It's funny how the Earth never opens up and swallows you when you want it to.

The Messenger, Part 1

2009-10-30T18:18:59Z

The Messenger
by Harikari

Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Pre-slash, eventual slash, gore, violence, blood, possible spoilers for all seasons of BtVS and AtS.
Summary: Six years after the battle with the First Xander is having visions, another great evil is headed for Los Angeles, and Spike is feeling uncharacteristically warm towards a certain human.

AN: Just a little post-series universe I've had in mind for awhile. Sorry if you see this more than once. Written for fall_for_sx..

-----

Part One: Meetings

"Xander," said Angel. And this time there wasn't even any surprise in it, only frustration. "You're here."

Xander didn't answer; the rynak demon had thrown him to the ground just before Spike had rammed the silver blade of his knife into its spine. He was struggling up, dusting off his jeans. He glanced around, made his way over to an old headstone and picked up the axe that had landed there after the demon had knocked it from his grip.

"Harris," Angel said again, frowning down at the rynak demon's fallen companion (he'd just snapped its neck). It looked sort of like a vampire. Only more...blue. Xander had seen something like it before back in Sunnydale, he knew he had, but couldn't remember what the things were called. "What are you doing here?"

Xander looked up, watched as Spike pulled his knife from the large, scaly body. The vampire reached into his pocket and pulled out a square of red cloth. He wiped the knife's blade then tucked the weapon into a sheath on his belt. "Besides getting rescued by us, he means," quipped the blond, stuffing the cloth away and then running a smoothing hand over his already pristine and flowy looking leather duster.

Xander pursed his lips, shrugged and looked away from the two intense stares. He looked around at the cemetery; it was small and very old, the only illumination came from the high powered flashlight stuck in his back pocket light side up and the eerie glow of the two vampire's eyes. Most of the names and the dates on the headstones that weren't broken had worn away and the squat gate surrounding the place was rusted and twisted in spots. "Just killing demons," he finally replied when he realized that Angel wasn't going to let him go without an answer this time.

Spike snorted and Xander turned to glare at him -- the blond had a cigarette in his mouth now, was lighting it expertly with his Zippo -- and shrugged. "Well, you know, trying to at least. Thanks for..." He waved his hand around to take in the two dead demons sprawled on the ground. "That. Thanks."

He swung the axe up so the weight of it rested on his shoulder, pulled the flashlight from his pocket and aimed it so the beam faced forward. "Um...so I guess I'll see you around." He turned away then and started walking, sighed when not a second later both Angel and Spike were next to him (damn their freaky vampire speed, anyway), flanking him.

"Xander, tell me-" started Angel, only to be cut off by Spike.

"How the bloody hell are you doin' it, whelp? Staying a step ahead of us? How did you know a rynak and his friend were prowling around these parts? And how did you know about the vampire nest near that high school before that?"

They had reached the edge of the grounds, the three of them stepped through the large gap in the fence where an oversized gate had once been and Xander could make out his truck now. There was a black car parked behind it -- Angel or Spike's latest ride.

"Don't call me whelp," was all he said. He put the axe into the duffel bag he had secured in the truck bed, then rifled through his jacket's pocket and pulled out his keys. He managed to pull open the door and toss the flashlight onto the bench seat before a large, powerful hand grabbed at the edge of the open door and held it firm. Angel's. Spike stood close, smoking and staring and standing just behind Xander like they were afraid he was going to bolt or something.

Yeah. Right. Like he didn't know running away from two master vampires was a bad idea for too many reasons to count.

"What?" he asked, but he already knew. He knew what they wanted to know and he didn't want to tell them. Didn't want to know it himself.

"After the incident at the school we got ahold of the New Council, talked to Giles. He said that you were in Africa for a while. That when you came back you asked for some time off, so they gave it to you. He said after that you headed back to the States and-"

"Yeah, yeah." Xander pushed hard at the door, trying to open it enough that he could squeeze inside and start the engine but it didn't budge. "I was there. I know the story."

"You dropped off their radar, whelp," cut in Spike. He leaned in closer, close enough that if he could breathe Xander would've felt hot breath on his neck. "Just...disappeared. Giles and the old gang were all very glad to hear about you but..." He trailed off.

Xander stopped struggling with the door, leaned back against the truck. "That's not true. I didn't disappear. I've talked to them all, like, at least once every month since I left the Council and I even visited Dawn awhile back."

Angel growled. "Listen, Harris. We know something is...up. Maybe you didn't completely disappear but you did stop hunting. You haven't wanted anything to do with hunting for years and now, suddenly, you're in L.A. and you've been showing up at every one of our targets for a week. What's going on?"

Xander played with the idea of telling the vampire that he had not put away hunting completely for all those years, thank you very much. Instead he said, "I don't know what you're freaking out about. Nothing is going on. Maybe I just feel like..."

Shit, he thought. And blinked. Because his head was suddenly pounding and his eye felt itchy and his muscles were tight. Shit. Not now. Not here.

"What? What's wrong?" came Angel's voice as if from a distance.

"Harris?"

But what he wanted didn't matter.

He saw a bright neon sign and a line of people behind a velvet rope, bodies gyrating to pulsing music, toxic looking drinks, a blond woman sitting at the bar next to a smiling young man. They stood, grasped hands and pushed through the crowd to the front door. Outside, they made their way to a nearby alley. In the near dark the woman pushed the man so his back was flat against the wall, wrapped her arms around his neck and -- screamed. Because the smiling young man had transformed, his eyes were an ugly yellow and his forehead was ridged. Two unnaturally long teeth protruded from his mouth. He grinned an ugly grin, held the woman tight and bent to bite her neck...

Xander blinked again. Swallowed. He was...on the ground, but leaning against something. Leaning against one of his truck's tires. He'd fallen, then. And he'd been moved. He was shaking. He felt a hand in his hair, gripping. Someone was kneeling in front of him and talking to him. Spike was leaning over him and talking to him. "...telling us you were having bloody visions?"

Beyond Spike, Angel was pacing. He had a cell phone pressed to his ear and was hissing something into it. He nodded sharply (Xander wondered if he'd forgotten the person he was talking to couldn't actually see him through the phone), then flipped the cell closed.

Xander's eye was still itching. Spike had let go of his hair and now had a cold hand gripping the back of his neck. Not a threatening grip or anything. Just...there.

"Okay," he said. Both demons were looking at him, their eyes fierce and their body language screaming tense and ready for action. "So there might be these visions-"

"Xander," both vampires growled in unison.

Xander sighed, caved. "I saw a club in the city. Club Red. I'm pretty sure I know where it is. Some vampire guy is going to try and drain a pretty blond." He frowned at Spike. "A pretty blond lady," he amended.

Spike twitched an eyebrow at him. Angel kept staring.

"Well?" asked Xander. "Can you help me up? I got the feeling the attack is tonight."

Spike stood and pulled him to his feet without effort, put a steadying hand on his shoulder when he swayed.

"Okay. Yeah. Fine. Let's go," said Angel. "But after we've taken care of the vampire we're going to talk, Harris."

Supermassive Black Hole - A Star Trek XI Mix

2009-05-14T03:49:55Z

WARNING!! MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE 2009 MOVIE AHEAD!!

A Star Trek XI fanmix. This is a gen mix with a focus on Kirk and Spock. I used most of the songs because I thought they fit the 'atmosphere' or the 'mood' of the scene I was trying to capture; so if the lyrics don't seem to match, that's why. I own nothing and am doing this for fun, not profit. No zip thanks to my snail slow connection, but I'm willing to re-upload if needed. If some of the descriptions of the scenes seem off/wrong it's probably because I've only seen the movie once so far. Hope you enjoy! Comments are love.

001 Requiem for a Dream - Clint Mansell >>

The USS Kelvin is attacked, Kirk is born and an alternate universe is set into motion.

002 Sabotage - Beastie Boys >>

Kirk's childhood on Earth.

003 Prelude 12/21 - AFI >>

Spock's childhood on Vulcan.

Spock's POV and Spock's mother's/father's POV depending on the lyric. His parents 'brought' him his human and vulcan heritage/race, his mother gave him a human heart she wishes he'd 'keep', etc.

This is what I brought you, this you can keep.
This is what I brought, you may forget me.
I promise to depart, just promise one thing.
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep.

This is what I thought, I thought you’d need me.
This is what I thought, so think me naive
I'd promised you a heart, you'd promise to keep.
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep...

004 Stronger - Kanye West ft. Daft Punk >>

Kirk and Spock join Starfleet. Kirk (the player) attends the academy, etc.

Now that don't kill me,
Can only make me stronger.
I need you to hurry up now
'Cause I can't wait much longer.
I know I got to be right now
'Cause I can't get much wronger.

Man, I been waitin' all night now,
That's how long I've been on ya.

005 Cobrastyle - Teddybears ft. Mad Cobra >>

Starfleet receives a distress call from Vulcan and must send a fleet. Rookies McCoy, Uhura, Chekov and Sulu are all assigned to the Enterprise (Kirk isn't, but goes anyway). Spock is first officer. I think this song captures the 'energy' of the shiny new crew and the humor of Kirk forcing his way onto Enterprise.

006 Weapons of Mass Destruction - Crystal Method >>

Vulcan is under attack. The fleet is thrust suddenly into battle. Enterprise attempts a rescue. Spock tries to save his mother (among others). Captain Pike is captured and Vulcan is destroyed.

007 Glittering Blackness - Explosions in the Sky >>

Kirk is ejected from the Enterprise. He meets up with Spock Prime and finds out the motivation behind the attack on Vulcan, meets Scotty and heads back to the Enterprise where he takes command.

008 Bulletproof Cupid - Placebo >>

Kirk wants to stop Nero from destroying Earth. Spock wants to help. They attack.

009 Supermassive Black Hole - Muse >>

In this universe that wouldn't have existed if it weren't for a Black Hole and some time travel Kirk is now Captain and Spock his first officer. It's the beginning of a life long friendship and the beginning of the Enterprise's journey...

Impasse

2009-04-28T06:35:03Z

Impasse

by Harikari

Pairings: Sylar/Mohinder, Peter/Claire

Rating: Hard R

Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just having some non profit fun.

Warnings: Incest, violence, slash, dub con, strong language, possible gore, AU that takes place after the events of Season 1.

Notes: I know, I know. I should be working on my other WIPs, I even posted about only working on a certain two of my WIPs this year. But...this plot bunny hit me and I couldn't help myself. *iz guilty* This is a strange one. An AU Paire and Mylar fic. I already have it planned out, so it shouldn't be more than three or four chapters long. Feedback is love, if you notice any mistakes feel free to point them out.

Summary: Peter wants to save Claire. Sylar wants to use Mohinder. The two powerful rivals team up in order to get what they want.

Part One

Claire hated the brown and white blouse Lyle had given her for Christmas last year. The sleeves were tight around her upper arms and the coarse material made her skin itch.

Still, when the two stone-faced men -- they were both heavily armed, both garbed in black fatigues and sporting ID badges that informed the now former cheerleader they were instruments of the U.S. Government -- appeared suddenly and ushered her and the dozen or so other girls and women she had been trapped with out of the cell and down a very dimly lit, dank hall the thought that popped immediately into her head surprised her.

She thought: I can't believe I'm going to die wearing this stupid thing. I wish mom had done some laundry before they came for me. I wish I had done some laundry.

She blinked; made her way down the hallway, bumping shoulders with the other prisoners as she walked. She decided to blame the strange thought on her shock. And yes she knew it was a strange thought, knew that she shouldn't be focusing on how much she disliked the outfit she was going to die in, instead should be focusing on how not to die.

She couldn't just give up. Couldn't let her fear paralyze her.

She had to hold on to hope, had to devise a plan.

A petite girl to the left of Claire stumbled, crashed to her knees and let out a gasp. It was pure instinct for the former cheerleader to halt at the sound of the girls (and now that Claire was paying attention she was sure it was a girl, a little girl maybe ten or eleven years old) pained exhalation. Instinct to backtrack the few steps and lean down to help.

It was difficult -- she was cuffed, and the girl was cuffed. It was only because their handcuffs weren't secured behind their backs, and because another prisoner also backed up to help that the little girl was able to gain her feet again.

"Hurry it up," growled out one of the uniformed men that was flanking the frightened group of women just as the girl caught her balance.

At the threatening growl Claire and her two companions continued their slow walk down the hallway.

"Thank you," whispered the little girl. And she sounded like a little girl; at the sound of her voice Claire's throat felt suddenly tight, her eyes damp.

"No problem," she answered.

And at the same time the other woman who had helped the girl, who was now at Claire's side muttered, "You're welcome."

"I'm Molly," whispered the little girl.

Claire started; shot a look at the girl and... Yeah, it was Molly. Molly Walker from Kirby Plaza. "Claire," she offered. And the look she got in return told her Molly remembered her, too. Remembered Kirby Plaza and the battle. Remembered their brief meeting before everything had gone to hell, before the battle had gone wrong (not apocalypse wrong, not New York was destroyed wrong but still wrong) and before the government had -- thanks to the aforementioned battle -- decided to label everyone and anyone with 'special abilities' dangerous. Had decided to round them up and dispose of them.

"Monica," said the helpful young woman to her left, and Claire nodded a greeting.

Molly shot a furtive glance around, perhaps assuring herself that their captors weren't paying attention. Then, "They're going to kill us, aren't they?"

Claire swallowed, didn't answer.

"We have to get out of here," hissed Molly.

Yeah. No kidding, thought the former cheerleader just as the guards and group of prisoners turned a corner.

They came to a large, metal door that blocked the hallway. Stopped when the guards shouted. Claire watched as the uniformed grunt in the front said something into his mouthpiece before turning and punching a code into a numbered panel near the door. There was a click, a hissing sound. Slowly, the large door slid open.

Claire gagged, coughed and tried to bring her hand up to cover her mouth; couldn't because of the cuffs restraining her.

It smelled beyond the door. Smelled really, really bad. Like something old and rotting, like death.

The smell seeped quickly over the group of women and girls. They started to panic. Some cried out, some whimpered, some burst into tears. Two tried to bolt only to be violently grabbed and flung back to the group by the expressionless guards.

"Move!" demanded the uniformed man at the back as the crying and nervous movement and fear escalated.

Death. Beyond the door it smelled like death. These guards were marching them, the herd of prisoners, to their own ends. Had doubtlessly marched many other prisoners to their deaths in the same way. Claire knew it now, the rest of the captives knew it.

"No!" shouted Molly; she had started to cry, was shaking her head.

Despite all this, despite the protests and the shouts and the wet sounding screams when the guard shouted again they all continued on.

Claire's hands curled into tight fists. She shot a glance at one guard, then the other. She couldn't do this. Wouldn't do this. She had to run. Had to try and get away; had to get away and then find a way to save the others. The guards would shoot her, and it would hurt. But maybe it wouldn't kill her -- maybe whatever drugs she'd been injected with when she'd been captured and whatever gas had been periodically pumped into the cell she'd just exited wouldn't stop her ability like it had stopped the other womens abilities.

Her ability was different, wasn't flying or strength or shooting fire from her hands. Maybe the ability dampening drugs hadn't taken her healing away...

And maybe I'm fooling myself.

She was. She knew it. But she didn't care. She was going to go out trying to get away, trying to do something. She wasn't going to be compliant about being killed.

She took a deep breath. Stopped walking. Monica shot her a questioning look and slowed -- maybe the young woman would try too, would run with her.

"We said move, freak," said the rear guard. And he hurried his pace so that he was crowding her from behind, trying to keep her walking.

But Claire didn't move. Monica came to a stop a few feet ahead of her, to her left. Molly was very slowly shuffling forward, kept turning back to watch the scene unfolding with red and puffy eyes.

The guard shifted, presumably so he could better reposition his gun -- maybe shove the business end of it into her back...

Claire spun; brought up her restrained hands in a blur of movement and knocked the nose of the gun aside. The guard wasn't expecting it, let out a surprised sounding huff and stumbled back a step.

The former cheerleader took advantage of the man's shock. She ran.

