Heroes fic: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (2/8)
Title: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (2/8)
Characters: Mohinder/Peter, Noah, Nathan, Sylar, the Haitian; cameos by most of the (surviving) Season 1 cast
Word Count: 28,000ish
Rating: PG-13 for mild language, violence, some non-explicit romance-y stuff -- nothing worse than what you'd find in Raiders. Also, character death -- if you've seen Raiders, you'll have an inkling as to who might not make it to the end.
Spoilers: through all of Season 1
Summary: When the FBI approaches the Helix Foundation with a request, Mohinder finds himself thrown into another adventure--one that brings up a past he thought he’d left far behind.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the words.
A/N: An AU, set in the 1930s but after the events of Season 1. Written for reel_heroes as an adaptation of Raiders of the Lost Ark. An unending amount of thanks, gratitude, and hugs to imamandajulius for cheerleading, offering criticism, and holding my hand through these past few months. You are the best of the best of the best. <3
Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight
II.
Mohinder stared at the suitcase lying open on his bed, glossy photo in hand. The lamp on the nightstand cast a warm glow into the dimness and illuminated his thoughtful face. The suitcase lay empty still, but his mind was full-of plans, of ideas, of memories, of Peter.
He looked down at the photograph. It was not of Isaac’s painting-that photo lay on the nightstand beside his glasses and a faded passport-but rather of Mohinder and Peter; they stood before a clear sky and the crosshatched spire of the Eiffel Tower, Peter’s arm looped around Mohinder’s shoulders. Peter, lips pressed playfully onto Mohinder’s dark cheek, was trying to hold back a burst of laughter that tugged his mouth into a smile even in the kiss; and Mohinder, helpless in this spontaneous show of fondness, grinned blissfully. He flipped the photo over; on the other side he recognized words scribbled in his own hand, discolored by time but still legible.
Peter and I, celebrating a successful mission in la ville magnifique de Paris
November 1934
“Two years,” he murmured to himself. It felt more like four. He turned the image over again and gazed at Peter’s laughing face, the young man’s dark hair falling over his bright, unburdened eyes.
Someone knocked on the front door, jolting Mohinder out of his nostalgia. He tossed the photo into the suitcase and let his smile fade before walking into the front room.
He opened the door and let Noah inside. “Well? Where are we off to?”
“Ireland,” Noah replied. “He’s on the outskirts of a small town in the countryside; I’ve got the specifics with me. Molly says hello and expects a souvenir, preferably a leprechaun or two.”
Mohinder grinned. “I didn’t realize fifteen-year-olds still believed in that sort of thing, but I’ll do my best. Is Hiro coming along?”
“No, he’s on another job. I’m coming with you.”
Mohinder looked up in surprise. “You don’t generally do fieldwork, Noah.”
“I do today. I have connections in Egypt that might prove beneficial. My family lives in Cairo; we can stay with them once we get there.”
“I thought your family was in Spain?”
“Last year they were. Claire’s still in danger from the Company, so I keep them moving as often as possible. I have old ties with a curator at the Egyptian Museum there; he’s been keeping an eye on them for me.” Noah reached for the doorknob. “Our plane leaves tomorrow morning for Ireland. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
Mohinder nodded. Noah opened the door to leave, but hesitated for a moment. “Molly also says not to let Peter cloud your head,” he added quietly, “and I agree with her. I know you’re emotionally involved in this case, Mohinder, but we have to make deciphering this mystery our top priority.”
“I am fully aware of my priorities, thank you,” Mohinder muttered darkly. “Peter and I ended things a long time ago, you know that.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Noah. They exchanged goodbyes, and once Noah closed the door behind him, Mohinder walked back to the bedroom. With one last look at the picture from Paris, he folded it into a set of clothes and set them in the suitcase, followed by his whip and his pistol. He remembered a crisp November weekend in the City of Light and finished packing, his face glowing warmly in the lamplight.
---
Peter Petrelli leaned over a heavy wooden table, hands folded among the many overturned shot glasses. His cheeks burned with whiskey and his temples throbbed with hot blood, but he still felt a hell of a lot better than Liam Milligan looked. Liam was a big man, round and plump, his rosy face greasy with sweat. Despite his size, Liam didn’t know how to hold his liquor. Peter learned that about him three shots ago; he expected this next round would be the clincher.
Liam managed to slosh down a shot, the liquor dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and the modest crowd huddled around the table cheered. Peter picked up the only full glass left on the table and eyed it bemusedly, watching as his vision doubled for a moment. He pressed the glass to his lips and slowly gained momentum, finally tipping his head back and letting the liquid burn down his throat. He closed his eyes against the teetering pub for a minute; the crowd started chattering, and at the sound of coins being exchanged over his head Peter opened his eyes.
“Wait,” Peter blurted. The crowd hushed, watching; Peter turned the glass over and plopped it onto the table, and many of the onlookers shouted their approval. The waiter brought another round.
Liam didn’t look good. He groped for a glass with thick fingers, tipping it back into his throat and grinning stupidly. For a moment the crowd watched with bated breath as Liam straightened in his chair, seemingly unaffected by the liquor; then he toppled unceremoniously to the floor, knocking a few patrons over in the process. The crowd roared, and Peter smiled as money began to pile up in front of him.
“Alright, everybody, game’s over,” he called as he stood up and gathered the empty glasses onto a tray. “Time to go. Danny, make sure Liam gets home okay, will you?”
