Fic: Four Days Ago
Title: Four Days Ago
Rating: PG-13, for violence
Characters: Sylar, Peter, Mohinder, Molly, Adam (could be Mylar if you want to see it)
Words: 3900
Warnings: Sylar is involved. Lives will be threatened.
Spoilers: Through the end of season 2
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not writing this for profit.
Author's Notes: Last month, while discussing what I didn't like about Sylar's plotline this season, I said that it would have been much more exciting if Caitlin and Maya had never come into the story, and Amnesia!Peter and Powerless!Sylar had met up instead. Several people said that I should write that fic. This is it. Thanks a million to aelora for giving me feedback on the first draft of this!
He dimly realizes that someone’s there, rolling him over, touching his face. Then he’s out of the rays of the blazing sun, and he isn’t aware of anything else for a while.
When he comes to, he’s sprawled across the back seat of a car. He sits up slowly, wincing, and looks out the open door - there’s nothing to see but more dead countryside.
“Hey, take it easy,” a voice says from outside. “Here, you need some more water.”
He squints at the figure, silhouetted by bright afternoon light, and then jerks back reflexively. “Peter...” he rasps through parched lips.
The man drops to a crouch, staring at him with wide eyes. “You know me? You know who I am?”
His first instinct is to kick the guy in the chin, snap his neck backwards, and...then what? Even if the bastard didn’t heal, it wouldn’t do any good to take him now. And... Peter’s looking at him oddly, not showing any signs of aggression or fury or even fear.
“What kind of game is this?” he asks.
“You’re scared of me,” Peter replies, still doing his best Bambi impression. “Why? How do you know me?”
He stares, and then he can’t help laughing. “Oh, no. Don’t try to tell me you’ve got amnesia. That’s just...” He has to be dreaming. Any moment now, he’ll wake up.
“Yeah,” says Peter. “Well, sort of. I did, but... God, I don’t know how to explain it. It sounds so ludicrous.”
“Try me,” Sylar says.
* * * * * * *
The story is indeed even more ludicrous than he could have dreamed, but the fact that Peter’s sitting next to him and sharing a sandwich, instead of trying to smash his face open, convinces him it’s got to be true.
“You were locked inside a cargo container in Manzanillo. And found by employees of an Englishman who runs a hotel down there.”
“Yeah. Among other things. But he’s a nice guy. Well...he was. Before that blonde girl got to him.”
Sylar takes another long drink of water. “You still haven’t explained how it is you know your name, when you don’t remember anything else.” He’d cautiously given his own name as Gabriel, afraid of triggering memories if he told Peter his right one.
“You still haven’t explained how you got that hole in your stomach. Which, by the way, looked like it needed medical attention.”
Sylar barks a short laugh. “I’m afraid I don’t know. There’s a four-month gap in my memory. I’m starting to think that someone has a very good reason for keeping us both in the dark.”
“I traveled to the future,” Peter says quietly.
Well. This is a new one. Sylar tilts his head and looks at Peter encouragingly.
“I saw my mother, in New York. Just months from now. She’s the one who made me remember who I was, who she was. But that’s all.” Sylar makes a mental note: Mama Petrelli might also be a person of interest.
“But I also found out...they’re dead, in the future. Some kind of virus. It started out in people with abilities, but it’s killing everyone, Gabriel. Bodies everywhere, empty cities... But before I could ask her anything else, I somehow jumped back here.” Sylar suppresses contempt and fury, that Peter’s the one who gets given these gifts so easily when he’s so unworthy of their use.
“I’m trying to get back to New York now, to find my family and, and see if I can figure out where this virus comes from. We’ve got to do something about it, Gabriel. We’ve got to stop it.”
Sylar raises an eyebrow at the sudden “we”, but stays quiet, thinking. He suddenly remembers things that Chandra told him one evening when he was pensive, about his personal life, about what started him down his path of research. About his dead daughter, and what killed her.
About his living son.
He turns and gives Peter his most angelic look. “Peter, I may know someone who can help us both. And he’s in New York City. Do you remember ever hearing anything about a Dr. Suresh?”
* * * * * * *
Peter accepts everything he says about Suresh, and about once having abilities himself. Peter worries about his health, about his wound and his dehydration, and urges him to take the biggest part of their meals to keep his strength up. Peter feels bad for him - it’s hard not to laugh. But he controls himself by remembering what’s locked away inside Peter’s skull, and the game he’ll have to play to get it.
He may have lost his abilities, but he can still figure out people - he wonders if he’d been this good at it all along without realizing. Peter looks at him with something approaching adulation. Peter wants someone to reassure him, to give him emotional support. And Sylar does, killing him with kindness. Within a day, Peter’s eating out of his hand, agreeing with everything Sylar says.
Crossing the border causes some friction. But Sylar talks sense into Peter: they’re got no I.D. and no good explanation for the lack thereof, not to mention no explanation for why they’re driving a vehicle that belongs to a dead man. Even so, he has to scream at Peter to get him to use TK, and Peter frets afterwards: did he fling the border guards too far? What if they’re hurt?