The sound of her sneakers slapping against the concrete was unnaturally loud; Claire felt a stinging in her eyes, closed them tight. Her heart was beating fastfastfast inside of her chest. Behind her she could hear it as the man she'd surprised cursed. He was trained, had marched dozens -- hell, maybe hundreds -- of people to their deaths under orders and knew what to do when one bolted for his or her life.

"Hernandez!" she heard the guard at the front bark.

"I've got it!" snapped back the man she'd hit. And then there was a rustling, the sound of Hernandez positioning his weapon. Aiming it.

"Noooo!" came Molly's raw and betrayed sounding cry, and at this point Claire was sprinting with all she had to give; had her eyes closed (she was crying, tears running down her cheeks because despite her earlier thoughts she knew she'd been kidding herself, knew what she was doing wasn't smart and planned out and brave -- knew it was a last ditch attempt at selfish survival, an animal reaction to a FUBAR situation, knew that if she had to die she wanted it quick and over with) and her heart was going to explode it was beating so fast-

KAWOOOSH.

A wall of force rushed down the hallway, like an explosion. Claire fell flat. For a long moment couldn't breathe, couldn't move. (Had Hernandez pulled the trigger? Was she dead? But no...she could feel pain in her knees and elbows and cheek where she'd hit the concrete floor and that sound hadn't been the sharp report of a gunshot).

There was movement behind her, surprised exhalations and grunts of pain and footsteps. Then, "Claire?"

Peter.

Claire struggled up to her knees, turned her head and...yes. It was Peter. He was standing in the hallway before her. Behind him, behind the other captives (most of them had fallen too and were struggling up) and the prone bodies of the guards, beyond the metal door the building's roof and part of its wall had been destroyed, blown apart. The sun was shining into the building, lighting up the dank hall and illuminating the confused, pinched faces of the female prisoners.

"Peter," she said. "What...how..." she trailed off.

Peter stared at her for a moment, dark eyes taking her in; feeling awkward and lost and embarrassingly dirty (she hadn't bathed since she'd been captured a few days before), she stumbled to her feet. Peter came closer, reached out to grip her arm as she caught her balance. "Claire," he said, and Claire saw that his eyes were wet. His muscles tense. "I thought you were-"

But he cut off mid-sentence, grabbed at her shoulders and pulled her into a tight hug. "You're okay," he said close to her ear, moist breath tickling at her skin.

She hugged him back, breathed in deep. "Yeah." And then she found herself pulling away a little, but not letting go. She strained upward, and Peter seemed to know what she was trying to do -- he leaned down, caught her mouth in a kiss. The kiss was wet, hot (their teeth clicked, their tongues found each other) and brief.

She pulled away before he did, breathing hard. "I'm okay," she assured. And it wasn't a lie. She was okay. Okay now that Peter was here, now that she and the other women had a chance. Okay despite the fact that she'd just unexpectedly made out with her uncle. It hadn't felt wrong, she didn't feel the horrible guilt she maybe should...it had felt right. Like something inevitable, something falling into place.

Peter nodded, stepped back and away. "Okay," he said, shot a look back at the scatter of women behind them. As he was turning back to the former cheerleader there was a loud boom, the ground shook and the far off rat-tat-tat of gunfire started up at the same moment the loud wailing of an alarm started to sound.

"We have to go," said Peter. "We have to get the others out."

"What was that?" asked Claire, and Peter grinned.

"Sylar," he answered.

Claire gaped at him. "What? What do you mean Sylar?"

"He's here. He's helping me." When Claire shook her head in disbelief, he shrugged. "He wanted to get in here, too. For obvious reasons. And...he said he wants to get Mohinder out, too."

"Dr. Suresh? But-"

"I don't know why." At this, his lips pursed. He combed his fingers through his longish hair. "I'm not going to let him take anyone with him, or kill any of us but...I needed his help so I could take this place down. Save everyone. Save you."

Claire nodded; her mouth turned up in a smile.

But her smile fell quickly away when the ground shook again. Dust rained down from what was left of the roof and the gunfire sounded suddenly closer.

"What do we do?" yelled out one of the prisoners. It sounded like Monica. She sounded nervous, a little angry.

Claire took a step towards them and Peter turned to take them all in. "We run," he said. "We get the hell out of here." He took a deep breath, raised his right arm. His fingers moved, jerked; there was clinking, the sound of metal hitting concrete as all of the handcuffs unlocked and fell off.

Claire watched her own pair drop to the ground, rubbed at her sore wrists.

"Come on," said Peter. He sounded anxious now; ready for a fight. He reached back, wrapped his hand around Claire's left wrist. His hand slid down, skin brushing skin until they were holding hands.

"Let's go."

hari_kari @ 2009-03-18T20:21:00

2009-03-19T02:43:55Z

Reason
by Harikari

AN: Sorry it's so short. Hope you enjoy. Comments and constructive crit are, as always, appreciated.
-----

Part Six

Mohinder didn't reply right away. He took a single, large step back and away from Sarah. Breathed.

Dangerous.

She thought...no she honestly (if the tears trailing down her face and the imploring look in her eyes were anything to go by) believed Gabriel was dangerous. Believed that he should cut off his relationship with his best friend.

The eighth grader felt suddenly cold, brought up his arms and folded them across his chest.

Sarah hadn't moved from her place in front of him. She was watching him, and as he folded his arms into the defensive posture she reached out, brushed a hand across his elbow before quickly pulling away.

Mohinder took another step back. "You don't know," he said, finally and a little louder than necessary. His voice echoed in the hallway; a few seventh graders chatting by the gaping double doors that led into the gym looked their way. "You don't know anything for sure, Sarah. Don't say you do. Gabriel's my friend. I'm not going to stop being his friend...stop talking to him just because you have a bad feeling about him."

The girl stared at him for a long moment, an unreadable expression on her face. Then she nodded -- a sharp jerk of her neck -- and pursed her lips, wiped at the dampness on her face. It didn't help much, when she pulled away she still looked red and splotchy and upset. "Well-"

"Sarah?" The voice, emanating from somewhere behind Sarah and down the hall, cut her off.

It was Matt. The football captain was near the double doors, Janice (looking wide eyed and a little bit panicked) at his side. The onlooking seventh graders had scattered.

Matt and Janice started towards them and Mohinder bit hard at his bottom lip. Hugged himself tighter. He felt nervous, trapped, angry and suddenly guilty for no reason he could discern.

"You okay?" Janice asked Sarah once she and her bulk of a boyfriend had stopped before them. Sarah nodded.

"What happened?" asked Matt, and he eyed Mohinder.

"Nothing," said Sarah. "I was just talking to him." A shrug. "We were just-"

"Mohinder?" This time the unexpected voice came from behind Mohinder. It was Gabriel's voice.

Mohinder turned, saw that the seventh grader had emerged from a second set of doors and was hurrying down the hallway towards the group that had gathered near the water fountain. His posture was tense, his dark eyes darting to take in everyone that made up the group surrounding his friend.

"Hey," offered Mohinder when his friend had paused beside him, his throat feeling tight. He felt a little like he wanted to cry, wasn't sure why; he swallowed and forced the feeling back.

Stupid, he thought. This isn't a big deal -- Sarah's just upset and Gabriel's my best friend and I'm being stupid over nothing.

Gabriel spared him a quick glance, but didn't offer a greeting in return. "What's going on?" he asked. And though he was meeting Matt's heated gaze the eighth grader was positive the younger boy was talking to him.

"Just-" Mohinder started to answer, but Sarah took a firm step forward -- her face was twisted in what looked like violent anger -- and broke in.

"I was asking Mohinder to a movie after the dance. You know, with Matt and Jan. Like a double date." The unspoken 'you're not invited' shone through loud and clear.

Gabriel stared at her. "Oh?" He took a step forward himself; he made Sarah look fragile in comparison.

Mohinder unfolded his arms and reached out, plucked at the back of Gabriel's shirt. "Come on," he said, almost a whisper (and he wasn't quite sure what it was he was asking, pleading for). But the other boy didn't react to the touch, to his voice.

"Yeah," piped up Matt. "So are you coming, Mohinder? With us?"

All eyes turned to him. There was a pause, a stillness as the crowd of teenagers waited for his response.

Mohinder couldn't help but feel that, whatever his answer, it was an important moment. He eyed Matt, Janice and Sarah. Thought about that day in Social Studies with Matt and his cautionary words. About Sarah's tears.

"Mohinder," said Gabriel, suddenly and in a questioning tone. And so the eighth grader turned; met his friend's intense eyes.

Friend. He recalled the way he had confronted his best friend when he'd heard about Sarah and her poor cat all those months ago, straightened his posture and shook his head.

"No," he answered and even as he said it Gabriel's mouth -- naught but a thin, tight line a moment before -- shaped itself into a grin. "Thank you, but I can't. I've already told Gabriel I'd go to see a movie with him after the dance."

It wasn't true -- he'd barely been persuaded to the dance itself. But saying yes to the invitation would mean going along with Sarah and her friends and their cruel accusations, saying yes would mean turning his back on his friend. And he could not, would not do that.

"Maybe some other time," he finished.

Matt made an annoyed huffing sound and turned away, dragging Janice behind him. Sarah nodded, eyed her fellow eighth grader slowly and carefully, then turned away herself.

"That guy is a freak," Janice commented loudly once Sarah had caught up to her. "Suresh will be sorry he didn't listen to you. To us."

The threesome reached the double doors, disappeared into the chaotic gym once more.

Mohinder sighed; noticed that Gabriel was looking at him.

"What?"

The seventh grader smirked. "Let's get out of here." He shoved playfully at Mohinder's shoulder before bolting, away from the busy activity of the gym and down the deserted hallway.

Bemused, Mohinder followed him. A janitor heading towards the lunchroom with a push broom gave them both an unpleasant look as they took a sharp right.

Then, abruptly, Gabriel stopped. Mohinder stopped too, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. He was breathing hard, smiling.

They had reached their lockers.

"Where are we going?"

The younger boy took a moment to catch his breath. "To see a movie," he said after a pause, as he straightened his glasses.

Mohinder let out a startled laugh, and Gabriel beamed.

a little update

2009-03-14T03:08:40Z

Hi all!

I haven't been around LJ much lately (work in the day and school at night is interfering with my net and tv watching time -- I 'm hoping I'll be able to watch everything I've missed online this weekend and also catch up on new fic in all my fandoms) and I've gotten a few emails/messages asking about my fics, so I thought I'd post a general reply to those questions here.

Right now I'm working on chapter two of "The Family Business" (Spike/Xander) and part six of "Reason" (Gabriel/Mohinder). Nothing else is being worked on. I hope to go back to working on my other WIPs one day, but for now I'm going to try and concentrate on finishing tFB and Reason.

I thought I'd have updates for my fics ready much sooner, but real life issues and busy-ness forced me to put fandom aside for a little while. This coming week is my Spring Break though, so here's hoping I get a lot of writing and reading done. ;)

Hope you're all doing well, and hope you all have an awesome Spring Break!! <3

One Reason Burton Guster Loves Shawn Spencer

2009-02-08T21:12:43Z

Title: One Reason Burton Guster Loves Shawn Spencer
Author: Harikari
Pairing/Characters: Shawn & Gus
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Pre-slash (can possibly be considered gen), some strong language, fluff, Shawn and Gus as teenagers, etc.
Disclaimer: Don't own em'.
Word Count: 1150

Summary: Shawn does something nice for Gus.

-----

"Oh. That. I haven't started on it yet."

Sixteen year old Burton "Gus" Guster turned to stare wide eyed at his best friend. "Haven't started on it yet? It was assigned to us five weeks ago. And it's due Friday! That's two days from now. That gives you two days -- less than two days if you count meals and sleep and television watching and time in class -- to finish your Biology project, Shawn."

Shawn shrugged. "So?" he challenged. "I'll do it Thursday night."

Gus would've choked had he been eating or drinking anything. As it was, he nearly swallowed his tongue. "Thursday night?" he managed after a moment. "Thursday night? Shawn. This is getting..." He trailed off. Sighed; took a moment to take in their surroundings (backpacks slung over their shoulders, they were strolling along an otherwise deserted sidewalk -- Gus's house was already in sight) and gather his thoughts.

"You've really been slacking this year. What are you going to do if you flunk? If they don't let you go on to twelfth grade? If they don't let you have your diploma? You know without a decent education you won't be able to do anything with your life. You won't be able to become a lawyer or a doctor or a...a cop or-"

"Stop right there," said Shawn. "You know I don't want to be any of those things. Especially a cop. Cops are evil." A pause, and Gus knew his friend was picturing his gruff father. "Well. Maybe not all cops." He frowned. "I might be biased," he admitted.

Gus shook his head and sighed again. He was honestly worried about his friend, about his friend's future. Shawn had always been...different. Had always been a goof off when it came to school (and, okay, life in general) despite his sometimes not-so-obvious brilliance. But lately he'd been worse. Had been shirking almost all of his responsibilities -- educational and otherwise.

As they walked, as they moved steadily closer to his family's front door Gus pondered he and his friend and how different they had always been. How different they were still in the process of becoming.

"I'm hungry," Shawn said from beside him and suddenly he felt sick -- felt an unpleasant fluttering in his stomach, a strange tightness in his throat. He could suddenly see their futures; envisioned himself a semi-successful businessman (or, well, something like that) and his green-eyed best friend restless, broke (not for lack of talent and brains, mind) and wandering through life.

Their friendship, strong as it was, couldn't overcome that. Wouldn't. It was inevitable. They would outgrow each other, grow apart. There was no way-

"Isn't that Rachel Davis?" asked Shawn, effectively derailing Gus's disturbing train of thought. "The one that scares you?"

"She doesn't scare me Shawn," Gus snapped. "She just...rubs me the wrong way. That's all."

His face a mask of doubt, Shawn turned to stare at him. "Uh huh. I bet she would like that."

"Like what?" asked Gus, turning away from the disbelieving eyes and trying to see...

And yeah, there she was. Rachel Davis. His crazy next door neighbor; she was fifteen, lived with her father in Michigan ten months out of the year and had been enamored with Gus since she'd spotted him that summer she was five and he was six.

"To rub you the wrong way," quipped Shawn. Gus tore his gaze away from the girl -- who had unfortunately spotted them and was standing from the porch swing, ambling closer -- to glare at him.

"Hi Gus," came Rachel's voice, and Gus felt his whole body tense. "How are you?"

"Uh...good. Well. How are you, Rachel?"

"What are you doing here?" put in Shawn before she could reply. "I thought you only lived with your mom during the summer."

"Shawn!" Gus protested. But not too loudly. Because, yeah, he wanted to know the answer to Shawn's question. Wanted to know because Rachel, although basically a nice young woman, could be pushy and desperate and loud and pretty much completely insane when it came to her romantic relationship (or lack of relationship, rather, and that was the problem in her eyes) with Gus.

She blinked at Shawn. "Wedding," she answered. "My aunt is getting married." A smile. "Do you want to come to the wedding with us, Gus? My mom said I-"

"He can't," said Shawn. "He's attached."

It was Gus's turn to blink. Rachel narrowed her eyes at Shawn. "Attached? What...? He doesn't have a girfriend. I talk to Tammy Martinez every week on the phone and she goes to school with you guys and I've asked her..." She trailed off. Then, "Don't lie, Shawn. He doesn't have a girlfriend. You don't have a girlfriend, Gus. I know you don't."

Her hands were on her hips now. Her face was flushed and she looked like she was preparing for one of her rants -- one of her long tirades on why she thought she and Gus should be together. It would end with her crying and Gus feeling guilty (he couldn't stand it when a girl cried and he was involved, it made him feel terrible) and then agreeing to a date he didn't want any part of.

"He's attached," Shawn insisted.

Rachel glared; shook her head. "Don't you try and tell me he has a girlfriend. I just finished saying I talk to-"

But before she could finish her angry rant Shawn spun, snaked an arm around Gus's neck and forced him down for a kiss. Their lips met; Gus felt the slight pressure of his friend's lips on his own, felt heat and moisture and the warmth of Shawn's more compact body close to his...

