellency?" Mohinder said. Gabriel's head snapped around.
"No," he said softly, "You can't be here. You'll ruin everything."
He leapt up to his feet, his eyes glassy. Mohinder didn't appear to notice though, his gaze fixed on the wall behind Gabriel, his mouth slightly open.
"Major-" he started hoarsely, and Gabriel leapt on him, covering Mohinder's eyes with his palm.
"Don't!" Gabriel sobbed. Gabriel's greater height arced over Mohinder's, as if trying to shield him from an explosion.
"Is that me?" Mohinder asked quietly, trembling under Gabriel's hands.
"Don't," Gabriel repeated. "Forget you saw it. It's not important, it doesn't mean anything, just-"
Mohinder wrapped his hand around Gabriel's wrist, trying to pull his hand away.
"Don't look, you don't need to see it," Gabriel insisted. "It's too soon."
"Weren't you the one who told me that he'd been waiting seven years?" Mohinder asked. Gabriel touched his forehead against Mohinder's, his arm around Mohinder's waist.
"I wasn't waiting seven years to see you and Matt-" Sylar snarled, then stopped himself.
"There is no me and Matt!" Mohinder protested, twisting his head to try and free his vision. "Let go!"
"Don't lie to me," Gabriel replied, Sylar creeping back into his voice as he steered Mohinder bodily so that his back was against the mural, his curls looking as though they could tangle with those of the painting. "I saw him holding you. Very cozy."
"It goes more smoothly if we touch," Mohinder argued. "It's easier for the information to transfer. What you saw was not about romance, it was about efficiency!"
For you, maybe, Gabriel found himself thinking.
"I could kill Matthew Parkman," Sylar growled.
"He didn't do anything wrong!" Mohinder railed at him, finally succeeding in yanking Sylar's hand off his eyes.
"That doesn't mean that he doesn't hope to," Sylar replied.
"So what?" Mohinder railed, grabbing the front of Sylar's shirt and giving him a hard shake. "If my desires don't align with his, then why are you worried over them?"
"Because I want you to choose me, and I can't see into your head and give you whatever you want the way he can!" Sylar argued.
"Don't be so bloody foolish!" Mohinder exclaimed. "I do not want to be in a romance with Matthew Parkman; I don't know how much plainer I can be! So far my only contact with him has been in pursuit of saving a child's life! Are you truly so envious that you would fault me for it?"
Sylar stood, seething. His reason told him that Mohinder's words made perfect sense, that he was being irrational, but his heart, his hands, wanted to lock Mohinder away where he would belong to Sylar alone. He was about to say as much, confine Mohinder with his books, forbid Parkman from so much as looking at him, when Mohinder let out a frustrated sigh and leaned forward, pressing his lips softly to Sylar's. All Sylar's fury just bled out through the soles of his shoes as he shut his eyes, kissing gently back.
"Gabriel," Mohinder said quietly. "Won't you have a little faith in me? Please?"
Gabriel opened his eyes rather than Sylar.
"Mohinder," he whimpered, and Mohinder reached up, touching his face and kissing him again.
"You knew seven years ago that I would be coming here," Mohinder said, "And I'm here, am I not? I came, didn't I? Why are you so afraid of losing someone who's right in front of you?"
He ran a hand through Gabriel's hair, his wide brown eyes concerned, a fine line crossing his forehead in worry. Gabriel sank into a peculiar reverie, touching Mohinder's curls like a curious child peering at a bird, being so, so careful with his touch. Mohinder stood perfectly still, watching Gabriel's face as he was delicately caressed and petted. There was a fearful sorrow in Gabriel's expression, a terrible worry that he appeared to be trying to ease with these attentions.
"Excellency?" Mohinder asked softly, but there was no reply.
"Gabriel?" he tried instead, and this time Gabriel shifted his eyes back to Mohinder. He leaned forward kissing the line of concern that crossed Mohinder's brow.
"Forgive me," he murmured, speaking softly against Mohinder's skin. "But please don't look at the mural yet. It's... I'm just not ready. And if you and Parkman must touch, perhaps it could be side by side rather than in his lap? Please?"
