Archive of Our Own ^beta

The north is to south
What the clock is to time
There’s east and there’s west
And there everywhere life
I know I was born
And I know that I’ll die
The in between is mine
I am mine
-Pearl Jam, I Am Mine

~ All Roads Lead Home ~

Before dawn breaks across the horizon he is awake.

Before the alarm clock shrills the day into life he is showered.

By the time the man in the other bed stirs with a yawn he is already dressed.

Sitting on the edge of his own bed he clasps his hands between parted legs and taps one foot with an anxious tic. Early traces of sunlight seep under the window curtain. He watches its slow progression along the floor out of the corner of his eye but his attention remains otherwise diverted. The muffled sound of bare feet behind him on the carpeted floor is barely audible and a cleared throat just barely breaks through his reverie.

A tired sigh works free of his body and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply, his mind slipping into deep thought.

Time moves at an anguishing pace and long awaited expectations begin to unveil the first stages of critical self-doubt.

What if he’s changed his mind?

But today has been a long time coming and he will be damned if he is the reason it falls apart before it even begins.

“What time are we meeting them?” he asks.

From the other side of the semi-closed bathroom door he hears a gruff, “One o’clock. Calm down. It’s still early.”

He does not care for the derisive tone beneath the strained voice that is struggling to wake up. But he has something more important to concern himself and so he holds back the readied sarcastic retort.

Looking down at his watch he reads the time as eight a.m. Using the tips of his feet he pushes off his shoes, forcing through the restrictive barriers of tightened laces. Shifting backwards on the bed he lies down and crosses his feet at the ankles. He lifts his left arm behind him to rest his head on and stares at the ceiling wondering how long it will take for time to march towards one p.m.

It is difficult to grasp that he is only a few hours away from—

Time apart was one thing—to be expected, a necessary impediment of their lives. But where was six months and where is one year?

Exquisite torture.

It feels like a lifetime since he last laid eyes on him. What are a few more hours?

~ Scene from a Diner, Part One ~

“Where’s Mohinder?” Peter asks Bennet as he slides into the booth next to him.

“Washroom,” Bennet says while cupping his cup of coffee between both hands and shifting over a bit.

Sylar sits down across from them catching Peter’s knowing eyes briefly in the process.

“He’s trying to wash off the stink of pretending to be an insurance claims officer,” Bennet says with a half smile pulling up the right corner of his mouth.

“Role playing already Noah,” Peter says scoffing a grin and Bennet shrugs saying, “Apparently he can be quite disarming—people let him into their homes with little necessary back story prepped by us.”

Sylar’s mind is caught between the anticipation that the momentary delay in seeing Mohinder has wrought and envy for the time Bennet has had with him; time Sylar has mulled over and despised for the distance it never let him forget. Distracted, he reaches over to the menus placed near the window to his left.

“There’s no time to eat,” Bennet says and his authoritative tone and focused eyes peering over top the rim of his glasses causes Sylar to raise his eyebrow.

“Then why are we meeting here?”

“They make good coffee,” Bennet says wryly and raises his cup with one hand while indicating the number three with his other hand for the approaching waitress.

“I don’t like coffee,” Sylar grumbles.

“Neither does Mohinder,” Bennet says and takes a sip. “But we have more important things to deal with than what you would prefer. You can pick up something to eat on the road.”

Sylar leans forward bracing his arms on the table, palms pressed flat against the surface, and glowers at Bennet. “How nice to see you thinking about others for a change. You certainly know how to treat your team.”

Bennet juts his face forward and firmly says, “This isn’t about entertaining you—,”

“Fighting already? And you’re both normally so cordial with each other.”

The interruption snaps three heads at attention to the end of the booth.

“Mohinder!” Peter beams affectionately and hops to his feet to greet him with a bear hug.

Appearing indifferent Bennet takes another sip of coffee waiting for the greetings to be completed. Sylar stares at the man whose very presence is etched in his mind since they first crossed paths across a liar’s ruse. Amusingly the first thing that comes to mind is the surprising lack of colour in Mohinder’s wardrobe. A fitted black suit with a white button down shirt and black tie trace the outline of his body, quite flattering but also very subdued.

Pulling back Peter keeps both hands squeezing Mohinder’s shoulders and says, “You look…”

“Bland? Boring? Banal?” Mohinder says, the lightness in his tone a welcome attempt at humour. He reaches up to adjust his glasses.

“Professional?” Peter says shrugging his shoulders.

Mohinder laughs, “As opposed to my usually unprofessional attire.”

