FIC: What We Are or Might Have Been (2/8)
Title: What We Are or Might Have Been (2/8)
Author: Seraphtrevs ( My Fic Masterlist)
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Genre: Tragicomedy
Word Count: (this part) ~3200
Warnings: Contains depictions of characters suffering from mental illness
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made, etc.
Summary: Sequel to Down To This. Company man Sylar has brought a superpowered (and psychotic) Mohinder to the Primatech facility in Hartsdale for treatment. After some finagling, he manages to get himself put in charge of Mohinder's recovery. With Mohinder by his side, Sylar hopes to live his newly minted dream of being Gabriel Petrelli, a Good Guy with a nice house in the suburbs, a loving partner, and a (relatively) honest job. Changing his identity, however, is proving to be much more difficult than he originally assumed, particularly when the people around him refuse to let him forget about his past.
A/N: Lots and lots of thanks to the fabulous aurilly for the beta!
This is a WIP. I've finished five of the eight chapters, and I'll be posting one chapter a week(ish) in order to allow myself time to complete the rest.
Introduction and Table of Contents
Prologue and Chapter One
Chapter Two
Sylar drove a Mercedes-Benz GL-Class SUV. It had a 382-hp V8 engine, a seven speed automatic transmission, four-wheel drive, 21-inch AMG 5-spoke alloy wheels, and a leather interior that seated seven. Bennet never let him drive it to their missions; he insisted on using the Company's sad-looking sedan since Sylar's vehicle would attract too much attention. He was probably right, but Sylar liked being bigger than everyone on the road.
Angela had given it to him when she requested that he stop taking on powers. The request actually didn't bother him very much. He'd been thinking seriously about his quest for abilities ever since he'd killed Arthur. As Sylar let the ecstatic feeling of understanding wash over him as he gained his father's abilities, he found himself gazing at the man's slack, dead face. This man had more powers than possibly anyone on earth. And now he was dead.
For the first time in - well, ever, actually, Sylar found himself thinking about his future. He had the ability to gain any power he wanted with just a touch; the thought should have been thrilling, but instead, he felt a dull sort of dread. What the hell was he supposed to do with himself now? His entire existence had centered around acquiring abilities, and now, thanks to the access he'd get from Primatech, he'd never have to hunt for them again. He could simply greet everyone who came in with a firm handshake, and that would be it. No more killing, or plotting to kill, or evading capture after killing...but if all that was over, Sylar had nothing left. Without the hunt, his entire existence was empty.
So when Angela smiled and touched his arm and asked him to promise he'd give it all up, he did so without complaint. The time to be Sylar had ended. He would be Gabriel Petrelli now, a man who had a family, a nice house in the suburbs, a (semi) respectable job, and someone to come home to in the evenings.
Sylar glance in his rear-view mirror to check on his passenger. Mohinder was curled up in the middle-row back seat, fast asleep. The doctor had given him something to relax before they left; he'd nodded off ten minutes after they got on the road. Sylar should have awoken him to make him put on a seatbelt, but he didn't. He was an excellent driver; he took every curve slowly, and hit every stop light gently, so that Mohinder's rest would not be disturbed.
He made the turn into his new neighborhood. His mother had bought him a gorgeous suburban home with two stories and a garage, three bedrooms and two point five bathrooms, walk-in closets and crown molding, a dining room, a living room and family room (Sylar wasn't sure what the difference was, but he liked having both), and a kitchen with an island and a breakfast nook. The only thing missing was a picket fence. They seemed to be out of fashion at the moment, but he thought he might build one anyway.
He had it filled with Swedish furniture and the latest electronics - sixty-inch flatscreen TVs with full surround sound systems in the family room, the living room, and the bedroom (because why not?). His appliances were all top of the line; his kitchen was "chef caliber," according to the salesman who had sold him all of his knives and silverware and strange kitchen tools, like a mandolin (for slicing) and a rasp (for grating) and a baking stone (for pizza, which he and Mohinder would eat on Friday nights as they snuggled in front of the TV.) It was the house of someone who had a family, and who was loved. And he would be loved, by his mother and his brothers (eventually - he was working on it), and now by a lover, who would be so grateful to him for saving his life and nursing him back to health that he would forgive everything that had gone wrong between them, and they would live happily ever after.