"Done," Mohinder replied quietly, placing a hand on Gabriel's cheek and kissing his mouth, slow and soft and gentle as could be. "I should go. I still have a great deal to learn if I'm to help Mistress Walker."
Gabriel nodded.
"Please come to dinner tonight?" he asked. "I worry about you getting enough to eat."
Gabriel left the 'and I miss you' unspoken.
"I will," Mohinder said. "It would be my pleasure."
With one final kiss Mohinder stepped around Gabriel and headed for the door, resolutely not looking back at the mural.
Gabriel looked at the jacket on the desk, grabbed it and went after him.
"Wait!" he called, shutting the door to the office behind him, hiding the mural. Mohinder turned back and saw the proffered jacket.
"Oh! I'd wondered where that had gotten off to..." Mohinder smiled, putting on the coat. Gabriel touched the sleeve.
"How did you get a hole in the back of the shoulder blade like that?" Gabriel asked, touching a patch. Mohinder glanced over his shoulder and smiled.
"No idea," he chuckled. "I knew I'd never get near you in imperial red, so I swapped coats with some boy on the street. I've only known the coat a few hours longer than I've known you."
"Oh," Gabriel said.
"I'll see you at dinner," Mohinder said, squeezing Gabriel's shoulder before he slipped away. The moment Mohinder was gone, Gabriel scowled, hearing a stifled giggle.
"What the hell are you doing here, Claude?" he growled. Claude appeared, seated at the table.
"I heard the commotion and came to mediate if need be," he said innocently.
"Your invisible, silent mediation is clearly very effective," Gabriel muttered dryly, slipping back into the air of his authority, turning back to his office to re-hang the curtain. Claude, grinning, followed him in.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Claude said happily, helping with the curtain. "Went swimmingly, really."
"How much did you see?" Sylar growled.
"Saw not much, heard plenty. Including some choice moments of silence, Excellency," Claude grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. "Ooh la la."
"You are, without a doubt, the worst subject inflicted upon any monarch since Brutus on Caesar," Sylar growled. "I have no idea why your mother didn't smother you in your crib."
"Good to hear you back to your sunny self. All that maudlin hand wringing was beginning to cause me some concern. I told you he was sweet on your Excellency," Claude said smugly. "Does that mean we can get back to the business of empire?"
"What do you mean?"
"Bennet's on the move, been sniffing about. He may try to raid us on the excuse of rescuing your swain."
Sylar let out a low growl.
"He knows we're someplace in the Highbridge. Does he know where?" Sylar asked.
"No, but with all the electricity and gas lines, he'll soon work it out. I'd say it's high time we made our exit."
"It's too soon to move on California. We need more," Sylar murmured. "I need more."
"Then maybe we should just wait for Bennet's attack. You'll have talents for the choosing, and there won't be too terribly many casualties."
"I'm not losing anyone to Bennet," Sylar snapped. "People will defect to our side or I'll relieve them of their powers, but Bennet doesn't get to claim any of ours, not by any means."
Claude's normally amused expression turned stormy.
"I sometimes forget how young you are, Excellency," he growled. "This is not some child's game, the swords aren't wooden sticks, and a skinned knee or elbow isn't the worst potential fate."
"I know that, Cla-"
Claude grabbed hold of the Archduke's shirtfront and smacked him against the wall, holding him there.
"If you want an advisor who'll assure you that you can hold back the tide, do not look to me," Claude snarled. "You've declared a war, and in war, there are losses. None of us are made of tin. If in your arrogance you presume that you can't lose any of us, then you're like to lose all of us, and don't think your pretty captain would be spared because you desire it so."
Claude found himself blasted backwards as though by an explosion, crashing to the floor, Sylar looming over him.
"You forget, Claude, I can hold back the tide," Sylar said in a dead calm voice, turning and leaving him where he lay.
"Memento mori, Excellency!" Claude called after him, dragging himself to his feet.
"For now," Sylar tossed back. Claude looked after him, his heart filling with dread and determination. Perhaps Nathan could be more convincing, and if not... well. The Archduke Sylar would not be the first prince Claude had served to self-destruct. Claude was savvy enough to slip away if he did.
By evening, Matt had cemented everything from the fever textbook into Mohinder's head. Mohinder flipped through the pages of another book, pacing in a near frenzy, when Sylar knocked on the frame of his door.