Noticing the seating arrangements Mohinder moves in next to Sylar, making a stopping motion with his left hand when Sylar half-stands to greet him.

“Hello Mohinder,” Sylar says maintaining eye contact as they settle into their seats.

“Hello Sylar,” Mohinder answers then looks down at the table and back across to Bennet and Peter. “Busy day then?”

Mohinder pays little attention as Bennet launches into the objectives for the day’s mission on two fronts. He has already heard all the points; so much so that he could recite them all back with the proper pauses and inflections. Besides, seeing Sylar again, sitting right next to him, has suddenly proven to be enough of a distraction that he does not notice the waitress pouring their coffee until Peter thanks her.

Mohinder recalls the night in the parking lot when he only willed himself to go so far—and had regretted that choice for the three hundred and sixty-five days that followed. He is unsure if a year has altered anything; if it is a case of distance making the heart grow fonder or out of sight out of mind.

If he listens closely, letting white noise consume Bennet’s voice, Mohinder is certain he can hear Sylar’s deep breaths. It is a sound he was once so accustomed to that hearing it again rushes a feeling of déjà vu at him creeping warmth up his skin. A quick glance up and he sees Peter break away from Bennet to cast a curious look his way. Mohinder clears his throat to refocus and glances awkwardly at Sylar who is staring dark watchful eyes at him. Mohinder begins to say something but instead raises his drink to his lips and sips it, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“You think he’d know you prefer tea,” Sylar says suddenly as Mohinder puts the cup down and pushes it away.

“It’s the least of his concerns,” Mohinder rolls his eyes and looks at Bennet who appears stern in his lecture and Peter who is interested but bored (closing and then opening his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, to force his own attention on the heavy logistical talk). “You should listen to what he’s saying.”

“I can do two things at once,” Sylar says leaning his head back, eyes still on Mohinder and hearing tuned into Bennet. He can tell by the fidgety movement in Mohinder’s shoulders and the tap of his right foot that his gaze is having the desired affect as it wordlessly reaches between them.

“You must know this plan inside and out,” Peter suddenly says to Mohinder, interrupting Bennet.

Wide-eyed at being called out of his distraction Mohinder says, “More than you know,” eliciting a smug smile from Sylar and an annoyed expression from Bennet.

“What do you think?” asks Peter.

Mohinder looks at Bennet and sees Sylar out of the corner of his eye shift forward to rest his hunched upper body on folded arms on the table.

“It’s a good plan,” Mohinder says very cautiously drawing out his answer.

“But?” Sylar says sensing the ominous delay.

Mohinder sighs in his direction. “It’s like Santa Monica all over again.”

Peter’s sharp intake of breath causes Bennet to say, “Mohinder,” as a strong reprimand.

“They asked for my opinion and I’m not going to lie,” Mohinder says, contentious at Bennet’s sketchy sharing of information regarding a serious mission. “It does no one any good to go in half blind.”

“What do we need to know?” Peter asks.

“That finding her is one thing,” Mohinder says and he leans forward, making eye contact with each of them one after the other, starting with Peter, then Bennet and finally Sylar. “But dealing with her is beyond anything we’ve had to handle before.”

~ Scene from a Diner, Part Two ~

On the other side of the window where Mohinder and Sylar are still sitting Peter and Bennet are arguing over withheld information and reckless expectations. Besides the glass the din of the diner patrons act as a barrier to the outside disagreement for Mohinder. If Sylar wanted to he could listen in, find their frequency, but he prefers to direct his attention in a sensory exploration of Mohinder next to him.

The heat from Mohinder’s body, the subtle hint of Zest soap mixed with his natural pheromones, the sound of his throat constricting when he swallows nervously, his long fingers mindlessly tracing the tabletop—his thumb ring emitting the occasional clatter when it scrapes across the laminate surface—the words he has spoken so deftly, compassionately, thoughtfully in challenge to Bennet, it all comes together as so uniquely him and floods through Sylar.

Ignoring the commotion on the sidewalk outside the window, as people passing by move to avoid the tense pacing and halting words that Peter and Bennet are throwing at each other, Sylar furtively looks over at Mohinder who counters with a serious wrinkling of his brow.

“What happened?” Mohinder asks miming the scar he sees on the side of Sylar’s face down the side of his own face.

Sylar groans inwardly and stares down at his lukewarm cup of coffee, raising it to take an unwanted sip in the hopes of biding some time. “Peter and I had a disagreement,” he finally says not looking at Mohinder.

With a frustrated huff of breath Mohinder says, “I thought you two were finally getting along?”

“He broke the terms,” Sylar says quietly but with a firmness of tone.