A split second later it was over.

Gus stared bug eyed at his friend. Rachel's mouth had dropped open -- she seemed to be in shock.

"Who said anything about a girlfriend?" asked Shawn before he grabbed for Gus's arm and dragged him away from crazy Rachel Davis, up the Guster's walk and into their house.

As soon as the front door slammed behind them Shawn dropped Gus's arm. "Don't ever say I don't do nice things for you," he said. And then, "What do you guys have to eat?"

Gus showed his friend to the kitchen. And as he did he didn't worry about what Rachel might tell her friend Tammy and what gossip she might start up at school (even if people did believe Tammy, chances were Shawn was already devising some plan that would take attention off of them -- he always had a plan). Instead, he realized he should've never worried over he and Shawn growing apart one day. It wouldn't happen. Couldn't.

He and Shawn were different, sure. But they were best friends.  Best friends. That meant give and take. Meant even if one day Gus turned into a successful businessman and Shawn a dreamer who leached financially off of his best friend...it wouldn't matter. Because Gus would be glad to do it, to help out his friend when and if he needed it.

And Shawn, it seemed, felt the same way.

hari_kari @ 2009-01-30T19:22:00

2009-01-31T02:33:06Z

Reason
by Harikari

AN: Hope you enjoy. Feedback is appreciated. ^_^

-----

Part Five

"I still don't understand why we're here," complained Mohinder.

They were sitting on the bleachers in the gym (which was decorated with shiny streamers, handwritten posters that declared 'Spring Fling After School Dance' in different hues of marker, and which was dark except for the hypnotic shine of a disco ball).

Gabriel bumped shoulders with him. "Because," he said over the boom of the music. "It's a school dance. And we're part of the school. Duh."

Eyes narrowed, Mohinder turned to stare at the smirking seventh grader. "Gabriel." At the sound of his name the other teen straightened, seemed to sober. "You hate this school. You hate everyone in this school. And we've never been to an after school dance before. I mean... I tried to come to one last semester. You remember how well that turned out."

Gabriel was silent for a moment. Mohinder swallowed, took in a deep breath and felt the heaviness that was guilt settle onto his shoulders. His best friend was only trying to have a little fun. He shouldn't have mentioned the difficult subject that was 'the Sarah Ellis' incident, shouldn't have-

"Not everyone," said Gabriel, cutting into his thoughts.

"What?"

"I don't hate everyone that goes to this school," replied the younger teen. And he smiled; bumped shoulders with Mohinder again.

Mohinder suppressed the strong urge to smile back. "I have homework. And I'm pretty sure you have homework. And it's not like we're going to dance with anyone. Especially after..." He trailed off for a second. Then, "None of these girls are going to dance with us, Gabriel."

The seventh grader heaved a sigh. "It's Friday, Mohinder. We have all weekend to do homework." A pause as he straightened his glasses. "And who says we're not dancing? We can dance."

That shocked the eighth grader into a snort. "What? Yeah, right. With who?"

And suddenly Gabriel looked uncomfortable. He shifted. Shrugged, then mumbled something unintelligible.

"What?"

"Dance," he spoke up. "I said we can dance. Together. If you want to."

Mohinder blinked; for a second couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't hear or see anything but the boy in front of him.

Then he realized that the other teen must be joking. (Of course he's joking, thought the eighth grader. How can he not be joking?). He burst into a startled, strained sounding laugh and shoved at Gabriel's elbow. "Don't be a jerk, Gabriel. You shouldn't joke like that."

A pause. Then, "Yeah, well..." Smiling a soft looking smile the other teen shrugged again.

Mohinder shook his head; stood. "I'll be right back." He moved away from the bleachers and across the crowded floor, glanced back when he reached the double doors leading out of the darkened stretch of space and saw that his friend was staring after him.

The eighth grader stared back. Maybe... But he shook his head and turned away, brushed the thought aside before it could even fully form.

Then he stepped out of the gym.

-----

"I need to talk to you," came a voice from behind just as Mohinder was curling over the water fountain to get a drink. He managed to swallow a startlingly cold mouthful of water before his thumb let up on the button and he stepped back from the fountain.

"Oh," he said and wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. "Uh...hello."

It was Sarah.

She was dressed in a blue t-shirt and jeans, looked unnaturally pale under the bright hallway lights. Her dark hair was up in a ponytail. Her mouth was a thin, straight line.

Mohinder realized she must have followed him out of the gym (which was a loud and busy flash of lights and movement somewhere beyond the hallway now), that she must have stayed waiting for him outside of the boy's bathroom (he flushed at that thought).

"Mohinder," she started in a soft voice. "About Gabriel..." She trailed off; met his eyes with her own. "I know I was a bitch when you asked me to the dance before...before..." She stopped, swallowed hard before continuing. "I shouldn't have acted that way. I mean...I even like you, Mohinder. I've known you since elementary and I like...liked you and the only reason I did that to you was because you hang around with Gabriel Gray."

She paused again; turned away from Mohinder and looked down at the tiled floor. "I shouldn't have acted that way. But this has been, like, eating away at me or something and I have to say it or I'm going to go crazy. Or I'm going to regret not saying it for the rest of my life."

Mohinder narrowed his eyes. "What? What is it, Sarah?"

"I know Gabriel murdered my cat, Mohinder." The teen started to shake his head in protest but she plowed on anyhow. "I know it was him. And I'm not just saying it because I think he's a creep, or because of the way everyone has always treated him and all of the things they say about him and all of the things they say he's said or done. I'm not just blaming him because he's easy to blame."

She looked up again (she was crying, her eyes wet and a few stray tears streaming down her cheeks), then moved so that she was crowded close to the other eighth grader -- so that they were almost touching.

Feeling trapped, Mohinder stared at her. Thought that she seemed oddly small next to him -- probably because he was always with Gabriel, who towered over him, he realized a heartbeat later.

"I know it was him," said Sarah. "I know he's dangerous. Something is wrong with him. And...and I think you should stay away from him from now on, Mohinder."

Part Six

Thank You! And Congrats, Everyone!

2009-01-20T02:02:10Z

A huge thank you to the person/s who nominated "Catch Him If You Can" over at paire_awards!!! And a big congratulations to all of those wonderful writers/artists/vidders/etc on my flist (and to some additional awesome peeps not on my flist) who have been nominated this awards season!!! You guys are awesome, and the noms are well deserved. <33

Homecoming

2009-01-16T02:12:03Z

Title: Homecoming
Author: Harikari
For: megmatthews20
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Words: 2352
Summary: Sylar comes home.
Warnings: Non-con, violence, angst, rather dark, some bondage, etc.
Disclaimer: Don't own em'. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: A repost. This was written for the wonderful megmatthews20 and the heroes_exchange com. A huge thanks to all who have already commented on this over there! <3

-----

It was pouring now; fat drops of rain were thwak, thwak, thwaking against the car's windshield as they barreled down the stretch of road at 65 miles per hour.

Tracy was driving, her fingers (manicured nails shimmering prettily) folded tight around the steering wheel and a wild gleam in her eyes. She hadn't said a word since she'd picked him up, since he'd settled into the passenger's seat and snapped the door shut behind him.

Uneasy, Mohinder shifted. Pressed his forehead up against the cool glass of the window and gazed at the world (darkened by nightfall) that was rushing by outside. He watched lines of trees, square businesses, semi-tall apartment complexes until the car slowed and made a tight turn into a mostly empty parking lot.

"Get the bags," ordered Tracy as she pulled the key from the ignition and stepped out of the vehicle. "I'll be back."

Mohinder straightened in his seat; nodded. The door closed and the geneticist took in a deep breath, took a moment to stretch before reaching back and grabbing the two smallish bags that were waiting in the back seat. Tracy's bags -- he'd had nothing but the clothes on his back when the woman had picked him up, had had nothing when he'd fled from the burning Pinehearst building.

"Room 9A," came the woman's voice as he was stepping out of the car. Still hauling the bags, he leaned against the gaping door to close it; followed the blond as she wound her way through the parking lot.

She stopped at a door sporting a brass number "9" and a brass letter "A", took the key (an actual key, not one of those cards that most of the newer hotels and motels seemed to use) she'd gotten and opened it.

"Nothing fancy," she said as she stepped into the room, Mohinder crowding in behind her. "But it'll do."

The geneticist nodded. Strode over to the small, wooden table that was tucked into one corner and placed the bags on top of it; dropped into one of the rickety looking chairs. Feeling suddenly exhausted, miserable, he put his elbows up on the table and leaned into them. Ran slender fingers through his hair. "Where's Nathan?" he asked. "Do you know? What...what are we going to do now?"

He felt tired, lost. He felt horrible. Didn't know what to think, what to do. Didn't know...

"You're tired," breathed Tracy after a pause. And she walked over to him; stopped when he could feel her behind him, could feel her breath stirring his hair. "You should relax. Take a shower, maybe. Eat something. Get some rest."

Mohinder abruptly felt heat overtake his neck, his face. A shower. Of course. After all he had been through. After everything...

I must absolutely reek.

Embarrassed, he stood. Realized he had nothing clean to change into. He would just have to -

"You don't have to."

Mohinder looked up. "What?"

"You don't have to take a shower right now, Mohinder. If you're too tired-"

"No. I feel like taking one. I need one." He turned away, stopped when a slim and feminine hand grasped loosely at his wrist.

"Are you sure?" asked the blond. "If you're too tired..." She trailed off, paused for a moment before she started up again. "I think you're fine just the way you are, Doctor."

It was almost a purr.

Mohinder started. Looked wide-eyed at the woman before him. "What?" he asked.

And thought, What? Was Tracy...trying to hit on him? On him? Right now? After everything that had happened? After everything they had done, she had done, he had done?

"Just don't force yourself if you are too tired," she replied. She sounded normal now. "Not on my account."

Mohinder nodded. Tracy let go of his wrist and he headed for the bathroom; stepped into the little, well lit room before swiftly closing and locking the door behind him.

I must be imagining things. That was it. Had to be it. He was tired and stressed, his brain was addled...

Mohinder swallowed hard. Moved away from the door and turned on the shower. As the pipes made noise and lukewarm water rained down into the tub he stripped.

He let his soiled clothes fall to the floor, climbed into the tub and under the warm spray of water.

The shower was soothing. He closed his eyes, tried to force thoughts of faulty formulas and abilities and mistakes and Arthur Petrelli and Peter Petrelli and Molly and Matt and...everything else from his mind.

The last of the soap he'd used had rinsed off and the tension in his shoulders was beginning to ease when there was a sharp rap on the door. A second later it burst open.

"Sorry," said Tracy before Mohinder (other than pulling the almost transparent shower curtain more firmly closed) could react. "Just...clothes. You need clothes, right? I have some here."

"Yes," managed Mohinder, still taken aback and wondering idly why the woman had men's clothes with her (perhaps they were Nathan's?). "Uh...thank you." He didn't know what else there was to say. He could tell her to get out, that he didn't appreciate her having barged in on him. But the woman had picked him up, was apparently trying to help him...

Wait.

The geneticist blinked. Stared at the woman in front of him. The steam that had started to fill the room and fog the mirror over the sink made her appear eerie -- ghostly and unreal. "The door." He had locked it. He had closed it and locked it behind him. He knew he had.

"Tracy..." He trailed off, shook his head. His fingers tightened around the curtain. "The door...?"

At first Mohinder thought it was the thickening steam playing tricks with his eyes. Tracy seemed to be wavering in front of him. Changing.

"Wh...," he uttered, and then he realized what was happening. Tracy was changing. Shifting. Her blond hair and curves were melting away. Morphing into something...morphing into someone else.

Hair shortened and turned dark, limbs lengthened and gained muscle, breasts sunk in and disappeared and were replaced with a broad and powerful chest...

Mohinder gasped. His heart started beating fast in his own chest. He stepped back; stepped back until his spine was pressed flat against the damp wall and he was under the now cooling spray of the shower again, pulling and clutching at the curtain in such a way that it was nearly wrapped around him. "Sylar," he breathed.

And for a moment he could hardly think. Couldn't comprehend what it was he was seeing. Sylar. Sylar here. With him. His father's killer. The very reason he had created the formula that had led to most of the trouble he had just been through in the first place.

Shaking, he took in a breath and-

Sylar moved. Before Mohinder could even attempt to bolt away he'd torn the shower curtain from the geneticist's grip and was standing in the tub, towering over the other man, his jeans and t-shirt and tennis shoes getting soaked and one of his large palms pressed against Mohinder's mouth. "Don't scream. I didn't...you weren't supposed to find out so soon." He leaned in close, so close that the geneticist could feel moist breath on his neck. "Don't scream, Mohinder."

Aware of how vulnerable he was, shaking and panicking and breathing hard, Mohinder grabbed for the larger man's wrist and tried to pry it away from his mouth. He wouldn't scream -- he knew for a fact that there was no one around who could help him, knew that if he did scream and someone did come (hotel office staff, the police, anyone) they'd have no chance against the serial killer -- but he certainly wasn't going to do nothing. He was going to fight, try and get away, do something.

Sylar opened his mouth as if to say something else and Mohinder squeezed; dug his blunt nails into the killer's wrist and drew blood. Sylar hissed and the geneticist struck out, managed to hit the other man's knee with his own. But he had no leverage and the tub was slippery -- when the killer backed up a step and let out a grunt he tried to use his brief advantage and struck out again. Slipped.

He yelped behind the hand on his mouth -- started to fall and closed his eyes, braced himself for the impact and the pain...

Sylar caught him under the arms and hoisted him up like he was nothing.

"No!" Mohinder (his determination not to cry out forgotten in his panic) yelled and struggled.

"I told you not to scream," growled the killer and it was his turn to strike out. He rolled one large hand into a fist and swung, caught the geneticist just behind the ear.

Stunned by the blow, Mohinder went limp. He felt it as Sylar placed one arm under his shoulders and another behind his knees and lifted him. Heard him grunt with the exertion; knew what was happening but couldn't move, couldn't do anything about it because he felt light headed and sick, on the verge of passing out.

Sylar moved, carried him out of the bathroom and dropped him on top of a bed. "It wasn't supposed to be this way. Not like this. When I saw you on the road I thought maybe I could..." He trailed off, shook his head. Left the dazed geneticist sprawled nude on the worn comforter.

The serial killer walked over to the wooden table, unzipped one of the small bags sitting atop it and pulled out a roll of duct tape.

Mohinder blinked again. Brought his hand up to probe at the spot behind his ear. It wasn't bleeding. "What is this?" he managed to ask; it came out sounding slurred. "Where's Tracy?"

Sylar sat near the edge of the bed. Began to work at the tape -- tore off a sizable piece and leaned over his captive. He reached for the smaller man, took hold of his arm and lifted it; secured it to one of the bed's metal posts with the tape. He got up, did the same to the other arm before tearing off one slightly smaller strip and pressing it over the now squirming geneticist's mouth.

"I think you know," he finally answered. And then he sighed, settled on the bed again and bent so that his mouth was nearly touching that juncture between the other man's neck and shoulder.

Mohinder, his head clearing now, let out a muffled whimper and arched his back, pulled hard at the thick strips of tape holding him. Calmly, Sylar placed his palm on his chest and forced him flat. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, Mohinder. When I saw you... I was going to keep you with me -- with me as Tracy -- for a while and..." He shook his head again. Brought up a hand and ran fingertips over the geneticist's ankle, up one bare thigh.

Mohinder shook his head sharply back and forth, let out another yell from behind the muffling tape and kicked out. Sylar said nothing -- simply twitched his wrist. Invisible hands rose up from nowhere and held the geneticist, stilled his struggles.

His telekinesis, thought Mohinder, and he groaned.

"I don't know if you remember but... Shortly after we first met I mentioned destiny. Us." Hovering, the serial killer breathed deep. He moved one hand up, ran thick fingers through the geneticist's longish and wet hair -- stared at Mohinder's face, into his brown eyes (they were watery with unshed tears now). "We strayed," he continued as his hand migrated. Moved down and over the slighter man's dark chest before pausing at his belly button.