"It's time for dinner," he said.
"Just- damn!" Mohinder muttered, tossing the book aside and grabbing another. "-give me an hour."
Sylar frowned.
"You're rail thin and you've got bruises under your eyes. You need to stop for a while."
Mohinder didn't answer, digging further into the medical text until Sylar stepped forward and took the book from his hands, setting it pages down on the table so Mohinder's place wouldn't be lost.
"It's time to stop," he said softly, placing his hands on Mohinder's shoulders.
"I'm close, I know it," Mohinder nearly sobbed.
"You'll be closer with a full stomach and a rested mind," Sylar answered.
"Please, I can't stop yet, I-"
As Sylar's authority appeared to have little impact, it was Gabriel who pulled the would-be physician to his chest in a gentle hug.
"You promised," Gabriel said softly.
"I know-"
"You asked me to have faith in you. Help me to; keep your promise and come eat."
Mohinder shivered, the tense despair of his frustrated mind bleeding out of him.
"I promised," he conceded. "All right. I did promise."
Gabriel smiled in relief, Sylar's flicker of triumph going unexpressed as he led Mohinder from the room.
At the table, Matt refused to meet the Archduke's eyes, though Sylar stared at him from under lowered brows. Claude peered at Sylar, Peter at Claude, Nathan at Peter, Elle at Mohinder, Mohinder at his food, and Bob, in exasperation, at the heavens.
"Shall we say grace?" Matt finally blurted.
"You read my mind," Sylar answered folding his hands and bowing his head, eyes still ominously trained on Matt. Mohinder murmured something softly in Hindi which Sylar found far more intriguing than saying his own prayers, and the rest prayed silently as Nathan said a generic grace.
"Amen," Nathan said, and everyone started their meal, conversation steadily increasing as they finished. Sylar observed quietly, then spoke over all of them.
"Tonight we go dark," Sylar said, and everyone stopped speaking at once, save Mohinder, who broke his silence to ask,
"What does that mean?" he asked, taking in the shocked faces of everyone around him.
"It means no electricity and no gas," Nathan said grimly. "That in turn means that Bennet has nearly found us out."
Sylar nodded.
"They knew to send the Captain to Highbridge, and they know he hasn't returned. All they would have to do is start turning off the gaslines to trace our tap, and they'd have us."
"What about Molly?" Matt said grimly. "Mohinder can't work out what's wrong with her in the dark, and the cold alone may do her in."
"I can help," Elle said. "I can power a light for him myself, without going through the generator. Bennet can't see sparks through stone."
"We'll double up for warmth," Nathan added. "Peter with-"
"Me," Claude said before Nathan could say otherwise. "Bishop with his daughter, Matt and Nathan with the girl, the Archduke with our physician."
"That's hardly-" Nathan started to protest.
"Peter's most likely to be spotted by losing control, so he stays with me. Suresh needs the most protecting, thus the Archduke, and fathers and daughters belong together. You can escape most reliably with Mistress Walker should a raid come, Nathan, and Matt is perfectly capable of looking after himself."
Nathan narrowed his eyes.
"How well reasoned," he muttered.
"Settled," Sylar said firmly. "Pick your favorite lamps, Mohinder, and everyone get anything vital where you can find it. Elle, I want it all off in two hours."
Sylar stood and began to collect the dishes, bringing them to a basin with a pump and rinsing away the debris as everyone went where they needed to. Mohinder came to stand beside him silently, picking up a rag and drying each dish as it was handed to him.
"So. Is it live in darkness forever, then?" Mohinder asked softly as he stacked the last plate.
"No. We'll move soon. I just need a bit more time."
More silence.
"Do you need me to go? I can buy you time, steer them away."
Before, such a statement would've sent Sylar into a rage, but Gabriel just took Mohinder's and squeezed it.
"No. Bennet would torture you; he'd never believe you were telling the truth. Besides, you vanished after coming here."
Gabriel raised Mohinder's hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.
"Go organize your tools, please," he ordered gently.
Mohinder nodded, and left.
Summary: In a 19th Century America still under British control, the West India Company has a special assignment for Captain Suresh.