A moment to ponder the remark and Mohinder remembers late night phone calls where he had to talk down an angry Peter. “As if you’ve never used your powers on him.”

“That’s not the point—,”

“Then what is?”

“Certain ones are not to be used at all on each other,” Sylar says regretfully half mindful of how Mohinder unintentionally draws the truth out of him. He refuses to look over until Mohinder lets out a knowing chuckle.

“He read your mind before you could stop him,” Mohinder says, an inflection of a guess at the end.

“He did more than that,” Sylar says and glares at him.

“So you took him on in a fight knowing you’d get the worst of it?” Mohinder says.

Sylar fumes and looks back to the table, thinking how stupid the situation sounds, how juvenile he comes across when all the information is not known.

“So what did he see or hear that got you into such a twist?” Mohinder wonders aloud.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sylar mutters.

“Sylar—,”

“It doesn’t matter,” is the repeated reply.

Mohinder silently takes in Sylar’s profile, the down turned eyes and briskly tapping index finger of his right hand on the side of his cup. His pensive state has Mohinder wishing he could press rewind to stop himself from asking the question that has brought an unforeseen halt to any first streams of conversation. Mohinder had not meant the question as an attack but a curious wondering about a scar he knew was not there before but now burns bright the time that they have not been together.

Disappointed, Mohinder focuses on the empty side of the booth waiting for Sylar to indicate their reunion is not already off the rails. Sylar stops tapping his cup and moves back in his seat, sitting up straighter against the cushioned seat. He brings his right arm back to rest on top of the ledge behind him. In the movement the tips of his fingers accidentally brush across Mohinder’s shoulder. With his upper body facing in Mohinder’s direction Sylar watches Mohinder’s profile in reaction to the brief contact.

At first it is as if nothing happened but then Sylar sees the upturned corner of the left side of Mohinder’s mouth. Small but unmistakable, it is a smile. The rush of energy that pulses through Sylar’s body is only heightened when Mohinder shifts a bit closer to Sylar and leans back bringing his neck in contact with Sylar’s resting fingers. The now unbreakable touch speaks its own language in the silence of their sphere.

Slowly Mohinder turns his head and their eyes meet quickly before he is distracted by something behind Sylar. Put off by not being the center of Mohinder’s attention Sylar turns to look out the window.

Peter and Bennet are still arguing, although now it seems more animated. Curiosity piqued Sylar fine tunes his hearing to their conversation about the Plan B mission for the day. In the middle of a harsh exchange Peter’s voice changes.

Mohinder sees Bennet suddenly stop and stare at Peter then nod his head.

Sylar smiles.

Peter follows Bennet into the diner, keeping a few steps behind him with an easygoing but unreadable expression on his face.

“You’ll both go have a talk with Hector Alvarez” Bennet says flatly.

“What?” Mohinder says in confusion at the unexpected change in plans. “I thought we were going to do that?”

Blankly Bennet says, “You’ll both go talk with Hector Alvarez. I’m taking Peter to deal with Smithson. We’ll meet up again tonight.”

“You heard the man,” Peter smiles with an overly friendly grip on Bennet’s shoulder. “Places to go, people to harass. You two best get started.”

A small frown settles on Mohinder’s face at the change in plans but he shakes it free as he stands up and moves past Bennet.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Peter says and Mohinder nods.

Sylar follows and his eyes meet Peter’s.

You’re welcome, Peter thinks at him.

~ Good Cop/Bad Cop ~

How fast the switch flips between uneventful and do or die. One minute Mohinder is sifting through the cluttering of papers and books that act as an impenetrable layer atop the living room of Hector’s empty apartment while Sylar turns over the back bedroom, and the next moment Hector has a gun muzzle pressed against the back of Mohinder’s neck and is threatening, “Who the fuck are you and what the hell do you want?”

Straightening up, Mohinder drops the papers from his hands while trying to remain calm and keeping his head clear. He silently berates himself for not hearing Hector arrive and he wonders if the man has an ability Bennet is unaware of or if working with Sylar again has exacerbated a building weakness he had packed away.

“Well now that’s not the way to greet guests.”

Sylar’s voice breaks through the tension and the surprise over a second intruder distracts Hector and his head spins around to look at him. The lapse in judgment is all Mohinder needs to raise his right foot and bring it down with excessive force into Hector’s kneecap. The sickening crack makes even Mohinder wince and he spins around while Hector shouts obscenities in pain and drops the gun.

The weapon never touches the ground as Sylar telekinetically pulls it to him cocking the trigger and aiming it at Hector who is flat on his back and pathetically trying to touch soothing hands to his broken leg.