He turned into the driveway, but didn't pull into the garage. He wanted Mohinder to be able to see the house from the outside before taking him in. He opened the side door of the car and gave Mohinder's shoulder a gentle shake.
"Wake up," Sylar said.
Mohinder didn't move, so Sylar shook him harder. "Wake up," he said again.
Mohinder's eyes opened a crack, then shut again. He moaned and rolled over.
Sylar sighed in frustration. He got in the car, grabbed Mohinder's shoulders and forced him into a sitting position. "Time to get up. We're home."
Mohinder's eyes opened again. "Home?" he said. He looked at Sylar with confusion.
"Yeah," he said.
Sylar got out of the car again and offered his hand to Mohinder to help him steady himself. Mohinder accepted it and, with great effort, got out of the car. Sylar went around to the trunk to get Mohinder's bag. Mohinder was squinting at the house, a confused look on his face. "This isn't home," he said.
"Sure it is." Sylar slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed Mohinder's hand. "Come on, let me show you."
When he finally began to walk, he moved slowly, placing one foot in front of the other with great deliberation, as if it was taking all of his willpower to move forward. It took them six or seven minutes just to get to the front door, and by the time they got there, Mohinder seemed to have spent all of his energy. It was like he was wilting; his whole body started to sag downwards. Sylar had to prop him up against the side of the house while he unlocked the front door. He helped Mohinder inside. He'd wanted to show Mohinder around the house, but he supposed there would be time for that later. After setting the bag down near the front door, he escourted Mohinder over to the sofa in the living room. Once he was sitting, he seemed to improve a little bit. His opened his eyes a little wider and looked around, his gaze running over the IKEA furniture, the shag carpeting, the big screen TV. He did not seem impressed.
Sylar found himself unsure of what to do. He saw the remote on the coffee table, so he picked it up and turned on the television. "We've got over 250 channels," he said. "In HD. And that screen is 60-inches. It's almost like being in a movie theater."
Mohinder still didn't seem very impressed. "What's HD?"
"You don't know what HD is?"
"I don't watch a lot of television."
"Oh," Sylar said. "It means high definition."
They both watched the TV for a few minutes. A show called "Monsters Inside Me" started to play; it was all about parasites. Sylar hastily changed the channel.
He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he went to the kitchen to start dinner. He opened the fridge and took a look around. He decided to make a meatloaf. Gabriel used to help Virginia make them all the time; it was something Sylar remembered, too, since he was always at least half-aware when Gabriel was hungry. He'd boil some potatoes, too. That should be enough.
After he put the meatloaf in the oven and started the potatoes, he realized that it was going to be at least forty-five minutes until dinner was ready. He wasn't sure what to do with himself. Should he go in and watch TV with Mohinder? Or maybe Mohinder needed some space. That was probably true. But he was his boyfriend now, so maybe they should be talking about things? What things, he wasn't sure.
He'd never done this before. He'd had a lot of sex - after Gabriel's final departure, he went to nightclubs and bars and was surprised at how easy it was to pick someone up. People were so ready to believe anything he told them, as long as it was something they wanted to hear. He'd gotten pretty good at it before he got bored. But going home with someone for a night was one thing; he was actually living with Mohinder. There was a whole negotiation of space and time that he couldn't even begin to decipher. He decided he needed some help. He took his cell phone out and pressed 2 on the speed dial.
"Hello?"
"Hey Pete!" he said, trying to sound upbeat. "It's your brother."
"Is this Sylar?" Peter said.
"Gabriel," Sylar corrected. "How are you?"
"How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me? We're not friends."
"I know - we're brothers."
"Like hell we are."
"Are you calling Mother a liar?"
"Okay, first off? She's Ma, not Mother. And of course I'm calling her a liar! Have you spent more than five minutes with her? That's what she does."
