Seduction of the Senses - 18
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As she watches Mike walk off into the night, Claire’s not sure if she’s sad at the departure of a boy, a dependable boy who seemed to really like her, angry at the departure of the stubborn moron who couldn’t look beyond what he thought was missing in his life, or ecstatic over the fact that Mike had managed to escape Sylar’s trap unscathed. She settles on just feeling tired, drained by the activities and emotions of the day.
The light flickers on the back porch, and she looks at the door, wondering if her Dad’s flickering the light, not realizing that she’s not making out with her boyfriend on the porch, or if the light bulb’s about to die. As there’s a distinctive ‘pop’ and the light fails, her question is answered as the cool darkness of the night washes over the porch in the absence of the weak glow of the forty watt bulb.
When they’d moved to California, it was such a sudden shock to the system, a foreign world that they had to learn to navigate as if they were natives, but not every one of their Texan roots is ignored and forgotten. Her mom had insisted that a porch was just a naked lean-to pushed up against the side of the house, a forgotten waste of lumber and decking and shingles, unless there was a bench or a rocking chair or something to sit on. A true porch is one that’s inviting, that seems to whisper ‘come visit, put your feet up, stay awhile sugar’, and Sandra would not rest until they’d found a house that had such an outdoor area. Her dad, with Lyle’s reluctant assistance, had made the trek to a home improvement store for lumber and, after a few tense hours filled with muttered curses and multiple splinters, crafted a porch swing just big enough to seat two. Her mom and her had spent some quality time together giving the thing a good whitewashing and then sewing pillows for it.
That night, in the darkness and the quiet, Claire’s glad for the swing. Something about the rhythmic rocking settles her nerves, and she closes her eyes. She’s not quite asleep, but it can’t be said that she’s entirely aware of her surroundings when the swing shakes violently as someone else sits down with her. She doesn’t bother to open her eyes; it’s either one of her parents or Sylar, no one else would be there.
“Rough night, Claire?”
The voice is a surprise, silky smooth tones flavored with a dash of an accent - only it’s not the soft Southern drawl of her family or the fluidic Californian tones of her neighbors. Mohinder.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” She sighs, then looks at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to come out to see you. Aren’t you going to greet me properly?” He twists in the bench to face her and she leans forward to give him a hug and a peck on his cheek, before rearranging so that she’s resting her head on his shoulder with her legs tucked up under her.
They sit in companionable silence for at least ten minutes before Mohinder finally asks “What did you mean by rough night?”
Claire has to think about how to phrase her response, what to say that won’t make it seem like it’s his fault that her day has been so bad, how it was the bad news that he’d told her that had made the entire day a complete disaster. “Mike dumped me.” The words are said in a monotone, no inflection to hint at sadness or happiness or any emotion.
“Hallelujah.” Even in the dark, she knows that he’s grinning at her. “That is what you people say in this country, right?”
“Not funny. Thanks for the attempt, but try harder next time.” She snuggles closer in to him as he wraps his arm around her shoulder. “And why so happy?”
“You can do better. None of us - except for Sandra - really liked him. Want to tell me why you broke up?”
“Difference of opinions.” She pauses for a second, remembering how non-judgmental Mohinder had been about the whole Sylar thing. “Well, the kid thing. I told him, and he didn’t take it well.”
“Ah.”
Mohinder drops the conversation, and Claire’s happy for the silence. With them quiet like this, she can hear all the night noises, the chirps of the crickets and bugs, the occasional bird call. Sitting like this with Mohinder, lulled into peace by the swing and the darkness, it’s the most calm she’s had in her life since before Sylar had shown up. Without asking for permission, she moves again so that she’s lying on the bench with her head propped up on Mohinder’s thigh. He doesn’t protest, just stretches his hand out to pet and play with her hair.
“Molly used to love it when we sat like this.” Mohinder’s hoarse whisper almost startles Claire. “We’d sit on the sofa, watching some sort of silly Disney movie or Jeopardy or one of those talent-based reality shows, and I’d play with her hair and she’d ask why we didn’t have nights like that more often. Matt used to have to beg me to put my work down, to come just relax with them, and I wouldn’t do it. We’d only have family night maybe once, twice a month.”
Claire’s never heard Mohinder talk about Molly like this before; normally, he’d mention her and immediately choke up or change the subject. She reaches for his hand, trying to give him some much needed moral support, and hesitantly asks “What happened?”
“Sylar.”