Mohinder sees fierce calculation in Sylar’s eyes and a piece of folded paper in the hand not holding the gun. Before he can say anything Sylar’s eyes look his way.

“You know I really hate it when people jump the gun. It’s incredibly rude,” Sylar says casually and the tug of a smile at the side of his mouth asks Mohinder to join in on an old tune.

Mohinder returns the small smile. “I have to agree,” he says and looks down at Hector who is pulling himself into a crouched position with his hurt leg oddly splayed. “Especially when we only came to talk with you.”

“Talk,” Sylar says with an exaggerated hint of distaste.

“And then you go and bring a gun into the mix, Hector, and we can’t help but think you’re trying to hide something,” Mohinder begins a simple but calculated set of steps towards Sylar. At the same time Sylar moves to cross his path and settle near Hector, who is watching them both with worried eyes.

“I’m not hiding anything,” Hector groans and he attempts to stand up only to be knocked down by an invisible force that leaves him with scared glistening eyes.

“Don’t lie to my face,” Sylar booms.

“I’d listen to him,” Mohinder says as if he is offering Hector a helpful suggestion. “You really don’t want to see him when he’s mad.”

“I’m not lying—,”

“Are you hard of hearing?”

Mohinder steps closer to Hector and peers down at him with frustration in questioning eyes and pursed lips, “Do you know what he wants to do with you right now?”

Hector’s eyes rush back to Sylar who is staring menacingly at him. “Just give me an excuse,” Sylar says pointing the gun at the ground and liquefying it, letting it rain down into a puddle on the floor.

“Christ!” Hector spits out in shock stumbling in a backwards scurry across the floor, hitting his back against the wall.

“Don’t you wish,” Sylar says in a low voice. “Now we can do this the hard way or the difficult way—neither of which you’re going to like but since I’m the one who makes the rules you’re out of luck.”

For added measure Sylar raises his right index finger and slices a cut across Hector’s cheek causing the injured man to squeal in pain. This is followed with another searing cut down the other cheek and the abrupt dislocation of his left shoulder. Mohinder rests his hands on his thighs as he hunches over the tortured man and softens his voice. “If you were to cooperate, however, I might be able to convince Bruce here to go easy on you.”

The sound of an old code name (conjured by their amused minds years before when they had first been partnered up) hits Sylar with a jolt of what the remembrance all this time later suggests. His eyes travel to Mohinder who has turned to look over his shoulder at him. In their gaze Mohinder reaches his left hand to his glasses and adjusts them on his face.

“I’d prefer you don’t cooperate,” Sylar says with a trace of mockery. “But Clark seems to want to give you the benefit of the doubt…”

Mohinder settles his attention on Hector again, muffling the grin on his face, at the same time that Hector is telekinetically lifted up and slammed into the wall, then pulled away and thrust back again, his head given an extra excruciating thump.

“But I don’t make any promises,” Sylar says dropping his jeering smile so quickly it gives the intended impression of a twisted mind.

Mohinder stands up and turns to walk by Sylar with a raised eyebrow of concern at the increasing force of his attack. Sylar gives him a small shrug and Mohinder heads towards the chair at the kitchen table and drags it back towards Hector who looks dazed and disoriented while propped up against the wall. Mohinder turns the chair around and sits down crossing his legs, right over left, and resting his hands on his lap. Sylar thinks he looks like a psychiatrist.

“We’re looking for a mentor of yours who is able to take herself off the grid,” Mohinder says matter-of-factly. “Lucia Valesquez.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Hector says still trying to sound steadfastly defiant.

Mohinder tilts his head down and accentuates a sigh of disappointment over Hector’s choice. Sylar smirks and flexes his right hand. In turn all of the fingers on Hector’s left hand snap broken. He lets loose a howl for the inhumane pain.

“Considering you brought this upon yourself…” Mohinder says thoughtfully.

“Maybe he’s a masochist?” Sylar says in fake wonderment, enjoying how readily he and Mohinder fall into a routine perfected by their natural inclinations once upon a time.

“A perfect match for you then since you do enjoy dishing out the pain,” Mohinder says sounding conversational.

“We all have our kinks,” Sylar says stepping next to where Mohinder is sitting and they eye each other contemplatively.

“Fuck you!” Hector shouts through the pain.

Mohinder and Sylar turn their eyes to him. “Seeing how well your attitude has worked up to now that seems like a most unfortunate choice of words,” Mohinder says.

Sylar focuses his narrowed eyes on Hector’s form. A slow scream builds from inside Hector’s throat and his skin begins to mist with profusely dripping sweat as grows redder. Mohinder has seen this once before. Sylar is literally bringing Hector’s blood to a boil.