Mohinder breathed deep behind the tape. The large, warm hand was an unwelcome weight across his belly.

"We've both done things...met people. We've both... It doesn't matter. Like I said, I didn't want it to be exactly like this but it doesn't matter in the long run, Mohinder. We're back together. It's okay. It's destiny."

His hand moved again; strayed lower. Stopped when the killer was firmly gripping his captive's limp penis. "Home."

Mohinder screamed. Tried to move, get away, do something -- anything to stop Sylar. But the invisible hands tightened. And the tape muffled the scream to something meek. He was trapped. Helpless. Images, memories began to flash through his mind (he and the man he'd thought was Zane kissing heatedly, touching, sucking -- Sylar's twisted apartment and the look on Peter's face, on Molly's face, on Maya's face when the killer had attacked them) and he started to sob.

"Don't cry, Mohinder." The killer's grip on his penis had tightened. His hand started to move -- nothing elaborate or exotic, a steady pulling and pressure that made the geneticist whimper, had his penis hardening involuntarily. "You'll get used to this...all of this, being with me. We'll stay together from now on. No more straying. No more stupidity. You'll help me when I need your help. I'll protect you from the storm that's coming. And you'll learn to like it." His pace quickened and Mohinder whimpered again, tears falling from his eyes and down his face. "All of it."

Without stopping his pulling Sylar leaned down, kissed at the smaller man's neck. Licked at it.

It was the feeling of teeth running over the skin at his neck that did it. The heat, the pressure, the steady pulling proved too much for Mohinder and -- despite his desperate want not to, despite the tears running down his cheeks and the screaming refusal in his mind -- he came. Hard. Spattered the blankets, himself, Sylar's hand.

The tension that had been building in Mohinder's gut was gone; his body went limp, no longer fighting the invisible hands.

Sylar sat up, grinned at him. "Home," he said again, and gave the penis in his hand (limp once more) one last squeeze before letting go.

Mohinder closed his burning eyes, shivered.

Midnight Revelation

2008-10-30T02:18:17Z

Midnight Revelation
by Harikari

Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Disclaimer: Don't own em'. No copyright infringement is intended. I wrote this for fun, not profit.
Warnings: Mild violence, language, fluff, etc.
AN: Possible spoilers for all seasons of BtVS and AtS. Written for fall_for_sx.

Summary: Spike and Xander talk (and more) after a successful hunt.

-----

"Nothing is wrong with me, Spike." Xander looked down at the shirt and jeans he was wearing. Sighed. He and the blond vampire had just finished killing a very large, very angry Ymick demon -- its dark blue blood had splashed onto his t-shirt, his pants, his sneakers...

There was suddenly a hand against his forehead, fingers running through his hair. "Spike!" shouted Xander. He jerked away; stepped out of the vampire's reach and scowled. "I said nothing is wrong. Geez. Lay off, already."

For a brief moment, Spike just eyed him. They both stood in the alley between a tiny Italian restaurant (Xander thought the fettuccine alfredo there was to die for) and a pawn shop and stared at each other. Silent. Unmoving. Then, abruptly, the blond shrugged; reached into his duster's right pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and his Zippo.

"Fine, whelp." He lit one cigarette, stuck it in his mouth -- put the pack and lighter away. "Nothing's wrong. Got it."

Surprised at the lack of argument, Xander frowned. Nodded. "Okay. Yeah. Good." He spun around to inspect the remains of the Ymick demon. The puddle of blue blood was spreading; the body was already caving in on itself, shriveling, decaying.

Spike said the body would do that, he thought. That it would... A gruesome thought hit him and cold fear slivered up his spine. "Its blood isn't, like, acid or something. Is it? It's not going to soak through my clothes and..." He trailed off, swallowed thickly.

"Naw," said Spike. He stepped around Xander and picked up the axe that he'd dropped by the trash bin when the demon-of-the-week had attacked them. "You'll be...fine." He smirked, flashing fang, and swung the weapon up so it rested on his shoulder.

Xander rolled his eyes. Two and half months had gone by since Buffy and the New Council had ordered him to Los Angeles. (The Council and the Slayer had insisted this order spawned from the need to have someone capable and willing to report back to them about Angel and Spike and any End of the World disasters they would no doubt get themselves involved in eventually...again). And for that entire two and a half months, from the moment Xander had showed up at the revived Angel Investigations' doorway, both vampires had been strangely...protective of him.

Xander was almost positive that their over-protectiveness was due to the fact that Buffy had been the one to order him to L.A. -- he assumed that the vampire duo wanted word of their good behavior to get back to their favorite Slayer.

"You know," said Xander as he stomped his sneakers against the asphalt in an attempt to rid them of gunk, "I haven't talked to Buffy in weeks. And I've been here for awhile now...so I'm pretty sure that she and the Council won't be checking in as often..." He trailed off, sure that the platinum haired vampire would fill in the blanks for himself.

Spike frowned at him. "What?" he asked after a moment. "What are you on about, whelp?" A pause. "Sure you didn't...?" He reached out, doubtlessly planning to comb his fingers through Xander's hair again in search of injury.

Xander let out what sounded embarrassingly like a yelp; shoved at the blond. The vampire didn't stumble, didn't budge at the force of the push. But he did pull his hand away. Lowered his arm.

"Are you not listening to me? Buffy. I said Buffy probably won't be talking to me as often. So you can lay off, cease, stop it already." It was his turn to pause for a moment. Then, "Okay?"

Spike's frown hadn't disappeared. He stared at Xander for a beat. Then, slowly, shook his head. "Buffy... I don't understand. What are you saying, pet?"

Xander pursed his lips, considered protesting Spike's latest nickname for him. Instead, he took a deep breath. "I'm saying the Council -- and Buffy -- probably won't be calling all that often anymore so you can drop this uber protective thing. Please. Drop it. Thank you."

Spike pulled the cigarette from his mouth; let it fall to the ground then stepped on it, ground at it with the heel of his boot. "What the hell are you on about? I haven't been protective-"

He stopped when Xander glared. "Fine. But what the bloody hell does the Slayer have to do with anything?"

Xander shrugged. "You know. I won't be reporting to her about you guys that often anymore so you don't have to be on your best -- and completely and obviously fake by the way -- behavior. Now, if you decide to go all fangy on me one day and eat me or something I'll-"

"What?" asked Spike, cutting him off mid rant. He looked upset and amused all at once. "You think I... Well, yeah, I can see why. You were always a little off."

Xander frowned at the vampire. Bristled with anger. "Wha-"

But before he could finish the blond was moving closer. He thrust out his arm (the one not balancing an axe on his shoulder); got a firm grip on Xander's shoulder and forced him back until he was flush against the brick wall. Until the vampire was crowding him, hovering.

And then the blond leaned in, brushed cold lips against Xander's warm ones. Pulled back a little only to lean in again a moment later and kiss him firmly on the cheek.

"I don't know about Angel -- prob'ly has something to do with his buxom Slayer, yeah. And his natural tendency to be a do gooder." He didn't move away as he spoke; his lips continued to brush Xander's skin as they moved. "But I haven't been protecting you, partnering with you, doing everything I've done with you and for you because of Buffy, pet."

Feeling dazed, Xander blinked. "Oh," he said. Yet another pause and then, "Well. You still have to stop the overprotective thing."

Spike opened his mouth as if to reply; to argue maybe or make some sarcastic remark. Before any snarky words could escape the vampire's mouth, however, Xander reached out -- wrapped his arms tight around the blond's waist before moving forward and kissing him. Hard.

"That's not gonna' happen, pet," said Spike when they -- well, Xander -- came up for air. The hand that had pushed him back was gripping at the back of his neck; grasping at him posessively.

"Yeah," said Xander. "I know. I guess...that's okay."

And it was.

hari_kari @ 2008-10-17T23:22:00

2008-10-18T05:25:10Z

Reason
by Harikari

-----

Part Four

"Sarah," repeated Mohinder. His voice was steady. "She found her pet cat dead in her driveway."

Gabriel didn't back away, didn't stop gazing directly and heatedly into his best friend's eyes. "I heard," he said. "I've been hearing about it all day. What about it, Mohinder?" His voice was low, almost dangerous sounding.

"I..." began the eighth grader. But then he faltered. Took in a deep breath and stared at his friend.

My friend, he thought. And a horrible guilt abruptly overtook him. Gabriel was his friend. His best friend. He had no right to do what he was in the middle of doing; had no right to accuse the teenager of something so terrible, had no real call to even ask him about it.

Gabriel shouldn't have threatened Sarah, true. And Matt wasn't a bully, no. But that didn't mean that what the football player had said and implied, what he believed (that Gabriel had actually murdered a house pet) was the truth.

Mohinder took in the sight of his friend. Gabriel was still close. Was still looming over him (despite being younger he stood a few inches taller than the eighth grader), his dark eyes narrow behind his square glasses (though as Mohinder continued to stare his eyes seemed to soften slightly). His clothes were pristine, his hair was combed and neatly parted into its usual style.

"Matt," he sighed after a long pause. "Matt Parkman. This morning in class he told me about it. About Sarah. And..." He trailed off. Bit hard at his bottom lip.

There was a pause. A beat of silence between the two friends.

And then Gabriel sighed. "Matt," he hissed. Then, "Mohinder. You don't..." Another pause. "I know what they're all saying about me. I know..." He stopped, seemed at a loss; seemed to be pondering over what to say next.

The eighth grader felt the already present guilt rise up in his throat. Judging from what he had had been hearing all day in his classes, from Gabriel's immediate and somewhat angry reaction to his 'did you hear about Sarah Ellis' cat', his best friend had doubtlessly been harassed all day. Would continue to be harassed after lunch.

"I'm sorry," said Mohinder before the other boy could continue. "I know you confronted Sarah, I know what you said to her. And you shouldn't have done that but...I shouldn't have just come out and asked you about her -- about all of it -- like that, like I was accusing you. I know you. I know you wouldn't..." He couldn't finish it, swallowed hard.

The lost and slightly hurt expression gracing Gabriel's face faded; shifted into something that looked surprised, pleased.

He reached out, grasped at Mohinder's forearm. Then, as if suddenly realizing something, he frowned. Asked, "Matt and the others didn't tell you anything, did they? Didn't bother you?"

Mohinder shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm okay. Matt just...he just mentioned what happened to Sarah's cat, mentioned you." He looked up at his friend, their eyes met again. "We're okay? You're not going to confront someone about me behind my back like that and I'm not gonna' accuse you of anything ridiculous anymore, right?"

The grip on his forearm tightened. "We're good," offered Gabriel, his mouth turning up in a smile.

-----

They were sprawled on Mohinder's couch, already dressed in their pajamas (t-shirts and sweat pants) and absorbed in the action movie flashing across the television screen, the popcorn they were stuffing into their mouths.

It was the weekend following the week of the Sarah Ellis incident and Gabriel's mother had finally caved -- had given her son permission to stay the night at his friend's apartment. Mohinder's mother was already asleep in the other room; it was late, after midnight.

"Where is your dad, anyway?" asked Gabriel when the gunfire and explosions on the screen wound down, switched to dialogue and sappy background music -- the stereotypical, pseudo touching scene before the end of the movie.

"I'm not sure. A place called...Claddagh, I think," answered the eighth grader as he moved into a more comfortable position (his head at one end of the couch, his feet resting across his friend's lap -- Gabriel snorted, but didn't shove his legs away).

"Your dad. He's gone a lot," stated Gabriel. He was staring at the television as he said it, but appeared to be lost in thought.

"On business," agreed Mohinder. "He's always away on business. He works for...some company. He's a scientist, you know that."

"Yeah. But what does he do? What does the company do?"

Tired, Mohinder closed his eyes. "I don't know," he yawned. "I've never really talked to him about the specifics. He's a geneticist. I know that."

He felt it as his friend wrapped fingers tightly around his ankle. "I just..." continued Gabriel. "I wonder what he does, what the company he works for does...why he's always leaving you?"

Mohinder didn't answer. "You know," he said after a long moment. "I've been thinking about Sarah." Gabriel groaned, and the eighth grader -- without opening his eyes -- kicked at him before settling again. "I don't understand how someone could do what they did to Fluffy. I mean how could someone do that? Why would someone do that? I don't understand."

It was, apparently, Gabriel's turn not to acknowledge a question.

They stayed where they were for a stretch of minutes, listening to the song coming from the television's speakers as the movie's credits rolled. Feeling each other's breathing.

"I'm sure whoever did it had their reasons. Or reason. A good reason," came Gabriel's voice just as Mohinder was falling into sleep.

"Hmmm," said Mohinder, because he knew in the depths of his mind that what his best friend was saying was important. Very important. And frightening. But at the same time he was tired, on the verge of dreams, comfortable and safe.

He felt movement (Gabriel shifting), then a moist pressure on his cheek (a kiss, he vaguely noted) before he dropped off.

Part Five

hari_kari @ 2008-10-04T18:42:00

2008-10-05T01:05:49Z

Reason
by Harikari

-----

Part Three

1989

"Your friend is a psycho," said Matt Parkman, the usually goofy captain of the school's football team, as he dropped down into the seat across the isle from Mohinder's.

Mohinder blinked, looked up from the eighth grade Social Studies text he'd been poring over. "What?"

Matt had his elbow propped on the surface of the desk stretched in front of him, was leaning into it. "Your friend," he said. "Gabriel? He's a psycho, a freak, a weirdo, a-"

"Shut up," snapped Mohinder.

And when the group of girls lingering near the classroom's open door and the blond boy sitting in the back of the room all looked over with wide eyes he took in a deep breath. Blowing up wasn't smart. Matt wasn't the type to bully -- there had to be a reason behind his sudden hate for Mohinder's best friend, his string of insults.

And, well, there was also the whole Matt could easily kick his ass if he really wanted to thing. No. Blowing up wasn't a bright idea at all.

"Sorry," he muttered, voice much softer.

Matt just smirked.

"What...why? Why are you telling me this? What...did something happen?"

"Your freak of nature friend killed Sarah Ellis' cat."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, to make sense. "No," the eighth grader denied after a moment.

Matt nodded, leaned even closer. "Yes."

Mohinder shook his head. "What is this? Some kind of joke? Did Sarah put you up to this, Matt?" He sighed. "Because-"

"Listen," said the football player. He was no longer smirking, there was no trace of his usual humor in his voice. "I know for a fact that Sarah is home today, that she's home and freaking out because she and her mom found their pet cat, Fluffy, dead in their driveway this morning."

Mohinder bit at his bottom lip. "Well," he started after a pause. "I'm sorry about that, but what makes you think-"

"Mohinder," said Matt, and his eyes narrowed. "You asked Sarah Ellis to the after school Fall Dance last week. Yes or no?"

The slender eighth grader shrugged. "Yeah. I did."

"And she said no, in the school cafeteria. She said no in front of a load of people and she laughed. Right?"

Mohinder swallowed back an abrupt swell of anger; swallowed back the tight knot of hurt stuck suddenly in his throat. "So? What has that got to do with anything?"

"Mohinder," said Matt slowly, and it sounded as if he was trying to explain something obvious to a very small child. "Gabriel was with you when that happened. And you know...we all know how weird he is when it comes to you. And-"

"He's my best friend," hissed Mohinder. He was getting angry, wanted the football player to get to the point -- to say what he was trying to say already. "I don't know exactly what rumors you and your friends spread about him behind-"

Matt shook his head, moved even closer and placed a large hand on the slighter teenager's shoulder before he could finish. "Listen. I shouldn't have started the way I... I'm not trying to be mean to you or anything. Just listen. Janice told me that after school on the day Sarah talked to you in the cafeteria Gabriel came up to them in the hall and told Sarah she'd better 'watch herself'. And this morning she found her cat dead. She found her cat murdered."

It was Mohinder's turn to shake his head. "That's sick. That...he wouldn't do something like that. Just because your girlfriend told you that Gabriel said something to Sarah... It doesn't mean anything. Anybody could have killed her poor cat. I'm sorry she's upset, but she shouldn't-"

"She's knows it was him," insisted Matt.

