Archive of Our Own ^beta

And fuck me if I say something you don’t wanna hear from me
And fuck me if you only hear what you wanna hear from me
Fuck me if I care…but I’m not leavin’ here
***
And I’m not living this life without you, I’m selfish and clear
And you’re not leaving here without me, I don’t wanna be without
My best friend…wake up to see you could have it all
-Pearl Jam, Save You

If he were an animated character Mohinder has no doubt that plumes of smoke would currently be billowing from his head and his face would be bright as a tomato. Kneeling at the foot of his bed he reaches under the bottom of the blanket that skirts the floor and pulls out the half packed duffle bag for traveling that he keeps beneath the bed. Sitting up he rests on bent legs. Tossing the bag on to the bed he uses his right arm to wipe the sweat from his brow, a culmination of the Spanish heat and building tension in the flat.

The bag already contains some basic necessities—toiletries, cash, fake passport, an extra pair of shoes and one change of clothes. Only a few additions are needed but the task seems excruciatingly daunting. Mohinder had hoped never to repeat this ritual and for three years he managed to avoid it. But the past always finds him, forcing his hand, appealing to his inability to look the other way. Today the task is made harder by factors he thought had long been ignored into non-existence. Now he feels displaced. He is his own worst enemy.

Immersing himself into the process of becoming someone new, someone who never existed before is not some idealistic dream he wished to live forever. Pretending was a requirement, to survive, but years at it have made the illusion more acceptable, more worth embracing as something normal. While the Second Wave of the Resistance continued preparations and the inevitable battle with The Company gathered steam just beyond the horizon, shrugging off the mask of Julian tugged hard at his resolve but he twisted free of the safety mould.

That morning’s breakfast with Peter had begun the slow trudge towards inevitable action, away from any rooted complacency. Bennet brought the horizon crashing down.

Mohinder tosses a quick frustrated glare toward the bedroom door on his way to the dresser drawer. Pulling out a couple of folded shirts and pressed pants (purposely packed to one side of the bottom drawer for an occasion such as this) he gently pitches them to the bed and then grabs some boxers and socks. He is the appearance of single-minded focus as he carefully places his belongings into the duffel, restraining himself from shoving it all in haphazardly.

The easy part, calling his boss to explain that a death in the family calls him away from Barcelona, is already done. How simple it is to walk away from a life if one wishes. Far too easy than it has any right to be. Still he feels the twinge of regret for turning his back on a life he had tried to make his own and the people, as tenuous as those acquaintances were, whom he must leave behind.

It bothers him that Sylar was able to disappear with no reservations all those years before. It is not that Mohinder truly expected what they had been through before to mean anything more (or maybe he had at the time, he is not sure how honest to be with himself) but that he had wanted it to—at least enough to garner him a warning when Sylar planned to jump ship, turning his back on the Resistance and leaving them when they were already in disarray with their vulnerabilities exploited.

A throat clears behind him and Mohinder breaks from his standstill rumination, the fingers of his right hand mindlessly rubbing the zipper that closes the top of the bag.

He looks over his shoulder.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

“Should we be expecting a German accent?” Peter asks between bites of Rice Krispies.

Mohinder, picking absently at the bowl of fruit in front of him, looks up and catches Peter’s bemused expression. Mohinder smiles.

“To prove how easily he can fit in versus the rest of us?” Mohinder says drolly about a man still en route to Barcelona sure to be delegating new tasks for all of them already in his head. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Peter swallows a mouthful of cereal, “Or not.” He lifts his bowl with one hand to drink the leftover milk, letting his eyes take in the other occupants of the hotel having breakfast. His look is at once suspicious—any one of them could be a Company agent sent to follow them—and bashful for being ‘caught’ doing something that takes him back to childhood mornings with Nathan, when the world was much simpler.

Mohinder raises an eyebrow and Peter takes the opportunity to say, “Bennet would just as likely not change his accent—to prove he’s so good at going off the grid that he doesn’t need to worry himself with such petty details.”

“He made fun of your Irish accent I take it?” Mohinder says at his joke.

“Considering I lived there briefly I think I do a pretty reasonable job,” Peter says seriously but with exaggerated displeasure at the notion.

“Well I prefer your American accent,” Mohinder smiles and eats a speared strawberry and chunk of melon.

A comfortable quiet surrounds them and the gaze Peter returns eventually forces Mohinder’s eyes to the table as he nervously says, “Peter—,”

“I’m surprised he’s not here hovering over you, trying to control the conversation.”

Mohinder puts down his fork and pushes his bowl away. He leans back in the chair and sighs at the knowledge that this has been on the tip of Peter’s tongue since they had first sat down.

“He didn’t offer to come Peter. Went off to do other stuff this morning.”

“Other stuff?”

“I think he’s renting a car,” Mohinder says and shrugs at the guess.

“Anticipating Bennet’s orders?” Peter asks.

“Aren’t we all?” Mohinder says rhetorically. What Bennet decides is the best plan of action has been gnawing at Mohinder since early sunlight lit his path to meet Peter that morning. He knows enough of Bennet that the orders will surely be deserving of some worry, but more for personal reasons than battlefield contingencies.

Peter eyes him warily and takes a sip of orange juice. Putting the glass down he awkwardly shifts it about on top of the yellow tablecloth making a pattern of wet circle rings. It serves as a useless distraction from asking what has been working on his mind. Seeing Sylar the night before rushed it to the forefront but in actuality it only exacerbated a worrisome query of thoughts that have played out over each other for as long as the Resistance has been in existence, if not before even that.