"You shouldn't talk about your mother like that."
"Like you're one to lecture - you killed yours!"
"No, I didn’t," he said. Which was true on several levels; Virginia Gray hadn’t been his biological mother, and Gabriel had been the one who killed her, not Sylar. Gabriel had emerged one last time to try to regain control. To be fair to Gabriel, he didn’t kill her on purpose, but her death had been the last straw. He had disappeared completely after that.
"Oh, right, because you don’t think she was your real mother,” Peter said. “You still killed an innocent woman.”
"Get off your high horse," Sylar said, growing irritated. "You aren’t in any position to lecture anyone on morality. You snapped my neck, tried to kill Mother, and then ran off to try to kill Dad, and the only thing that stopped you from killing him was that he sucked the powers out of you.”
“That’s not fair,” Peter said. “I would have never done those things if I hadn’t accidentally taken your powers.“
“So it’s okay for you to use that as an excuse, but not me?”
Peter was quiet for a long moment. “It’s different,” he said finally. “You didn’t kill in a frenzy. You planned. You knew what you were doing.”
“And now I’ve stopped,” he said. “I’m reformed.”
"No, you're not," Peter said.
"Yes, I am."
"No, you're not - why am I even having this conversation with you? Listen very carefully to me: I hate you. I will always hate you. We will never be 'brothers.' And I never want to hear from you again - or from Mother, for that matter, and you can tell her I said so. I'm done with all of you. Got it?"
Sylar was quiet for a moment. "I think I know what this is about," he said. "You're jealous."
"What?" Peter sputtered.
"You're jealous that I'm Mother's favorite now, and that I have abilities and you don't anymore. And that's why you're being so hostile to me."
"I'm hanging up now."
"Wait," Sylar said. "Don't hang up; I didn't call to fight. I need your help." There wasn't any sound from the other end of the line for a few moments, but he hadn't hung up. "Peter? Are you still there?"
"Yes. God alone knows why. What do you want?"
"I need some advice."
"About what?"
Sylar looked over at the living room again. "Have you ever lived with someone? Like, romantically?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"I was just curious - how much time are you supposed to spend talking to each other? Should it be like, 80% of the time you're together, or more like 50%? And what are you supposed to talk about?"
"...do you have someone living with you?"
"Yes."
"Does she know you're a serial killer?"
"It's a 'he', and I'm a former serial killer, and yes, he knows."
"And he's okay with that."
"Well. Sort of. It's Mohinder, and he's - "
"Mohinder?" Peter said, aghast. "Mohinder Suresh?"
"Yes, and he's - "
Peter went ballistic. "Oh my God, you've kidnapped him, haven't you? Is he hurt? Have you hurt him?"
"No! I haven't- "
"Are you raping him?"
"I'M NOT R -" Sylar realized he was shouting, so he lowered his voice and hissed into the phone. "I am not raping him - how could I be raping him while I'm on the phone with you? And it's not like that. I was trying to tell you - he's sick. He's given himself powers, but the formula was unstable, and he mutated and he's sort of crazy...look, it's a long story, but I found a treatment, and now he's going to get better, and Mother said I could take him home to live with me instead of keeping him in the facility."
"I'm coming over there."
"You can't."
"Yes I can."
"No you can't. You don't know my address, and the only way you could find it out is if you asked Mother, and you said you were never going to talk to her again. So there."
Peter paused for a moment, temporarily defeated. "Then put him on the phone," he said.
Sylar hesitated. "He's not feeling well at the moment - "
"Put him on the phone now or I swear to Christ I will find you and throw you into a woodchipper."
"Okay, okay." He went into the living room. Mohinder was half-heartedly flipping through the channels. He gradually noticed that Sylar was standing above him. "What?" he asked.
Sylar handed him the phone. "Peter wants to talk to you."
Mohinder gave him a puzzled look before putting the phone to his ear. "Hello? Yes...no...yes...yes, I'm sure. I need to be here...it's complicated...no...no...blueberries." He handed the phone back to Sylar. "He wants to talk to you again."