Peter counted through the heap of Saorstát pounds until everyone had left and the place buzzed with quiet. He stuffed the coins into a pocket and looked up; there on the back wall loomed a tall shadow, marked by the outline of a fedora perched atop loose curls. He wondered if this was the whiskey’s doing and hazily spun around.
“Hello, Peter.”
Mohinder stood just beyond the threshold and met Peter’s bewildered stare. Peter stuffed one hand into a pocket and rubbed the back of his head with the other; a nervous laugh broke across his face and pulled his mouth into a crooked smile.
“Mohinder Suresh,” he said, strolling toward the man in the doorway. “Never thought I’d see you come walking back through my door. I seem to remember telling you not to ever go looking for me.”
“I had to, Peter. You’re in danger.”
Peter sighed; the half smile that had wrinkled his eyes now fell away as though never there. “I left your world a long time ago, Mohinder. I can take care of myself, whatever it is.”
He sidled into a bar stool, reaching behind the counter and pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Mohinder watched his heavy face and frowned. The young man had changed; he was quieter now, the bright flicker in his eyes replaced by burdens that had only just begun to plague him before he left Mohinder’s arms years ago. He looked lost, empty, old, a shadow of the man that spent a weekend in Paris with Mohinder. He was alone.
Mohinder sat on the barstool beside Peter; even before Peter screwed off the cap of the bottle, Mohinder could already smell whiskey on his breath. “Did you receive a painting lately, sometime in the last week? A piece by Isaac Mendez?”
Peter took a swig of the liquor, avoiding Mohinder’s eyes. “So you didn’t come for me after all.”
“I came for you and the painting, Peter. Do you have it?”
Peter turned; thick dark hair fell across his weary eyes and cast deep shadows onto his features. “A painting, no.” He got up from the stool and crossed to the other side of the room, picked up something from a table by the fireplace, and brought it back to Mohinder. “But this came in the mail for me a couple days ago.”
Mohinder looked up at Peter, unable to hide the eagerness in his face. He held a letter-sized leaf of paper in his fingers, the edges tattered and stained with coffee; and drawn on the paper was a faded image, sketched in pencil and signed in the bottom corner by Isaac Mendez.
“What do you make of it?” Peter asked quietly, inclining his head toward the sketch.
The image depicted Asanet’s sarcophagus, distinguishable by its lid carved like a woman’s sleeping body. The coffin was at the center of the picture, one of its long sides facing the viewer instead of the foot of it, as in Nathan’s painting. Flanking the sarcophagus on either side were two flickering torches mounted on a wall of limestone blocks; snake illustrations slithered between the two torches, and hieroglyphics stretched across the visible side of the coffin.
Mohinder shuddered visibly at the snakes, then traced a finger over the hieroglyphs. “More symbols to translate, then,” he murmured.
“Are you going to tell me what in the world this drawing means?”
Mohinder barely heard him as he gazed intently at the sketch. “You said you received this a few days ago? From whom?”
“I don’t know. It came in a big envelope with my name and address written on it, but I didn’t see any return address. I was going to pitch it, but I noticed Isaac’s signature and figured it was sent to me for a reason. I don’t know why, though.” He hoisted himself up onto the barstool again and leaned in toward Mohinder. “But you do, don’t you? What’s going on? How did you know I had something of Isaac’s?”
Peter’s voice had grown intense and earnest in these last few moments, just like it used to do when he and Mohinder would come across a new clue during one of their missions, and Mohinder realized suddenly how much he had missed that honest enthusiasm reflected in warm, dark eyes. He rummaged around in his lapel pocket and handed the photograph of the other Mendez piece to Peter, watching Peter’s face as he took the image in his fingers.
“This is Nathan,” he said at once. Something like guilt flickered across his features.
“Yes.”
Silence settled in as Peter pored over the painting. Then, “Who is this girl?”
“Her name is Asanet,” Mohinder said, and he recounted the legends the FBI had told him.
“And who owns this other painting?” Peter said, eyeing Mohinder apprehensively.
Mohinder hesitated. “Your brother.”
Peter leaned back in the stool in silence. He took another long draught of whiskey and looked down again at the photograph. The enthusiasm fizzled away, and his face was weary again.
Mohinder couldn’t stand the quiet any longer. He repeated to Peter everything the FBI had said about the will and the two Mendez pieces. Peter remained silent, his face unreadable.
“Peter, do you think you could try creating your own paintings? It might help us piece together more of this puzzle, get us ahead of the Company.”
“I can’t,” Peter said blankly.
Mohinder frowned. “What do you mean, you can’t? If you need brushes, or pencils, or anything like that, I’m sure we can find supplies close by.”
“No, I mean, I can’t.” Peter swallowed. “I can’t paint the future. Or read minds, or turn invisible, or any of that. Haven’t been able to for a couple of months now.” He smiled weakly. “It’s just everything, you know? Everything piled up. You know how it is.”
As Peter turned away to drink again from the bottle of liquor, Mohinder remembered Hiro telling him once how losing Charlie had rendered him powerless for some time; and here sat Peter Petrelli, shoulders slumped over a dwindling bottle, suffering quietly through a life estranged from his brother and devoid of the love and companionship that once gave him strength. Mohinder considered him, this broken, tired man sitting beside him, and remembered regretfully the day two years ago he had let Peter walk away.
He reached his hand across the counter and placed it quietly over Peter’s.