There was a pause. Then, "She didn't see him, did she? No. There's no proof. And he wouldn't do something like that. I know he wouldn't."

Matt stared at him. The hand on his shoulder gave a firm squeeze before pulling away. "I'm just saying. I don't always believe Sarah, but I believe this." Another pause. "Gabriel is different with you, Mohinder. I understand he's your best friend but...he acts entirely different when you're not around. You should maybe...try to look at him from a different angle one day. See what everyone else sees. And, you know, be careful."

And then Matt turned, bent to rifle through his backpack. He was pulling out his Social Studies text as the bell rang.

-----

After Basic Algebra came lunch hour.

Mohinder walked swiftly. He dodged around the hordes of teenagers cavorting in the halls, spotted Gabriel -- who had obviously gotten out of seventh grade Earth Science a few minutes early once again -- leaning against his locker like always, sporting perfectly creased khakis and a sweater vest.

"Hey, Mo-" he started, his lips tilting into a smile.

"Gabriel," Mohinder cut in before the greeting was out, "did you hear about Sarah Ellis' cat?"

Gabriel straightened, the smile vanished and his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He took a single step closer to his friend and growled, "What?"

Part Four

hari_kari @ 2008-10-03T13:46:00

2008-10-03T19:59:58Z

Much thanks to the person or persons who nominated Strange Condition for Best Chapter Fic over at the mylar_fic awards! And congratulations to all the nominees!! You all rock. :)

Future Imperfect

2008-09-23T20:43:10Z

Future Imperfect
by Harikari

Pairings: Sylar/Mohinder, Future!Sylar/Mohinder, mild Future!Micah/Future!Molly
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, strong language, violence, gore, sex(iness), possible dub con, AU, spoilers for seasons 1 and 2 and episodes of season 3 aired so far, etc.
AN: Just a warning. Updates probably won't be very quick for this fic, seeing as how I'm working on about 5 other WIPs right now.

Summary: Living in a world that went terribly wrong, a desperate Molly and Micah set out to fix the past.

-----

Prologue

Micah Sanders and Molly Walker, New York - 2018

"This is a bad idea." Micah came to a stop in front of the large building; squinted up at it through the falling rain. "This is a very bad idea." He stared at the expanse of gray, at the various shattered windows and the faded graffiti and shook his head. Rain fell in his eyes and he flinched, wiped it away.

"That's not what you said when we started this," snapped Molly. She was standing to his left, tight lipped and rigid and wearing a stylish jean jacket that was not, Micah could see by the way she seemed to be clenching her teeth to stop them from chattering, doing much to shield her from the cold downpour.

Micah frowned down at his hunter green slicker. "Actually," he started as he unzipped the raincoat, "I did say that-"

"Oh, shut up. You wouldn't have come along if you didn't think this had a chance of working."

"Here," said Micah, instead of agreeing or arguing. And he shoved the coat at the girl.

"Thanks," Molly said, and it sounded reluctant. "But I told you before. I don't need it. Besides, we're going inside-"

It was his turn to snap. "Just take it," he insisted. "You're shivering. I'll be fine."

Molly eyed him for a long moment -- seemed to take in his khakis, his tight fitting black sweater. "Thank you," she said again as she took the jacket. Quickly, she pulled off the soaked jean number. She allowed the pale pink backpack she was wearing to drop to the ground (it made a wet 'slop' sound when it hit the sidewalk, Micah winced and stroked the messenger bag -- hanging on his own shoulder and loaded with his personal computer and other belongings -- at his side), then balled up the jacket before stuffing it away.
"Okay," Molly huffed once she'd pulled on the raincoat and maneuvered her bag back onto her shoulders. "I'm ready. Are you ready? I'm ready. Let's go." Despite her declaration her voice was unnaturally high and breathy. She pulled the hood of the rain coat up; it cast her face in shadow, almost hid it.

"I guess I'm ready," said Micah. And then softly, "Are you sure about this, Mol? About..." He trailed off.

Molly turned to face him. And even through the shimmering veil the steady rainfall provided, even with the dark green hood that made her face vague he could see her eyes. They looked intense. Bright and angry and determined. "We talked about this, Micah. You agreed."

"Yeah," said Micah. He swallowed hard. "You're right, of course. We're right." He nodded.

It thundered suddenly -- a loud blast of sound that traveled across the darkened sky. The booming noise was immediately followed by a threatening flash of lightning.

They hurried over to the building's entrance.

The door was open, its hinges busted so that it stood gaping and at an awkward angle. Micah grabbed at the door, pulled; held it open. They both stared into the building, into the thick darkness that greeted them.

"I can't believe this," he said, shaking his head. "I can't believe we're doing this."

Molly frowned. "We'll be fine."

"Oh. Yeah." Micah nodded. "Because the ability to look at a picture of some random guy and know he's vacationing in, say, the outer islands of the Republic of Seychelles, and the ability to tell a traffic light to turn green is going to do so much damage to someone as powerful as-"

"We'll be okay, Micah," cut in Molly. She sounded sure now. "I can handle it...him." She paused. Then, "We can handle Sylar."

"Yeah," said Micah. "Right."

He took a deep breath; watched as Molly stepped through the gaping door and into the battered remnants of what had once been an apartment building, of what had once been Molly's home (she had lived there for a brief while, Micah remembered, with Mohinder Suresh and Matt Parkman).

"Coming?" asked Molly from the darkness. And Micah nodded, followed.

hari_kari @ 2008-09-16T14:48:00

2008-09-16T20:52:12Z

Strange Condition
by Harikari

-----

Epilogue

Sylar stood, hidden in shadow, on the rooftop of the building directly across from Mohinder Suresh's apartment complex. The building was slightly taller than the one Suresh resided in; as a result, the serial killer had a near perfect view of the geneticist's home.

The killer could see, through a window that was decorated with Christmas lights, both Mohinder and the little girl who could find people asleep on the couch. The Doctor had a book open and sprawled across his chest, the little girl tucked into his side. Their breathing was soft, steady.

"...still don't get what's so important about this guy," came a young woman's voice from below. The serial killer flinched; glanced down and saw a woman with blond hair, swank clothing and a rather shapely body pacing on the sidewalk just outside of Mohinder's building, a phone pressed to her ear.

Sylar adjusted his hearing and tuned into the woman's conversation.

"...times have I told you it isn't your job to get anything, Elle? Just do what you were told to do."

The young woman sighed. "Fine, fine. I have been doing what I'm told. I've followed Doctor Mohinder Suresh all over New York. And like I told you, he's been with Sylar. He's practically, like, Sylar's pet. And I haven't seen any evidence that Suresh is talking to Bennet and the others."

There was a pause and then, "Okay, Elle. Come on home. I'll contact Doctor Suresh myself. We're bringing him in."

The killer heard the swush as the girl jerked her head and swung her hair so that it hung behind her shoulder. "Dad," she said. "Daddy. Are you sure? I mean, like I said, Suresh has been with Sylar for days and he's not dead. Days with Sylar. That just...doesn't happen. If we take in Suresh Sylar might-"

"Didn't I just tell you? Do what you're told, Elle. No questions asked. I expect to see you home tomorrow." There was a click.

Elle sighed. Tucked away her phone and hurried up the sidewalk towards a little red car. She got in, started it up and pulled into traffic without bothering to warm the engine.

Sylar frowned; could suddenly recall seeing the young woman eating at the diner he'd gone to with Mohinder (he had even glanced her flashing the man a flirty smile as he'd headed to the men's room), getting into her car just before he and the geneticist had headed up to the – unfortunately empty – apartment 3F, even loitering outside of his own apartment when he'd emerged from one of his visions and had gone after the absent Mohinder.

How the hell could he have missed all of that? Missed someone following him...them? He thought of Mohinder; of the geneticist's lips, his lean body, his dark eyes...

Right. Okay. So he'd been distracted.

So. Sylar caressed the paper he'd stuffed into his pocket for a second; pulled it out and stared at it. Someone wants Mohinder. That's going to be a problem. For them.

He looked at the paper, at the drawing – it was a vision drawing. He'd sketched it himself at his apartment. (Mohinder had taken advantage of his obliviousness as he'd worked on it, had left.)

Sylar grinned. Mused that 'daddy' should've taken Elle's advice.

They can't fight destiny.

hari_kari @ 2008-09-16T14:10:00

2008-09-16T20:15:48Z

Strange Condition
by Harikari

AN: Here's the end. Much thanks to everyone who has commented/reviewed. You all are what makes writing and posting fanfiction worth it. Thanks, everyone! I hope you enjoy.

-----

Part Nine

Mohinder's back was pressed close against Jake Harris' chest. The older man had one arm wrapped tight around the geneticist's shoulders; the other, the one burdened with the weight of a glock, was sticking straight out. The nose of the gun was pointed at Sylar's forehead. The hand holding the weapon was steady.

He smells like smoke, thought Mohinder. He smells like his home. Harris shifted a little; the geneticist couldn't help tensing more, letting out a soft gasp of alarm. He was trying hard not to panic. His breath was coming fast, his thoughts whirring dizzyingly through his mind.

Chameleon. A chameleon. He can mimic other's abilities for a time. He's... He was capable of beating Sylar. Very capable. Mohinder's heart fluttered disturbingly at the thought (and he wasn't completely sure why it did, perhaps because knowing that Harris could conceivably do away with the super powered serial killer meant knowing that he was almost certainly going to die – of course he was).

"So you've figured it all out," came Harris' voice from directly behind him. He sounded unmoved, unimpressed. "You've both played detective. Discovered that I plan to kill you...to do to you what you did to my little sister." There was a pause; Mohinder could hear Harris' erratic breathing (could actually feel it against his back), his own breathing. He stared at Sylar – the killer, expressionless and still, looked otherworldly and intimidating in the low light.

"Good," Harris continued. "I'm glad. It's easier this way. Now I don't have to waste time explaining why I'm doing this – you know what you did wrong. Now I can just get straight to the killing you."

There was silence for a beat. And then...

"You really believe you can kill me, old man?" asked Sylar. His voice sounded deep, almost a growl. He didn't sound afraid.

"I know I can you son of a bitch," breathed Harris.

And suddenly, before Mohinder had time to fall even deeper into panic, Harris' grip around his shoulders tightened (the grip was vise like now, almost painful). The older man's entire body seemed to straighten, lock into place.

The geneticist saw it as Harris' grip on the handgun he was holding shifted, tensed. Saw it as the man's finger started to move. As he pulled the trigger.

The shot was loud.

Without thought Mohinder forced his body forward and broke free of the hold on his shoulders, lifted his arms to cover his ears with his hands. But it was too late. Because the shot had already been fired, and his ears were ringing painfully.

The geneticist swallowed hard and, hands still clamped tight over both ears, he looked up; was met with the sight of Sylar still standing. The serial killer's hand was raised, palm forward and stark white against the darkness. And the bullet – Mohinder squinted, could just make out the spent bullet floating in midair. Stuck in place, in the air, halfway between Harris and the killer.

"You've had all of my powers a few times now, Harris," said Sylar. He sounded angry now, looked angry. "You should know better than that."

Sylar flicked the wrist of the hand he was holding out in front of him; hardly a move at all. The bullet fell to the ground and the gun in Harris' hand went flying; landed with a violent clatter on the damp ground. He flicked his wrist again – Mohinder felt a pressure on his shoulders, forceful but invisible hands pushing him backwards and away from Harris.

He stumbled back, came to a stop when his back was almost touching the wall of one of the two hulking buildings they were standing between. "Syl-" he started, but was cut off.

"Stay there, Mohinder."

Harris, who had been standing as if in shock -- his teeth clenched and bared – seemed to come back to himself then. He turned. "Yes, Doctor. Stay there." And quickly, he raised his hand.

Mohinder's back slammed hard against the wall, the back of his head hit it with a smack that made his teeth rattle inside his head. He let out a shout; felt a sudden rush of pain in his already wounded side, as if fingers were digging into the-

"Stop!" demanded Sylar. And even through the pain Mohinder glimpsed movement. Sylar stepping closer, raising his arm. The pain abruptly ceased, Mohinder fell to his knees and Harris flew.

The man hit the dumpster near the back of the alley with a bang. He groaned, cursed, started to struggle back up. But Sylar was already walking; he took long strides, easily ate up the distance between him and his target.

Squinting, one hand pressed against his throbbing side and trying to struggle up himself, the geneticist caught a hint of a sadistic looking smile gracing the serial killer's face. He watched as Sylar again raised his arm-

The killer was abruptly thrown back, landed hard on his back a few feet in front of Mohinder.

The geneticist gasped as Harris stood.

"You can't beat me!" shouted Harris. Loud and desperate sounding. He was breathing hard. Was slowly stumbling closer to the fallen Sylar.

Mohinder, still on his knees, flinched and half turned his head a split second later when Sylar unexpectedly sat up, a glowing bluish white light already emanating from his left hand.

The killer jerked his arm back, quickly swung it forward again; the light flew. It hit Harris in the chest. The man stopped his advance, let out a grunt. The light seemed to spread over his chest, tendrils of blue and white reaching out and overtaking his broad chest area like the wriggling limbs of some horrific creature, before vanishing. Before disappearing into the older man's chest.

He absorbed it, realized Mohinder immediately.

"You've had your powers for a lot longer than me," spat Harris. His voice was deep with what was doubtlessly anger and vicious hate. He was close to Sylar now, was standing over the killer and glaring down at him. "You should know better."

Sylar narrowed his eyes, finally stood as a dark grin spread across Harris' face.

"I'll-" started Harris, but before he could continue the killer lashed out. His fist slammed into Harris' face; the man reeled backwards a few steps, his nose bleeding. Sylar didn't pause; he spread his fingers, seemed to concentrate for a second and then closed them again to clutch a shard of ice that had appeared in his hand.

Of course he'll win, thought Mohinder, feeling relief and dread all in the same moment. What had he been thinking? Harris has all of his powers but Sylar... Sylar had experience.

The serial killer stepped forward and, gripping the frozen stake tightly, raised it; he brought it down hard, fast – it was less than half an inch away from sinking into Harris' neck when the older man moved. He grabbed Sylar's wrist, wrestled it away – they struggled, Sylar baring his teeth in anger and not letting up his hold on the weapon and Harris not loosening his hold on the killer's wrist.

Then, without warning, Harris rolled the hand he wasn't holding onto the killer with into a fist; punched Sylar so hard in the gut that the younger man made a choking sound, doubled over. The stake dropped, landed on the ground – a few small pieces of it broke off, shattered.

Sylar had his free arm wrapped around his abdomen, seemed to be struggling to breathe.

And suddenly Mohinder recalled the stand off at Kirby Plaza and Hiro stabbing the serial killer, remembered that that battle had only taken place a little over a month ago and the fact that for as long as he'd been the man's captive the killer had shown signs of still being in pain, still being injured.

Harris brought his knee up, launched it into his opponent's stomach. Sylar cried out.

Mohinder, stunned and frightened, held his breath for a moment. But then Harris was kicking Sylar again, and the killer wasn't fighting back any longer, wasn't pulling away.

"The drawing...I wouldn't have gone after you. I was going to let it go, let it..."

The geneticist swept the alley with his eyes, paused when he spotted the gun on the ground only a few feet away.

"...You know I wasn't trying to destroy New York, Mohinder. I was trying to stop Peter from destroying New York."

Sylar collapsed to his knees.

With difficulty, Mohinder stood. Still bent slightly at the waist, his wound burning, he started towards the weapon.

He heard the sound of impact -- flesh on flesh. Heard the killer grunt again as he reached the gun, bent to retrieve it.

It was heavy in his hand. He gripped it tightly, pulled in a deep breath and straightened; turned. Harris had his back to him, was staring down at his opponent. The serial killer was mostly limp – it looked as if the only thing preventing him from falling flat on his face was Harris' grip on his wrist.

"...I have control. I know how to handle the power I collect, how to use it."

Harris' free hand was starting to glow.