Sylar took the phone and went back into the kitchen. "What was the whole 'blueberries' thing about?"
"I told him to say that if he really meant what he was saying. So I guess he does."
"You believe me, then."
"For now."
"You don't have to worry. I'm a good person."
"You don't get to just declare yourself a good person. You have to earn it."
"Which is what I'm trying to do! Do you really think Mother would have let me take him home if she thought I was going to hurt him?"
"Honestly, I don't know what she's capable of anymore," he said quietly.
"Well, she wouldn't. And you really should call her. She worries. So, anyway, about that conversation thing - it's like, 50%, right? Hello?"
Peter had hung up the phone. Fine. He didn't need him; he'd figure it out on his own. He poked the potatoes with a fork; they were still hard. The meatloaf didn't look ready either. He set the table, but that only took a few minutes.
He tried to think of something else to do while dinner finished cooking. After a few moments of thought, he went out to the hallway and picked up Mohinder's bag and brought it into the kitchen. He opened it and took out the large baggie filled with all of Mohinder's medications, then took out the giant medication wheels and the piece of paper the doctor had given to him and began the long process of parceling out the doses Mohinder would need. There were so many - pills to keep him up, pills to put him down, power suppressants... By the time he was finished, dinner finally looked done. He put out the medicine Mohinder was supposed to take with dinner by his plate, and then went into the living room to get him.
"Dinner's ready," he said. Mohinder didn't respond. Sylar took the remote from him, turned off the television, and gave him a telekinetic boost to his feet. "Come on."
Mohinder shuffled slowly into the kitchen. Sylar steered him over to his chair and helped him sit down. He served both of them and sat down himself. It smelled great, and he was famished. The meatloaf was a little on the dry side, but that was nothing a good dose of ketchup couldn't cure. He squirted some onto his plate, cut his potato in half and slathered it with margarine, and then began to eat with enthusiasm.
Mohinder stared at his plate. "What is this?"
"'s meatloaf," Sylar said around a bite.
Mohinder continued to stare at his plate. Sylar was almost finished when Mohinder said, "I'm a vegetarian."
Sylar swallowed his current mouthful. "Oh. Well, eat the potatoes, then."
Sylar finished his plate and went for seconds. Mohinder finally picked up his fork and stared at it for a long time as if he'd never seen one before in his life. He put it down and picked up his knife. Using both hands, he carefully cut his potato in half. He cut the halves in half, and then cut those pieces in half, and continued cutting until his plate was covered in tiny potato bits. He put the knife down. He picked up his pills and swallowed them in one large gulp, then stood up.
"Aren't you going to eat anything?" Sylar asked.
"I ate a potato."
"No, you didn't," Sylar pointed out. "You just cut it up."
Mohinder shrugged. He turned around and started shuffling towards the living room. He sat down on the couch.
Guess he wasn't hungry, he thought, but the whole incident left him a little unnerved. He cleared off the table and cleaned the dishes. When he ran out of excuses for things to do, he went to join Mohinder in the living room.
He was asleep - very, deeply asleep. Sylar debated whether he should leave him there or not, but ultimately decided to take him upstairs. He used his telekinesis to float him up the stairs and laid him gently down on the bed. The clothes he was wearing were loose hospital scrubs, which he supposed would be comfortable enough to sleep in. He took off his shoes. Mohinder barely moved the entire time.
Sylar got himself dressed and ready for bed. The bed was a California King - the biggest there was, and when he got into it, Mohinder seemed very far away. Which was all right. The whole situation was odd, and he still didn't know what he should be feeling. He'd always slept alone. Before he turned in, he reached across the bed and gave Mohinder a kiss on the forehead. That seemed like something someone in love would do. Mohinder was so still that Sylar watched him breathe for a few moments, just to make sure. After he was satisfied that Mohinder was still alive, he rolled over to his own side of the bed and turned off the lights. He'd never really had any trouble sleeping, so within minutes, he fell sound asleep.