Peter smiled bitterly. “That just makes it worse, you know. Just you being here makes it worse. When you came through my door just now I thought for a fleeting instant that everything was right again, that Nathan had never fallen for Mom’s apologies or shifted over to the other side or stared at you and me with that reproachful look in his eye, that you had really come back for me, that we were still good and happy and us. But then two years passed by all over again and I remembered in a rush all I’d left behind, and … well.” He slid his hand out from underneath Mohinder’s. “I remembered, that’s all.”
They sat in silence for a long time. Peter took another drink, draining the bottle, but Mohinder remained motionless in his seat.
“I never meant to hurt you, Peter.”
“You did, though.”
“And I’m sorry.”
“So that makes everything better, does it?”
“I’m sorry for what I said to you,” Mohinder said darkly, his voice growing louder, “but you walked out on me, not the other way around.”
“And you let me.”
“You asked me not to follow you. Haven’t we gone over this?”
“Yeah, we have,” Peter snapped, and he walked away from the counter, picking up the tray of empty shot glasses he had left on the wooden table.
“I didn’t come here to fight with you,” Mohinder muttered as Peter moved behind the counter with the tray. “So can I take the sketch with me or not?”
“Come back tomorrow and I’ll let you know,” Peter said.
Mohinder glared at him. “Why?”
“Because I said so, that’s why. It’s my place and it’s my sketch. So come back tomorrow.”
Mohinder eyed him exasperatedly, but said nothing. He took one last look at the sketch and slapped it down onto the counter, sliding off the chair. Peter watched as he opened the door and walked out into the night.
“See you tomorrow, Mohinder Suresh,” Peter said quietly, picking up the sketch. He turned it over; on the back was another drawing, one that Mohinder hadn’t noticed in his eagerness to devour the first. In the upper left corner of this side of the paper was a smattering of doodles in red pencil of the half-helix that Peter had first seen on Chandra Suresh’s book. In the center of the page, Nathan was curled in a fetal position upon those same stone steps from the painting, his lifeless head leaning against a wall and blood trickling from his eyes and mouth. The sarcophagus loomed over his dead body, ornamented with even more hieroglyphs.
Peter’s gaze lingered on the drawing for a moment; then he flipped it over again and placed the sketch Nathan-side down on the counter. Shaking his head and trying to rid himself of that image of his dead brother that had plagued him for days, Peter busied himself cleaning tables until a noise at the front door interrupted his thoughts.
“Bar’s closed,” Peter called as the door opened. When the footsteps continued, he looked up and stiffened.
Sylar loomed in the shadowy doorway, flanked by three armed men.
“We’re not thirsty,” Sylar rumbled. He took a few steps into the room, the tails of his oil-black trench coat skimming the floor.
Peter slowly placed his rag on the wooden table, his eyes never leaving Sylar’s face. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as he straightened up and plastered the most convincing look of confidence on his face that he could muster. “What do you want, Sylar?”
“Ah, not even a hello for an old friend?” Sylar said, a derisive grin coiling his lips. “I expected more from you. The truth is, Peter, you know exactly what I’m looking for; and I assume our mutual friend has already come asking for it. Surely he told you there would be other interested parties?”
“Must’ve slipped his mind,” Peter muttered. On an impulse he tried taking the rag back into his hand without touching it; when nothing happened, his stomach leapt into his throat. He saw no feasible way out of this; he hadn’t needed to defend himself for a long time, and now he was powerless. He wished he hadn’t told Mohinder to leave.
“The man is nefarious,” Sylar continued, inching forward. “I hope for your sake he has not acquired the painting.”
“I’m sure you do. Strange company you have these days,” Peter added, inclining his head toward the armed men. “Losing confidence in your own abilities?”
Sylar chuckled. “No, no; she’s just very careful, that mother of yours, always looking out for her own kind. I appreciate the gesture, really, but you and I both know that my friends here are just for show. Now, tell me-do you still have the painting?”
“No. But I know where it is. I’ll take you to it.”
But Sylar shook his head and sighed, and suddenly he whipped his hand forward. Peter choked, gagged, his throat squeezing shut by its own accord, and he clawed at his neck as his feet lifted off the floor.
“You are many things, Peter Petrelli,” Sylar said, “but a good liar isn’t one of them. Search the place,” he snapped to the three men, and without hesitation they spread out and began overturning everything in their path. As one man approached the counter, Peter groped with his mind for any inkling of power left in him. Nothing. He gasped helplessly for air.
“Sir!”
To Peter’s horror, one of the men brought the sketch to Sylar. With his free hand Sylar took it, eyes gleaming.
“This is it,” he breathed, soaking up the image of the lone sarcophagus. He turned to Peter, face contorted in murderous glee, squeezing his fingers over the empty air-
A gunshot exploded, and Sylar twisted in pain, shouting out and collapsing as a bullet pierced through his back. Peter fell to the floor, coughing, and looked up. Mohinder darted across the threshold, smoking gun in hand, and suddenly the stale air ruptured in a cacophony of gunshots as the three men opened fire. Peter snatched up the sketch from the ground where Sylar had dropped it and crumpled it into a pocket before rolling out of the way of the battle raging above him.