Rating: PG this chapter, eventual NC-17 for arty, frothy sex.
Pairings: Mylar and Plaude, so far, Petrellicest if you squint and tilt your head (hell, probably less than canon, actually), hints of possible one-sided Matt > Mohinder.
Other characters: Bob, Nathan, Molly, Matt, Elle, mentions of Bennet and others.
Warnings: Oh my god, schmoop. Seriously, if you're diabetic, or if you can't take fluff, I highly recommend you turn around now, lest you fall into a coma, because ho boy, fluff, sugar, fluff. Pre-Mylar (ever so slightly closer still again than last chapter), mangling Victorian history, standard AU OOCness, general flounciness of prose. Unbetaed, so I am responsible for all steam-enginge-typo-gremlins. Spoilers til the end of S2 if there's any at all, beyond the basic who's who.
Wordcount: 2,890
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes, and I don't own history.
A/N: Still more Merchant Ivory than Stephenson, but I promise there will be gears and difference engines in the near future. Very frothy.
A/N2: In which a misunderstanding occurrs, and a change of plans ensues.
A/N3: Just to be clear (and the fact that I'm explaining it here means it's kind of a failairous technique, but ah well), Sylar and Gabriel are not separate personalities- they're the division that Gabriel has created in himself as would-be monarch who must show no weakness and vulnerable young man.
It was just a jacket.
It was just a jacket, but in his stubborn refusal to admit, despite his desire, that he wanted to see Mohinder, it became the center of Sylar's universe. He knew its texture by heart by the end of the first day, all the places where it had grown thinner, where there were picks in the thread. He was so curious about every flaw; what had Mohinder been doing when it tore here? What about there? Did he patch it himself?
While his obsession seemed like madness, in reality, it was keeping him from going mad when, three days in a row, neither Matthew or Mohinder appeared at dinner. Sylar had cast about the fortress with his hearing, but neither man's voice was audible anywhere.
"Stop pouting and go talk to him if it's bothering you!" Claude insisted with no small amount of derision. Nathan said much the same, but with the proper deference. After three days of focusing on a threadbare garment, working with it hanging from his chair, sleeping with it clutched in his hands, Sylar relented.
Mohinder might be chilly, he thought, striding down the hallway to Mohinder's room and opening the door.
Mohinder was reclined with his back against Matt's chest, seated between his legs. Matt's eyes were shut, his hand on Mohinder's head, nestled deep in those curls, and Mohinder's focus was all on the book in his hands, the one on fevers that Sylar had suggested.
He did not look chilled in the slightest.
Mohinder looked up and smiled, but his expression turned grave and sickly as the jacket slipped from Sylar's hand and fell to the floor.
Matt startled as he caught all the turmoil in the room and opened his eyes.
"Oh god..." Matt said, swallowing.
"What-" Mohinder started, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and reaching out to Sylar.
"Don't touch me!" Sylar roared, and every bit of glass in the room shattered. Matt let out a startled cry, and Mohinder flinched, but didn't shout, rising to his feet.
"Excellency-" he started, looking confused.
"Don't speak to me," Sylar railed. "Don't touch me. Don't... don't even look at me!"
Mohinder's jaw dropped as Sylar spun and left the room, and he glanced at Matt.
"What was that?" Mohinder asked, stunned. Matt was nearly shaking.
"He thinks that we've become lovers," Matt confessed. Mohinder sputtered.
"What?" he cried. "But he knows what we're doing, and it's-" Mohinder made a frustrated noise and got up, storming towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Matt asked. Mohinder picked his jacket up off the floor and stood up straight.
"I'm going to go straighten him out!" he snapped. "All this bloody misunderstanding."
"That's not a good idea," Matt protested, getting up and grabbing Mohinder's arm. "He's really angry."
"And I'm going to let him know that he's got absolutely no reason to be!" Mohinder replied, shrugging him off.
"He doesn't handle reason particularly well when he gets like this!" Matt argued, following after him. "You have to let him calm down!"
Mohinder turned and gave him a withering look.
"I do not have to do a bloody thing, Matthew," he replied icily.
He swept down the corridor, through the dining room and threw the door to the study open, not bothering to knock much as Sylar had not, and found himself faced with Gabriel kneeling on the floor, shoulders slumped, a fine ivory curtain puddled on the floor.