Onto Chapter Three!
Author: Seraphtrevs ( My Fic Masterlist)
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Genre: Tragicomedy
Word Count: (this part) ~3200
Warnings: Contains depictions of characters suffering from mental illness
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made, etc.
Summary: Sequel to Down To This. Company man Sylar has brought a superpowered (and psychotic) Mohinder to the Primatech facility in Hartsdale for treatment. After some finagling, he manages to get himself put in charge of Mohinder's recovery. With Mohinder by his side, Sylar hopes to live his newly minted dream of being Gabriel Petrelli, a Good Guy with a nice house in the suburbs, a loving partner, and a (relatively) honest job. Changing his identity, however, is proving to be much more difficult than he originally assumed, particularly when the people around him refuse to let him forget about his past.
A/N: Lots and lots of thanks to the fabulous aurilly for the beta!
This is a WIP. I've finished five of the eight chapters, and I'll be posting one chapter a week(ish) in order to allow myself time to complete the rest.
Introduction and Table of Contents
Prologue and Chapter One
Chapter Two
Sylar drove a Mercedes-Benz GL-Class SUV. It had a 382-hp V8 engine, a seven speed automatic transmission, four-wheel drive, 21-inch AMG 5-spoke alloy wheels, and a leather interior that seated seven. Bennet never let him drive it to their missions; he insisted on using the Company's sad-looking sedan since Sylar's vehicle would attract too much attention. He was probably right, but Sylar liked being bigger than everyone on the road.
Angela had given it to him when she requested that he stop taking on powers. The request actually didn't bother him very much. He'd been thinking seriously about his quest for abilities ever since he'd killed Arthur. As Sylar let the ecstatic feeling of understanding wash over him as he gained his father's abilities, he found himself gazing at the man's slack, dead face. This man had more powers than possibly anyone on earth. And now he was dead.
For the first time in - well, ever, actually, Sylar found himself thinking about his future. He had the ability to gain any power he wanted with just a touch; the thought should have been thrilling, but instead, he felt a dull sort of dread. What the hell was he supposed to do with himself now? His entire existence had centered around acquiring abilities, and now, thanks to the access he'd get from Primatech, he'd never have to hunt for them again. He could simply greet everyone who came in with a firm handshake, and that would be it. No more killing, or plotting to kill, or evading capture after killing...but if all that was over, Sylar had nothing left. Without the hunt, his entire existence was empty.
So when Angela smiled and touched his arm and asked him to promise he'd give it all up, he did so without complaint. The time to be Sylar had ended. He would be Gabriel Petrelli now, a man who had a family, a nice house in the suburbs, a (semi) respectable job, and someone to come home to in the evenings.
Sylar glance in his rear-view mirror to check on his passenger. Mohinder was curled up in the middle-row back seat, fast asleep. The doctor had given him something to relax before they left; he'd nodded off ten minutes after they got on the road. Sylar should have awoken him to make him put on a seatbelt, but he didn't. He was an excellent driver; he took every curve slowly, and hit every stop light gently, so that Mohinder's rest would not be disturbed.
He made the turn into his new neighborhood. His mother had bought him a gorgeous suburban home with two stories and a garage, three bedrooms and two point five bathrooms, walk-in closets and crown molding, a dining room, a living room and family room (Sylar wasn't sure what the difference was, but he liked having both), and a kitchen with an island and a breakfast nook. The only thing missing was a picket fence. They seemed to be out of fashion at the moment, but he thought he might build one anyway.
He had it filled with Swedish furniture and the latest electronics - sixty-inch flatscreen TVs with full surround sound systems in the family room, the living room, and the bedroom (because why not?). His appliances were all top of the line; his kitchen was "chef caliber," according to the salesman who had sold him all of his knives and silverware and strange kitchen tools, like a mandolin (for slicing) and a rasp (for grating) and a baking stone (for pizza, which he and Mohinder would eat on Friday nights as they snuggled in front of the TV.) It was the house of someone who had a family, and who was loved. And he would be loved, by his mother and his brothers (eventually - he was working on it), and now by a lover, who would be so grateful to him for saving his life and nursing him back to health that he would forgive everything that had gone wrong between them, and they would live happily ever after.