Mohinder ducked behind a half-wall near the fireplace, flattening his back against the cold stone. One of the thugs kicked over a table, shattering bottles of booze over the floor, and crouched behind it; another man took cover by the counter, and the third fired a submachine gun from a corner across the room. With a swift twist around the half-wall, Mohinder shot at the third man and grazed the logs in the fireplace instead, sending two of them tumbling over the liquor-soaked floor. Fire licked up the overturned table and leapt onto the first thug’s arm, and he thrashed about as the flames lashed across his back. From the darkness Peter watched as the flaming man lurched forward, his back to Peter. Mohinder swerved and shot the man between the eyes, and Peter yelped as the thug fell backward in a heap of fiery limbs. He crawled away from the charred body and heaved himself over the counter, ears bursting as the submachine gun roared.
Mohinder took cover to reload and then fired again at the thug across the room, this time piercing flesh and hearing the submachine gun clatter to the floor. He rolled into the open just as a bullet nearly clipped his shoulder and sent two of his own into the air. The man he had shot bled from his arm but lumbered toward Mohinder, who socked the bear of a man in the jaw before getting pummeled in the face himself. The man tackled Mohinder before he could retaliate, and his pistol skidded out of reach. They tumbled across the room, nearly rolling into the rapidly spreading flames; seeing this, the man at the counter stood up from his cover. In a flash Peter sprung up from behind and bashed him over the head with a bottle of rum, sending the man to the floor.
By now Mohinder and the thug were standing again, struggling with one another amidst the stifling flames. The huge man threw Mohinder up against the counter and pinned him in the pool of booze that had gathered on the surface. Suddenly a fiery beam collapsed from the ceiling and landed on the other side of the counter, igniting the liquor in a rope of flames that sped toward Mohinder’s face.
“Whiskey,” Mohinder gasped to Peter, who had resumed his crouching position behind the counter.
“Should you really be drinking at a time like this?” Peter quipped, but he thrust a whiskey bottle into Mohinder’s hand anyway. Mohinder gave him a withering look before smashing the bottle over the thug’s head, lurching off the counter just in time to escape the flames that swept by.
Mohinder cracked a chair over the thug’s back, sending him down, and he spun around. The man Peter had knocked out was alive again, aiming a pistol straight at Mohinder’s chest. Mohinder caught his breath and flinched as the gun roared. Silence. In surprise he looked from his uninjured chest to the man, whose mouth now glistened with blood. The thug teetered and fell, revealing Peter poised behind him with the submachine gun still cocked and ready.
“Where’s Sylar?” Mohinder shouted over the crackling flames as Peter emerged from behind the counter. They both looked around, shielding their eyes against the blaze and the smoke. Sylar was nowhere to be seen.
“He must’ve escaped,” Peter said, breathing hard. “Dammit, Mohinder, you burned down my place!”
“And you said you could take care of yourself!”
Peter glared at him. “I made good money tonight too, you know, and now it’s gone along with all the rest of my stuff-”
Another beam dropped from the ceiling, and Mohinder yanked Peter toward him as the embers scattered. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and dragged Peter by the hand out into the howling night wind. “Does Sylar have the sketch?”
Peter pulled the wrinkled sketch out of his pocket; the edges were a little crispy, but the images were still intact. “He saw it, though,” he called over the wind. “But only this side.”
“What, there’s something on the back, too?” Peter nodded, and Mohinder sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me? If I had left without the sketch and didn’t come back-”
Peter thrust the image of Nathan toward Mohinder’s face. “He’s dead in this picture,” Peter said, the wind flipping his hair over his eyes. The words spilled out of his throat like a secret he couldn’t keep any longer. “It’s been two years since I’ve spoken a word to him, but I can’t just … he’s my brother, Mohinder. And I’ve been hiding because of him, and because of …” He stopped, ears turning red. “I’m coming with you,” Peter blurted. “You burned down my place, I’ve got no reason to stay.”
Mohinder hesitated. “Alright then,” he shouted over the din. “Noah’s waiting for us, let’s go.”
They hurried down the grassy slope, the pub smoldering behind them.
---
“So what do we do now?” Peter said.
He retired from pacing around the hotel room and slid onto the edge of the bed next to Mohinder. The two of them looked to Noah, who sat on the second bed across from them, holding both the photograph and the sketch in his hands.
“Well,” Mohinder began, “Sylar’s seen the hieroglyphs; I have no doubt that the Company’s already translated them and is looking for the sarcophagus. So we go to Egypt and find Asanet before the Company does.”
“Well, I don’t know about you two, but I can’t read Ancient Egyptian,” Peter remarked.
“I know someone who can,” Noah said. “Once we get to Cairo and check in with my family, I’ll contact him.”
“The curator you mentioned, I assume,” said Mohinder, and Noah nodded. Mohinder shook his head in disbelief. “Honestly, though, that’s highly convenient, isn’t it? That your family is living in the same country as this girl that everyone’s trying to find?”
“And it was pretty convenient that I worked for Charles Deveaux, whose daughter knew the painter that led me to Claire in Texas, and that Claire also happened to be my niece,” Peter said. “Mohinder, I would’ve hoped by now that you realized how connected we all are in this. None of this is based on convenience or coincidence; it’s our destiny.”
Mohinder smiled at Peter. “Destiny or not, I’m still skeptical. But it’s settled, then.”
“I’ll book the flight to Cairo for tomorrow morning,” Noah said. “See you two bright and early.” He left the room, leaving Mohinder and Peter alone.
“I miss this,” Peter sighed, sitting on his hands.
I miss you, Mohinder said to himself, and remembered with relief that Peter couldn’t hear his thoughts.