Sylar reassures him even though he’s filled with frustration. He could have gotten them through that checkpoint with finesse. Peter’s like a bull in a china shop, and it takes so much energy to keep him under control.
That night, Peter’s on edge, fidgeting, clearly upset about everything from what he’d done that afternoon to the holocaust he thinks is coming. Sylar had talked him out of getting separate hotel rooms: the cash Peter brought from the bar in Manzanillo is rapidly disappearing. He slips out for a bit with the excuse that he needs some air, and when he gets back from stealing a fresh set of license plates for their undoubtedly-photographed SUV, Peter looks almost frantic. He’s glad then that he insisted on one room. Who knows what state Peter would have worked himself into if he’d been left alone all night?
“What if the virus has been released already?” Peter says, his voice rising in panic. “What if we’re too late? It’s going to take us two more days to get there, what if-”
Part of Sylar screams in protest, but he knows he’s got to keep Peter calmed down. He guides Peter down onto the bed and pillows the dark head on his left shoulder, wraps arms around him, soothes him. Peter shudders occasionally like he’s sobbing, but his eyes stay dry.
It’s an awkward angle, but Sylar manages to reach Peter’s temple with the fingers on his left hand and strokes it over and over, thinking about what’s sealed inside, just out of reach. Peter slowly relaxes under his touch and closes his eyes. One hand slides up to grab Sylar’s shirt, and he nestles his face into Sylar’s neck.
Sylar swallows. If he closes his eyes and imagines...it’s not unbearable.
* * * * * * *
They’re eating lunch at a rest area in the mountains, and Peter won’t stop prattling. Sylar’s hard-pressed to find answers to his questions that don’t sound evasive. Luckily, he can truthfully say that he didn’t really know Peter’s family, and when Peter tries to get details on how they knew each other, he demurs, insinuating that there was unpleasantness involved. There was, of course, but instead of considering that maybe Sylar caused it, Peter just works harder to try to put him at ease.
When he tells Peter about being imprisoned at Primatech, he drops the mask for a few seconds - he can’t help it, thinking about it brings back all his anger. But instead of seeing it as a warning sign, Peter gets angry too, on his behalf.
“They drilled a hole in your skull? While you were awake?”
Sylar nods slowly. “We’re like animals to them, Peter. We’re the world’s most amazing lab rats. They wanted to find out how I do things, and they didn’t care what they had to do to get information.”
The sympathy that rolls off Peter is almost tangible. Sylar eats it up.
“How did you do it?” Peter suddenly asks curiously.
Sylar shrugs. “How do you do what you do?”
Peter chuckles half-heartedly and looks away. “I have no idea. I guess...I guess I was just hoping you might be able to give me some clue.”
Sylar puts on his most appealing smile, and gives it a tinge of sadness and regret.
Peter smiles back and ducks his head. “I know...I’m hoping for too much. Thanks a lot for sticking with me, Gabriel. It means a lot to me, that you’re willing to help me however you can.”
Sylar claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Pete. I know one day soon you’ll do something that will really help me out.” He tosses the last potato chip to a nearby squirrel. “Come on. Let’s get back on the road.”
* * * * * * *
The only moment where he really worries about losing control of the situation is that night, when Peter wants to call his family. He’s almost psychotically insistent on doing it. He couldn’t do much from a pay phone. But from the hotel, he can call information to track down their phone number, and he can make a collect call in privacy, and Sylar has to actually take the receiver away from him.
“Look, you said yourself that your mother believed you’d died, somehow.” I thought you’d died, too. The last three days, I’ve thanked the Lord each morning for preserving you and delivering you right into my hands. “What do you think she’s going to say if you call her up, collect, and claim to be her dead son? She’ll think you’re some sort of prank caller. She’ll be upset, she’ll be hurt.”
“She’s got to be upset already! They think I’m dead - they’ve thought I was dead, for months now-”
“Peter.” Sylar puts his hands on the shorter man’s shoulders. “At this time tomorrow, we’ll be in New York City. We’ll go see Dr. Suresh and find out what he knows about this virus of yours. And then you can go see your family in person. That’s the only thing that’s going to convince them it’s really you: finding the real, live article on their doorstep. And you’ll be able to give them some real information instead of just some vague warning from a future that might not even happen. Okay?”
Peter closes his eyes and nods. “You’re right. It’s just...I hate not knowing, you know? Mom mentioned my brother - but I don’t remember him, not at all. Nothing. I could be an uncle, for all I know! It’s just so frustrating. But you’re right. I’ve gone this long. I can be patient for just a bit longer.” He suddenly leans forward and hugs Sylar.
Sylar wonders if Peter even knows the meaning of the term ‘personal space’. He grimaces at their reflection in the mirror. At this time tomorrow, hopefully I’ll be myself again. And then you won’t have to worry about being frustrated, ever again.