Mohinder slowly raised the gun; aimed.

"You mutilated her," Jake Harris was saying. His voice was trembling. "You..." He faltered. "I would ask you why, but I already know the answer. I know you're scum, you're evil. I know why you do what you do." He bent until his mouth was close to Sylar's ear. "I know what's important to you, and I plan to destroy it once I'm finished with you."

Sylar's teeth flashed in what looked like angry grimace. He started moving, the glow of Harris' hand quickly morphed into a red and deadly looking orb of light floating just over his palm. He swung his arm up and back-

Mohinder pulled the trigger. The shot rang out (it sounded even louder than the last). Harris screamed; fell.

The bullet had caught him in the leg – his left calf. He was on all fours now, bleeding and gasping and seemingly surprised. He swallowed, Mohinder saw him tense as if to get up...

Sylar stood. Shot a look at the geneticist, brows raised and whispered, "That's my boy."

Mohinder swallowed a retort. Took a single step back. The serial killer turned back to his fallen opponent.

"No," pleaded Harris as Sylar's eyes met his. He sounded broken. Horrible guilt made Mohinder's throat tight, his eyes tearful. "You'll pay," he went on. "You'll both-"

The killer jerked his neck – Mohinder gasped in surprise, quickly turned away – there was a whoosh (the sound of Harris body speeding through the air, the geneticist knew) and then a loud and horrible crunching sound.

Mohinder felt sick, closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. A moment later he felt a cold wetness on his cheek; opened his eyes and saw Sylar standing before him, saw that a flurry of snowflakes were falling on them, surrounding them.

It's snowing.

He met Sylar's gaze.

"Is he...?" Mohinder asked, started to ask, but stopped when he realized he really didn't want to know. If Harris wasn't dead now he would be soon. The serial killer would make sure of that. "I...I didn't help you because..." he said instead, but found he couldn't get those words out either.

Couldn't get them out because, though he'd known the moment he'd pulled the trigger why he was doing it (because if Harris killed Sylar he would undoubtedly die too, because with Peter Petrelli dead Sylar was the only one capable of stopping any human being with abilities honestly bent on taking over or destroying the entire world that might arise one day – he was the comfortable evil, the evil Mohinder knew) he felt lost and unsure now.

"I know," said Sylar. He stared down at Mohinder for a moment. Then he reached over; pulled the handgun from the geneticist's grip.

The retrieval of the gun was unexpected. Mohinder thought briefly about trying to take it back. Instead, feeling suddenly exhausted and guilty and hurt and like he might pass out at any moment, he lifted one hand to clutch at the killer's shoulder, leaned into it.

Sylar didn't react to the touch at first. He just held the gun to the side and at arms length, closed his eyes; the weapon slowly melted into a thick looking silvery liquid, dripped slowly from the serial killer's fingers and onto the ground.

Mohinder watched the other man. "Harris," he started as Sylar was shaking out his hand (shaking it to, apparently, rid it of any traces of melted gun – though there was nothing on his skin that the geneticist could see). "He said something about a little girl at a grocery store the night I...we...met him. He knew about Dale because..." He shook his head, felt light headed and not quite himself. "He must have crossed paths with someone with an ability, someone who can see into people's minds or..."

He trailed off when Sylar gripped at his waist with both hands – just above his hips; held him. The snow was still falling. Mohinder could see his own breath and the killer's breath as they exhaled; the clouds their breathing produced mingled briefly in the air, then disapeared.

"And," the geneticist went on, "I gave him my contact information when I first called him. He must have used that to get to my apartment, where of course he ran into Molly and the others and-"

The serial killer leaned down so that their foreheads were touching and they were staring directly into each other's dark eyes. Mohinder breathed.

"I'm not going to help you, Sylar," he insisted. "I'm not going to tag along and help you kill innocent people. I won't."

Sylar didn't argue. He just moved; caught the geneticist's mouth in a kiss. Mohinder let out a startled sound of protest, started to push the taller man away...

Stopped when he felt a tongue penetrate the hot cavern of his mouth. Moaned. Started to kiss back, to duel with the tongue trying to dominate his own.

Sylar broke the kiss to breathe; forced Mohinder back a few steps so that his spine was pressed against the wall again. Then the killer leaned in, pulled at Mohinder's jacket and the shirt underneath (the killer's t-shirt, the geneticist remembered, and wondered if that fact earned him the predatory growl that emerged from Sylar's throat) to expose his shoulder, bent until the geneticist could feel moist breath on his neck. Until he was licking biting, sucking at the bruise he'd left there only a few days before.

Mohinder pushed at the killer's shoulders, urged him up. They kissed again. Heated and wet and slightly sloppy. The smaller man felt it as the killer slid one arm around his back (as if to hold him close, keep him in place), moved the other up. His large fingers found the geneticist's hair and combed through his curls, pulled at them until he let out a cry that was muffled by their kiss.

Mohinder pulled away from the killer's mouth then, and Sylar let him.

The taller man rested his head against the geneticist's shoulder, breathed deep. He removed his hand from where it was tangled in his captive's hair. Moved it down. Slowly snaked it up under the geneticist's shirt – his palm was splayed flat against Mohinder's stomach for a long moment.

After a pause his hand moved, slid up to brush against a sensitive nipple. Mohinder gasped -

And then, suddenly, Sylar straightened. Looked away. He stared off into the distance for a beat, turned back to the geneticist. Smiled.

Mohinder blinked. Recognized the grin as the same malicious lift of the mouth from that first night at Harris' house. Sylar leaned so that his mouth was close to his captive's ear and whispered, "I should go, Doctor. Your friends are coming."

Feeling dazed, Mohinder shook his head. "My...what? My friends? How?"

But Sylar didn't answer; just quickly pulled him in (ground his obvious arousal against Mohinder's hip – the geneticist blushed at this, his own erection had quickly disappeared at Sylar's mention of his friends and at the realization of who exactly he was with -- he felt sick now, cold) before stepping back.

The serial killer stared at him for a moment, stared at him as if he was taking every detail in, then reached into his left coat pocket and pulled out something small and black...

My cellphone.

Mohinder's eyes widened.

Why does he have my cellphone? Did he pick it up when I was attacked by Harris' or...has he known all along that I've had it?

"Here," Sylar said, and enfolded the phone in the geneticist's hand. "You probably need this." He seemed to hesitate for a second, then bent forward. Mohinder swallowed, waited for the kiss he knew was coming -

The geneticist let out a surprised shout when Sylar bit him hard on the bottom lip; drew blood. The killer gave a dark laugh. Mohinder could see the blood he'd just drawn (mixed with the blood that had leaked from the cut Harris' had given him) glistening on his skin, in the corner of his mouth. "I'll come back for you," he promised before turning and walking away.

The geneticist stared at him for a moment. Then, abruptly, it was as if a fog had lifted. As if some sort of invisible veil had been been hiding or shielding the alley they were in from the world. It lifted and Mohinder could hear cars again, people passing noisily by just outside of the alleyway...

"Mohinder!"

Mohinder's breath caught in his throat at the shout. At the sound of that voice. Molly's voice. He turned, saw the little girl hurrying towards him. She was running up the alley (behind her, idling just outside of the alleyway was a car – Niki and D.L. were stepping out of it), splashing through puddles and Mohinder was afraid for a second that she would slip...

She lifted her arms as she reached him; he lifted her up. She was sobbing. "Mohinder," she managed through her crying as he held her tight, pushed stray tendrils of her long hair behind her ear. "Mohinder, you're here."

"I'm here," he managed. He felt dazed, overwhelmed, couldn't quite believe what was happening or what had happened.

"I told them you would be," she said. And she reached up; her small hand brushed his cheek. Her teary eyes found his bleeding mouth. "Are you okay?"

As if from a great distance, Mohinder could hear Niki's heels click-clicking against the ground as she hurried over, could hear D.L. muttering into his cell (the man was talking to Micah, no doubt). He looked behind him; his eyes swept the ground near the dumpster, the entire alley – but there was no trace of Harris' limp body, no trace of Sylar.

"Mohinder?" Molly asked again. And he turned to stare at her. "Are you okay?"

"I am now," answered the geneticist. He felt as if he was awakening from a very long, very strange dream. Sylar's return, Jake Harris' quest for revenge...it all felt far away. Not real.

Molly smiled up at him. Mohinder smiled, too.

Epilogue

Master Fic List

2008-08-30T02:09:13Z

Master List of Fics (Because all the cool kids are doing it...)
Fanfics are in alphabetical order by fandom/title and are labeled with the featured pairing.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Buffy Saves Christmas (Spike/Xander)
Wherein there is possessive Spike, Xander, an evil wizard, and candy flavored kisses.

Darker Things (Oz & Xander)
Patrol goes even more wrong than usual for Xander and Oz.

First Kiss (Jesse & Xander)
Xander's first kiss.

Love/Hate Relationship (Spike/Xander)
It's Halloween. Spike scares an already agitated Xander, then apologizes. Sort of.

The Merge (Spike/Xander, Teaser)
Xander isn't exactly the person he used to be. Spike grows attached.

Midnight Revelation (Spike/Xander)
Spike and Xander talk (and more) after a successful hunt.

No Matter What (Willow's Tale) (Willow & Xander)
Xander makes a promise to Willow.

See Fee (Spike/Xander)
A brief glimpse into the unusual life of Earthman Alexander and his Spacer partner R. William (the "R" stands for robot).

That Night (Spike/Xander)
It's Valentine's Day night and Spike and Xander are on patrol.

Crossovers

The Family Business - BtVS & Supernatural - (Spike/Xander, Dean, Sam, etc.)
After a gruesome night of trouble on the Hellmouth Xander is forced to leave Sunnydale. He ends up in L.A., living with his Uncle John and two cousins, Dean and Sam. WIP

Chapters Prologue 1

Harry Potter

Breaking the Stone (Draco/Ron)
Draco, Ron and their misadventures during Winter Break.

Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 Epilogue

Broken (Draco/Ron)
Sequel to "Breaking the Stone". It's seventh year and trouble is brewing at Hogwarts.

Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 Epilogue

Fall From Grace (Ron/Draco)
Changes and tragedies bring Ron and Draco closer together. But a new relationship isn't all the adventure they're in for. WIP

Chapters Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Where Dwell the Brave at Heart (Harry/Draco)
Wherein Draco is sorted into Gryffindor, Harry has more of his famous unfortunate adventures, Ron gets angry, Hermione studies and the entire student body thinks very carefully about where they stand when it comes to the approaching war. ON (HOPEFULLY TEMPORARY) HIATUS

Chapters 1 2

Heroes

Catch Him if You Can (Peter & Claire) *Nominated for Most Outstanding Drabble Award at paire_awards in 2009*
She caught up to him in Roswell, New Mexico.

The Cure (Matt/Mohinder, unrequited Sylar/Mohinder)
When the Company puts Mohinder in danger by inadvertently revealing his unique 'hero healing' ability to an individual bent on the destruction of all things 'special', Matt and a virus-stricken Sylar are forced to team up to protect him. WIP

Chapters 1 2

Future Imperfect (Sylar/Mohinder, Future!Micah/Future!Molly)
Living in a world that went terribly wrong, a desperate Molly and Micah set out to fix the past.

Chapters Prologue

Homecoming (Sylar/Mohinder)
Sylar comes home.

Impasse (Sylar/Mohinder, Peter/Claire)
Peter wants to save Claire. Sylar wants to use Mohinder. The two powerful rivals team up in order to get what they want.

Chapters 1

Reason (Sylar/Mohinder)
In 1985 Mohinder's father moved his family to New York. In New York Mohinder met Gabriel Gray, a quiet boy with a dark secret. A very dangerous boy who very quickly developed an unhealthy attachment to Mohinder, a boy who was willing to do anything to keep Mohinder safe... WIP

Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6

Strange Condition (Sylar/Mohinder) *Nominated for Best Chapter Fic at mylar_fic in 2008* *Winner of Shimmeree's Does Funny Things to My Heart Award*
A month after the events at Kirby Plaza Mohinder visits another special individual from his father's list. This leads to an unexpected meeting with a certain serial killer, a kidnapping, and a battle with a man out for revenge -- a man whose powers happen to rival even Sylar's.

Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Epilogue

Psych

One Reason Burton Guster Loves Shawn Spencer
Shawn does something nice for Gus.

hari_kari @ 2008-08-24T07:44:00

2008-08-24T13:48:19Z

Strange Condition
by Harikari

-----

Part Eight

Mohinder woke to pain. His entire left side was sore, his neck was burning, and...his hip. The area just above his right hip was stinging, hurting. He groaned; opened his eyes.

Deja vu, he thought when he saw nothing but whiteness. A pillow. He was face down and in a bed, was staring into a pillow.

Being kidnapped, the drawing, Molly's voice mail message, Jake Harris appearing and attacking him... All of the memories of the last few days and nights seeped slowly to the forefront of his mind. Harris, he thought, still mostly asleep. Still dazed. His last memory was of Jake Harris and Sylar readying to fight. What happened? he wondered. And, feeling strangely anxious for the serial killer, he shifted. Moved to get up.

He pushed himself to his elbows; let out a sound that was something between a whine and a gasp when the stinging feeling near his hip became a pulling, tearing sensation. In pain and suddenly exhausted (his breathing was coming harsh and fast), he dropped back down onto the bed.

"You'll be okay," came a voice from somewhere above him. Sylar's voice. Mohinder started, attempted to roll over. But before he had managed to move the killer had a hand at the back of his head; was running fingers through his hair.

Mohinder breathed. Felt is as the hand touching his head traveled south to the back of his neck, his bare shoulders.

Bare. With a start, the geneticist realized he wasn't wearing a shirt, that the jeans he'd pulled on that morning were gone. He was on a bed – on top of its sheets and blanket – wearing only his boxers.

He jerked away from the fingers lingering on his shoulders. Managed, finally (and with considerable trouble), to roll over and face the serial killer.

"Sylar," he panted. "What happened?"

"Jake Harris," hissed the killer. "He found us."

Mohinder nodded distractedly; stared at the bandage that was covering most of his right hip. It was turning red. "What did he do?" he asked after a moment. "What happened? Did you...kill him?"

Slowly, Sylar shook his head.

Mohinder blinked. He felt tired, sluggish. "He got away?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what happened?"

The killer pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed. "You're bleeding." He dropped down onto the edge of the bed, started to reach for the now soiled bandage. Mohinder took in a shaky breath. The killer paused; hovered.

There was a stretch of silence.

"I wouldn't have gone after you," Sylar said abruptly.

"What?" asked the geneticist. The comment made no sense to his exhausted mind, had come from nowhere.

"I wouldn't have gone after you," he said again. "The drawing...I wouldn't have gone after you. I was going to let it go, let it..."

Sylar trailed off. He licked at his lips, visibly swallowed. He seemed nervous. Actually nervous.

"But you were there when I went for Harris and I..." He stopped again.

Mohinder stared; he didn't know how to react to what he was hearing, could hardly believe what he was hearing.

The larger man slid closer to his captive, leaned in. "And Kirby Plaza," he went on as his hand moved, then came to rest on the geneticist's exposed stomach (Mohinder's heart sped up at this, his breath faltered, but – afraid protesting the touch would result in a scene similar to the one that had played out when he'd found Isaac's drawing – he didn't flinch away). "I called you. You know I wasn't trying to destroy New York, Mohinder. I was trying to stop Peter from destroying New York."

The geneticist shook his head. "You were trying to kill him. To take his power."

The killer's eyes seemed suddenly darker. His expression tightened. "Peter Petrelli had no control. He nearly killed thousands upon thousands of people because of that lack of control. And yes, I did want to take his power. I have control. I know how to handle the power I collect, how to use it."

Yes, Mohinder thought. You certainly know how to use it. But he said nothing.

Again, they stared into each other's eyes.

Mohinder was the first to turn away. He shifted in an attempt to relieve the steady ache in his lower back; regretted it when the painful, pulling sensation returned with a vengeance. He tried to swallow a groan, failed.