She’s never heard one word said with more venom before. “Mohinder, I knew that. What actually happened?”
He tenses, and she can feel the muscles in his leg go taunt underneath her cheek. “I can’t. I just can’t talk about it now.”
“Forget I asked.” She understands all too well what it’s like to have secrets that can’t be discussed. “If you can, what was it like to have a daughter, even if it was for just a little bit?”
The muscles start to relax, and Mohinder takes another deep breath. “Is this about what I told you about your powers?”
“Yeah.” She wonders how she can miss something that she’s never had but she does, and if anyone would understand it would be Mohinder.
“It was… I never planned on having children, I didn’t want them. I’m a scientist, a career man who doesn’t have the time or the patience for Barbies and ponies and teacher conferences. And Molly was… she changed me. I can’t describe it, other than to say that it’s a type of love that you can’t imagine until you experience it and even then you can’t really put words to.” He gives her hand a squeeze, and shyly adds “I’ve been thinking.”
“About?” She would say ‘duh’, like it was impossible for Mohinder to ever stop thinking, but she doesn’t want to ruin the mood.
“I might be able to make an inhibitor, if you want me too?”
It takes Claire a minute to figure out what he’s talking about, but as soon as she does, she knows what her answer has to be. “Yes. Please. Most emphatically, yes.”
On the tip of Mohinder’s tongue dances a question he’s not sure he wants to ask, about if she’s doing this for Sylar’s sake or because she really wants it, but he can’t ask it because Noah opens the door right then.
“Well, are you two going to sit out here all night or were you planning on coming in at some point?”
- - - - - - - - - -
Sylar paces around the bedroom, lost in the confusion in his troubled mind, debating whether or not he should go to Claire later in the night. On one hand, she might want some… comforting… after losing Mike, but on the other - would she find it suspicious that he’d come for her three nights in a row, as if he knew that she’d need him that night? He doesn’t want her figuring out that he’d been manipulating her with an illusion all this while; there’s no need for her to know about that.
Maybe he should talk to Mohinder instead, try to work on this inhibitor idea. He’d not stupid, and he’d worked well with Chandra, after the older man had found out about Gabriel's miraculously late-developing telekinesis but before Chandra had turned on him; he knows that he can contribute something to the project. If nothing else, Mohinder might be able to use his blood as a basis for preliminary testing, so that they won’t have to take samples from Claire.
The thought that a trip to the beach bar wouldn’t be amiss crosses his mind, and he wonders where that idea came from.
Mohinder. He needs to talk to Mohinder. Sylar looks at the clock, it’s 3 am which means that Mohinder should be at home in bed, like the good little scientist he is. He doesn’t even bother using Molly’s powers, just teleporting into Mohinder’s bedroom without really thinking.
The bed’s made, an oddity for Mohinder, and there’s no one around, no lights on.
‘He’d better be in the living room, working at the computer.’ Sylar’s internal monologue sounds like a growl even to him. Stalking into the living room, he finds nothing but silence and darkness. The kitchen yields similar results, only with the addition of two roaches fighting over a crust of bread on the floor. It’s only then, standing in the middle of a dirty and deserted kitchen with the vermin being ground underneath his heel, that Sylar admits what he’s been refusing to admit for the last few minutes; there’s no sounds, no heartbeats, nothing at all, and Mohinder’s obviously not there.
Molly’s power is one of the rare ones in Sylar’s arsenal; even after searching the world physically and mentally with her abilities, he can’t find anyone else quite like her. It’s odd, when he calls on her power, that it’s a tingling almost burning sensation in his veins and a strange emotion that he’s utterly unfamiliar with; he thinks it’s guilt for killing the girl that should have been calling him ‘uncle’, conveniently ignoring the fact that it was his crimes that had led to her living with Mohinder in the first place . He doesn’t use the power often, favoring Isaac’s powers when he needs to find someone, but it does have it’s uses. Most often, and most fittingly, he uses her powers to find Mohinder. He focuses on Mohinder, and the flash of information is overwhelming - ‘North America’ isn’t a surprise, but the sudden knowledge that Mohinder’s in California - Costa Verde to be exact - is a bit of a shock. Even with his eyes closed, it’s like he can see a map of the country, zooming in on Costa Verde, then in on a specific neighborhood, then to a certain familiar house, and then to a bedroom that Sylar can’t help but recognize.