* * * * * * *
They’re slowed down by an unexpected snowstorm in Pennsylvania, and by the time they get to New York, it’s 5:30 in the morning. But Peter doesn’t want to wait any longer, and that’s fine with Sylar: neither does he.
The grouchy woman who answers the door at Mohinder’s apartment, causing Sylar’s stomach to fall, informs them that they’ve just missed the good doctor: he rushed out to catch an early morning flight. Sylar smiles like a cat and, as Peter pokes curiously around the living room, he pulls her aside and speaks in a soft voice, and slips her their last twenty dollar bill. Mohinder, Mohinder...always so ready to believe that people were good. In this neighborhood, cash was more important than the safety of a small child left alone with two strange men who claimed to know her guardian.
“The neighborhood’s rough, but this place is homey, in a weird sort of way,” Peter says after she leaves.
“Yeah,” Sylar says, his eyes on the desk. Upper right drawer, wasn’t it? “It is.” He turns around.
“Look, Peter, I know I’ve talked a little about Mohinder. The thing is...he’s not always the most observant person. And sometimes that takes him down a path to erroneous conclusions. I traveled with him for a while, and we visited someone with abilities, and...the next day, when we went back, she was dead. Murdered.” Peter gapes at him in horror. “Mohinder somehow leapt to the conclusion that it must have been I who did it. And then he decided that if I’d killed her, I must have killed his poor father, as well. I tried to argue with him, tried to make him see that it was just a horrible coincidence...but he refused to believe me.” He picks up the phone. “He’s a brilliant man, but he’s had a lot happen to him in the past few months. So...just don’t be surprised if he behaves a little strangely, okay? We’ll convince him that what we’re doing is right. I know he’ll come around and help us, in the end. Okay?”
Peter nods.
Sylar turns as he dials the phone, hoping the geneticist hasn’t changed his cell phone number, and steps into the bedroom to check on this waif he’s taken in. When he gets far enough in that the living room light can fall past him onto her face, he almost drops the receiver. There truly is someone watching over him - this one has been given into his hands, as well. Now, if he could only get that little cheerleader. True, he technically doesn’t need her anymore now that he’s got Peter, but he likes to tidy up loose ends.
He sinks down onto the edge of her bed as the phone clicks, and smiles slowly. “Hello, Mohinder.”
* * * * * * *
Mohinder, understandably, is not happy when he bursts through the door and sees Sylar sitting in front of his laptop. Sylar can relate; after all, that was his first reaction when he saw Peter’s face, but he’d gotten over that, hadn’t he? Mohinder can adjust, too.
Mohinder’s not any happier when he sees who’s making omelets at his stove. His eyes flit from Peter to Sylar and back again, and as he realizes that things are even more wrong than he’d expected, dread settles into them. Sylar relishes it. He watches Mohinder’s face and doesn’t pay attention to Peter until he says, “So is that really why your powers are gone?”
If Sylar could have killed Peter at that moment, he would have, even if it meant ruining everything. Mohinder’s eyes widen as he stares at Sylar, and then he snatches up a knife from the table and lunges.
Before Sylar can pull out the gun he’d extracted from the desk, Peter throws out a hand and Mohinder flies back against the wall. He slides down to the ground and slumps, motionless. Sylar feels as shocked as Peter looks. “What have you done?” he growls as he moves around the table towards Mohinder.
“He was going to hurt you. I...just...”
Sylar relaxes as he feels a steady pulse, and Mohinder’s eyes flutter.
“Mohinder?” comes a high voice from the bedroom.
Sylar jerks his head towards it. “Go get her.” He waits until Peter’s back is to him, and then uses the gun to tilt Mohinder’s chin upwards.
“See, doctor? I may not have abilities of my own right now, but I’ve got quite the eager helper, don’t you think?”
“Mohinder!” comes another squeal from behind him, followed by Peter trying to be soothing.
“Careful,” Sylar says. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to the little one.”
Mohinder’s eyes are still dazed, but yet they manage to be full of fury. “Very well,” he says at last. “I’ll help you. But not here. We’ll have to go my lab.”
Sylar grabs his arm and pulls him to his feet, and supports him for a second until he’s steady. “All right, doctor. Lead the way.”
* * * * * * *
“Why are you helping him?” Molly asks as she huddles on the little bed.
“He’s helping me,” Peter says. “I know it’s hard to understand, but there are bad people out there, doing bad things. And we’re trying to stop them. We’re trying to save the world.”
“But he’s the Boogeyman,” Molly whispers. “He killed my mom and dad.”
Peter frowns and looks over at the two figures on the other side of the room. Then he strokes Molly’s hair. “Sweetie, you must be mistaking him for someone else. Gabriel wouldn’t do anything like that.”
* * * * * * *
Sylar looks around the lab as he waits. “Well, Mohinder. You’ve certainly moved up in the world. Do you only work in the pure sphere of research? Or do you get to take part in the fun of experimentation, too? Imprisoning special people? Drilling on them, injecting them? Resuscitating them if they have the gall to die, so that even more procedures can be performed on them?”