He turned into the driveway, but didn't pull into the garage. He wanted Mohinder to be able to see the house from the outside before taking him in. He opened the side door of the car and gave Mohinder's shoulder a gentle shake.
"Wake up," Sylar said.
Mohinder didn't move, so Sylar shook him harder. "Wake up," he said again.
Mohinder's eyes opened a crack, then shut again. He moaned and rolled over.
Sylar sighed in frustration. He got in the car, grabbed Mohinder's shoulders and forced him into a sitting position. "Time to get up. We're home."
Mohinder's eyes opened again. "Home?" he said. He looked at Sylar with confusion.
"Yeah," he said.
Sylar got out of the car again and offered his hand to Mohinder to help him steady himself. Mohinder accepted it and, with great effort, got out of the car. Sylar went around to the trunk to get Mohinder's bag. Mohinder was squinting at the house, a confused look on his face. "This isn't home," he said.
"Sure it is." Sylar slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed Mohinder's hand. "Come on, let me show you."
When he finally began to walk, he moved slowly, placing one foot in front of the other with great deliberation, as if it was taking all of his willpower to move forward. It took them six or seven minutes just to get to the front door, and by the time they got there, Mohinder seemed to have spent all of his energy. It was like he was wilting; his whole body started to sag downwards. Sylar had to prop him up against the side of the house while he unlocked the front door. He helped Mohinder inside. He'd wanted to show Mohinder around the house, but he supposed there would be time for that later. After setting the bag down near the front door, he escourted Mohinder over to the sofa in the living room. Once he was sitting, he seemed to improve a little bit. His opened his eyes a little wider and looked around, his gaze running over the IKEA furniture, the shag carpeting, the big screen TV. He did not seem impressed.
Sylar found himself unsure of what to do. He saw the remote on the coffee table, so he picked it up and turned on the television. "We've got over 250 channels," he said. "In HD. And that screen is 60-inches. It's almost like being in a movie theater."
Mohinder still didn't seem very impressed. "What's HD?"
"You don't know what HD is?"
"I don't watch a lot of television."
"Oh," Sylar said. "It means high definition."
They both watched the TV for a few minutes. A show called "Monsters Inside Me" started to play; it was all about parasites. Sylar hastily changed the channel.
He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he went to the kitchen to start dinner. He opened the fridge and took a look around. He decided to make a meatloaf. Gabriel used to help Virginia make them all the time; it was something Sylar remembered, too, since he was always at least half-aware when Gabriel was hungry. He'd boil some potatoes, too. That should be enough.
After he put the meatloaf in the oven and started the potatoes, he realized that it was going to be at least forty-five minutes until dinner was ready. He wasn't sure what to do with himself. Should he go in and watch TV with Mohinder? Or maybe Mohinder needed some space. That was probably true. But he was his boyfriend now, so maybe they should be talking about things? What things, he wasn't sure.
He'd never done this before. He'd had a lot of sex - after Gabriel's final departure, he went to nightclubs and bars and was surprised at how easy it was to pick someone up. People were so ready to believe anything he told them, as long as it was something they wanted to hear. He'd gotten pretty good at it before he got bored. But going home with someone for a night was one thing; he was actually living with Mohinder. There was a whole negotiation of space and time that he couldn't even begin to decipher. He decided he needed some help. He took his cell phone out and pressed 2 on the speed dial.
"Hello?"
"Hey Pete!" he said, trying to sound upbeat. "It's your brother."
"Is this Sylar?" Peter said.
"Gabriel," Sylar corrected. "How are you?"
"How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me? We're not friends."
"I know - we're brothers."
"Like hell we are."
"Are you calling Mother a liar?"
"Okay, first off? She's Ma, not Mother. And of course I'm calling her a liar! Have you spent more than five minutes with her? That's what she does."