-chapter 3-
Characters: Mohinder/Peter, Noah, Nathan, Sylar, the Haitian; cameos by most of the (surviving) Season 1 cast
Word Count: 28,000ish
Rating: PG-13 for mild language, violence, some non-explicit romance-y stuff -- nothing worse than what you'd find in Raiders. Also, character death -- if you've seen Raiders, you'll have an inkling as to who might not make it to the end.
Spoilers: through all of Season 1
Summary: When the FBI approaches the Helix Foundation with a request, Mohinder finds himself thrown into another adventure--one that brings up a past he thought he’d left far behind.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the words.
A/N: An AU, set in the 1930s but after the events of Season 1. Written for reel_heroes as an adaptation of Raiders of the Lost Ark. An unending amount of thanks, gratitude, and hugs to imamandajulius for cheerleading, offering criticism, and holding my hand through these past few months. You are the best of the best of the best. <3
Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight
II.
Mohinder stared at the suitcase lying open on his bed, glossy photo in hand. The lamp on the nightstand cast a warm glow into the dimness and illuminated his thoughtful face. The suitcase lay empty still, but his mind was full-of plans, of ideas, of memories, of Peter.
He looked down at the photograph. It was not of Isaac’s painting-that photo lay on the nightstand beside his glasses and a faded passport-but rather of Mohinder and Peter; they stood before a clear sky and the crosshatched spire of the Eiffel Tower, Peter’s arm looped around Mohinder’s shoulders. Peter, lips pressed playfully onto Mohinder’s dark cheek, was trying to hold back a burst of laughter that tugged his mouth into a smile even in the kiss; and Mohinder, helpless in this spontaneous show of fondness, grinned blissfully. He flipped the photo over; on the other side he recognized words scribbled in his own hand, discolored by time but still legible.
Peter and I, celebrating a successful mission in la ville magnifique de Paris
November 1934
“Two years,” he murmured to himself. It felt more like four. He turned the image over again and gazed at Peter’s laughing face, the young man’s dark hair falling over his bright, unburdened eyes.
Someone knocked on the front door, jolting Mohinder out of his nostalgia. He tossed the photo into the suitcase and let his smile fade before walking into the front room.
He opened the door and let Noah inside. “Well? Where are we off to?”
“Ireland,” Noah replied. “He’s on the outskirts of a small town in the countryside; I’ve got the specifics with me. Molly says hello and expects a souvenir, preferably a leprechaun or two.”
Mohinder grinned. “I didn’t realize fifteen-year-olds still believed in that sort of thing, but I’ll do my best. Is Hiro coming along?”
“No, he’s on another job. I’m coming with you.”
Mohinder looked up in surprise. “You don’t generally do fieldwork, Noah.”
“I do today. I have connections in Egypt that might prove beneficial. My family lives in Cairo; we can stay with them once we get there.”
“I thought your family was in Spain?”
“Last year they were. Claire’s still in danger from the Company, so I keep them moving as often as possible. I have old ties with a curator at the Egyptian Museum there; he’s been keeping an eye on them for me.” Noah reached for the doorknob. “Our plane leaves tomorrow morning for Ireland. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
Mohinder nodded. Noah opened the door to leave, but hesitated for a moment. “Molly also says not to let Peter cloud your head,” he added quietly, “and I agree with her. I know you’re emotionally involved in this case, Mohinder, but we have to make deciphering this mystery our top priority.”
“I am fully aware of my priorities, thank you,” Mohinder muttered darkly. “Peter and I ended things a long time ago, you know that.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Noah. They exchanged goodbyes, and once Noah closed the door behind him, Mohinder walked back to the bedroom. With one last look at the picture from Paris, he folded it into a set of clothes and set them in the suitcase, followed by his whip and his pistol. He remembered a crisp November weekend in the City of Light and finished packing, his face glowing warmly in the lamplight.
---
Peter Petrelli leaned over a heavy wooden table, hands folded among the many overturned shot glasses. His cheeks burned with whiskey and his temples throbbed with hot blood, but he still felt a hell of a lot better than Liam Milligan looked. Liam was a big man, round and plump, his rosy face greasy with sweat. Despite his size, Liam didn’t know how to hold his liquor. Peter learned that about him three shots ago; he expected this next round would be the clincher.
Liam managed to slosh down a shot, the liquor dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and the modest crowd huddled around the table cheered. Peter picked up the only full glass left on the table and eyed it bemusedly, watching as his vision doubled for a moment. He pressed the glass to his lips and slowly gained momentum, finally tipping his head back and letting the liquid burn down his throat. He closed his eyes against the teetering pub for a minute; the crowd started chattering, and at the sound of coins being exchanged over his head Peter opened his eyes.
“Wait,” Peter blurted. The crowd hushed, watching; Peter turned the glass over and plopped it onto the table, and many of the onlookers shouted their approval. The waiter brought another round.
Liam didn’t look good. He groped for a glass with thick fingers, tipping it back into his throat and grinning stupidly. For a moment the crowd watched with bated breath as Liam straightened in his chair, seemingly unaffected by the liquor; then he toppled unceremoniously to the floor, knocking a few patrons over in the process. The crowd roared, and Peter smiled as money began to pile up in front of him.
“Alright, everybody, game’s over,” he called as he stood up and gathered the empty glasses onto a tray. “Time to go. Danny, make sure Liam gets home okay, will you?”