Mohinder glares at him, but there’s worry in his eyes, too. So he knows about what goes on, and it bothers him. Good.
He leans over as Mohinder looks down into the microscope, and wonders what Mohinder sees, wonders if he could learn to see it as well. Mohinder looks up at him again and says in an almost normal voice, “I could work faster if I didn’t have you hovering over me.”
Sylar glares back and retreats a step or two, glancing at Peter and Molly in the corner. Peter’s looking back at him. Oddly. An alarm sounds in his mind, but before he can react, Mohinder stands up with a gasp.
“You have the same strain of the virus as Niki. The Company must have injected you as well.”
“What? Someone did this to me, deliberately?”
“What is it?” Peter’s voice from the other side of the loft seems far, far away. He ignores it.
“And this virus really does take away people’s abilities?”
“It also has the unfortunate side effect of killing the person infected.” But Mohinder isn’t gloating - he’s simply angry.
Sylar doesn’t hesitate. “Give me the remedy.”
Ah. There’s the contempt. But before Mohinder can say anything self-righteous about his crimes, he’s got the gun in the geneticist’s face.
“Where’s the heal anything blood, Mohinder?”
“Gabriel? What are you doing?” Peter’s voice is shocked as he crosses the room, the brat clinging to his hand. Sylar rolls his eyes in impatience at the interruption. He waits one heartbeat, two, three, until Peter is right behind him, then turns and sucker-punches him.
* * * * * * *
Mohinder steps backwards as Peter hits the floor. Then Sylar grabs a screaming Molly - no, no, not Molly - and turns back to him. Mohinder flinches.
“Well, Mohinder? Where is it?” Sylar doesn’t even bother to raise the gun. He’d almost look relaxed, except that he’s holding onto Molly’s arm so tightly that his knuckles are turning white.
Mohinder’s mind races - every second that he can delay being shot is a second he can spend trying to find a way out of this. He backs up carefully, and carefully takes the box out of his bag. He clicks it open so that Sylar can see the contents.
“You had it there, all along? Ready to use?” Sylar looks incredulous. “You and I have trust issues, doctor.” He motions towards the table with the gun. “Just sit it down there.”
Mohinder does so - slowly, carefully, still thinking frantically - and Sylar smiles faintly at him. Then he shoves Molly, hard, and Mohinder dives to catch her before she hits the floor.
He pulls her into his lap and cradles her head against his chest. From behind him, he hears Sylar say, “I’m sure Peter will understand if I’m not here when he wakes up.” He closes his eyes and waits.
Suddenly, there’s a shout: “Sylar!” Then a gunshot, and he flinches again and hugs Molly even more tightly, and then there’s the crackle of electricity, followed by a loud crash. Several seconds tick by before he cautiously opens his eyes and turns towards the door. The glass is shattered, and Elle stands there, her face scrunched up. “Sylar’s gone. My dad’s gonna kill me.”
“I doubt that very much,” Mohinder says as Molly scrambles to her feet. “If you hadn’t arrived, Sylar would have murdered us all.”
Peter stirs and groans. Mohinder goes to help him up, and as he does, Elle gasps. Peter turns toward the noise, and his eyes widen.
“You’re...she’s the one!” He pushes Mohinder away. “She’s the one who killed Ricky!”
Before Mohinder can do anything else, even ask who Ricky is, Peter abruptly disappears.
* * * * * * *
He’s in some kind of storehouse, or something. Light filters dimly through the tiny windows as he walks nervously among dust-covered furniture and boxes. He spins when he hears a faint noise and shoots a bolt of electricity in its direction. A blonde man steps out from the shadows and smiles at him.
“It’s about time you got here, Peter.”
Peter frowns and wonders if everyone in the entire world knows about his life, except for him. “You know me?”
The man stops a few feet away from him, and frowns faintly. “Of course I know you. Peter, it’s me, Adam. Don’t you remember? Together, we’re going to save the world.”
Peter shakes his head. “Whoever you are, thanks but no thanks. I’ve already had one mysterious stranger pull this routine on me.”
Adam sighs. “So. The Haitian got to you. Peter...you can get your memory back.”
Peter quits looking for an exit and glares at him. “How do you suggest I go about doing that?”
“You can do what I can do. Healing. You can repair your own mind. Just think - think about what matters to you the most...”
* * * * * * *
His right elbow still throbs from Mohinder jamming that needle into it, so he rolls up his left sleeve. The syringe in the case looks absolutely huge - he’s starting to suspect that Mohinder has some sort of fetish - but he carefully slides it into a vein.
It’s an odd feeling as the fresh slices on his face heal, something like pulling off a scab, but without any accompanying pain. He can’t resist touching his forehead. Damp blood, but no open flesh underneath.
He looks towards the nearby dumpster. He holds up one hand, two fingers out stretched, and holds his breath as he flicks them to the side. The dumpster slides and slams into the wall on the other side of the alley.
He smiles, and his eyes shine in the morning light. “I’m back.”