His friendship with Mohinder is one of the most important of his life and being unable to shoulder his deepest of burdens, the ones that set deep lines in Mohinder’s forehead and crease tense corners at his mouth, unable to be a true confidante because when it comes to Sylar Mohinder simply does not share, is as frustrating for Peter as it is of concern. Mohinder had expressed frustration and anger at Sylar’s behavior years before, but he had also become withdrawn when the issue of his former partner came up. Instead he had worked harder at carrying out Bennet’s orders but not doing it blindly, still questioning demands, more antagonistically than before, that were confusing or extreme.

Peering into Mohinder’s mind is an option Peter took off the table in a self-made promise when they were first building their initially strained relationship. As such, an unbroken respect exists between them but the downside is the not knowing—how to make it better. It is difficult for him to be there for Mohinder when Mohinder refuses to allow him a peek over protective walls.

“You think he’ll make you work with Sylar again?”

Yes. “He can’t very well put you two together. You’ll kill each other before you get out of the city,” Mohinder says, fully aware of the truth at the center of the joke.

“He’d try, I’d succeed,” Peter says with a crooked smile trying to assert his position as friend trustworthy enough to make such a jab and Mohinder cracks a small grin in return, but his is directed at the table.

“I could tell Bennet to put us together,” Peter says in an attempt at being (hopefully) helpful given what he can only guess is unfolding in Mohinder’s mind. Mohinder looks up at him with a mix of surprise and curiosity and Peter explains by saying, “If having Sylar back in the fold means so much to Bennet then he should work him. And given what happened last time…”

“Don’t do that,” Mohinder sighs. He understands what Peter is trying to do but as much as he appreciates the effort he also knows it will only serve as another thing to worry about. “Don’t make this bigger than it needs to be.”

“But it is big,” Peter says.

“And you harping on it is only going to make it worse!” Mohinder says in a forceful counter to Peter’s insistence. Taking in a lungful of air and then exhaling slowly, he tries to find and maintain a level of calm to deal with Peter and the larger situation certain to play out the worries that have multiplied since Sylar reappeared out of nowhere and surprised him at dinner.

“Does it bother you to work with him again?” Peter asks eventually, keeping watchful of Mohinder’s tense limbs.

No. Yes. “There’s not much I can do about it,” Mohinder says trying to sound offhand and vague so as to not give too much away.

“That’s not what I—,”

“Don’t read my mind Peter.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Peter says leaning forward and resting his head on his hands. He is hurt at the unwarranted accusation but chalks it up to hitting Mohinder’s sore point. “But I need to know what this means for you.”

“I don’t know. Nothing…everything,” Mohinder says relenting, flustered at trying to find a tangible point on which to hold strong to. “For so long it was just the two of us on these constant missions and we had to find a way to make it work. Which I didn’t think would—could—happen but it did. We took on so much, Peter, and it…it was my life for a while. Then he just disappeared and left everyone in the lurch, when we needed every single person the most, you know, and now he shows up again to help and I…I don’t know.”

“And there’s nothing else to it?” Peter says, his persistence an extension of his interest for a past they have only spoken about in cryptic tongues.

Mohinder rests the palm of his left hand on the table and rests his right arm across his chest, grasping his left arm in a defensive posture. Sternly he eyes Peter who proceeds carefully.

“You were devastated when he left,” Peter says, the statement unexpectedly simple and to the point.

“I was angry,” Mohinder says.

“You were disappointed in him,” says Peter refusing to budge.

“I was disappointed in me,” Mohinder says, the first crack in his façade beginning to show.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

“You standing over me isn’t going to make this go any faster,” Mohinder says brusquely over his shoulder, the words spoken as a loaded throwaway line meant to nick the precarious armor.

“My intention isn’t to rush you,” Sylar says with deliberative consideration over Mohinder’s altered attitude from earlier. He leans against the doorframe folds his arms across his chest.

“Right,” Mohinder says in a nearly indecipherable mumble. Perturbed, he glances at Sylar then back to his bag. “They’re barely out the door and you’re standing over me like some timekeeper.”

Chafed at the not so subtle dig at his past, Sylar, ‘hmmphs,’ his annoyance. “And once again I’m reminded of something I don’t miss from before.”

Mohinder turns to confront him, tightly gripping the strap of the bag as he swings the strap over his shoulder. “And what might that be?” he asks coldly, lacing the edge of his voice with antagonism at the dubious mention of the First Wave.

Sylar takes a few steps forward, dropping his hands to his side and holding himself up straight to exert the fullest extent of his powerful persona. He tilts his head to emphasize condescension but it also serves to mask some of the frustration that always comes from fighting with Mohinder.

“No matter how much time you spend with Peter you always return with a stick up your ass.”

It has been so long since Mohinder has been in the relentless crossfire of Sylar and Peter. Separately they were fine but together always pit them head to head with Mohinder as referee and pawn. The mere mention of old times forces Mohinder to suck in a sharp sliver of breath. He is ruffled by Sylar bringing up the past so lackadaisically and with the nerve to pass judgment on those whom Mohinder feels the loyalty of friendship with.

Sylar does not budge, keeping daring eyes on him. On the one hand he has always enjoyed their contentious arguments as they pushed each other further along, reveling in the permeating undercurrent of candor that Mohinder is still the only person who makes him feel the greatness of being more; as if he is capable of exceeding the grasp he once resigned to submit to. With that, however, comes the thud of the other shoe dropping.

There is an insatiable hunger in Sylar to have more of the quiet familiarity they came to share later on in their partnership as the First Wave played out its destined steps. The want that now exists matches, if not surpasses, the rewardingly exhaustive excitement of belligerent exchanges.