Uncrossing his legs Mohinder leans forward in his chair and says, “You can end this right now. All you have to do is tell us where Lucia is.”

They can see Hector trying not to break as blisters bubble and rip open along his body.

“She wouldn’t even have to know,” Mohinder continues with a calm voice. “It would just be between us. Bruce could even heal you right after—wipe out any evidence of your involvement.”

Hector’s eyes shift between the two men as blood and pus and ripped skin mix together into a potent biological cocktail.

“You could end this all right now and all you have to do is give us a location. That’s it. It hardly seems fair for you to have to suffer so greatly. Do you think she’d do the same for you?”

Mohinder’s question snaps Hector’s gaze firmly to his. “I’m trying to help you Hector. Why won’t you help yourself?”

“Because he knows he deserves to suffer,” Sylar says with a growl and Mohinder’s surprised look his way finds Sylar singularly concentrated with intent to harm in a rigid jaw, darkened eyes and a tensely splayed right hand. In his left one he still clutches the piece of paper.

“Bruce,” Mohinder says carefully but he cannot break through Sylar’s deliberation with Hector. He stands up half-turned to Sylar and half-turned to Hector. “Bruce,” he repeats more firmly, still to no avail.

Changing tactics, necessary to accommodate the unexpected (but common if he were to think about past interrogations) turn of events, Mohinder quickly steps to Hector and crouches down, already feeling himself starting to sweat from the overwhelming heat.

“This is only the beginning,” Mohinder says momentarily panicked at how close their situation is to getting out of hand. “There’s only so much longer you can hold out before I lose Bruce completely and he turns you into some experimental plaything. Is that what you want? ‘Cause I can walk away and let him dismember you, let him show you your innards. It’s no skin off my back.”

Hector begins mumbling incoherently and Mohinder knows he is close but Sylar is not letting up with his assault. “If you don’t tell us where she is he is going to stretch out torturing you so long that you’re going to wish you had died right now,” Mohinder says, the promised threat delivered in a hushed whisper.

“Stockholm.”

Mohinder nearly misses the confession. “What?”

“Stockholm,” Hector cries out.

Mohinder rushes to stand up, and looks at Sylar who is still tunnel-visioned on Hector. “Bruce,” Mohinder says firmly and steps in Sylar’s sightline forcing him to readjust his eyes on him.

Fast to attention Sylar takes a moment to collect himself then listens closely to Hector’s body. “He’s telling the truth.”

Mohinder turns to Hector and says, “Now that wasn’t so hard was it?”

Hector ignores him, trying to nurse the horrible wounds that mark his body. Mohinder pushes the chair back to the table and begins to address their next course of action with Sylar only to be sternly rebuffed.

“You should take a walk Mohinder.”

“Excuse me?” Mohinder asks at the unexpected statement.

Sylar glances at him with his dark eyes storming black. “Hector and I have unfinished business.”

“What unfinished…” Mohinder notices the paper still in Sylar’s hands, now crinkled in his tightening fingers.

“What are you…” but Mohinder cannot finish the question because he knows what this means. He has been here many times before and knowing that the person in mind is not really a victim does not make it easier to walk away. Sylar’s words are not a request they are an order. “Are you sure?”

Hector seems suddenly aware of his impending doom. Naturally he whimpers pleas for help at Mohinder’s feet but Mohinder shows him little more than a brief look, unable to look him in the eye, unable to look away from the inflamed brooding that has turned Sylar’s eyes coal black. Mohinder pauses, closes his eyes for a moment and swiftly shakes Hector’s grasping hands from his legs and walks to the front door.

“Please…please…” Mohinder hears Hector beg.

Mohinder opens the apartment door and as he steps into the hallway he hears Sylar’s cold voice say dispassionately, “We’re going to have a little talk about this drawing Alvarez so that while I’m killing you, you understand why I’m smiling.”

Mohinder clicks the door closed behind him.

~ Confessions in a Stairwell ~

Sitting at the bottom of the empty stairwell three floors down from Hector’s apartment Mohinder mindfully beeps his cellphone off and waits. Soon he hears Sylar’s distant footsteps, slow and thundering, making his way from floor to floor in no rush.

Mohinder stares at the phone in his hands and wonders about broken time and delayed opportunities. Denials and excuses that will always be there, that will always legitimately exist; turn over each other. He cannot help considering that knowing such a fact, knowing that tomorrow the same binding concerns will scoot around the corners of his mind, that maybe today is the possibility of something else.