Oh, now that’s interesting…
- - - - - - - - - -
The bedroom is dark, lit only by the light of the full moon streaming in through the gauzy curtains draped over Claire’s window. The sleeping bag isn’t the most comfortable bedding he’s ever had, but Mohinder has to admit that it’s far from the worse. He’d been expecting to be pushed in the direction of the downstairs couch when Noah had called them in off the porch earlier, but no one had offered an argument when Claire insisted that he sleep in her room.
He has trouble sleeping, even though he should be exhausted by the traveling and the jet lag, but he can’t stop the constant stream of thoughts running through his head. Questions about the morality of his plans, of why and how he’d gotten dragged into this drama, and about why he doesn’t particularly want to get out plague him. When he closes his eyes and sleeps, he dreams bizarre dreams that make him question his life upon waking. It’s easier to just lie back, head propped up on folded arms, and listen to the quiet sighs and deep breaths Claire utters while asleep. He finds it intriguing that she mutters a sleepy ‘Sylar’ into her pillow every few minutes, just like he does on occasion; only unlike when he calls out Sylar’s name in the night, her cry isn’t a frightened scream or a hate-filled expletive. Maybe she really does love the man, he thinks, and his resolve to save her strengthens, to save her even from herself if he has to.
Since he’s awake, he immediately knows when there’s an intruder in the room, wondering why Sylar had chosen that night to come for Claire, hoping that he doesn’t realize that Mohinder’s there. That hope is dashed at Sylar’s first words.
“Oh, Mo-hin-der.”
It’s a sing song whisper that sends a shiver down his spine, and he holds his breath.
“I know you’re there. C’mon out, we need to talk.”
Oddly enough, all malice has disappeared and Sylar sounds more weary than anything else. Mohinder tries to quietly crawl out of the sleeping bag, and Sylar assists him by telekinetically undoing the stubborn zipper and floating the material away from him. “Thank you.” Mohinder wonders why he’s saying that particular phrase to Sylar; he realizes that he’s been watching Claire the entire time, and that the ‘thank you’ is for not waking her.
Sylar offers Mohinder his hand, and when he takes it, the world dissolves.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Where are we?” Mohinder looks around the room in amazement.
Sylar chuckles. “You know, that’s the first thing Claire said when I brought her here. Welcome to our house.” He waves a hand in the air casually with a bored. “Mi casa, su casa, all that crap. Make yourself at home.”
The beach house. Of course. Claire had told him about it, but she’d never told him how very lavish it was or the fact that Sylar had set up an absolutely amazing nursery in it. The room the men are standing in really is fit for a little princess, white crib with pale pink and soft gray silk, pink chiffon curtains, and teddy bears everywhere.
“Oh, she doesn’t know about this room.” Sylar laughs again, and Mohinder can’t find the slightest trace of anything sinister in it. “And no, I’m not reading your mind. You have the most expressive face, Mo. So, do you like it?”
“It’s… unlike anything I ever expected to associate with you.”
“Really, Mohinder, did you think I wouldn’t give my children the world? Now, have you talked to Claire about the inhibitor yet?”
“Yes.”
“And?” Sylar’s leaning forward, almost bouncing on his feet, and Mohinder’s oddly reminded of an over-anxious and overgrown puppy. He gives himself a mental slap; he can’t allow himself to view Sylar as anything other than a murderous menace.
“I’ll do it, but…” Mohinder pauses.
Sylar doesn’t even hear anything other than the first three words, and he hugs Mohinder to the other man’s obvious dismay. “Thank you, thank you. You do this, and you can have anything in the world you want.”
Mohinder shoves the killer away from him and laughs. Even to his ears, it sounds crazed. “You sick bastard. You’ll give me what I really want? I want my Molly back! Can you do that?” He balls his hands up into fists, wanting to punch Sylar as hard as he can, but keeping himself in check. “I give you the daughter that you obviously want so badly, yet you can’t give me mine back. Damn you.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Staring at the man as if he’s just meeting him for the first time, Sylar doesn’t know what to say or do. He knew he’d broken Mohinder, that was perfectly obvious from the minute Mohinder had found Molly’s body, but he hadn’t realized that the damage was so very deep. There’s a variety of things he can do, and none of them seem appropriate. Creating an illusion of Molly would be the easiest, but Mohinder will never accept it. Cracking a joke about how they’d name a kid in her honor and how they’d make sure that Uncle Mohinder got his turn for babysitting is more cruel than even he can handle. “Mohinder…” he reaches out and places his hand on Mohinder’s shoulder.