Combative words were fine a week ago when Sylar first reintroduced himself into Mohinder’s life, re-insinuated his constant presence with someone who had kept moving on without coming to terms, instead brushing it all under the carpet. But now Sylar wants to leap frog this part of their reunion, he wants to bypass the drawn out excavation of their old terrain and get to the heart of them. The mixed metaphor is what confuses and defines them. He wants to bring balance to their current state of disorder.

Returning his challenging gaze Mohinder says, “I just find it fascinating how easily some make life altering decisions with little care for the consequences.”

“Meaning me?” Sylar says with a defensive sneer as he twists up his lip.

“And Bennet,” Mohinder says. He is unsure how Bennet manages to keep his head straight while constantly being uprooted and changing tactics, keeping his eyes on the bigger picture and letting everything else fall by the wayside.

Mohinder knows he is still reeling from spending the day with Peter. They talked as old friends about anything but work as they attempted to turn the day into an impression of normalcy. It was as far from their current reality as possible but they refused to give up the welcome simplicity of just being. Mostly Mohinder encouraged Peter to tell him about life in Ireland and how things were going with his girlfriend. Any time Peter pushed the questions back his way Mohinder changed the subject with skillful speed.

Illusions of a regular life came crashing down when they returned to Mohinder’s apartment in the late afternoon. Sylar was back and talking with Bennet who had arrived early. Deep in discussion both men had cast a furtive look Mohinder’s way before finishing their talk and finally filling he and Peter in.

Mohinder did not know what he was hoping for but considering how Sylar had left them in a stranglehold the last thing Mohinder was prepared for was Bennet cordially, professionally, dealing with him. It was an example of how Bennet could think logically while keeping his emotions under wraps.

It was a lesson that time and battle fatigue had tried to school Mohinder in. It never took.

Mohinder knows he is now lashing out at Sylar with sharp edged words but the need to protect himself is too strong to ignore and play nice. Reality is rearing a very ugly head and crumbling the flimsy walls of his gingerbread house to pieces. Old wounds are making their way to the surface and he feels the need to inflict the pain outward at the one who dished it out so readily.

Another step closer and Mohinder says, while awkwardly shifting the bag behind him, “It doesn’t work so easily for me. I have to think about the consequences of my actions with others. Peter gets that.”

“Give the morality lecture a rest,” Sylar says dismissively wishing he were not so easily thrown off by mentions of Peter and Mohinder’s friendship. “You knew you were going to have to get up and move on from this life at some point. Stop acting so put out that it’s now happening.”

“Put out?” Mohinder says and flares his eyes wide. “Three years here isn’t some pit stop in a motel. It might not be a real life to you but it’s a life. Mine. I have to put things in order before I abandon it.”

“A couple of phone calls you can still make from the road—what else?” Sylar says using the mockery he infuses his tone with to keep a safe emotional distance.

Mohinder does not answer immediately; instead he silently approaches Sylar and glares up at him. Sylar’s eyes search his trying to ascertain the reasons behind Mohinder’s increasingly anger. For his part Mohinder fixes his gaze until Sylar furrows his brow in confusion.

“You weren’t like this, this morning,” Sylar says with a surprising softness to his tone. Decisively, protectively, he changes it quickly.

“Clinging so pathetically to this life,” he says more loudly with halting distaste. “So repulsed at having to lower yourself to work with me—you think I take any pleasure in knowing I get to listen to you whine days on end—that is of course when you’re not ignoring me or treating me like you’re so much better. I’m here for the job, so let’s get to it.”

An uneasy few seconds pass. Mohinder refuses to explain that his careful packing away of the present is as much about appreciation for a life he pretended to lead (and knows he will miss in some way), as it is a way for him to abate the concern panicking him about the impending future. Again he will travel a lone road with Sylar and if the outcome is anything like last time Mohinder fears it will break him permanently.

Finally Mohinder rips away from the unwavering stare to move past Sylar. Forgetting the bulk of the bag he is carrying at hip level he miscalculates his angle out the bedroom door and the bag knocks his radio alarm clock off the nightstand to the floor with a loud clatter.

“Damn it,” Mohinder says under his breath as he turns around and bends down to pick it up. This time his bag knocks down a framed picture of he and Molly in his old New York apartment that he had placed on the nightstand while trying to reorganize during packing. He lets loose a muffled obscenity and turns to pick that up as well, again his bag sideswipes the surface of the table and knocks off two books he had decided to leave behind.

Sylar watches Mohinder toss the bag to the floor and kick it once. He would find the entire scenario to be like a slapstick routine if not for the undeniably upset expression on Mohinder’s face. He steps forward and crouches down to help out.

“Don’t touch anything. I’ve got it,” Mohinder says firmly.

Sylar ignores him and picks up the books.

Mohinder snatches them away and orders, “I said don’t touch. Give me two damn seconds.”

Sylar finds he is in an unwanted position of having little idea why Mohinder seems to be spoiling for a fight, but it seems unavoidable. Sylar knows he can either ignore it, to both their eventual detriment as it will certainly explode at the most inopportune time, while proving costly to the work that needs to be done, or he can risk bringing it to an explosion now. Mohinder silently places the clock on the nightstand and tosses the books on the bed. Grabbing his bag he unzips the top halfway and shoves the framed picture inside. He stands up to find Sylar contemplating him with an unreadable expression.

“What?” Mohinder says, intentionally snapping at Sylar.

Nothing? “You never did know how to play nice,” Sylar wills a derogatory jeer to his face.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

“Your meeting point is Sevilla. The contact there is Zabir Hamidou and he’ll be expecting you. I’ve made arrangements for this apartment to be taken care of in your absence should the possibility arise to return to this life—but I’d say that’s doubtful right now. Sylar has secured a car for travel and has Zabir’s information. Peter, you’ll be meeting with Hiro tomorrow. As for the others…well, we all know it’s best to know little this early on.”