Rating: PG-13, for violence
Characters: Sylar, Peter, Mohinder, Molly, Adam (could be Mylar if you want to see it)
Words: 3900
Warnings: Sylar is involved. Lives will be threatened.
Spoilers: Through the end of season 2
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not writing this for profit.
Author's Notes: Last month, while discussing what I didn't like about Sylar's plotline this season, I said that it would have been much more exciting if Caitlin and Maya had never come into the story, and Amnesia!Peter and Powerless!Sylar had met up instead. Several people said that I should write that fic. This is it. Thanks a million to aelora for giving me feedback on the first draft of this!
He dimly realizes that someone’s there, rolling him over, touching his face. Then he’s out of the rays of the blazing sun, and he isn’t aware of anything else for a while.
When he comes to, he’s sprawled across the back seat of a car. He sits up slowly, wincing, and looks out the open door - there’s nothing to see but more dead countryside.
“Hey, take it easy,” a voice says from outside. “Here, you need some more water.”
He squints at the figure, silhouetted by bright afternoon light, and then jerks back reflexively. “Peter...” he rasps through parched lips.
The man drops to a crouch, staring at him with wide eyes. “You know me? You know who I am?”
His first instinct is to kick the guy in the chin, snap his neck backwards, and...then what? Even if the bastard didn’t heal, it wouldn’t do any good to take him now. And... Peter’s looking at him oddly, not showing any signs of aggression or fury or even fear.
“What kind of game is this?” he asks.
“You’re scared of me,” Peter replies, still doing his best Bambi impression. “Why? How do you know me?”
He stares, and then he can’t help laughing. “Oh, no. Don’t try to tell me you’ve got amnesia. That’s just...” He has to be dreaming. Any moment now, he’ll wake up.
“Yeah,” says Peter. “Well, sort of. I did, but... God, I don’t know how to explain it. It sounds so ludicrous.”
“Try me,” Sylar says.
* * * * * * *
The story is indeed even more ludicrous than he could have dreamed, but the fact that Peter’s sitting next to him and sharing a sandwich, instead of trying to smash his face open, convinces him it’s got to be true.
“You were locked inside a cargo container in Manzanillo. And found by employees of an Englishman who runs a hotel down there.”
“Yeah. Among other things. But he’s a nice guy. Well...he was. Before that blonde girl got to him.”
Sylar takes another long drink of water. “You still haven’t explained how it is you know your name, when you don’t remember anything else.” He’d cautiously given his own name as Gabriel, afraid of triggering memories if he told Peter his right one.
“You still haven’t explained how you got that hole in your stomach. Which, by the way, looked like it needed medical attention.”
Sylar barks a short laugh. “I’m afraid I don’t know. There’s a four-month gap in my memory. I’m starting to think that someone has a very good reason for keeping us both in the dark.”
“I traveled to the future,” Peter says quietly.
Well. This is a new one. Sylar tilts his head and looks at Peter encouragingly.
“I saw my mother, in New York. Just months from now. She’s the one who made me remember who I was, who she was. But that’s all.” Sylar makes a mental note: Mama Petrelli might also be a person of interest.
“But I also found out...they’re dead, in the future. Some kind of virus. It started out in people with abilities, but it’s killing everyone, Gabriel. Bodies everywhere, empty cities... But before I could ask her anything else, I somehow jumped back here.” Sylar suppresses contempt and fury, that Peter’s the one who gets given these gifts so easily when he’s so unworthy of their use.
“I’m trying to get back to New York now, to find my family and, and see if I can figure out where this virus comes from. We’ve got to do something about it, Gabriel. We’ve got to stop it.”
Sylar raises an eyebrow at the sudden “we”, but stays quiet, thinking. He suddenly remembers things that Chandra told him one evening when he was pensive, about his personal life, about what started him down his path of research. About his dead daughter, and what killed her.
About his living son.
He turns and gives Peter his most angelic look. “Peter, I may know someone who can help us both. And he’s in New York City. Do you remember ever hearing anything about a Dr. Suresh?”
* * * * * * *
Peter accepts everything he says about Suresh, and about once having abilities himself. Peter worries about his health, about his wound and his dehydration, and urges him to take the biggest part of their meals to keep his strength up. Peter feels bad for him - it’s hard not to laugh. But he controls himself by remembering what’s locked away inside Peter’s skull, and the game he’ll have to play to get it.
He may have lost his abilities, but he can still figure out people - he wonders if he’d been this good at it all along without realizing. Peter looks at him with something approaching adulation. Peter wants someone to reassure him, to give him emotional support. And Sylar does, killing him with kindness. Within a day, Peter’s eating out of his hand, agreeing with everything Sylar says.
Crossing the border causes some friction. But Sylar talks sense into Peter: they’re got no I.D. and no good explanation for the lack thereof, not to mention no explanation for why they’re driving a vehicle that belongs to a dead man. Even so, he has to scream at Peter to get him to use TK, and Peter frets afterwards: did he fling the border guards too far? What if they’re hurt?