“Don’t 'Mohinder' me, you monster.” Mohinder shrugs the touch off. “You were right earlier, we do need to talk. Our deal is over; let’s renegotiate. I think I’ve got the power now.”
When had Mohinder turned into this? Where’s the easily manipulated naïve scientist, his brother in everything but name, the man so scared of his own shadow that he’d do anything Sylar wanted? “Okay. What do you want?”
“First of all, I do this and you leave Matt alone, forever. You don’t even mention his name or think about him anymore.”
“Done.” He hadn’t really meant the ex-cop harm; people with his powers are a dime a dozen, and Sylar already had found a replacement. He’d only used the idea of Matt as a way of tormenting Mohinder.
“Really?” For a second, the old Mohinder is back in that incredulous look, but as Sylar watches, the eyes go cold again. “Second, I do this and I never ever have to see or hear you again once the work is finished.”
“No deal. If something goes wrong, or if we want more kids, or Claire needs you for some reason… No, I’m not agreeing to that.”
“Ok, then you don’t contact me unless Claire needs me. No popping in, no calling me, nothing unless it’s an emergency.”
“Fine. Whatever. Any more demands?” Sylar knows he should be irritated at how Mohinder’s trying to take control, trying to force him to play by someone else’s rules, but instead he’s fascinated. Mohinder had, on occasion, shown moments of strength before, but nothing like this. Sylar likes to think that he’s had a role, a prominent part in creating this mini-version of himself, a weaker mortal knock-off of him, a man trying to imitate a god.
“Leave the Bennets alone.”
“Easily done. Sandra’s a good woman, I like her, and the brat’s okay. Are you sure I can’t play with Noah?” Sylar sees the murderous look on Mohinder’s face and raises his hands in defeat. “God, you can’t take a joke anymore. Noah’s off limits, got it. Besides, I’m not going to do anything to upset Claire, and torturing her father would probably not make her happy. Any other demands?”
“Just one more. One more thing you have to agree to, and I’ll make the inhibitor.” Mohinder leans forward and whispers into Sylar’s ear. “I already know how to; I’ve been thinking about it. I promise you can I make it, and it’ll work perfectly.”
“Anything short of bringing back the dead, and it’s yours.” Sylar will agree to anything to get Mohinder to start working.
“Hands off Claire.” Mohinder’s sudden smile could light up a small city. “Let her grow up. She’s still in high school, you sick fuck. Leave her alone, let her graduate, let her date whomever she’d like without your threats and jealousies. It’ll take me a few years to get the inhibitor finished; I’ll need to do extensive testing. Leave her alone until then. Don’t touch her, don’t go near her.”
“But…” Obviously the man doesn’t understand how he needs her. It’s not possible for him to just abandon his goddess like that. It won’t happen.
“I don’t think you quite understand, Sylar. You’re not in charge anymore, I am. You need me too badly to not follow my demands. Kill me, or break our little pact, and you don’t get your inhibitor. I don’t think there’s anyone else on the planet who knows as much about Claire’s regenerative powers as me - you might have to wait another century for the rest of the scientific community to catch up to where I am right now.”
“How long are we talking here?” Maybe Mohinder can finish everything quickly; maybe it won’t be that long. He can live without Claire for a month, maybe two, if need be.
“Oh, at least a year to get something synthesized, maybe another two years for testing. After all, you don’t want me using something on her that’s not been thoroughly tested first, right? Three or four years, that’s not that long to people with powers like yours, is it?”
Three or four years? Sylar’s tempted to kill the man for his audacity, but Mohinder had been right about being the only one currently capable of making this work.
“Let me see her once more, just one more night.” He hates the fact that he has to beg to see her, can’t Mohinder see that she belongs to him, with him?
“No. It’s all or nothing. Do we have an agreement?”
“Yes.” Sylar can’t do anything but agree. Four years, although it seems like a lifetime right now, will be just a grain of sand in their lives. A mere handful of years won’t be anything in another couple of centuries. He reminds himself that he’s a god, that time’s nothing to him anymore, but he has his doubts. A tiny voice, one he almost doesn’t recognize since it’s been so long since Gabriel’s made himself heard, screams at him that time is everything, that he’s agreeing to close to fifteen hundred days without her, thirty five thousand hours without his goddess.
Sylar is certain that he’ll see his Aphrodite again before then, that he won’t be able to live without her for that long - he’ll just have to be sneakier than usual. What Mohinder isn’t aware of won’t hurt him.