Bennet’s orders come before Mohinder and Peter are ten feet to the living room. A dank, ‘Hello Bennet,’ sits stuck on Mohinder’s tongue. The barrage of information slams into Mohinder headfirst and his attention moves from Bennet who is standing up from the sofa to an observant Sylar casually laid back in his armchair.

Mohinder’s mind begins to race before he can control it and Peter gently clasps a right hand to Mohinder’s left shoulder and walks around him with a fleeting look of concern his way, unintentionally hearing the train wreck of confusing thoughts about the Resistance and (mostly) Sylar that flash through his mind.

“So soon?” Peter asks on Mohinder’s behalf.

Bennet rolls his eyes at Peter’s typical concern for personal matters instead of the necessary work at hand. “You have time to say bye to your little girlfriend back home Peter.”

“Not exactly what I meant,” Peter says with an indignant look at Sylar for relaying his personal information. He lingers his hand on Mohinder’s shoulder while Mohinder tries to ignore Sylar’s darkening gaze focused on the contact.

Mohinder fights to find his voice. “You two have made short work of dismantling my life.”

“Nice to see your flare for the dramatic is still intact Mohinder,” Bennet says eliciting a sly smile from Sylar.

Ignoring the insult Mohinder steps away from Peter and says, “What about my boss?”

Before the question is completed Bennet has his cellphone in hand and holds it out to Mohinder. “Make it quick and simple.”

With a sigh Mohinder snatches the phone and begins dialing. Stepping past Bennet he sees Sylar regarding him closely. Instinctively Mohinder alters his direction and heads into this bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Sylar watches the door and hears Peter say, “I think he’s still wrapping his head around moving forward so quickly.”

“He’d better learn to deal fast,” Bennet says quickly reminding them of his role as leader in this operation. “We can’t afford distractions.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sylar interrupts while he gets to his feet and moves closer to them.

“As long as you say so it must be true,” Peter says as rude as he can muster to differentiate his relationship with Mohinder from Sylar’s. He steps by Sylar and looks at the closed door.

“He only wallows with you because you thrive on being his little shoulder to lean on Petey boy,” Sylar says over his shoulder, sharing his own callous observation of Peter and Mohinder’s friendship.

“And you teach him to be resilient by being a bastard?” Peter says with a glare.

“He already is resilient, I just—,”

“Force his hand.”

Sylar says nothing beyond his searing gaze on Peter for reminding him that he has always been the tough one with Mohinder, the difficult conundrum. In the end it is Peter, the straightforward and helping hand, who breaks away from the fighting stare down with, “I know he’ll be fine. He’ll be better than fine. He just needs a moment.”

Tension remains thick in the apartment as silenced seconds collapse into each other. Finally Bennet says, “Well now that we’ve gotten that out of the way…”

Integrated into his new life in Germany, Bennet had almost forgotten Peter’s protectiveness of Mohinder. They had always backed each other up but Peter’s interest in Mohinder’s well being had become more apparent after Sylar had abruptly disappeared with no warning during the first failed attempt by the Resistance to take down The Company. It was an act of selfishness that embittered even Bennet but with larger concerns looming overhead now it makes his ability to compartmentalize those thoughts and feelings a much needed characteristic.

His idea to originally partner Mohinder and Sylar during the First Wave was based on his perception of them as being able to work together while remaining emotionally distanced. After all Mohinder despised Sylar for his cruel disregard for human life (and the unforgivable murder of his father) while Sylar had no interest in establishing personal connections with anyone beyond what he could take from them. Their level of intellectual parity and work ethic had a self-isolating counter balance that was supposed to keep everything in check.

Unexpectedly however, and something Bennet had realized too late—after Sylar was gone—was that some sort of bond had actually existed between them. He chose not to delve into it, preferring to not lend more significance it than it deserved (how could there possibly be any parallel with the falling out between Mohinder and Sylar and his own painful decision to save his family by sending them away?) but in doing that he never got the full story and was left fiddling with pieces that did not seem to fit together but created an emotional drain on his team.

Still he refuses to let all their hard work be a casualty of sentimental carnage. Maybe it is proximity that has made his difficult choices easier to follow through. For Sandra and Lyle whom he never sees, and for Claire from whom he receives the most random of updates, he has learned to harness his feelings so that he never loses sight of the goal at hand. His hopes are that one day his family will understand why he makes the choices he does. It is a stance he wishes his team would copy but it is not lost on him that being face-to-face with their issues makes it more difficult prospect. If only they would deal with it in a less cumbersome way rather than allowing tactical meetings to devolve into personal insults and emotional power plays.

The bedroom door opens and they all look over, grateful for the distraction. Mohinder, changed out of a purple t-shirt into a button down white shirt that hangs over faded blue jeans, steps forth and casually tosses the phone back to Bennet. His altered mood is perceptible to all. He is suddenly more deliberately concentrated, standing tall with a near stroll to his steps and almost unblinking eyes.

“Mohinder,” Peter says but Mohinder is already moving into survival mode.

Closing the distance he completes the forged circle. Setting a firm gaze on each of them, one after the other, Mohinder folds his arms across his chest and says, “The sooner we head out the better. I don’t want to be on the road too late because then sleeping will eat away all of tomorrow and we’ll lose another day.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Bennet says glad for Mohinder’s turn of focus on the purpose for this meeting in the first place.

“So glad to meet with your approval,” Mohinder says and his sarcastic retort makes both Sylar and Peter smile. “I take it Zabir will have information for the next set of moves? While Sylar and I follow those instructions will there be another meeting point for all of us or is that on a need to know basis as well?”