But he cannot ignore what has happened or the reminder of an imperfect past it presents. It is a vicious turmoil that twists his insides and keeps him from turning around at the pause of Sylar’s movement at the top of the steps behind him. A hesitation and Sylar plods forward while Mohinder slowly stands up, keeping his back to the approaching man at first before turning around and leaning his back against the wall. When Sylar stops a few steps away Mohinder finally addresses him.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

No. He was vile. Disgusting, Sylar thinks looking at Mohinder out of the corner of his eye. But the look of expectation on Mohinder’s face brings the truth tripping along his lips and he fights it back down, not allowing it to taint the limited time they have together any further.

“I’ll tell you later,” Sylar says monotonously.

Mohinder draws his lips into a tight line. “Bennet called. We’re meeting them in half an hour.”

Sylar’s deliberately blank face falters at the news revealing the quiet trace of disappointment. “Already?”

Mohinder wonders if his own face betrays his intended air of distant professionalism. “I guess we’d forgotten how good we all are at playing our parts,” he says, the resignation in his voice undeniable.

Too soon again it feels like they have been shortchanged for time. Sylar recalls when being together stretched out endlessly before them in some timeless expanse of uncertain possibility. He had loved it for the previously unknown wonder it unlocked in him and he had loathed it for the very want, the weakening distraction of it, that he now feels coursing through the veins of his body. Except now he is not trying to bury it away.

Taking two steps down Sylar ponders telling him everything when he notices Mohinder subtly flinching away from the closing gap.

“Are you serious?” Sylar says abruptly, his irritation bursting forth at going down this road once again when he had hoped it would be, when it was supposed to be, something different.

Mohinder looks at him with an apologetically bashful head tilt down but narrowing eyes that say, ‘what did you expect?’

“Don’t act like this is your first time Mohinder,” Sylar says harshly. “You’ve always known what I do. You might have stepped outside of the room each time but you were always still there.”

“Even then it was still a problem for me!” Mohinder says, not wanting to argue but unable to ignore the reality of their situation. “What do you want me to say—that murder is suddenly not a big deal?”

“They always deserved it. He deserved it,” Sylar says bearing frustrated eyes down on Mohinder who keeps his head turned up to settle his own firm eyes back at Sylar.

“I—,” Mohinder says.

“I know what murder is Mohinder and it’s been a long time since I took a life only for my personal gain. Of anyone you should know the difference in what I do…how much more discriminatory I am about who I kill.”

“I—,” Mohinder says again.

“He deserved it!”

“I believe you!” Mohinder finally shouts.

The admission catches Sylar by surprise and Mohinder continues, exasperated. “I believe you. I believe you drew something that you knew you had to stop or others would be hurt. And still…”

Mohinder rests the back of his head against the wall and closes his eyes. Taking a deep breath he eyes Sylar again. “I know what it’s like to take a life. It sickened me. I did it—and would do it again if need be—but it ate at me, still does. You do it with much more ease…”

“And that disgusts you,” Sylar says, his disappointment apparent in the flat tone.

After a momentary pause Mohinder truthfully says, “To a point.”

Sylar rolls his eyes and moves to the wall across from Mohinder, putting his back to him, while trying not to allow his own defensive thoughts burst forth in an offensive verbal barrage.

“But not like it once did,” Mohinder promptly says and Sylar turns to look at him in confusion. “I can’t—don’t want to change how I feel about murder or the necessary underground laws we’ve all agreed to live by. But I know you’re not…murderer, vigilante…what was, what is…”

Mohinder struggles with words that do not begin to capture what he is trying to make Sylar hear. The furrowed brow above Sylar’s quirked eyebrow suggests Mohinder’s words are as inarticulate as he fears. But the slump in Sylar’s shoulders gives way to a less confrontational tone in his body language and Mohinder thinks that maybe Sylar does get it.

An almost smile turns up the corners of Sylar’s mouth and he tiredly says, “We can never get away from it, can we?”

Mohinder looks at him expectantly and Sylar goes on, “All these qualifications we list and memorize and spit out for why things are different but the same…it doesn’t change the fact that everything’s still screwed up.”

Mohinder murmurs a small conciliatory laugh and opines, “It was always screwed up but we kept trying. And it doesn’t have to make sense. Just look at you, Gabriel. You could have taken off a long time ago but you’re still here and…”

Mohinder catches the name slip too late and worriedly looks at Sylar who has suddenly squared his shoulders stiffly rigid and is staring at him with an indescribable intensity that pierces deep. Sylar pushes off the wall and Mohinder rushes to explain with a sense of unwavering firmness while raising his left hand as if to say, ‘hold on and hear me out.’