Chapter 19
As she watches Mike walk off into the night, Claire’s not sure if she’s sad at the departure of a boy, a dependable boy who seemed to really like her, angry at the departure of the stubborn moron who couldn’t look beyond what he thought was missing in his life, or ecstatic over the fact that Mike had managed to escape Sylar’s trap unscathed. She settles on just feeling tired, drained by the activities and emotions of the day.
The light flickers on the back porch, and she looks at the door, wondering if her Dad’s flickering the light, not realizing that she’s not making out with her boyfriend on the porch, or if the light bulb’s about to die. As there’s a distinctive ‘pop’ and the light fails, her question is answered as the cool darkness of the night washes over the porch in the absence of the weak glow of the forty watt bulb.
When they’d moved to California, it was such a sudden shock to the system, a foreign world that they had to learn to navigate as if they were natives, but not every one of their Texan roots is ignored and forgotten. Her mom had insisted that a porch was just a naked lean-to pushed up against the side of the house, a forgotten waste of lumber and decking and shingles, unless there was a bench or a rocking chair or something to sit on. A true porch is one that’s inviting, that seems to whisper ‘come visit, put your feet up, stay awhile sugar’, and Sandra would not rest until they’d found a house that had such an outdoor area. Her dad, with Lyle’s reluctant assistance, had made the trek to a home improvement store for lumber and, after a few tense hours filled with muttered curses and multiple splinters, crafted a porch swing just big enough to seat two. Her mom and her had spent some quality time together giving the thing a good whitewashing and then sewing pillows for it.
That night, in the darkness and the quiet, Claire’s glad for the swing. Something about the rhythmic rocking settles her nerves, and she closes her eyes. She’s not quite asleep, but it can’t be said that she’s entirely aware of her surroundings when the swing shakes violently as someone else sits down with her. She doesn’t bother to open her eyes; it’s either one of her parents or Sylar, no one else would be there.
“Rough night, Claire?”
The voice is a surprise, silky smooth tones flavored with a dash of an accent - only it’s not the soft Southern drawl of her family or the fluidic Californian tones of her neighbors. Mohinder.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” She sighs, then looks at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to come out to see you. Aren’t you going to greet me properly?” He twists in the bench to face her and she leans forward to give him a hug and a peck on his cheek, before rearranging so that she’s resting her head on his shoulder with her legs tucked up under her.
They sit in companionable silence for at least ten minutes before Mohinder finally asks “What did you mean by rough night?”
Claire has to think about how to phrase her response, what to say that won’t make it seem like it’s his fault that her day has been so bad, how it was the bad news that he’d told her that had made the entire day a complete disaster. “Mike dumped me.” The words are said in a monotone, no inflection to hint at sadness or happiness or any emotion.
“Hallelujah.” Even in the dark, she knows that he’s grinning at her. “That is what you people say in this country, right?”
“Not funny. Thanks for the attempt, but try harder next time.” She snuggles closer in to him as he wraps his arm around her shoulder. “And why so happy?”
“You can do better. None of us - except for Sandra - really liked him. Want to tell me why you broke up?”
“Difference of opinions.” She pauses for a second, remembering how non-judgmental Mohinder had been about the whole Sylar thing. “Well, the kid thing. I told him, and he didn’t take it well.”
“Ah.”
Mohinder drops the conversation, and Claire’s happy for the silence. With them quiet like this, she can hear all the night noises, the chirps of the crickets and bugs, the occasional bird call. Sitting like this with Mohinder, lulled into peace by the swing and the darkness, it’s the most calm she’s had in her life since before Sylar had shown up. Without asking for permission, she moves again so that she’s lying on the bench with her head propped up on Mohinder’s thigh. He doesn’t protest, just stretches his hand out to pet and play with her hair.
“Molly used to love it when we sat like this.” Mohinder’s hoarse whisper almost startles Claire. “We’d sit on the sofa, watching some sort of silly Disney movie or Jeopardy or one of those talent-based reality shows, and I’d play with her hair and she’d ask why we didn’t have nights like that more often. Matt used to have to beg me to put my work down, to come just relax with them, and I wouldn’t do it. We’d only have family night maybe once, twice a month.”
Claire’s never heard Mohinder talk about Molly like this before; normally, he’d mention her and immediately choke up or change the subject. She reaches for his hand, trying to give him some much needed moral support, and hesitantly asks “What happened?”
“Sylar.”