Peter counted through the heap of Saorstát pounds until everyone had left and the place buzzed with quiet. He stuffed the coins into a pocket and looked up; there on the back wall loomed a tall shadow, marked by the outline of a fedora perched atop loose curls. He wondered if this was the whiskey’s doing and hazily spun around.
“Hello, Peter.”
Mohinder stood just beyond the threshold and met Peter’s bewildered stare. Peter stuffed one hand into a pocket and rubbed the back of his head with the other; a nervous laugh broke across his face and pulled his mouth into a crooked smile.
“Mohinder Suresh,” he said, strolling toward the man in the doorway. “Never thought I’d see you come walking back through my door. I seem to remember telling you not to ever go looking for me.”
“I had to, Peter. You’re in danger.”
Peter sighed; the half smile that had wrinkled his eyes now fell away as though never there. “I left your world a long time ago, Mohinder. I can take care of myself, whatever it is.”
He sidled into a bar stool, reaching behind the counter and pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Mohinder watched his heavy face and frowned. The young man had changed; he was quieter now, the bright flicker in his eyes replaced by burdens that had only just begun to plague him before he left Mohinder’s arms years ago. He looked lost, empty, old, a shadow of the man that spent a weekend in Paris with Mohinder. He was alone.
Mohinder sat on the barstool beside Peter; even before Peter screwed off the cap of the bottle, Mohinder could already smell whiskey on his breath. “Did you receive a painting lately, sometime in the last week? A piece by Isaac Mendez?”
Peter took a swig of the liquor, avoiding Mohinder’s eyes. “So you didn’t come for me after all.”
“I came for you and the painting, Peter. Do you have it?”
Peter turned; thick dark hair fell across his weary eyes and cast deep shadows onto his features. “A painting, no.” He got up from the stool and crossed to the other side of the room, picked up something from a table by the fireplace, and brought it back to Mohinder. “But this came in the mail for me a couple days ago.”
Mohinder looked up at Peter, unable to hide the eagerness in his face. He held a letter-sized leaf of paper in his fingers, the edges tattered and stained with coffee; and drawn on the paper was a faded image, sketched in pencil and signed in the bottom corner by Isaac Mendez.
“What do you make of it?” Peter asked quietly, inclining his head toward the sketch.
The image depicted Asanet’s sarcophagus, distinguishable by its lid carved like a woman’s sleeping body. The coffin was at the center of the picture, one of its long sides facing the viewer instead of the foot of it, as in Nathan’s painting. Flanking the sarcophagus on either side were two flickering torches mounted on a wall of limestone blocks; snake illustrations slithered between the two torches, and hieroglyphics stretched across the visible side of the coffin.
Mohinder shuddered visibly at the snakes, then traced a finger over the hieroglyphs. “More symbols to translate, then,” he murmured.
“Are you going to tell me what in the world this drawing means?”
Mohinder barely heard him as he gazed intently at the sketch. “You said you received this a few days ago? From whom?”
“I don’t know. It came in a big envelope with my name and address written on it, but I didn’t see any return address. I was going to pitch it, but I noticed Isaac’s signature and figured it was sent to me for a reason. I don’t know why, though.” He hoisted himself up onto the barstool again and leaned in toward Mohinder. “But you do, don’t you? What’s going on? How did you know I had something of Isaac’s?”
Peter’s voice had grown intense and earnest in these last few moments, just like it used to do when he and Mohinder would come across a new clue during one of their missions, and Mohinder realized suddenly how much he had missed that honest enthusiasm reflected in warm, dark eyes. He rummaged around in his lapel pocket and handed the photograph of the other Mendez piece to Peter, watching Peter’s face as he took the image in his fingers.
“This is Nathan,” he said at once. Something like guilt flickered across his features.
“Yes.”
Silence settled in as Peter pored over the painting. Then, “Who is this girl?”
“Her name is Asanet,” Mohinder said, and he recounted the legends the FBI had told him.
“And who owns this other painting?” Peter said, eyeing Mohinder apprehensively.
Mohinder hesitated. “Your brother.”
Peter leaned back in the stool in silence. He took another long draught of whiskey and looked down again at the photograph. The enthusiasm fizzled away, and his face was weary again.
Mohinder couldn’t stand the quiet any longer. He repeated to Peter everything the FBI had said about the will and the two Mendez pieces. Peter remained silent, his face unreadable.
“Peter, do you think you could try creating your own paintings? It might help us piece together more of this puzzle, get us ahead of the Company.”
“I can’t,” Peter said blankly.
Mohinder frowned. “What do you mean, you can’t? If you need brushes, or pencils, or anything like that, I’m sure we can find supplies close by.”
“No, I mean, I can’t.” Peter swallowed. “I can’t paint the future. Or read minds, or turn invisible, or any of that. Haven’t been able to for a couple of months now.” He smiled weakly. “It’s just everything, you know? Everything piled up. You know how it is.”
As Peter turned away to drink again from the bottle of liquor, Mohinder remembered Hiro telling him once how losing Charlie had rendered him powerless for some time; and here sat Peter Petrelli, shoulders slumped over a dwindling bottle, suffering quietly through a life estranged from his brother and devoid of the love and companionship that once gave him strength. Mohinder considered him, this broken, tired man sitting beside him, and remembered regretfully the day two years ago he had let Peter walk away.
He reached his hand across the counter and placed it quietly over Peter’s.