He was exhausted, in pain, confused. He didn't understand why Sylar was talking to him like he was, what the serial killer was trying to do. Was he trying to justify all that he'd done? Was he...searching for forgiveness?

I really, really doubt it.

For a long moment the geneticist simply stared at the stretch of ceiling directly above him and breathed (he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, could feel himself bleeding – knew that the bandage he was wearing was getting soaked).

"What happened?" he asked after what seemed like a long time. "What did Harris do to me?" His eyes felt heavy. He allowed them to fall shut.

"Go to sleep, Mohinder," ordered Sylar, instead of answering.

Mohinder wanted to argue. But he was so very tired, and with his eyes closed and his breathing slow and steady the pain was less intense. Almost nonexistent.

He felt Sylar's hand – the hand that wasn't still resting on his belly – slide up his arm. Felt the weight of the other man's head come to rest on his collarbone. Felt the killer's hair tickling at his neck.

He wanted to push Sylar away.

He fell asleep.

-----

When Mohinder woke again the pain had lessened.

Slowly, he sat up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed he was on and stood. He ran slender fingers through his tangled curls and blinked; shot a look around and realized he still felt dazed, lethargic.

Perhaps Sylar gave me something, he mused. Something for the pain. Head swimming, the geneticist took in his surroundings. He was in what looked like a studio apartment – a wide open space that consisted of a large bed, an open kitchen area, and a single plush chair and sofa that were crowded next to the wall.

Sylar's apartment, he assumed. It made sense. Gabriel Gray's apartment had been compromised a while ago. And a serial killer on the run would doubtless need a base of operations, a place to rest and a place to plan.

There was an unhurried and repetitive movement to his left. The geneticist looked, saw Sylar himself sitting pretzel style on the floor. He was hunched over, his eyes were a solid pearl white, and he was drawing. Drawing. Again.

The sudden sick feeling in his stomach triumphed over the spike of curiousity that had arisen, and he very carefully didn't look at the sketch pad in his captor's lap.

Mohinder spotted a pile of clothes spread messily across the sofa; walked over and started to sort through the pile. He liberated the slacks he'd been wearing the night he'd been kidnapped and pulled them on. Then he grabbed a black t-shirt (Sylar's) and slipped that on.

Barefoot, he made his way over to the large board that dominated the otherwise unoccupied space between the kitchen and the impromptu living room. He'd spotted it as soon as he'd stood, knew exactly what it was. The board looked almost exactly like the one that his father had fashioned, the one that the geneticist himself had in his apartment, the one he'd found in Sylar's old place.

Along with a plethora of others, there was a picture of Jake Harris tacked to the board. Yes, he thought. He took in the man's features. His eyes, the shape of his face. I know who you are. He was sure he did. Almost sure.

A feeling of helplessness overtook the geneticist as he stared at the picture of Harris. He turned away.

Shoes, he thought as he spun. He swept his eyes over the rest of the room; spotted his tennis shoes on the floor near the bed. He walked over and grabbed them, began to put them on.

He pulled at his left sneaker's lace, pursed his lips and glanced at his kidnapper.

He wasn't sure what had happened after Harris' attack. He suspected that Sylar had promptly collected him (his injured ward) and escaped Harris, or that the older man had fled from the serial killer.

He supposed knowing exactly what had happened wasn't important. No. What was important was the fact that he was still alive, the fact that he had a chance now of being able to warn Molly and Niki and the others about both Sylar and Harris (warn, because with Sylar as his captor, with Jake Harris out for his blood he no longer had any illusions of rescue or a successful escape) because the serial killer was at that very moment oblivious.

Trying very hard not to think about what future scene the killer was sketching, not to worry over what had happened between said killer and Harris outside of the squat apartment complex, he finished tying his shoes. He looked around the apartment, didn't spot a phone.

Then – with one last glance at his captor – he stood, grabbed his coat from where he'd spotted it hanging on a hook in the wall (his cell phone was gone from its pocket – he'd likely lost it during Harris' attack), strode quickly passed the kitchen and pseudo living room to the door.

He opened the door and stepped outside.

-----

I slept through an entire day, was the first thought that came to Mohinder when he stepped outside.

The sky was no longer the pitch black he remembered. Instead, it was a lighter gray. But it wasn't the gray of early morning – he could clearly see that the sun wasn't coming up. It was setting.

The geneticist stared up at the sky (thick, dark and ominous clouds were again dominating the run of sky above the city – they were heavy looking, maybe ready to burst); brought his hand up to probe at the bandaged wound beneath the t-shirt he was wearing.

What happened? he wondered. How hurt was I...am I? A sharp pain assaulted him, and he stopped probing. The pain, he pondered as he recalled how dizzy and out of it he'd felt when he'd stood from Sylar's bed (he still, in fact, felt somewhat drowsy). Sylar almost definitely gave me something for the pain.

Mohinder swallowed. Thought about lifting his shirt and checking his wound for himself, quickly dismissed the idea. His wound wasn't bothering him much just then, and he had more important things to focus on. Sylar would only be oblivious for so long – he had to find a phone and make the call he'd been intending to make since he'd first been kidnapped. And he had to do it all quickly. Do it all before the serial killer discovered he was gone.

The geneticist grabbed the pair of gloves balled in his jacket's pocket and slipped them on. He shot a look around (noticed vaguely that there was no sign of the rented Kia anywhere near the building). Then he started walking.

He dodged other pedestrians as he went (a man walking his dog, the odd business person making a late trek home, some young woman who appeared to be loitering on the sidewalk). He walked quickly – didn't slow his pace until the apartment buildings around him morphed into businesses.

He stopped in front of a mini grocery store. Just outside the store's door was a phone booth sporting a single phone. The geneticist took a deep breath; strode over and picked up the phone.

He put it to his ear and sighed. It had a dial tone. It worked.

Mohinder reached into his left pocket and pulled out two quarters. He slipped the coins into the pay slot and...hesitated.

Niki's number. He didn't know Niki's home or cell number. Not by heart. But... Wait. Molly and the others had been at his apartment, had been at his place the last time he'd heard from them. He could try there.

He punched his number, listened as the dial tone turned to a ring. Continued to listen as the ring turned to a message, his own voice, telling callers to leave their name and number.

"Niki," he started once the beep signaling that the machine was recording sounded. "It's Mohinder. Don't come looking for me, Niki. It's too dangerous. I'm...it's Sylar. He's back. He isn't dead. I'm with him now. Don't come looking for me. Go back to Las Vegas and call Bennet. Find Bennet. He might know what to do." He paused, his breath coming fast. He sounded rushed and panicky and scared, he knew. But he couldn't help it, and he had to get everything out. He had to make sure that he told them everything they needed to know. "And Harris. Jake Harris, Niki. I think you might have met him already. He's dangerous, too. He's powerful. Be careful. I don't know if he'll hurt anybody else, but..."

He trailed off, took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. "Just be careful. All of you. And...Molly. Tell Molly that..." He paused. "Please tell Molly that I love her."

He pulled the phone away from his ear. And as he did he heard a voice, a young male voice (Micah, it had to be Micah) sound through the ear piece. "Wait. Mo-" said the voice, but Mohinder was already in motion. And before he could react to the voice, before he could force himself to pull the phone away from the hook and back to his ear, he'd hung up.

He stared at the phone for a long moment. Told himself that it was for the best. He'd told those he cared about all he could. He'd done what he could for them, even if all he could do wasn't really very much. He'd finally managed to warn them all about Sylar. Even about Harris.

Actually talking to them would've only made telling them everything, telling them not to try anything to save him, all the harder.

The geneticist breathed deep. Turned from the phone booth and entered the small store. The light in the store was an ugly yellowish color, made everything look strange and sallow. The place was empty except for the man behind the counter.

"Do you have a bathroom I could use?" Mohinder asked. The man frowned, but reached under the counter and brought up a key attached to an overlarge key chain.

Mohinder took the key and key chain, walked in the direction the man behind the counter had gestured at, and stepped into the small bathroom.

Slowly, he closed and locked the door behind him. Then he turned to the badly smeared mirror above the stained sink and studied his reflection.

I look horrible. His hair was a mess, he had bags under his eyes and he looked tired. Really tired.

He washed his face, rinsed his mouth, ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt at combing it. When he was finished he felt a little better. As he stepped out of the tiny bathroom and returned the key to the frowning man he decided he'd call a cab from the payphone outside. Maybe direct the cab to some anonymous hotel. That way he wouldn't be putting Molly and the others in any danger by trying to head back to his apartment building, but could still try to escape from his captor (never mind the fact that he didn't believe he'd get very far, he had to try).

He stepped out of the store – the little bell above the door dinged at his exit – and stuffed one of the mints he'd just purchased into his mouth in an attempt to eliminate the lingering cotton taste (he'd found his wallet in the back pocket of his pants where he'd left it, wondered idly if it had gone through a wash cycle). Then he put the remainder of the tin of mints away.

He stared for a moment at the lights decorating the store's windows, the wreath hanging on its door. Almost Christmas. He'd nearly forgotten.

He moved, started to turn towards the phone booth – came to an abrupt stop when he caught sight of something...different.

It was a person. Someone on the sidewalk, only a few feet away. But the someone wasn't passing by, wasn't heading into the little store or moving to use the phone. No, the someone was just standing there. Still, silent, eerie.

"Doctor," said Harris, and he stepped closer. He sounded surprised. "I didn't expect to see you here." Definitely sounded surprised. And pleased.

Mohinder started slowly backing away.

"No," ordered the older man. "Dont do that. Dont...come here."

He grabbed for the startled geneticist; caught him by the forearm and started walking. He dragged the younger man away from the store, down the sidewalk, into a desserted alley.

Harris gave a hard shove and Mohinder stumbled back a few steps. He watched as the older man bent, pulled a handgun from a holster attached to his ankle and hidden under his jeans. The man then aimed the gun square at the geneticist's head.

"Okay," he said. And he seemed strangely excited, ecstatic. "Go ahead. Call him."

Genuinely lost, Mohinder blinked. "What? Who?"

Harris frowned. "Sylar, Doctor. Call for Sylar. I know he can hear you."

How? wondered the geneticist. How does he know about Sylar's hearing? And why does he think he'll come for me?

Mohinder swallowed hard. "Mr. Harris," he started instead. "I know what you're doing. I know why you're doing it. And-"

"Oh?" Harris stepped closer. The soft light of the nearby street light half fell on him; helped to clearly illuminate the man. And, suddenly, Mohinder was sure about Harris. Did know exactly who he was. He was sure as he'd been at the moment he'd passed out. He was positive.

"You think you know why I'm doing this, Doctor Suresh?"

"Yes," answered Mohinder without hesitating. "I know who you are."

Jake Harris was silent for a moment; he stared saucer eyed at the geneticist. Then his eyes narrowed, he visibly swallowed. "Then you know that you deserve this." He waved the gun a little. "That you both deserve this."

Mohinder took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "Mr. Harris...what happened. I didn't mean for it to happen. I know that-"

But Harris cut him off. "You can't even say it, can you? You're so fucking guilty..." He trailed off. When he spoke again his voice didn't just sound angry. It sounded dangerous. "You can't even say her name."

Mohinder met his latest captive's furious eyes, he stood a little straighter. "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice shook. "I am sorry about Dale, Mr. Harris. I'm sorry about your sister."

Dale Smither. The mechanic from Montana, the woman Sylar had taken his enhanced hearing from.

Jake Harris' mysterious quest for revenge ('you deserve this', he'd said – he kept saying), the black and white photo of the little girl and young man standing in front of a car, the serial killer's prolonged stare at that photo while standing in the hallway of the small apartment complex the night before. And the resemblance. The striking resemblance that the geneticist had noticed after being attacked. It all added up, all made since. Despite their name difference (maybe a factor of marriage, maybe something else) Jake Harris and Dale Smither were siblings.

Jake Harris was out to avenge his younger sister. Had been out to avenge her since that first evening Mohinder had shown up on his doorstep. He knew, somehow, about both Mohinder and Sylar's meeting with Dale. Knew about their involvement in her death. Her murder.

Suddenly, Harris was moving. He pushed into Mohinder's space, gun still drawn and aimed. The geneticist gasped as memory flashed in his mind (Harris rushing across the street, raising his hand, a flash of something bluish white and then pain). "Shut up, Doctor. Stop. Just do what I say. Call Sylar. I know he'll come for you. You were with him in Montana. He came after you the night you came to my house."

Mohinder's breath was coming hard and fast now. He could feel himself shaking. "He'll notice your voice. I know he will," said the older man.

But the geneticist wasn't listening; didn't hear the demand. Because he was thinking, lost in a memory. The memory of a conversation he'd had with Nathan what seemed like ages ago. A conversation about Peter Petrelli's powers.

"Peter's specific DNA allows for a blend. Like colors in a mosaic, re-sequencing itself to mimic the abilities of those around him."

"Call him," demanded Harris. The geneticist stared.

"That won't be necessary," said Sylar, stepping as if from nowhere into the dark alleyway. "I'm already here."

There was a stunned silence, just for a moment, and then Jake Harris grabbed his hostage around the shoulders and held him close. A human shield.

"He's Dale Smither's brother," Mohinder said, in a quiet voice, before either Sylar or Harris could make a threatening move.

The serial killer's eyes were narrowed slits, emotionless.

"And he..."

"I know," purred Sylar, and he grinned a malicious looking grin. "Mr. Harris here has a power. A special ability. I wasn't sure at first what it was. I couldn't figure it out." Slowly, he strolled closer. "He threw someone across a room using only his mind, he matched me blow for blow both times we met...he miraculously found us outside of that apartment building and then nicked you with a shard of ice he created." He paused, pointedly eyed the gleaming handgun. "But...you don't have my powers or Molly Walker's power, do you Harris?"

Mohinder felt his captor tense behind him. Then...

"No," answered Harris, smiling a dark half smile. "I don't have any one of those powers. Not any one. I have them all."

Nathan Petrelli had taken a guess, had tried to compare his brother's ability to something concrete. He'd been wrong. Mohinder had corrected him, told him that his brother's ability was more similar to a sponge. But what Nathan had said – the example he'd used – fit perfectly with Harris, with what he was capable of.

"Like a chameleon," Nathan had said.

Like a chameleon.

Part Nine

Catch Him If You Can

2008-08-13T02:00:48Z

Title: Catch Him If You Can
Author: Harikari
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Implied Paire
Word Count: 499
Warnings: Angst, implied pre-incest, spoilers for seasons 1 and 2 and speculation about season 3.
AN: My first attempt at Paire, and my first attempt at het in a long while. Written for the 'speed' challenge over at pairechallenge.
Summary: She caught up to him in Roswell, New Mexico.

-----

She caught up to him in Roswell, New Mexico.

Jared Langley lived in apartment 1E of the Mountain View apartment complex. He was thirty, a barista at the local Starbucks, and could easily outrun a cheetah on its best day. His place was on the ground floor. When Claire arrived his door was open.

"Hello?" There was no answer. She stepped inside.

The apartment was dark except for the rays of sunlight shining in through the gaping front door; Claire paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness.

"Hello?" she said again, this time in a whisper. She walked on – through the living room, passed an untidy kitchen, into a hallway and -

"Hi, Claire," came Peter's voice, suddenly and from the darkness. Claire jumped.

"You...you scared me-" she started, but Peter cut her off.

"How did you find me?"

Claire swallowed. She could feel her heart beating fast in her chest.

"It doesn't matter."

"Right."

And with that one word Claire knew that he knew. (She had begged the Haitian and Dr. Suresh for help; had searched through her father's files, tight knuckled and starting to sweat with 'he's going to catch me, I know it' nervousness, all so an educated guess could be made about where her youth of an uncle would show up next – all so she could leave behind those who had helped her once that guess was made and set out to catch up with Peter herself, alone).

Peter snorted. "Of course I know," he said, but it didn't sound harsh. "I've met Matt."

Claire blinked. She could make out Peter's slim but muscled form slouched in the hallway before her. "Peter..." she started, trailed off. "I'm here because..."