Sylar subtly redirects his gaze to Peter and catches his eyes. A tiny shift of his head is Sylar’s silent declaration.

Resilience.

Without breaking from his passive expression Peter sends Sylar his contradictory challenge.

Offensive defense.

Sylar looks back to Mohinder whose attention is on Bennet. “Need to know for now,” Bennet says. “We want to stay far under the radar as long as possible, especially since we still don’t know the extent of what we’re dealing with.”

Mohinder waits a moment, not looking away from Bennet. “But if you knew anything you’d tell us?” Mohinder asks, the simple question actually a starting point to quench a suspicion that has been brewing. “If you suspect something I suggest you tell us now.”

All eyes rest on Bennet who says nothing. Suddenly Peter’s eyes widen and he gasps, “My god.”

Mohinder’s expression slips into confusion and he says, “What?”

“It’s speculation,” Bennet rushes his response to Peter but it is too late to still the worry that is beginning to boil up from hearing Bennet’s own inner voice panicked at the intentions Massimo has.

“Either you tell them or I will,” Peter says, his warning paired with concern that is etched in his face with his mouth half open and down turned eyes. He shakes his head in annoyance.

“Bennet,” Sylar grimly draws out the name.

“Massimo is—I think—the—Level Five was his brainchild,” Bennet says as he stumbles over his words, not meaning to show the first traces of his nervousness.

“What?!” Sylar says, startling everyone.

“How long have you known this?” Mohinder flips into interrogator mode while absolute worry courses through his veins for the undertaking he is as tempted to run away from as deal with full throttle.

“I don’t know for certain. It’s all guess work,” Bennet says. “I’m—,”

“Middle management.”

Sylar’s cold statement brings a chill to the air for the animosity it stretches out between all of them.

In Mohinder’s time with the Company he never saw Level Five. It was spoken of in hushed voices as some paranoid nightmarish story that he only half believed, until the First Wave. Escapees or released prisoners, those with purposely misused powers who had been captured and held were set loose by their handlers as reckless sacrificial pawns. Driven by the selfish desire to live at all costs, their chosen battles unintentionally aided those who had imprisoned them by declaring battle lines between the Resistance and Company operatives.

Trying to keep a level head Mohinder takes a small step towards Sylar but pauses in his approach, a conflict of more intimate and professional matters colliding head on. “Sylar—Level Five…”

“I was never there,” Sylar says his penetrating eyes tearing into Bennet. “But I was definitely on my way…if I hadn’t escaped.”

“The idea was to keep dangerous offenders off the streets,” Bennet says unimpressed at being put in a position of having to clarify his knowledge and intentions to those without the same personal experience on which to draw from.

Just as fast Peter stops him, putting the personal matters of Mohinder aside and personalizing Bennet’s stubborn withholding from his team yet again. “Stop towing The Company’s line.”

“I’m not towing anything.”

“We all know what The Company is capable of,” Mohinder says jumping in. “You’re embarrassed because this is another thing you were kept in the dark about. You can only make decisions based on what you know and The Company fed you significant lies while stroking your ego.”

The harsh reprimand shuts Bennet up momentarily. Mohinder goes on after taking a meditative breath. “And the importance of Level Five now?”

Trying to disguise his pissed off tone at being subjected to Mohinder’s mighty disapproval Bennet says, “Sylar killed many of them during the First Wave…”

“And?” Peter says, waiting for Bennet to get to the point and irritated that he has managed to blank his mind from further readings.

“I think Massimo was experimenting and grooming them for bigger things, like a personal army. We ruined his plans but only temporarily. If I had to guess—,”

“Considering you don’t know I’d say guessing is all you’ve got.”

Bennet glares at Sylar but goes on. “He had a contingency plan for any survivors, those he could count as loyal and those he could manipulate into complying. He’s been reorganizing as much as us, laying low and waiting to strike back an equal blow to what we’ve delivered.”

Mohinder rubs agitated hands through his hair. “And you suspected nothing from before, even when you were putting people in Level Five?”

“You’re not hearing me so listen closely Mohinder,” Bennet says commandingly to reassert his position at the top of the proceedings hierarchy. “Massimo was a phantom. He was a rumoured name you overheard spoken in hallways but never saw. I’m telling you what I believe to be true. And may I remind you there was a time when The Company pulled the wool over your eyes.”

Letting the admonishing words sink in Mohinder lets loose a conciliatory sigh, “Fair enough.” He turns to Peter and leans in close, quietly asking, “Would you mind doing a quick check in with Molly and Matt?”

“Of course,” Peter says. Doing what he can to help Mohinder is as worthy an endeavour for him as anything else and hearing Sylar’s annoyed thought, ‘Of course Peter will take care of everything—fitting himself into other peoples places,’ is an added bonus.

Mohinder gives him a thankful nod and resettles his attention on Bennet, avoiding Sylar’s eyes but for a self-conscious glance his way. “I guess that’s it.”

He tentatively shakes Bennet’s hand then pulls Peter into a goodbye hug.

Sylar looks across Mohinder’s back following the curve of his body up to Peter’s eyes suspiciously checking him out over the bridge of Mohinder’s shoulder. He tempers himself with the distraction of Bennet moving to the front door then looks back at two friends who have shared a bond he has tried to crack, that he has tried to work his way in between.

Peter pulls out of the embrace and mutters, “Okay,” in response to something Mohinder has thought. The personal conversation between them, purposely kept from his ears, rankles Sylar but he does not let it show.

“Sylar,” Peter says coldly as he heads to the door where Bennet waits.