She’s never heard one word said with more venom before. “Mohinder, I knew that. What actually happened?”
He tenses, and she can feel the muscles in his leg go taunt underneath her cheek. “I can’t. I just can’t talk about it now.”
“Forget I asked.” She understands all too well what it’s like to have secrets that can’t be discussed. “If you can, what was it like to have a daughter, even if it was for just a little bit?”
The muscles start to relax, and Mohinder takes another deep breath. “Is this about what I told you about your powers?”
“Yeah.” She wonders how she can miss something that she’s never had but she does, and if anyone would understand it would be Mohinder.
“It was… I never planned on having children, I didn’t want them. I’m a scientist, a career man who doesn’t have the time or the patience for Barbies and ponies and teacher conferences. And Molly was… she changed me. I can’t describe it, other than to say that it’s a type of love that you can’t imagine until you experience it and even then you can’t really put words to.” He gives her hand a squeeze, and shyly adds “I’ve been thinking.”
“About?” She would say ‘duh’, like it was impossible for Mohinder to ever stop thinking, but she doesn’t want to ruin the mood.
“I might be able to make an inhibitor, if you want me too?”
It takes Claire a minute to figure out what he’s talking about, but as soon as she does, she knows what her answer has to be. “Yes. Please. Most emphatically, yes.”
On the tip of Mohinder’s tongue dances a question he’s not sure he wants to ask, about if she’s doing this for Sylar’s sake or because she really wants it, but he can’t ask it because Noah opens the door right then.
“Well, are you two going to sit out here all night or were you planning on coming in at some point?”
- - - - - - - - - -
Sylar paces around the bedroom, lost in the confusion in his troubled mind, debating whether or not he should go to Claire later in the night. On one hand, she might want some… comforting… after losing Mike, but on the other - would she find it suspicious that he’d come for her three nights in a row, as if he knew that she’d need him that night? He doesn’t want her figuring out that he’d been manipulating her with an illusion all this while; there’s no need for her to know about that.
Maybe he should talk to Mohinder instead, try to work on this inhibitor idea. He’d not stupid, and he’d worked well with Chandra, after the older man had found out about Gabriel's miraculously late-developing telekinesis but before Chandra had turned on him; he knows that he can contribute something to the project. If nothing else, Mohinder might be able to use his blood as a basis for preliminary testing, so that they won’t have to take samples from Claire.
The thought that a trip to the beach bar wouldn’t be amiss crosses his mind, and he wonders where that idea came from.
Mohinder. He needs to talk to Mohinder. Sylar looks at the clock, it’s 3 am which means that Mohinder should be at home in bed, like the good little scientist he is. He doesn’t even bother using Molly’s powers, just teleporting into Mohinder’s bedroom without really thinking.
The bed’s made, an oddity for Mohinder, and there’s no one around, no lights on.
‘He’d better be in the living room, working at the computer.’ Sylar’s internal monologue sounds like a growl even to him. Stalking into the living room, he finds nothing but silence and darkness. The kitchen yields similar results, only with the addition of two roaches fighting over a crust of bread on the floor. It’s only then, standing in the middle of a dirty and deserted kitchen with the vermin being ground underneath his heel, that Sylar admits what he’s been refusing to admit for the last few minutes; there’s no sounds, no heartbeats, nothing at all, and Mohinder’s obviously not there.
Molly’s power is one of the rare ones in Sylar’s arsenal; even after searching the world physically and mentally with her abilities, he can’t find anyone else quite like her. It’s odd, when he calls on her power, that it’s a tingling almost burning sensation in his veins and a strange emotion that he’s utterly unfamiliar with; he thinks it’s guilt for killing the girl that should have been calling him ‘uncle’, conveniently ignoring the fact that it was his crimes that had led to her living with Mohinder in the first place . He doesn’t use the power often, favoring Isaac’s powers when he needs to find someone, but it does have it’s uses. Most often, and most fittingly, he uses her powers to find Mohinder. He focuses on Mohinder, and the flash of information is overwhelming - ‘North America’ isn’t a surprise, but the sudden knowledge that Mohinder’s in California - Costa Verde to be exact - is a bit of a shock. Even with his eyes closed, it’s like he can see a map of the country, zooming in on Costa Verde, then in on a specific neighborhood, then to a certain familiar house, and then to a bedroom that Sylar can’t help but recognize.