"You shouldn't talk about your mother like that."
"Like you're one to lecture - you killed yours!"
"No, I didn’t," he said. Which was true on several levels; Virginia Gray hadn’t been his biological mother, and Gabriel had been the one who killed her, not Sylar. Gabriel had emerged one last time to try to regain control. To be fair to Gabriel, he didn’t kill her on purpose, but her death had been the last straw. He had disappeared completely after that.
"Oh, right, because you don’t think she was your real mother,” Peter said. “You still killed an innocent woman.”
"Get off your high horse," Sylar said, growing irritated. "You aren’t in any position to lecture anyone on morality. You snapped my neck, tried to kill Mother, and then ran off to try to kill Dad, and the only thing that stopped you from killing him was that he sucked the powers out of you.”
“That’s not fair,” Peter said. “I would have never done those things if I hadn’t accidentally taken your powers.“
“So it’s okay for you to use that as an excuse, but not me?”
Peter was quiet for a long moment. “It’s different,” he said finally. “You didn’t kill in a frenzy. You planned. You knew what you were doing.”
“And now I’ve stopped,” he said. “I’m reformed.”
"No, you're not," Peter said.
"Yes, I am."
"No, you're not - why am I even having this conversation with you? Listen very carefully to me: I hate you. I will always hate you. We will never be 'brothers.' And I never want to hear from you again - or from Mother, for that matter, and you can tell her I said so. I'm done with all of you. Got it?"
Sylar was quiet for a moment. "I think I know what this is about," he said. "You're jealous."
"What?" Peter sputtered.
"You're jealous that I'm Mother's favorite now, and that I have abilities and you don't anymore. And that's why you're being so hostile to me."
"I'm hanging up now."
"Wait," Sylar said. "Don't hang up; I didn't call to fight. I need your help." There wasn't any sound from the other end of the line for a few moments, but he hadn't hung up. "Peter? Are you still there?"
"Yes. God alone knows why. What do you want?"
"I need some advice."
"About what?"
Sylar looked over at the living room again. "Have you ever lived with someone? Like, romantically?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"I was just curious - how much time are you supposed to spend talking to each other? Should it be like, 80% of the time you're together, or more like 50%? And what are you supposed to talk about?"
"...do you have someone living with you?"
"Yes."
"Does she know you're a serial killer?"
"It's a 'he', and I'm a former serial killer, and yes, he knows."
"And he's okay with that."
"Well. Sort of. It's Mohinder, and he's - "
"Mohinder?" Peter said, aghast. "Mohinder Suresh?"
"Yes, and he's - "
Peter went ballistic. "Oh my God, you've kidnapped him, haven't you? Is he hurt? Have you hurt him?"
"No! I haven't- "
"Are you raping him?"
"I'M NOT R -" Sylar realized he was shouting, so he lowered his voice and hissed into the phone. "I am not raping him - how could I be raping him while I'm on the phone with you? And it's not like that. I was trying to tell you - he's sick. He's given himself powers, but the formula was unstable, and he mutated and he's sort of crazy...look, it's a long story, but I found a treatment, and now he's going to get better, and Mother said I could take him home to live with me instead of keeping him in the facility."
"I'm coming over there."
"You can't."
"Yes I can."
"No you can't. You don't know my address, and the only way you could find it out is if you asked Mother, and you said you were never going to talk to her again. So there."
Peter paused for a moment, temporarily defeated. "Then put him on the phone," he said.
Sylar hesitated. "He's not feeling well at the moment - "
"Put him on the phone now or I swear to Christ I will find you and throw you into a woodchipper."
"Okay, okay." He went into the living room. Mohinder was half-heartedly flipping through the channels. He gradually noticed that Sylar was standing above him. "What?" he asked.
Sylar handed him the phone. "Peter wants to talk to you."
Mohinder gave him a puzzled look before putting the phone to his ear. "Hello? Yes...no...yes...yes, I'm sure. I need to be here...it's complicated...no...no...blueberries." He handed the phone back to Sylar. "He wants to talk to you again."