“Pete,” Sylar says and Peter throws a dagger-like glare at him.

Mohinder stays put and Sylar follows Bennet and Peter, walking them out. He watches them make their way down the hall and backs into the apartment, shutting the door. He turns to address Mohinder but stops short at the sight of Mohinder’s cloudy eyes storming at him in a narrowed gaze. Mohinder turns on his heels and walks to his bedroom.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

Mohinder widens his eyes ever so slightly then pulls them into tight slits that he peers through, unmoved. “My mistake, I didn’t realize we were playing a game. Here I thought this was about my life being overturned again.”

Mohinder puts his back to Sylar and walks out of the bedroom with Sylar close behind. Not allowing Mohinder to shut down the discussion that is growing increasingly heated, moving clumsily yet steadily towards a desperate release, Sylar nonchalantly says, “We’re going on the road again. Consider it a return to old times.”

Mohinder jolts around with a flash of something in his eyes that startles Sylar and huffs out a deep breath while dropping his bag to the floor. “This will be nothing like before. We were partners then, living from motel to motel, actually working together. I—we…we were in it together and then you decided it wasn’t worth your time and just…disappeared.”

Mohinder’s mini rant surges with a boiling frustration. It surprises him as much as it forces Sylar an unconscious step back. He knew this would happen at some point when he strode back into Mohinder’s life despite the carefully practiced air of indifference he shielded himself with as a protective armor. Guardedly Sylar chooses to derisively say, “Are you still clinging to that?”

It is the wrong approach and Mohinder fumes. “I never forget it,” he says as he bristles at Sylar’s coldness. “All that bullshit small talk to pass the time and I…what the hell was I thinking treating it as anything more? To you it was nothing but tactical posturing.”

“If none of it mattered I wouldn’t be here,” Sylar says and raises his voice in agitation.

“Those are just words, hollowed out and stripped away of meaning. You didn’t have my back when it mattered most!”

Mohinder’s declaration clicks together broken connections of understanding in Sylar’s brain. A conscious effort guides Sylar’s slow steps as he stalks towards Mohinder with his unblinking and imprisoning eyes enforcing an un-dismissive stare down. “I can protect you,” Sylar says bringing his voice to a calmer decibel level and hoping his words ring of an unforeseen but genuine sincerity.

Mohinder crinkles his eyes and uses both hands to shove Sylar back. “I don’t need your protection,” he yells at Sylar. “You don’t get it! I need you to stand by your bloody word! I need you to mean what you say!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sylar says while he stringently reclaims the lost distance between them and stepping back into Mohinder’s space.

“You did it before, why should now be different?” Mohinder says and returns his steely look. “You left so carelessly and now treat it like you simply forgot to leave a note about going to the store.”

Sylar’s shifts his attention downward and his thoughts race a mile a minute with disbelief over the unfounded blindness that rattled a decision off that has haunted ever since. “No, that’s not…Europe was behind us and it’s not as if we were still partnered up. Everything was going to hell and everyone was all over the place anyway. It wasn’t going to make a difference if I stayed or not…” Sylar says, his defensive self-reflection through intellectual rationalizations meant to render the same sense now as then when the choice seemed clear.

He then mutters, mostly to himself, “It didn’t matter that much.”

“So you said ‘sod the lot of them?’” Mohinder says. Silence bespeaks the stifling oppressiveness of their un-dealt with past. Refusing to look away Mohinder senses the thought behind Sylar’s sidestepping gaze staring off to the side. Quietly Mohinder says, “You left…”

“Everyone, I know,” Sylar says lost in the distraction of having had this line thrown at him far too many times.

“Me,” Mohinder’s broken voice reveals the telltale anguish and Sylar sees the hurt held in for so long peeking through. “You left me behind, you prat! All that time when we had to work together and I came to trust you with my life—what a joke considering—but I willingly…unquestioningly put my life in your hands…and took yours in mine. At least that’s what I thought at the time. And still you left me behind without any explanation.”

Mohinder sucks in a deep breath and eventually moves a few steps away from Sylar, suddenly feeling like he can breathe again, painfully so, from beneath the devastating wreckage of what was. “There were so many times when I almost died back then. After you left I came this close to being…you never came back. Better things to do than worry about some mere mortal, right? And now you stand here and act like it was no big deal, just par for the blasted course. But I deserved to know you were going. For all the times we had each other’s backs, you owed that to me.”

Where his own feelings are concerned Sylar is well aware, even when trying to ignore the true extent of how deep they run. In that insistent denial however Sylar realizes he had rewritten interpretations of their past, to make it easier for himself. He had not given thought to what the full impact would be from leaving the way he did on the man now across from him unburdening himself so awfully.

“Mohinder—,”

“Why couldn’t you have just given this new information to us and set yourself in with Bennet—or better yet, just leave? Why are you trying to hurt me? You keep trying to break me apart. Why are you here trying to relive this sordid history with me? Just to prove you can do it all over again?”

“Hurt you?” Sylar says incredulously, at Mohinder’s suddenly desperate sounding outburst. “I walked away but I was never far.”

Mohinder blinks rapidly at the cryptic confession. Turning away from Sylar he walks to his bag and stares down at it, trying to make sense of wayward thoughts that rush the painful past into bold technicolour. Sylar watches his shoulders tense and then drop before turning around and meeting his eyes again.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” Mohinder finally asks with confusion.

Sylar wrinkles his brow, silently asking him to explain.

“So, what, you were around watching us get our collective asses kicked?” Mohinder says, his temper rising again as he gestures with his arms and spits through clenched teeth. “You watched me almost die and thought, ‘oh well.’ What kind of sick bastard are you? I put my life on the line to work with you and all this time you saw me as little more than a bothersome nuisance? What game is it you’re playing with me?”