Oh, now that’s interesting…
- - - - - - - - - -
The bedroom is dark, lit only by the light of the full moon streaming in through the gauzy curtains draped over Claire’s window. The sleeping bag isn’t the most comfortable bedding he’s ever had, but Mohinder has to admit that it’s far from the worse. He’d been expecting to be pushed in the direction of the downstairs couch when Noah had called them in off the porch earlier, but no one had offered an argument when Claire insisted that he sleep in her room.
He has trouble sleeping, even though he should be exhausted by the traveling and the jet lag, but he can’t stop the constant stream of thoughts running through his head. Questions about the morality of his plans, of why and how he’d gotten dragged into this drama, and about why he doesn’t particularly want to get out plague him. When he closes his eyes and sleeps, he dreams bizarre dreams that make him question his life upon waking. It’s easier to just lie back, head propped up on folded arms, and listen to the quiet sighs and deep breaths Claire utters while asleep. He finds it intriguing that she mutters a sleepy ‘Sylar’ into her pillow every few minutes, just like he does on occasion; only unlike when he calls out Sylar’s name in the night, her cry isn’t a frightened scream or a hate-filled expletive. Maybe she really does love the man, he thinks, and his resolve to save her strengthens, to save her even from herself if he has to.
Since he’s awake, he immediately knows when there’s an intruder in the room, wondering why Sylar had chosen that night to come for Claire, hoping that he doesn’t realize that Mohinder’s there. That hope is dashed at Sylar’s first words.
“Oh, Mo-hin-der.”
It’s a sing song whisper that sends a shiver down his spine, and he holds his breath.
“I know you’re there. C’mon out, we need to talk.”
Oddly enough, all malice has disappeared and Sylar sounds more weary than anything else. Mohinder tries to quietly crawl out of the sleeping bag, and Sylar assists him by telekinetically undoing the stubborn zipper and floating the material away from him. “Thank you.” Mohinder wonders why he’s saying that particular phrase to Sylar; he realizes that he’s been watching Claire the entire time, and that the ‘thank you’ is for not waking her.
Sylar offers Mohinder his hand, and when he takes it, the world dissolves.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Where are we?” Mohinder looks around the room in amazement.
Sylar chuckles. “You know, that’s the first thing Claire said when I brought her here. Welcome to our house.” He waves a hand in the air casually with a bored. “Mi casa, su casa, all that crap. Make yourself at home.”
The beach house. Of course. Claire had told him about it, but she’d never told him how very lavish it was or the fact that Sylar had set up an absolutely amazing nursery in it. The room the men are standing in really is fit for a little princess, white crib with pale pink and soft gray silk, pink chiffon curtains, and teddy bears everywhere.
“Oh, she doesn’t know about this room.” Sylar laughs again, and Mohinder can’t find the slightest trace of anything sinister in it. “And no, I’m not reading your mind. You have the most expressive face, Mo. So, do you like it?”
“It’s… unlike anything I ever expected to associate with you.”
“Really, Mohinder, did you think I wouldn’t give my children the world? Now, have you talked to Claire about the inhibitor yet?”
“Yes.”
“And?” Sylar’s leaning forward, almost bouncing on his feet, and Mohinder’s oddly reminded of an over-anxious and overgrown puppy. He gives himself a mental slap; he can’t allow himself to view Sylar as anything other than a murderous menace.
“I’ll do it, but…” Mohinder pauses.
Sylar doesn’t even hear anything other than the first three words, and he hugs Mohinder to the other man’s obvious dismay. “Thank you, thank you. You do this, and you can have anything in the world you want.”
Mohinder shoves the killer away from him and laughs. Even to his ears, it sounds crazed. “You sick bastard. You’ll give me what I really want? I want my Molly back! Can you do that?” He balls his hands up into fists, wanting to punch Sylar as hard as he can, but keeping himself in check. “I give you the daughter that you obviously want so badly, yet you can’t give me mine back. Damn you.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Staring at the man as if he’s just meeting him for the first time, Sylar doesn’t know what to say or do. He knew he’d broken Mohinder, that was perfectly obvious from the minute Mohinder had found Molly’s body, but he hadn’t realized that the damage was so very deep. There’s a variety of things he can do, and none of them seem appropriate. Creating an illusion of Molly would be the easiest, but Mohinder will never accept it. Cracking a joke about how they’d name a kid in her honor and how they’d make sure that Uncle Mohinder got his turn for babysitting is more cruel than even he can handle. “Mohinder…” he reaches out and places his hand on Mohinder’s shoulder.