Sylar reassures him even though he’s filled with frustration. He could have gotten them through that checkpoint with finesse. Peter’s like a bull in a china shop, and it takes so much energy to keep him under control.
That night, Peter’s on edge, fidgeting, clearly upset about everything from what he’d done that afternoon to the holocaust he thinks is coming. Sylar had talked him out of getting separate hotel rooms: the cash Peter brought from the bar in Manzanillo is rapidly disappearing. He slips out for a bit with the excuse that he needs some air, and when he gets back from stealing a fresh set of license plates for their undoubtedly-photographed SUV, Peter looks almost frantic. He’s glad then that he insisted on one room. Who knows what state Peter would have worked himself into if he’d been left alone all night?
“What if the virus has been released already?” Peter says, his voice rising in panic. “What if we’re too late? It’s going to take us two more days to get there, what if-”
Part of Sylar screams in protest, but he knows he’s got to keep Peter calmed down. He guides Peter down onto the bed and pillows the dark head on his left shoulder, wraps arms around him, soothes him. Peter shudders occasionally like he’s sobbing, but his eyes stay dry.
It’s an awkward angle, but Sylar manages to reach Peter’s temple with the fingers on his left hand and strokes it over and over, thinking about what’s sealed inside, just out of reach. Peter slowly relaxes under his touch and closes his eyes. One hand slides up to grab Sylar’s shirt, and he nestles his face into Sylar’s neck.
Sylar swallows. If he closes his eyes and imagines...it’s not unbearable.
* * * * * * *
They’re eating lunch at a rest area in the mountains, and Peter won’t stop prattling. Sylar’s hard-pressed to find answers to his questions that don’t sound evasive. Luckily, he can truthfully say that he didn’t really know Peter’s family, and when Peter tries to get details on how they knew each other, he demurs, insinuating that there was unpleasantness involved. There was, of course, but instead of considering that maybe Sylar caused it, Peter just works harder to try to put him at ease.
When he tells Peter about being imprisoned at Primatech, he drops the mask for a few seconds - he can’t help it, thinking about it brings back all his anger. But instead of seeing it as a warning sign, Peter gets angry too, on his behalf.
“They drilled a hole in your skull? While you were awake?”
Sylar nods slowly. “We’re like animals to them, Peter. We’re the world’s most amazing lab rats. They wanted to find out how I do things, and they didn’t care what they had to do to get information.”
The sympathy that rolls off Peter is almost tangible. Sylar eats it up.
“How did you do it?” Peter suddenly asks curiously.
Sylar shrugs. “How do you do what you do?”
Peter chuckles half-heartedly and looks away. “I have no idea. I guess...I guess I was just hoping you might be able to give me some clue.”
Sylar puts on his most appealing smile, and gives it a tinge of sadness and regret.
Peter smiles back and ducks his head. “I know...I’m hoping for too much. Thanks a lot for sticking with me, Gabriel. It means a lot to me, that you’re willing to help me however you can.”
Sylar claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Pete. I know one day soon you’ll do something that will really help me out.” He tosses the last potato chip to a nearby squirrel. “Come on. Let’s get back on the road.”
* * * * * * *
The only moment where he really worries about losing control of the situation is that night, when Peter wants to call his family. He’s almost psychotically insistent on doing it. He couldn’t do much from a pay phone. But from the hotel, he can call information to track down their phone number, and he can make a collect call in privacy, and Sylar has to actually take the receiver away from him.
“Look, you said yourself that your mother believed you’d died, somehow.” I thought you’d died, too. The last three days, I’ve thanked the Lord each morning for preserving you and delivering you right into my hands. “What do you think she’s going to say if you call her up, collect, and claim to be her dead son? She’ll think you’re some sort of prank caller. She’ll be upset, she’ll be hurt.”
“She’s got to be upset already! They think I’m dead - they’ve thought I was dead, for months now-”
“Peter.” Sylar puts his hands on the shorter man’s shoulders. “At this time tomorrow, we’ll be in New York City. We’ll go see Dr. Suresh and find out what he knows about this virus of yours. And then you can go see your family in person. That’s the only thing that’s going to convince them it’s really you: finding the real, live article on their doorstep. And you’ll be able to give them some real information instead of just some vague warning from a future that might not even happen. Okay?”
Peter closes his eyes and nods. “You’re right. It’s just...I hate not knowing, you know? Mom mentioned my brother - but I don’t remember him, not at all. Nothing. I could be an uncle, for all I know! It’s just so frustrating. But you’re right. I’ve gone this long. I can be patient for just a bit longer.” He suddenly leans forward and hugs Sylar.
Sylar wonders if Peter even knows the meaning of the term ‘personal space’. He grimaces at their reflection in the mirror. At this time tomorrow, hopefully I’ll be myself again. And then you won’t have to worry about being frustrated, ever again.