“I know you dislike being called that but…given everything we’ve been through it seems only right that I call you by your given name—finally call you by your real name.”

Sylar only hears half of what Mohinder is saying. He is far too shocked at what he thought would never happen outside of wishful thinking and the fruitless endeavors of nighttime musings. That it would come now at the end of a heated moment and the beginning of an amicable understanding seems very fitting. That it should be sprung on him with no prior warning is very Mohinder.

Another step closer and all Sylar wants to hear is his name again from the man who is currently staring him down while also pressing himself defensively against the wall.

“You can call me Gabriel,” Sylar says, his words unclearly mumbled in a sharp contrast to the certainty he is feeling.

Unsure what was said but fully aware of Sylar’s imposing form drawing nearer, Mohinder protectively attempts to pacify a touchy situation. He has not broached this issue before. In fact the only time the name Gabriel crossed his lips was when Sylar had shown up in his apartment with an unsuspecting Maya in a repeated game of masks and lies. They had all been different people then, enough that their current lives would not have existed as even a passing thought.

Mohinder cannot pinpoint when he first began thinking of Sylar as Gabriel. An educated guess tells him it started back when he and Sylar were partnered up. All that time together, really finding out who the other man was, and Mohinder reconstructed a three dimensional person who could not be assigned to one category as had previously been easier to believe. The name Sylar came to seem like more of a game of dress-up that Gabriel had taken to playing permanently, a nickname that fit some projected identity. But make believe or not it had always been Gabriel.

Still he had not meant for the name to just come out with no warning. He had wanted to talk with Sylar (both names live simultaneously in Mohinder’s mind like being multilingual and interchanging words in a sentence) about it but reassignments and never ending missions brought new goals to the forefront.

With it now out in the open Mohinder hopes it does not read as unintentionally antagonistic given the way Sylar did not always speak fondly of his past. Sylar’s expressionless face however is not helping clarify matters.

“I mean if you don’t want me to I—I can understand it—but I really think—is it such a problem?—It’s who you are but I…”

“Mohinder, you…” Sylar stops a few inches from him and holds Mohinder’s eyes with a piercing gaze as he speaks with quiet astonishment. “You can call me Gabriel.”

In the musty stench of the isolating stairwell an understanding dawns on them. Two paths individually ventured finally cross and the surrounding scenery fades into a hazy shade of black until all they see is each other.

Mohinder feels the tension rise up and out of his body. “Gabriel,” he says again, now with curious awe at the weighted symbolism in a name at once innocent and hell-bent as it rolls so naturally off of his tongue. It carries with it every scrap of the past, present and future: painful and disappointing, content and wondering, brutal, humbled.

As if called forth Sylar leans forward but stops short. Their heavy breaths intertwine in the space between them and Mohinder reaches up with his left hand to finger and then grasp the collar of Sylar’s shirt. Sylar feels the pull of the material by his neck and the tips of Mohinder’s fingers pressing into his skin. Mohinder tries to remove the remaining distance between them but Sylar pulls back slightly and looks at him thoughtfully.

Refusing to release his grip Mohinder’s questioning eyes give way to a half-smile that Sylar returns. Then it is Sylar who shifts forward, placing his left hand against he wall near Mohinder’s chest and his right one on Mohinder’s waist. He brings his lips to Mohinder’s and together they cross what had once seemed an insurmountable impasse.

Soft at first, the kiss grows more insistent as Mohinder responds by pressing back. Warm and moist they taste and tease, holding on tighter. Breaking away Sylar places hot kisses down Mohinder’s jaw to his neck. He raises his right hand and begins loosening Mohinder’s tie, undoing the top three buttons of his shirt. Breathing in the skin that peeks from below the shifted clothing Sylar feels for the heated smoothness below with a light touch and follows the path with a kiss.

The strength that Mohinder is using to pull at Sylar’s shirt, bringing them closer, is stretching the material with the snapping rip of stitches and the cotton weave being thrown into disarray. Sylar’s mind is a hodge-podge of disbelief and anticipation, for the first time Mohinder feels free of restrictions and outside impositions.

Mohinder’s breath hitches when Sylar licks and then kisses the sensitive spot at the base of his neck where it curves into his shoulder. He reaches his right arm around Sylar’s shoulder, holding him closer.

Say it again, Sylar hopes longingly, breathing Mohinder in slowly.

A soft moan escapes Mohinder’s lips. “Gabriel,” he says quietly into the air.

Sylar presses a smile into Mohinder’s skin.