“Don’t 'Mohinder' me, you monster.” Mohinder shrugs the touch off. “You were right earlier, we do need to talk. Our deal is over; let’s renegotiate. I think I’ve got the power now.”
When had Mohinder turned into this? Where’s the easily manipulated naïve scientist, his brother in everything but name, the man so scared of his own shadow that he’d do anything Sylar wanted? “Okay. What do you want?”
“First of all, I do this and you leave Matt alone, forever. You don’t even mention his name or think about him anymore.”
“Done.” He hadn’t really meant the ex-cop harm; people with his powers are a dime a dozen, and Sylar already had found a replacement. He’d only used the idea of Matt as a way of tormenting Mohinder.
“Really?” For a second, the old Mohinder is back in that incredulous look, but as Sylar watches, the eyes go cold again. “Second, I do this and I never ever have to see or hear you again once the work is finished.”
“No deal. If something goes wrong, or if we want more kids, or Claire needs you for some reason… No, I’m not agreeing to that.”
“Ok, then you don’t contact me unless Claire needs me. No popping in, no calling me, nothing unless it’s an emergency.”
“Fine. Whatever. Any more demands?” Sylar knows he should be irritated at how Mohinder’s trying to take control, trying to force him to play by someone else’s rules, but instead he’s fascinated. Mohinder had, on occasion, shown moments of strength before, but nothing like this. Sylar likes to think that he’s had a role, a prominent part in creating this mini-version of himself, a weaker mortal knock-off of him, a man trying to imitate a god.
“Leave the Bennets alone.”
“Easily done. Sandra’s a good woman, I like her, and the brat’s okay. Are you sure I can’t play with Noah?” Sylar sees the murderous look on Mohinder’s face and raises his hands in defeat. “God, you can’t take a joke anymore. Noah’s off limits, got it. Besides, I’m not going to do anything to upset Claire, and torturing her father would probably not make her happy. Any other demands?”
“Just one more. One more thing you have to agree to, and I’ll make the inhibitor.” Mohinder leans forward and whispers into Sylar’s ear. “I already know how to; I’ve been thinking about it. I promise you can I make it, and it’ll work perfectly.”
“Anything short of bringing back the dead, and it’s yours.” Sylar will agree to anything to get Mohinder to start working.
“Hands off Claire.” Mohinder’s sudden smile could light up a small city. “Let her grow up. She’s still in high school, you sick fuck. Leave her alone, let her graduate, let her date whomever she’d like without your threats and jealousies. It’ll take me a few years to get the inhibitor finished; I’ll need to do extensive testing. Leave her alone until then. Don’t touch her, don’t go near her.”
“But…” Obviously the man doesn’t understand how he needs her. It’s not possible for him to just abandon his goddess like that. It won’t happen.
“I don’t think you quite understand, Sylar. You’re not in charge anymore, I am. You need me too badly to not follow my demands. Kill me, or break our little pact, and you don’t get your inhibitor. I don’t think there’s anyone else on the planet who knows as much about Claire’s regenerative powers as me - you might have to wait another century for the rest of the scientific community to catch up to where I am right now.”
“How long are we talking here?” Maybe Mohinder can finish everything quickly; maybe it won’t be that long. He can live without Claire for a month, maybe two, if need be.
“Oh, at least a year to get something synthesized, maybe another two years for testing. After all, you don’t want me using something on her that’s not been thoroughly tested first, right? Three or four years, that’s not that long to people with powers like yours, is it?”
Three or four years? Sylar’s tempted to kill the man for his audacity, but Mohinder had been right about being the only one currently capable of making this work.
“Let me see her once more, just one more night.” He hates the fact that he has to beg to see her, can’t Mohinder see that she belongs to him, with him?
“No. It’s all or nothing. Do we have an agreement?”
“Yes.” Sylar can’t do anything but agree. Four years, although it seems like a lifetime right now, will be just a grain of sand in their lives. A mere handful of years won’t be anything in another couple of centuries. He reminds himself that he’s a god, that time’s nothing to him anymore, but he has his doubts. A tiny voice, one he almost doesn’t recognize since it’s been so long since Gabriel’s made himself heard, screams at him that time is everything, that he’s agreeing to close to fifteen hundred days without her, thirty five thousand hours without his goddess.
Sylar is certain that he’ll see his Aphrodite again before then, that he won’t be able to live without her for that long - he’ll just have to be sneakier than usual. What Mohinder isn’t aware of won’t hurt him.
Chapter 19