* * * * * * *
They’re slowed down by an unexpected snowstorm in Pennsylvania, and by the time they get to New York, it’s 5:30 in the morning. But Peter doesn’t want to wait any longer, and that’s fine with Sylar: neither does he.
The grouchy woman who answers the door at Mohinder’s apartment, causing Sylar’s stomach to fall, informs them that they’ve just missed the good doctor: he rushed out to catch an early morning flight. Sylar smiles like a cat and, as Peter pokes curiously around the living room, he pulls her aside and speaks in a soft voice, and slips her their last twenty dollar bill. Mohinder, Mohinder...always so ready to believe that people were good. In this neighborhood, cash was more important than the safety of a small child left alone with two strange men who claimed to know her guardian.
“The neighborhood’s rough, but this place is homey, in a weird sort of way,” Peter says after she leaves.
“Yeah,” Sylar says, his eyes on the desk. Upper right drawer, wasn’t it? “It is.” He turns around.
“Look, Peter, I know I’ve talked a little about Mohinder. The thing is...he’s not always the most observant person. And sometimes that takes him down a path to erroneous conclusions. I traveled with him for a while, and we visited someone with abilities, and...the next day, when we went back, she was dead. Murdered.” Peter gapes at him in horror. “Mohinder somehow leapt to the conclusion that it must have been I who did it. And then he decided that if I’d killed her, I must have killed his poor father, as well. I tried to argue with him, tried to make him see that it was just a horrible coincidence...but he refused to believe me.” He picks up the phone. “He’s a brilliant man, but he’s had a lot happen to him in the past few months. So...just don’t be surprised if he behaves a little strangely, okay? We’ll convince him that what we’re doing is right. I know he’ll come around and help us, in the end. Okay?”
Peter nods.
Sylar turns as he dials the phone, hoping the geneticist hasn’t changed his cell phone number, and steps into the bedroom to check on this waif he’s taken in. When he gets far enough in that the living room light can fall past him onto her face, he almost drops the receiver. There truly is someone watching over him - this one has been given into his hands, as well. Now, if he could only get that little cheerleader. True, he technically doesn’t need her anymore now that he’s got Peter, but he likes to tidy up loose ends.
He sinks down onto the edge of her bed as the phone clicks, and smiles slowly. “Hello, Mohinder.”
* * * * * * *
Mohinder, understandably, is not happy when he bursts through the door and sees Sylar sitting in front of his laptop. Sylar can relate; after all, that was his first reaction when he saw Peter’s face, but he’d gotten over that, hadn’t he? Mohinder can adjust, too.
Mohinder’s not any happier when he sees who’s making omelets at his stove. His eyes flit from Peter to Sylar and back again, and as he realizes that things are even more wrong than he’d expected, dread settles into them. Sylar relishes it. He watches Mohinder’s face and doesn’t pay attention to Peter until he says, “So is that really why your powers are gone?”
If Sylar could have killed Peter at that moment, he would have, even if it meant ruining everything. Mohinder’s eyes widen as he stares at Sylar, and then he snatches up a knife from the table and lunges.
Before Sylar can pull out the gun he’d extracted from the desk, Peter throws out a hand and Mohinder flies back against the wall. He slides down to the ground and slumps, motionless. Sylar feels as shocked as Peter looks. “What have you done?” he growls as he moves around the table towards Mohinder.
“He was going to hurt you. I...just...”
Sylar relaxes as he feels a steady pulse, and Mohinder’s eyes flutter.
“Mohinder?” comes a high voice from the bedroom.
Sylar jerks his head towards it. “Go get her.” He waits until Peter’s back is to him, and then uses the gun to tilt Mohinder’s chin upwards.
“See, doctor? I may not have abilities of my own right now, but I’ve got quite the eager helper, don’t you think?”
“Mohinder!” comes another squeal from behind him, followed by Peter trying to be soothing.
“Careful,” Sylar says. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to the little one.”
Mohinder’s eyes are still dazed, but yet they manage to be full of fury. “Very well,” he says at last. “I’ll help you. But not here. We’ll have to go my lab.”
Sylar grabs his arm and pulls him to his feet, and supports him for a second until he’s steady. “All right, doctor. Lead the way.”
* * * * * * *
“Why are you helping him?” Molly asks as she huddles on the little bed.
“He’s helping me,” Peter says. “I know it’s hard to understand, but there are bad people out there, doing bad things. And we’re trying to stop them. We’re trying to save the world.”
“But he’s the Boogeyman,” Molly whispers. “He killed my mom and dad.”
Peter frowns and looks over at the two figures on the other side of the room. Then he strokes Molly’s hair. “Sweetie, you must be mistaking him for someone else. Gabriel wouldn’t do anything like that.”
* * * * * * *
Sylar looks around the lab as he waits. “Well, Mohinder. You’ve certainly moved up in the world. Do you only work in the pure sphere of research? Or do you get to take part in the fun of experimentation, too? Imprisoning special people? Drilling on them, injecting them? Resuscitating them if they have the gall to die, so that even more procedures can be performed on them?”