Sylar took the phone and went back into the kitchen. "What was the whole 'blueberries' thing about?"
"I told him to say that if he really meant what he was saying. So I guess he does."
"You believe me, then."
"For now."
"You don't have to worry. I'm a good person."
"You don't get to just declare yourself a good person. You have to earn it."
"Which is what I'm trying to do! Do you really think Mother would have let me take him home if she thought I was going to hurt him?"
"Honestly, I don't know what she's capable of anymore," he said quietly.
"Well, she wouldn't. And you really should call her. She worries. So, anyway, about that conversation thing - it's like, 50%, right? Hello?"
Peter had hung up the phone. Fine. He didn't need him; he'd figure it out on his own. He poked the potatoes with a fork; they were still hard. The meatloaf didn't look ready either. He set the table, but that only took a few minutes.
He tried to think of something else to do while dinner finished cooking. After a few moments of thought, he went out to the hallway and picked up Mohinder's bag and brought it into the kitchen. He opened it and took out the large baggie filled with all of Mohinder's medications, then took out the giant medication wheels and the piece of paper the doctor had given to him and began the long process of parceling out the doses Mohinder would need. There were so many - pills to keep him up, pills to put him down, power suppressants... By the time he was finished, dinner finally looked done. He put out the medicine Mohinder was supposed to take with dinner by his plate, and then went into the living room to get him.
"Dinner's ready," he said. Mohinder didn't respond. Sylar took the remote from him, turned off the television, and gave him a telekinetic boost to his feet. "Come on."
Mohinder shuffled slowly into the kitchen. Sylar steered him over to his chair and helped him sit down. He served both of them and sat down himself. It smelled great, and he was famished. The meatloaf was a little on the dry side, but that was nothing a good dose of ketchup couldn't cure. He squirted some onto his plate, cut his potato in half and slathered it with margarine, and then began to eat with enthusiasm.
Mohinder stared at his plate. "What is this?"
"'s meatloaf," Sylar said around a bite.
Mohinder continued to stare at his plate. Sylar was almost finished when Mohinder said, "I'm a vegetarian."
Sylar swallowed his current mouthful. "Oh. Well, eat the potatoes, then."
Sylar finished his plate and went for seconds. Mohinder finally picked up his fork and stared at it for a long time as if he'd never seen one before in his life. He put it down and picked up his knife. Using both hands, he carefully cut his potato in half. He cut the halves in half, and then cut those pieces in half, and continued cutting until his plate was covered in tiny potato bits. He put the knife down. He picked up his pills and swallowed them in one large gulp, then stood up.
"Aren't you going to eat anything?" Sylar asked.
"I ate a potato."
"No, you didn't," Sylar pointed out. "You just cut it up."
Mohinder shrugged. He turned around and started shuffling towards the living room. He sat down on the couch.
Guess he wasn't hungry, he thought, but the whole incident left him a little unnerved. He cleared off the table and cleaned the dishes. When he ran out of excuses for things to do, he went to join Mohinder in the living room.
He was asleep - very, deeply asleep. Sylar debated whether he should leave him there or not, but ultimately decided to take him upstairs. He used his telekinesis to float him up the stairs and laid him gently down on the bed. The clothes he was wearing were loose hospital scrubs, which he supposed would be comfortable enough to sleep in. He took off his shoes. Mohinder barely moved the entire time.
Sylar got himself dressed and ready for bed. The bed was a California King - the biggest there was, and when he got into it, Mohinder seemed very far away. Which was all right. The whole situation was odd, and he still didn't know what he should be feeling. He'd always slept alone. Before he turned in, he reached across the bed and gave Mohinder a kiss on the forehead. That seemed like something someone in love would do. Mohinder was so still that Sylar watched him breathe for a few moments, just to make sure. After he was satisfied that Mohinder was still alive, he rolled over to his own side of the bed and turned off the lights. He'd never really had any trouble sleeping, so within minutes, he fell sound asleep.
Onto Chapter Three!