"Excellency?" Mohinder said. Gabriel's head snapped around.
"No," he said softly, "You can't be here. You'll ruin everything."
He leapt up to his feet, his eyes glassy. Mohinder didn't appear to notice though, his gaze fixed on the wall behind Gabriel, his mouth slightly open.
"Major-" he started hoarsely, and Gabriel leapt on him, covering Mohinder's eyes with his palm.
"Don't!" Gabriel sobbed. Gabriel's greater height arced over Mohinder's, as if trying to shield him from an explosion.
"Is that me?" Mohinder asked quietly, trembling under Gabriel's hands.
"Don't," Gabriel repeated. "Forget you saw it. It's not important, it doesn't mean anything, just-"
Mohinder wrapped his hand around Gabriel's wrist, trying to pull his hand away.
"Don't look, you don't need to see it," Gabriel insisted. "It's too soon."
"Weren't you the one who told me that he'd been waiting seven years?" Mohinder asked. Gabriel touched his forehead against Mohinder's, his arm around Mohinder's waist.
"I wasn't waiting seven years to see you and Matt-" Sylar snarled, then stopped himself.
"There is no me and Matt!" Mohinder protested, twisting his head to try and free his vision. "Let go!"
"Don't lie to me," Gabriel replied, Sylar creeping back into his voice as he steered Mohinder bodily so that his back was against the mural, his curls looking as though they could tangle with those of the painting. "I saw him holding you. Very cozy."
"It goes more smoothly if we touch," Mohinder argued. "It's easier for the information to transfer. What you saw was not about romance, it was about efficiency!"
For you, maybe, Gabriel found himself thinking.
"I could kill Matthew Parkman," Sylar growled.
"He didn't do anything wrong!" Mohinder railed at him, finally succeeding in yanking Sylar's hand off his eyes.
"That doesn't mean that he doesn't hope to," Sylar replied.
"So what?" Mohinder railed, grabbing the front of Sylar's shirt and giving him a hard shake. "If my desires don't align with his, then why are you worried over them?"
"Because I want you to choose me, and I can't see into your head and give you whatever you want the way he can!" Sylar argued.
"Don't be so bloody foolish!" Mohinder exclaimed. "I do not want to be in a romance with Matthew Parkman; I don't know how much plainer I can be! So far my only contact with him has been in pursuit of saving a child's life! Are you truly so envious that you would fault me for it?"
Sylar stood, seething. His reason told him that Mohinder's words made perfect sense, that he was being irrational, but his heart, his hands, wanted to lock Mohinder away where he would belong to Sylar alone. He was about to say as much, confine Mohinder with his books, forbid Parkman from so much as looking at him, when Mohinder let out a frustrated sigh and leaned forward, pressing his lips softly to Sylar's. All Sylar's fury just bled out through the soles of his shoes as he shut his eyes, kissing gently back.
"Gabriel," Mohinder said quietly. "Won't you have a little faith in me? Please?"
Gabriel opened his eyes rather than Sylar.
"Mohinder," he whimpered, and Mohinder reached up, touching his face and kissing him again.
"You knew seven years ago that I would be coming here," Mohinder said, "And I'm here, am I not? I came, didn't I? Why are you so afraid of losing someone who's right in front of you?"
He ran a hand through Gabriel's hair, his wide brown eyes concerned, a fine line crossing his forehead in worry. Gabriel sank into a peculiar reverie, touching Mohinder's curls like a curious child peering at a bird, being so, so careful with his touch. Mohinder stood perfectly still, watching Gabriel's face as he was delicately caressed and petted. There was a fearful sorrow in Gabriel's expression, a terrible worry that he appeared to be trying to ease with these attentions.
"Excellency?" Mohinder asked softly, but there was no reply.
"Gabriel?" he tried instead, and this time Gabriel shifted his eyes back to Mohinder. He leaned forward kissing the line of concern that crossed Mohinder's brow.
"Forgive me," he murmured, speaking softly against Mohinder's skin. "But please don't look at the mural yet. It's... I'm just not ready. And if you and Parkman must touch, perhaps it could be side by side rather than in his lap? Please?"