Peter smiled bitterly. “That just makes it worse, you know. Just you being here makes it worse. When you came through my door just now I thought for a fleeting instant that everything was right again, that Nathan had never fallen for Mom’s apologies or shifted over to the other side or stared at you and me with that reproachful look in his eye, that you had really come back for me, that we were still good and happy and us. But then two years passed by all over again and I remembered in a rush all I’d left behind, and … well.” He slid his hand out from underneath Mohinder’s. “I remembered, that’s all.”
They sat in silence for a long time. Peter took another drink, draining the bottle, but Mohinder remained motionless in his seat.
“I never meant to hurt you, Peter.”
“You did, though.”
“And I’m sorry.”
“So that makes everything better, does it?”
“I’m sorry for what I said to you,” Mohinder said darkly, his voice growing louder, “but you walked out on me, not the other way around.”
“And you let me.”
“You asked me not to follow you. Haven’t we gone over this?”
“Yeah, we have,” Peter snapped, and he walked away from the counter, picking up the tray of empty shot glasses he had left on the wooden table.
“I didn’t come here to fight with you,” Mohinder muttered as Peter moved behind the counter with the tray. “So can I take the sketch with me or not?”
“Come back tomorrow and I’ll let you know,” Peter said.
Mohinder glared at him. “Why?”
“Because I said so, that’s why. It’s my place and it’s my sketch. So come back tomorrow.”
Mohinder eyed him exasperatedly, but said nothing. He took one last look at the sketch and slapped it down onto the counter, sliding off the chair. Peter watched as he opened the door and walked out into the night.
“See you tomorrow, Mohinder Suresh,” Peter said quietly, picking up the sketch. He turned it over; on the back was another drawing, one that Mohinder hadn’t noticed in his eagerness to devour the first. In the upper left corner of this side of the paper was a smattering of doodles in red pencil of the half-helix that Peter had first seen on Chandra Suresh’s book. In the center of the page, Nathan was curled in a fetal position upon those same stone steps from the painting, his lifeless head leaning against a wall and blood trickling from his eyes and mouth. The sarcophagus loomed over his dead body, ornamented with even more hieroglyphs.
Peter’s gaze lingered on the drawing for a moment; then he flipped it over again and placed the sketch Nathan-side down on the counter. Shaking his head and trying to rid himself of that image of his dead brother that had plagued him for days, Peter busied himself cleaning tables until a noise at the front door interrupted his thoughts.
“Bar’s closed,” Peter called as the door opened. When the footsteps continued, he looked up and stiffened.
Sylar loomed in the shadowy doorway, flanked by three armed men.
“We’re not thirsty,” Sylar rumbled. He took a few steps into the room, the tails of his oil-black trench coat skimming the floor.
Peter slowly placed his rag on the wooden table, his eyes never leaving Sylar’s face. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as he straightened up and plastered the most convincing look of confidence on his face that he could muster. “What do you want, Sylar?”
“Ah, not even a hello for an old friend?” Sylar said, a derisive grin coiling his lips. “I expected more from you. The truth is, Peter, you know exactly what I’m looking for; and I assume our mutual friend has already come asking for it. Surely he told you there would be other interested parties?”
“Must’ve slipped his mind,” Peter muttered. On an impulse he tried taking the rag back into his hand without touching it; when nothing happened, his stomach leapt into his throat. He saw no feasible way out of this; he hadn’t needed to defend himself for a long time, and now he was powerless. He wished he hadn’t told Mohinder to leave.
“The man is nefarious,” Sylar continued, inching forward. “I hope for your sake he has not acquired the painting.”
“I’m sure you do. Strange company you have these days,” Peter added, inclining his head toward the armed men. “Losing confidence in your own abilities?”
Sylar chuckled. “No, no; she’s just very careful, that mother of yours, always looking out for her own kind. I appreciate the gesture, really, but you and I both know that my friends here are just for show. Now, tell me-do you still have the painting?”
“No. But I know where it is. I’ll take you to it.”
But Sylar shook his head and sighed, and suddenly he whipped his hand forward. Peter choked, gagged, his throat squeezing shut by its own accord, and he clawed at his neck as his feet lifted off the floor.
“You are many things, Peter Petrelli,” Sylar said, “but a good liar isn’t one of them. Search the place,” he snapped to the three men, and without hesitation they spread out and began overturning everything in their path. As one man approached the counter, Peter groped with his mind for any inkling of power left in him. Nothing. He gasped helplessly for air.
“Sir!”
To Peter’s horror, one of the men brought the sketch to Sylar. With his free hand Sylar took it, eyes gleaming.
“This is it,” he breathed, soaking up the image of the lone sarcophagus. He turned to Peter, face contorted in murderous glee, squeezing his fingers over the empty air-
A gunshot exploded, and Sylar twisted in pain, shouting out and collapsing as a bullet pierced through his back. Peter fell to the floor, coughing, and looked up. Mohinder darted across the threshold, smoking gun in hand, and suddenly the stale air ruptured in a cacophony of gunshots as the three men opened fire. Peter snatched up the sketch from the ground where Sylar had dropped it and crumpled it into a pocket before rolling out of the way of the battle raging above him.