~ Goodbyes in a Concrete Landscape ~

The informational debriefing in a fourth floor corner of the parking garage lasts no more than ten minutes. As usual Bennet keeps his share of the goodbyes formal. His aloofness does not disguise the growing sense of concern in unwavering eyes for those he treats as no more than partners. They have fought and heeded his advice, posing a challenging contingent every step of the way and even though he has made no apologies for not putting his life on the line for any of them (they will never earn that worth) a quick, firm handshake with him speaks of his appreciation for what they have taken up at his side.

Ever the opposite Peter is ruled by emotional thoughts. When he is not voicing them his face manages to convey the convoluted mess of cryptic uncertainty that overwhelms him. Bennet keeps him at bay by not allowing a possible hug to pull him in. Not that Peter would try—Bennet’s lack of personal skills is silently deafening. Mohinder on the other hand welcomes the friendly hug with a bright smile and matching strong arms.

“I take it everything went well?” Peter says quietly in Mohinder ear while Bennet and Sylar are distracted, trading cold jabs at each other.

“Hmmm, yes,” Mohinder says tentatively as they slightly pull away from each other but still rest their hands on the other’s shoulders.

Peter offers him a crooked smile and says, “I won’t look inside.”

Shy at the question and relieved by the promise not to read his mind Mohinder simply says, “Thank you Peter.”

“You’re welcome but I’m not being totally selfless,” Peter says with an amused tone of self-confesses. “It means he’ll be easier to deal with while we’re stuck together.”

“You can still call me any time,” Mohinder grins.

“That’s the only thing that makes these arrangements bearable,” Peter says, squeezing Mohinder’s shoulders before letting go.

“We’ve got to move out,” Bennet calls out and Peter moves towards him so that Mohinder and Sylar can say goodbye. Bennet casts them an inquisitive look over Peter’s shoulder and Mohinder recognizes the suspicion in narrowed eyes to know he will be getting an earful later on.

“Mohinder,” Sylar says with a grin as he walks the six steps towards him.

“Sylar,” Mohinder says and the unofficial declaration is agreed that Sylar will be the name used in front of others, a professional pseudonym. Gabriel is just for them, far too complicated to explain and far too personal to share with outsiders.

They shake hands and draw out an unbroken gaze. They had already said their real goodbye in the stairwell. They had gone no further than the kiss but where physicality ended their emotional pilgrimage had far surpassed. Now they clasp their hands tightly together while their pupils dilate allowing them to take in as much of the other as possible, committing details to already well-maintained memories that have sped up the drawn out torture of endless days.

Sylar motions sharply back with his held hand and pulls Mohinder fractionally forward. Mohinder counters the playful gesture by promptly regaining his balance and snatching his hand back with more force than Sylar expects. Their shoulders connect and Mohinder uses the momentum to turn them around and let go, directing a grin at him in the process, and they both tilt into each other’s space. They do not know how long it will be until they see each other again and the newfound knowledge that suddenly exists between them has the bizarre effect of confusing time, speeding it up and slowing it down.

Mohinder lets go first, slowly relinquishing his hold, unclasping his fingers from Sylar’s, who responds by drifting his fingers along Mohinder’s moving palm. Without looking back Mohinder gets into the car that Bennet has already started and is impatiently sitting in. After snapping his seatbelt into place Mohinder rolls down the passenger window while Bennet double checks his GPS. Reaching into the bag at his feet Mohinder pulls out the snap on dark shades that fit over the lenses of his prescription glasses and fits them in place. He looks at Peter and Sylar from behind new eyes as Bennet slowly pulls out of the parking lot.

“Very cool,” Peter says with a laugh from just beyond Sylar’s shoulder.

Mohinder shoots him a wide grin and hangs his right arm outside the window before bending it up to rest his elbow on the bottom of the window frame while touching his fingers to the top.

“Try not to kill each other before we meet again,” Mohinder says. “I need something to look forward to.”

The backwards nod of his head at Bennet encourages a laugh from Peter and Sylar.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Peter smiles lopsidedly.

Sylar steps closer to the car, placing his hand on the top of the car near Mohinder’s hand, establishing the lightest of touches and says, “Only because you asked so nicely.”

A few seconds pass and their shared smile reaches out between them. Hellos and goodbyes exist in the same enfolding of seconds, minutes and hours and as unfortunate as their timing is the constraints of the real world mean that patience is all they have now, wrapped up in soon and finally, eventually.

“Who knew all it took was for me to be polite?” Mohinder says after a thoughtful moment as Bennet begins to pull the car away.

Gabriel stands back and smirks.