"Done," Mohinder replied quietly, placing a hand on Gabriel's cheek and kissing his mouth, slow and soft and gentle as could be. "I should go. I still have a great deal to learn if I'm to help Mistress Walker."
Gabriel nodded.
"Please come to dinner tonight?" he asked. "I worry about you getting enough to eat."
Gabriel left the 'and I miss you' unspoken.
"I will," Mohinder said. "It would be my pleasure."
With one final kiss Mohinder stepped around Gabriel and headed for the door, resolutely not looking back at the mural.
Gabriel looked at the jacket on the desk, grabbed it and went after him.
"Wait!" he called, shutting the door to the office behind him, hiding the mural. Mohinder turned back and saw the proffered jacket.
"Oh! I'd wondered where that had gotten off to..." Mohinder smiled, putting on the coat. Gabriel touched the sleeve.
"How did you get a hole in the back of the shoulder blade like that?" Gabriel asked, touching a patch. Mohinder glanced over his shoulder and smiled.
"No idea," he chuckled. "I knew I'd never get near you in imperial red, so I swapped coats with some boy on the street. I've only known the coat a few hours longer than I've known you."
"Oh," Gabriel said.
"I'll see you at dinner," Mohinder said, squeezing Gabriel's shoulder before he slipped away. The moment Mohinder was gone, Gabriel scowled, hearing a stifled giggle.
"What the hell are you doing here, Claude?" he growled. Claude appeared, seated at the table.
"I heard the commotion and came to mediate if need be," he said innocently.
"Your invisible, silent mediation is clearly very effective," Gabriel muttered dryly, slipping back into the air of his authority, turning back to his office to re-hang the curtain. Claude, grinning, followed him in.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Claude said happily, helping with the curtain. "Went swimmingly, really."
"How much did you see?" Sylar growled.
"Saw not much, heard plenty. Including some choice moments of silence, Excellency," Claude grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. "Ooh la la."
"You are, without a doubt, the worst subject inflicted upon any monarch since Brutus on Caesar," Sylar growled. "I have no idea why your mother didn't smother you in your crib."
"Good to hear you back to your sunny self. All that maudlin hand wringing was beginning to cause me some concern. I told you he was sweet on your Excellency," Claude said smugly. "Does that mean we can get back to the business of empire?"
"What do you mean?"
"Bennet's on the move, been sniffing about. He may try to raid us on the excuse of rescuing your swain."
Sylar let out a low growl.
"He knows we're someplace in the Highbridge. Does he know where?" Sylar asked.
"No, but with all the electricity and gas lines, he'll soon work it out. I'd say it's high time we made our exit."
"It's too soon to move on California. We need more," Sylar murmured. "I need more."
"Then maybe we should just wait for Bennet's attack. You'll have talents for the choosing, and there won't be too terribly many casualties."
"I'm not losing anyone to Bennet," Sylar snapped. "People will defect to our side or I'll relieve them of their powers, but Bennet doesn't get to claim any of ours, not by any means."
Claude's normally amused expression turned stormy.
"I sometimes forget how young you are, Excellency," he growled. "This is not some child's game, the swords aren't wooden sticks, and a skinned knee or elbow isn't the worst potential fate."
"I know that, Cla-"
Claude grabbed hold of the Archduke's shirtfront and smacked him against the wall, holding him there.
"If you want an advisor who'll assure you that you can hold back the tide, do not look to me," Claude snarled. "You've declared a war, and in war, there are losses. None of us are made of tin. If in your arrogance you presume that you can't lose any of us, then you're like to lose all of us, and don't think your pretty captain would be spared because you desire it so."
Claude found himself blasted backwards as though by an explosion, crashing to the floor, Sylar looming over him.
"You forget, Claude, I can hold back the tide," Sylar said in a dead calm voice, turning and leaving him where he lay.
"Memento mori, Excellency!" Claude called after him, dragging himself to his feet.
"For now," Sylar tossed back. Claude looked after him, his heart filling with dread and determination. Perhaps Nathan could be more convincing, and if not... well. The Archduke Sylar would not be the first prince Claude had served to self-destruct. Claude was savvy enough to slip away if he did.