Mohinder ducked behind a half-wall near the fireplace, flattening his back against the cold stone. One of the thugs kicked over a table, shattering bottles of booze over the floor, and crouched behind it; another man took cover by the counter, and the third fired a submachine gun from a corner across the room. With a swift twist around the half-wall, Mohinder shot at the third man and grazed the logs in the fireplace instead, sending two of them tumbling over the liquor-soaked floor. Fire licked up the overturned table and leapt onto the first thug’s arm, and he thrashed about as the flames lashed across his back. From the darkness Peter watched as the flaming man lurched forward, his back to Peter. Mohinder swerved and shot the man between the eyes, and Peter yelped as the thug fell backward in a heap of fiery limbs. He crawled away from the charred body and heaved himself over the counter, ears bursting as the submachine gun roared.
Mohinder took cover to reload and then fired again at the thug across the room, this time piercing flesh and hearing the submachine gun clatter to the floor. He rolled into the open just as a bullet nearly clipped his shoulder and sent two of his own into the air. The man he had shot bled from his arm but lumbered toward Mohinder, who socked the bear of a man in the jaw before getting pummeled in the face himself. The man tackled Mohinder before he could retaliate, and his pistol skidded out of reach. They tumbled across the room, nearly rolling into the rapidly spreading flames; seeing this, the man at the counter stood up from his cover. In a flash Peter sprung up from behind and bashed him over the head with a bottle of rum, sending the man to the floor.
By now Mohinder and the thug were standing again, struggling with one another amidst the stifling flames. The huge man threw Mohinder up against the counter and pinned him in the pool of booze that had gathered on the surface. Suddenly a fiery beam collapsed from the ceiling and landed on the other side of the counter, igniting the liquor in a rope of flames that sped toward Mohinder’s face.
“Whiskey,” Mohinder gasped to Peter, who had resumed his crouching position behind the counter.
“Should you really be drinking at a time like this?” Peter quipped, but he thrust a whiskey bottle into Mohinder’s hand anyway. Mohinder gave him a withering look before smashing the bottle over the thug’s head, lurching off the counter just in time to escape the flames that swept by.
Mohinder cracked a chair over the thug’s back, sending him down, and he spun around. The man Peter had knocked out was alive again, aiming a pistol straight at Mohinder’s chest. Mohinder caught his breath and flinched as the gun roared. Silence. In surprise he looked from his uninjured chest to the man, whose mouth now glistened with blood. The thug teetered and fell, revealing Peter poised behind him with the submachine gun still cocked and ready.
“Where’s Sylar?” Mohinder shouted over the crackling flames as Peter emerged from behind the counter. They both looked around, shielding their eyes against the blaze and the smoke. Sylar was nowhere to be seen.
“He must’ve escaped,” Peter said, breathing hard. “Dammit, Mohinder, you burned down my place!”
“And you said you could take care of yourself!”
Peter glared at him. “I made good money tonight too, you know, and now it’s gone along with all the rest of my stuff-”
Another beam dropped from the ceiling, and Mohinder yanked Peter toward him as the embers scattered. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and dragged Peter by the hand out into the howling night wind. “Does Sylar have the sketch?”
Peter pulled the wrinkled sketch out of his pocket; the edges were a little crispy, but the images were still intact. “He saw it, though,” he called over the wind. “But only this side.”
“What, there’s something on the back, too?” Peter nodded, and Mohinder sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me? If I had left without the sketch and didn’t come back-”
Peter thrust the image of Nathan toward Mohinder’s face. “He’s dead in this picture,” Peter said, the wind flipping his hair over his eyes. The words spilled out of his throat like a secret he couldn’t keep any longer. “It’s been two years since I’ve spoken a word to him, but I can’t just … he’s my brother, Mohinder. And I’ve been hiding because of him, and because of …” He stopped, ears turning red. “I’m coming with you,” Peter blurted. “You burned down my place, I’ve got no reason to stay.”
Mohinder hesitated. “Alright then,” he shouted over the din. “Noah’s waiting for us, let’s go.”
They hurried down the grassy slope, the pub smoldering behind them.
---
“So what do we do now?” Peter said.
He retired from pacing around the hotel room and slid onto the edge of the bed next to Mohinder. The two of them looked to Noah, who sat on the second bed across from them, holding both the photograph and the sketch in his hands.
“Well,” Mohinder began, “Sylar’s seen the hieroglyphs; I have no doubt that the Company’s already translated them and is looking for the sarcophagus. So we go to Egypt and find Asanet before the Company does.”
“Well, I don’t know about you two, but I can’t read Ancient Egyptian,” Peter remarked.
“I know someone who can,” Noah said. “Once we get to Cairo and check in with my family, I’ll contact him.”
“The curator you mentioned, I assume,” said Mohinder, and Noah nodded. Mohinder shook his head in disbelief. “Honestly, though, that’s highly convenient, isn’t it? That your family is living in the same country as this girl that everyone’s trying to find?”
“And it was pretty convenient that I worked for Charles Deveaux, whose daughter knew the painter that led me to Claire in Texas, and that Claire also happened to be my niece,” Peter said. “Mohinder, I would’ve hoped by now that you realized how connected we all are in this. None of this is based on convenience or coincidence; it’s our destiny.”
Mohinder smiled at Peter. “Destiny or not, I’m still skeptical. But it’s settled, then.”
“I’ll book the flight to Cairo for tomorrow morning,” Noah said. “See you two bright and early.” He left the room, leaving Mohinder and Peter alone.
“I miss this,” Peter sighed, sitting on his hands.
I miss you, Mohinder said to himself, and remembered with relief that Peter couldn’t hear his thoughts.
-chapter 3-