“There’s no game with you Mohinder,” Sylar treads carefully trying to not to instigate another outburst.

“It’s always a game with you,” Mohinder says jabbing the index finger of his right hand in Sylar’s direction. “I made the mistake of forgetting that the last time, but not now. My eyes are wide open. I won’t forget who you are this time around.”

Sylar hisses a low intake of air as the pit of retaliatory anger takes root at all the blame being shoveled on him. Contempt brews. “So what are you going to do? Hold the past over me like some masochistic power play where you get to keep feeling sorry for yourself while never having to admit I’m here, at your side? Walking away wasn’t the same as leaving. My survival depended on my ability to adapt, to get stronger. I had to do what was right for me.”

“That’s exactly it!” Mohinder says, his anger brewing stronger with each word out of his mouth and each retaliatory remark from Sylar. “You were always in it only for you, never for the cause and it sure as hell didn’t matter who got shafted along the way.”

Sylar glares and yells, “I’ve had it with your sanctimonious bullshit. My arsenal of powers is what’s going to help us out this time around or have you forgotten how many times I put my own life in danger to save you, to protect all of them? You all used me for what I could offer, provide you by way of weaponry, and you have the audacity to turn your nose down on me for choosing to put that power structure first. Practiced and controlled, I can use countless abilities at once and I’ve chosen to do it with a Resistance that was and still is loaded down with weaknesses.”

“So sorry you’ve had to compromise your endeavors for singular greatness to save us pathetic miscreants from ourselves,” Mohinder says in reaction to Sylar’s barrage.

Trying to make a point but seeing no progress in the process Sylar’s mind is a muddled shamble in which frustration gives way to deep-seated contempt that he feels the need to purge himself of. “What of your own part…withholding—,”

A flash of something Peter said the night before pulses in Sylar’s brain and fuels his interrogative assault in another direction, “Do you wish I were dead, that you had killed me when you had the chance, so you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this? Well it’s too fucking late for useless regrets over your own mistakes. You act like you wish my life were never a factor but we both know why you never followed through—besides the show of strength I offered our side later on. We both know why it wasn’t as difficult as expected for you to partner with me, besides statements to the contrary that you so casually toss about, besides your justifications of a greater purpose. Still you refused to budge from that goddamn wall you built so tightly around yourself.”

Sylar’s eyes darken under his heavy brows and he continues his harsh reality check. “What did we have Mohinder—a collection of honest moments that we never spoke about but I was supposed to read between the lines? Why would I believe anything beyond what you allowed? You ran so hot and cold. Everyone else got a piece of you…you gave Peter a loyalty I can only imagine without the hoops you forced me through! But I was expected to know better? I was supposed to know you wouldn’t be indifferent to my leaving? We hadn’t seen each other or spoken in months. You don’t know anything about what I was thinking back then.”

Sylar grabs Mohinder by the collar and pulls him close. “So if you want to keep thinking the worst of me then you go right ahead,” Sylar says almost cruelly. “Why should that be any different?”

Mohinder tries to free himself from Sylar’s grip but Sylar only holds on tighter. A quick jab to the gut does the trick of loosening Sylar’s fingers from the thin fabric. Yanking his right shoulder back Mohinder breaks from Sylar’s left hand. Mohinder then uses the unrestrained side of his body to gain momentum as he slams his right fist forward into Sylar’s face. A grimacing smack sends Sylar back, tumbling over his feet but remaining upright, hunched over while bringing both his hands to his face.

“Don’t you dare try to turn this around Sylar. Don’t you dare put your pathetic cowardice, your utter selfishness, on me.”

Mohinder cannot get another word out before Sylar is rushing at him with not a hint of a wound on his face. It is a sobering reminder of Sylar’s many power acquisitions and the suggestion of new ones from after he had walked away from the Resistance raises bitter bile up Mohinder’s throat. Sylar’s body reacts to the force of being pushed but not the injury it should entail. He slams Mohinder up against he living room wall.

“Now there’s the real Sylar,” Mohinder grits through his teeth as Sylar’s hands push into his neck. “Self-preservation, damn everyone else.”

“Are you done?” Sylar says loudly.

“Not even close,” Mohinder chokes as he kicks out his feet and lands what should be a painful blow to Sylar’s left knee. It forces the hands around his neck to drop.

Mohinder bends over trying to catch his breath and Sylar carefully touches his leg, inspecting it for any potential trouble. Instinctively Sylar knows he is not hurt but Mohinder’s powerful defiance catches him off guard, partly bruising his ego that is already filled with tough to acknowledge but desperate to believe thoughts. He clears his head and glares at Mohinder who stares back unblinkingly, his chest heaving up and down. Both are too overwhelmed to launch any counterattacks.

“You talk a big game Mohinder,” Sylar says with a slight wince in his voice from trying to hold back hurt feelings while attempting to move back on track and get to the nexus of why this fight is so much more than some misbegotten choices. “But as real as this anger is right now, a part of you knows you can trust me. No matter how much you hide behind your soldiering army of words.”

“You’re full of—,”

“I was there this morning Mohinder.”

Sylar’s words strike the air like a lit match burning bright in a midnight black landscape. Mohinder does not even try to pull free from the darkened eyes of the deep felt gaze boring through him. Neither can box away the turn of the unexpected. The innocence of a shared bed the night before, set in motion by sleepless contemplations, had only served to convolute an already precarious relationship.