By evening, Matt had cemented everything from the fever textbook into Mohinder's head. Mohinder flipped through the pages of another book, pacing in a near frenzy, when Sylar knocked on the frame of his door.
"It's time for dinner," he said.
"Just- damn!" Mohinder muttered, tossing the book aside and grabbing another. "-give me an hour."
Sylar frowned.
"You're rail thin and you've got bruises under your eyes. You need to stop for a while."
Mohinder didn't answer, digging further into the medical text until Sylar stepped forward and took the book from his hands, setting it pages down on the table so Mohinder's place wouldn't be lost.
"It's time to stop," he said softly, placing his hands on Mohinder's shoulders.
"I'm close, I know it," Mohinder nearly sobbed.
"You'll be closer with a full stomach and a rested mind," Sylar answered.
"Please, I can't stop yet, I-"
As Sylar's authority appeared to have little impact, it was Gabriel who pulled the would-be physician to his chest in a gentle hug.
"You promised," Gabriel said softly.
"I know-"
"You asked me to have faith in you. Help me to; keep your promise and come eat."
Mohinder shivered, the tense despair of his frustrated mind bleeding out of him.
"I promised," he conceded. "All right. I did promise."
Gabriel smiled in relief, Sylar's flicker of triumph going unexpressed as he led Mohinder from the room.
At the table, Matt refused to meet the Archduke's eyes, though Sylar stared at him from under lowered brows. Claude peered at Sylar, Peter at Claude, Nathan at Peter, Elle at Mohinder, Mohinder at his food, and Bob, in exasperation, at the heavens.
"Shall we say grace?" Matt finally blurted.
"You read my mind," Sylar answered folding his hands and bowing his head, eyes still ominously trained on Matt. Mohinder murmured something softly in Hindi which Sylar found far more intriguing than saying his own prayers, and the rest prayed silently as Nathan said a generic grace.
"Amen," Nathan said, and everyone started their meal, conversation steadily increasing as they finished. Sylar observed quietly, then spoke over all of them.
"Tonight we go dark," Sylar said, and everyone stopped speaking at once, save Mohinder, who broke his silence to ask,
"What does that mean?" he asked, taking in the shocked faces of everyone around him.
"It means no electricity and no gas," Nathan said grimly. "That in turn means that Bennet has nearly found us out."
Sylar nodded.
"They knew to send the Captain to Highbridge, and they know he hasn't returned. All they would have to do is start turning off the gaslines to trace our tap, and they'd have us."
"What about Molly?" Matt said grimly. "Mohinder can't work out what's wrong with her in the dark, and the cold alone may do her in."
"I can help," Elle said. "I can power a light for him myself, without going through the generator. Bennet can't see sparks through stone."
"We'll double up for warmth," Nathan added. "Peter with-"
"Me," Claude said before Nathan could say otherwise. "Bishop with his daughter, Matt and Nathan with the girl, the Archduke with our physician."
"That's hardly-" Nathan started to protest.
"Peter's most likely to be spotted by losing control, so he stays with me. Suresh needs the most protecting, thus the Archduke, and fathers and daughters belong together. You can escape most reliably with Mistress Walker should a raid come, Nathan, and Matt is perfectly capable of looking after himself."
Nathan narrowed his eyes.
"How well reasoned," he muttered.
"Settled," Sylar said firmly. "Pick your favorite lamps, Mohinder, and everyone get anything vital where you can find it. Elle, I want it all off in two hours."
Sylar stood and began to collect the dishes, bringing them to a basin with a pump and rinsing away the debris as everyone went where they needed to. Mohinder came to stand beside him silently, picking up a rag and drying each dish as it was handed to him.
"So. Is it live in darkness forever, then?" Mohinder asked softly as he stacked the last plate.
"No. We'll move soon. I just need a bit more time."
More silence.
"Do you need me to go? I can buy you time, steer them away."
Before, such a statement would've sent Sylar into a rage, but Gabriel just took Mohinder's and squeezed it.
"No. Bennet would torture you; he'd never believe you were telling the truth. Besides, you vanished after coming here."
Gabriel raised Mohinder's hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.
"Go organize your tools, please," he ordered gently.
Mohinder nodded, and left.