Mohinder glares at him, but there’s worry in his eyes, too. So he knows about what goes on, and it bothers him. Good.
He leans over as Mohinder looks down into the microscope, and wonders what Mohinder sees, wonders if he could learn to see it as well. Mohinder looks up at him again and says in an almost normal voice, “I could work faster if I didn’t have you hovering over me.”
Sylar glares back and retreats a step or two, glancing at Peter and Molly in the corner. Peter’s looking back at him. Oddly. An alarm sounds in his mind, but before he can react, Mohinder stands up with a gasp.
“You have the same strain of the virus as Niki. The Company must have injected you as well.”
“What? Someone did this to me, deliberately?”
“What is it?” Peter’s voice from the other side of the loft seems far, far away. He ignores it.
“And this virus really does take away people’s abilities?”
“It also has the unfortunate side effect of killing the person infected.” But Mohinder isn’t gloating - he’s simply angry.
Sylar doesn’t hesitate. “Give me the remedy.”
Ah. There’s the contempt. But before Mohinder can say anything self-righteous about his crimes, he’s got the gun in the geneticist’s face.
“Where’s the heal anything blood, Mohinder?”
“Gabriel? What are you doing?” Peter’s voice is shocked as he crosses the room, the brat clinging to his hand. Sylar rolls his eyes in impatience at the interruption. He waits one heartbeat, two, three, until Peter is right behind him, then turns and sucker-punches him.
* * * * * * *
Mohinder steps backwards as Peter hits the floor. Then Sylar grabs a screaming Molly - no, no, not Molly - and turns back to him. Mohinder flinches.
“Well, Mohinder? Where is it?” Sylar doesn’t even bother to raise the gun. He’d almost look relaxed, except that he’s holding onto Molly’s arm so tightly that his knuckles are turning white.
Mohinder’s mind races - every second that he can delay being shot is a second he can spend trying to find a way out of this. He backs up carefully, and carefully takes the box out of his bag. He clicks it open so that Sylar can see the contents.
“You had it there, all along? Ready to use?” Sylar looks incredulous. “You and I have trust issues, doctor.” He motions towards the table with the gun. “Just sit it down there.”
Mohinder does so - slowly, carefully, still thinking frantically - and Sylar smiles faintly at him. Then he shoves Molly, hard, and Mohinder dives to catch her before she hits the floor.
He pulls her into his lap and cradles her head against his chest. From behind him, he hears Sylar say, “I’m sure Peter will understand if I’m not here when he wakes up.” He closes his eyes and waits.
Suddenly, there’s a shout: “Sylar!” Then a gunshot, and he flinches again and hugs Molly even more tightly, and then there’s the crackle of electricity, followed by a loud crash. Several seconds tick by before he cautiously opens his eyes and turns towards the door. The glass is shattered, and Elle stands there, her face scrunched up. “Sylar’s gone. My dad’s gonna kill me.”
“I doubt that very much,” Mohinder says as Molly scrambles to her feet. “If you hadn’t arrived, Sylar would have murdered us all.”
Peter stirs and groans. Mohinder goes to help him up, and as he does, Elle gasps. Peter turns toward the noise, and his eyes widen.
“You’re...she’s the one!” He pushes Mohinder away. “She’s the one who killed Ricky!”
Before Mohinder can do anything else, even ask who Ricky is, Peter abruptly disappears.
* * * * * * *
He’s in some kind of storehouse, or something. Light filters dimly through the tiny windows as he walks nervously among dust-covered furniture and boxes. He spins when he hears a faint noise and shoots a bolt of electricity in its direction. A blonde man steps out from the shadows and smiles at him.
“It’s about time you got here, Peter.”
Peter frowns and wonders if everyone in the entire world knows about his life, except for him. “You know me?”
The man stops a few feet away from him, and frowns faintly. “Of course I know you. Peter, it’s me, Adam. Don’t you remember? Together, we’re going to save the world.”
Peter shakes his head. “Whoever you are, thanks but no thanks. I’ve already had one mysterious stranger pull this routine on me.”
Adam sighs. “So. The Haitian got to you. Peter...you can get your memory back.”
Peter quits looking for an exit and glares at him. “How do you suggest I go about doing that?”
“You can do what I can do. Healing. You can repair your own mind. Just think - think about what matters to you the most...”
* * * * * * *
His right elbow still throbs from Mohinder jamming that needle into it, so he rolls up his left sleeve. The syringe in the case looks absolutely huge - he’s starting to suspect that Mohinder has some sort of fetish - but he carefully slides it into a vein.
It’s an odd feeling as the fresh slices on his face heal, something like pulling off a scab, but without any accompanying pain. He can’t resist touching his forehead. Damp blood, but no open flesh underneath.
He looks towards the nearby dumpster. He holds up one hand, two fingers out stretched, and holds his breath as he flicks them to the side. The dumpster slides and slams into the wall on the other side of the alley.
He smiles, and his eyes shine in the morning light. “I’m back.”