That morning in bed had found Mohinder shifted on to his back with his face turned towards Sylar, his chin tucked down to his shoulder. Mohinder’s left arm lay flat in the small space between their bodies. In turn Sylar was still curled up on his right side from the night before with his right arm angled up under the pillow pressing his left hand lightly on top of Mohinder’s stomach. In sleep Mohinder had rested his right hand on top of Sylar’s, both rising and falling with Mohinder’s breath. Repressive inhibitions had given way to the melding of shattered pieces that were weakened, if only barely, in the first trace light of early day.

Sylar woke first and drifted his gaze down to where their hands moved together. He gave himself up to the momentary wonder over the breech of a figurative wall. When he looked back up Mohinder was awake and watching him with a mindful expression, almost blank, on his face. Without a word Mohinder glanced at their hands and the meaning superimposed in his skin over Sylar’s. Silently he then shifted away, sitting up in the bed with his feet on the floor and his back to Sylar. Neither was willing to deconstruct the silence and Sylar stared at Mohinder’s back, the white shirt damp from the heat pressed to his skin.

“I have some stuff to do before Bennet arrives,” Sylar said and Mohinder looked over his shoulder with surprise. “Peter first thing in the morning isn’t really my thing.”

“Okay,” was all Mohinder said as he got up to take a shower, giving Sylar an unfocused look of concern while he walked around the bed.

Now in the living room with both men breathing hard their hostile anger dissipates ever so slightly. Sylar tenderly touches the tips of his fingers to where Mohinder struck him in the mouth and gives Mohinder a knowing look.

“Be as dismissive as you feel you have the right to be,” Sylar says. “But you know I’m not going anywhere.”

Mohinder begins to reply but Sylar cuts him off. “I’m not leaving you this time.”

Mohinder straightens up on the verge of a knee-jerk response then thinks the better of it. He leans back against the wall. With resignation he slides down it a bit but keeps himself propped up on half bent legs. “And why should I believe you?” he asks in a flat hushed voice but the urge of a dismantled plea lingers in his tone.

Sylar crosses a few feet forward. “Because I’m telling you,” Sylar simply says. “I’m promising that to you.”

Mohinder looks away from the seeming genuineness of Sylar’s proclamation. He brings his hands to his throat gently touching where Sylar’s hands have bruised his skin, once again imprinting himself on Mohinder’s body and mind. Moving off the wall he walks over to his bag and stares down at it again before bending down and picking it up.

Grasping for some remnants of logic, a rational lynchpin to counterbalance the fray of tattered emotions suddenly thrown forth with heated breath giving way to new life, Sylar throws out a more tolerable, acceptable but truthful, lifeline to Mohinder and says, “I…I need you with me on this. This is too big for me alone—as much as it disgusts me to admit…and only to you would I admit that. Massimo and his army, or whatever they are, need to be stopped. The entire Resistance has to be complete in order to bring them down. You and me—we’re part of that. The work we did, they couldn’t touch.”

Mohinder says nothing but the words, every single one Sylar has tossed at him, reverberate loudly in his brain. He wonders if moving forward is as real a possibility as it seems in this truncated display of purged hurts.

“I’ll ride shot gun,” Sylar says gingerly trying for a hint of humour in the offer of truce. He nervously waits for Mohinder’s reaction knowing this is a turning point for them. Either the past will eat them alive or the future will stretch out unwritten before them.

Mohinder stares off into space for a moment. He turns to look at Sylar, to take in the full form of the man returned from some great beyond and standing as an immovable force in front of him. A wave of déjà vu envelops him as he allows himself to wonder. There is a faint sparkle in his eyes while he furrows his brow in a less harsh seriousness. Decisively and with a forceful thrust Mohinder throws the duffle bag at Sylar who catches it with a sharp exhaled, ‘oomph,’ in surprise.

“As if I’d let you drive,” Mohinder says flatly but then a small smile turns up the corners of his lips.

Sylar is not fooled into mistaking the intimation of a smile as fully accepting. It does not wipe their slate clean but it does agree to move forward, for now, and to lend some credence to his sentiments. Conceding this Sylar slips the strap of the bag over his shoulder and reaches into his pocket for the keys to the rental car. He lobs them to Mohinder who catches them one handed, while nearly losing his balance if not for Sylar mindfully raising the palm of his left hand to counter gravity. Before Mohinder can cast stern eyes with re-ignited bitterness at him Sylar drops the invisible hold.

Silently they fall into step as they head to the front door.

Reaching it first, Mohinder holds it open for Sylar to pass through. Crossing by him, Sylar catches Mohinder’s still uncertain eyes. A hesitant step slows Sylar down and he says, “You do know it’ll be different this time, Mohinder.”

Despite being aware that it is far too soon for definitive understandings Sylar feels the need to put the affirmation out there, to gage where they stand now.

Mohinder holds the gaze and his face turns contemplative with unabated eyes and a thoughtful lining of his forehead. He bites his bottom lip (so much wanting to believe that Sylar isn’t the same destructive entity from before) then diligently says, “That remains to be seen.”

It is not the answer Sylar wants but it is a compromise he wills himself to accept for the time being. Starting over is a recurring theme for them and this go around carries the aching want for it to be their last time, with the mistakes of before no longer reaching forward across the redrawn landscapes. Sylar nods his head and begins the trek down the hallway.

Mohinder takes a final look at his home that replaced a home that unseeded another home and locks the door behind him. Trailing behind Sylar, Mohinder watches the confident stride and unapologetic stature that looms steps ahead. Mohinder looks down at the cautious steps he is taking and knows that he if wants any chance at surviving the upcoming journey and recreating it as it was meant to be, he needs to throw himself back into it, wiser this time but in it nonetheless.

With his eyes steady on Sylar, Mohinder tilts his head high and picks up the pace.