"Nathan." Hearing him say the name was painful. "You're here for the same reason everybody is looking for me." And that did come out sounding harsh, bitter.

"No," she denied, and he shifted; stared into her eyes. "This. What you're doing, gathering powers. It-"

"This guy. He fell asleep with his headphones on and I got up close without him noticing and...do you know what I can do now?"

"You have the ability of super speed." And as the words left her mouth tears welled in her eyes, but didn't fall.

Peter reached out. His fingers trailed lightly over her cheek, disappeared. "Claire." Softly. "I'm going to gather abilities, I'm going to become stronger than anything the world has ever known, and I'm going to destroy whatever...whoever killed Nathan. I'm not going to stop because your father, my mother...because they're afraid. I'm not going to stop. Not for them."

Stop. It was the plead at the edge of her mind, the tip of her tongue. But she didn't think it, couldn't say it.

Peter smiled; leaned in and kissed her. For a moment all Claire knew was shock, heat, love.

And a split second later, as she moved her mouth to respond to the kiss, he was already gone.

hari_kari @ 2008-07-28T23:06:00

2008-07-29T05:08:32Z

Strange Condition
by Harikari

-----

Part Seven

"What is this?" asked Mohinder.

Night had fallen. He and the killer were sitting in the Kia, which was parallel parked outside of a plain looking three story building. The building stood silent, buttery light shining through a few of its square windows. Sylar was leaning forward in his seat – his chest was pressed against the steering wheel, his head turned at an awkward angle.

He's listening, the geneticist realized. The serial killer was listening intently to something or someone inside of the building, perhaps even (considering his unnatural hearing) to someone or something a mile away.

Mohinder shifted in his seat. Worked at his bottom lip with his teeth. "Where are we?" he tried. When Sylar still didn't answer he sighed. He didn't need an answer from the other man, he could guess where they were and what they were doing there. They were probably parked just outside of an apartment building where a person – likely an innocent, unsuspecting person – with a special ability lived. And Sylar was probably planning on killing that person. Soon. Tonight.

That morning, before they had pulled away from the little diner and before they had headed back to the inn where the geneticist had been forced to wait in the rented room while his captor had done laundry (honestly, laundry) and before they had checked out of the inn, the killer had mentioned that he had some 'things' to take care of.

Mohinder had no doubt that they were in the middle of taking care of one of those aforementioned things. Had little doubt that whatever they were taking care of – whatever the other man had planned – would end in violence, in blood.

"I told you before. I'm not-" he started calmly, but was cut off.

"It's quiet," said Sylar as he turned in his seat. His dark eyes met the geneticist's.

Mohinder pursed his lips. "What is?" he asked after a moment. "The building?"

There was a pause, a beat of stillness. The serial killer's eyes didn't stray from his captive's.

"Why are we here, Sylar?" asked the geneticist when the silence had stretched too long. "Are we..." He trailed off. "You're going to kill someone, aren't you?"

The killer opened his mouth as if to answer; turned abruptly when one of the building's main doors creaked open. A woman emerged. She seemed to be in a hurry; her high heels clicked loudly against the sidewalk as she strode towards a compact car that was parallel parked a space ahead of the Kia. There was the sound of keys jingling, the pop of an opening door. Mohinder watched along with Sylar as the little car's interior light switched on, as the slim figure of the woman slipped into the vehicle. The car's door snapped shut. Seconds slid by, and then the car's headlights were shining, its engine was purring – the woman pulled away.

It's a cold night, mused Mohinder. She should have warmed it up.

"We should go," came the killer's deep voice. The geneticist turned. Saw that the other man was squinting at the face of the watch fastened around his wrist.

Mohinder tensed at the sight of the watch. Memories rose up suddenly from the depths of his mind. The vivid dream he'd had of his father's murder, a dimly lit apartment with writing on its walls, the mangled corpse of an innocent mechanic, Zane's smile.

Mohinder closed his eyes. Realized the bite on his neck was throbbing.

"Come on," said Sylar. And then he was opening his door, his tall form unfolding out of the driver's seat. Cold, moist air rushed into the car as the driver's side door slammed shut. The geneticist shivered, but didn't reach for his door handle.

"Mohinder," urged the serial killer. His voice sounded vague coming from behind the tightly shut window, distracted. He was gazing at the building. Thinking, probably. Planning.

"I told you when..." Mohinder started, faltered. "I told you before that I'm not going to help you, Sylar. I won't-"

The passenger's side door exploded outward. The geneticist jumped in his seat; stared open mouthed at the now open door.

"Get out," ordered Sylar. The geneticist shot a look at his captor. The other man was looking at him with narrowed eyes. His arms were straight at his sides, his hands were clenched into fists. "Now, Mohinder."

Suddenly, the invisible hands were back. Gripping hard at his elbow, pushing at him, forcing...

"Stop," hissed Mohinder. The hands stopped pushing, stopped pulling. But the grip on his elbow stayed firm. Muscles tense, breathing fast with anger, the geneticist stared at the killer with hard eyes. The killer stared back.

At a loss, Mohinder slid to the edge of his seat; got out of the car.

"Good boy," breathed Sylar, already studying the building again, and the geneticist seethed.

-----

The night air was crisp. The light snowfall had let up around noon – had left the city wet and dreary. Heavy gray-black clouds hid the stars, hung low and threatening in the sky.

They climbed two squat, cement steps to reach the building's double entrance doors. The serial killer closed his eyes; there was a series of clicking sounds, both knobs turned and the doors swung wide.

They headed immediately for the elevator at the back of the lobby. Sylar pushed a button, and they rode silently up to the third floor. There was a ding. The elevator doors opened to reveal a long and dimly lit hallway.

Without a word, the killer started down the hallway. Mohinder followed him.

"Okay " said Sylar when they'd reached a door at the very end of the hall (the door was blue and had a cheap, metal 3F fastened to it just below its fish eye). He grabbed at the geneticist's shoulders and pushed him back; forced him flush against the door directly opposite apartment 3F's. Mohinder swallowed and hoped no one on the floor would hear them, hoped no one would try to confront Sylar and get themselves hurt or killed. "Stay here. Don't move."

Don't move.

Yet again, the geneticist found himself wanting to argue. He wanted to demand that Sylar tell him what exactly he was planning, wanted to do something to prevent the ugliness he knew was coming. Instead, he reminded himself of Molly and the others and of his resolve to avoid conflict with the serial killer and keep himself alive so that he might warn them, so that he might tell them that the dangerous man they thought dead was very much alive.

He nodded. The killer gave his shoulders a painful squeeze, then let go.

The geneticist watched as the serial killer turned to face 3F, as the door wushed open as if of its own volition. Watched Sylar step into the apartment and disappear from sight.

Mohinder held his breath, closed his eyes and waited. Waited for what he wasn't quite sure. For screams (which was, he would realize later, ridiculous because the serial killer was skilled enough that he wouldn't give his victim or victims a chance to scream when there was the risk of being heard and interrupted), for maniacal laughter, furniture being upset, the myriad of sounds that would come with a struggle.

But a long moment crept by and there was nothing. No sound. No movement.

The geneticist opened his eyes. Allowed himself to breath again. Maybe no one is home, he thought and raised his arms to fold them over his chest. He said it was quiet. Maybe-

There was a crinkling sound. Like a piece of paper being smashed, like...

The photo. Mohinder reached into his jacket's front pocket and pulled out the now slightly bent looking black and white photo of a little girl and (he assumed) a young Jake Harris. He frowned. He'd stuffed the picture into his pocket days ago, while rifling through Harris' wrecked living room – and he'd promptly forgotten about. He couldn't, in fact, recall why he'd bothered to keep the thing at all.

I must have just...tucked it away without thinking, reasoned Mohinder. It made sense. He'd been worried that Sylar had witnessed him grab the cell phone at the time, had been nervous and distracted.

The geneticist's eyes moved to the apartment's gaping door. Still nothing. He turned back to the photo, absently flipped it over.

J AND D, the back of the photo read in blocky letters. And just below that: FALL, 1969.

"Nothing," hissed Sylar from 3F's doorway. Mohinder, caught off guard, flinched. "I don't understand this," the killer went on, his voice harsh with anger. He spotted the photo in the geneticist's hand and, without a word, strode forward and grabbed it. "What-" he started, faltered suddenly when he glanced at the picture. He paused, squinted at something or someone in the picture with great attention for a second. Then he shook his head, smashed the photo in his fist and let it fall to the floor.

Mohinder stared. "What don't you understand?" he ventured after a moment of gazing blankly at the ruined photo on the floor. He turned away from the crumpled bit of paper; met Sylar's furious eyes.

"She was supposed to be here," said the killer in a low voice. "There's no reason...I watched her." His teeth clenched in a grimace. "I only left for Harris... Taking, having you slowed me down but..." he trailed off. "Something is wrong," he announced after a moment. "Someone-"

"You've been stalking her," broke in Mohinder. It wasn't a question. His tone was harsh, and his eyes were narrowed. He was suddenly sick, furious. "You were stalking this woman and..." His dark eyes widened. "You... You were going to kill Harris, and then you were going to kill her. Only Harris didn't die. Only..."

The woman isn't here for him to kill. Why isn't she here for him to kill?

Sylar was staring at him, expressionless. I'm being an imbecile, thought Mohinder, combing slender fingers through his hair. I knew. I've known all along that he was out for murder. I just...can't do anything about it. Won't do anything. Because the others...

The anger he was feeling wasn't fading; instead it was raving in his stomach like a horde of agitated butterflies, was caught in his throat like an itch that couldn't be scratched. He was angry at Sylar, of course. But he was also, suddenly, angry at himself.

He hadn't made any effort to help Harris, to help the woman who lived in apartment 3F. He'd been repeatedly reminding himself (telling himself) that he was doing all he was doing – picking his battles, acting mostly subservient -- for the good of Molly and the others. And yet his heart had leaped at the chance of rescue, at the possibility of a rescue that could get someone he cared about killed.

And Jake Harris, he thought. Harris had no obligation, no past connection to him. The man might decide he didn't want anything to do with helping him, that he didn't want anything more to do with the powerful psycho that had attempted to kill him. (Never mind that he'd sought out Mohinder's apartment, that he'd met up with Niki and D.L., that didn't mean anything concrete). And even if Harris does help, realized the geneticist, there's no guarantee that he can overpower Sylar. There was no guarantee that he wouldn't be murdered.

A large hand gripped his forearm. Mohinder, feeling dazed and distracted with all of the dark thoughts running through his mind, didn't resist.

Without a word, Sylar pulled him down the hallway. They reached the elevator; rode it back to the ground floor.

When the ding sounded and the doors slid open to reveal the lobby the geneticist finally jerked out of the hold. "Don't touch me," he said, and then promptly bit his lip. He was tired of being a captive, he was furious at himself and at the killer, he wasn't thinking straight.

Sylar, no doubt feeling irritated himself after missing his chance to aquire two abilities in a row, made a low and dangerous sound in his throat. "This is your warning, Mohinder," he growled as they reached the exit. Mohinder was walking slightly ahead of him, trying his best to ignore the other man.

The geneticist pushed at both doors and they flew wide; outside was just as they had left it – cold but not snowing, quiet, the Kia parallel parked, the night sky rife with ominous clouds. The street before the three story building was exactly as it had been before they had gone inside...except for one thing.

One person.

"You will not-" the serial killer was saying, but stopped abruptly when he spotted the figure standing directly across the street. The figure was hunched, clad in what looked in the poor light like a blue jacket and jeans. And the figure was facing them. Staring at them.

For a moment Mohinder's mind was blank, uncomprehending of what or who he was looking at. And then the person across the street shifted, and the answer of who it was they were looking at jumped to the forefront of the geneticist's mind. "Harris," he breathed (it sounded a little like a question), and despite his earlier dark thoughts he felt glad, excited.

"You," said Sylar from behind him as Mohinder was tensing to move out of the way. Because Jake Harris was running now, rushing towards them and-

Without slowing down, Harris lifted his hand. There was a quick flash of blue-white light and then-

Mohinder felt a pain in his side. He gasped. Stumbled back into Sylar's chest. He felt the killer catch him; felt large hands grip his arms to steady him. A wetness that was both warm and cold at the same time began dripping down his skin, the hands guided him to sit on one of the squat steps.

"Wha-" Mohinder tried, clutching at his right side (the shirt he was wearing was torn there, was suddenly damp and hot), but no one was listening to him.

The geneticist, unsure and in pain, looked up. Saw Sylar standing in front of him, saw Jake Harris now only a few feet away. He was facing the killer.

"You deserve this," said Harris. "You both deserve this."

Harris tensed; clenched his fists. Sylar spread his fingers wide, and a dangerous looking glow appeared, hovering, over his left palm.

"Okay, Harris," hissed the killer at the exact same moment Jake Harris breathed, "Let's finish this."

There was movement then, heat and light and noise.

But Mohinder was hurting, and tired, and words were running through his head. He tried to kill you. Hadn't Sylar said that? Hadn't the killer told him that from the very beginning?

So much for being saved. And the geneticist looked up one last time – caught a glimpse of Harris' face. He felt a flash of recognition, a feeling of 'I know him, I know who he is' for a brief second.

And then there was blackness.

Part Eight

What's My Age Again? - A Shawn Spencer Fanmix

2008-07-26T00:17:31Z

A fanmix about Shawn Spencer of Psych and his job/relationships/antics. I've loved this show since its premiere. I've tried to avoid doing anything 'fan-ny' for it, but the third season came along as of last week and I just couldn't help myself. Be warned! Hints of het and hints of slash/pre-slash. Small chance of spoilers. I own nothing. Hope you enjoy. Feedback is love.

01 Smooth Criminal - Alien Ant Farm

A general 'theme song' for the crimes/criminals all of the main characters of the show encounter.

02 What's My Age Again - Blink 182

Shawn's song. Because he's not inclined to resign to maturity.

What the hell is wrong with me?
My friends say I should act my age
What's my age again?
What's my age again?

I never want to act my age (please stay)
What's my age again? (with)
What's my age again? (me)

03 My Best Friend - Weezer

Gus's song. Because he's ~~hilarious~~ Shawn's best friend.

You're my best friend
and I love you, and I love you
Yes I do

04 One Girl Revolution - Superchick

Juliet's song. Because she's ~~awesome~~ a one girl revolution

I'll shoot the shot, bang, that you hear round the world

And I'm a one girl revolution

05 I Fought the Law - The Clash

Lassiter's song. Because ~~he's also awesome~~ they fought Lassi, and he won.

Robbin' people with a six-gun
I fought the law and the law won (twice)
I lost my girl and I lost my fun
I fought the law and the law won (twice)

06 Just Like You - Three Days Grace

A song about Shawn and his less than perfect relationship with his father.

I could be mean
I could be angry
You know I could be just like you

You thought you were there to guide me
You were only in my way

07 Falling For the First Time - Barenaked Ladies

Shawn feels like he's falling for the first time when it comes to Juliet. (Also? He's so brave, too bad he's a baby...)

08 Jerk it Out - Caesars

A song about Shawn and the crazy ~~way he always jerks his body around~~ 'visions' he has.

09 Growing On Me - Darkness

Lassi won't admit it, but Shawn is growing on him.

I can't get rid of you
I don't know what to do
I don't even know who is growing on who, (yeah, yeah)
'Cos everywhere I go you're there
I Can't get you out of my hair
I Can't pretend that I don't care - it's not fair

I'm Being punished for all my offenses
I wanna touch you but I'm afraid of the consequences
I wanna banish you from whence you came
But you're part of me now
And I've only got myself to blame

You're really growing on me

10 California - SemiSonic

A song about California - the home of the SBPD and Psych.

hari_kari @ 2008-06-14T21:03:00

2008-06-15T03:12:50Z

Reason
by Harikari

-----

Part Two

"What are you doing?" ventured Mohinder.

Gabriel shrugged; stared.

Mohinder used the silence; pulled at the grass near his knees and studied Gabriel. The boy had dark, short-cropped hair. Had on wire frame glasses and a t-shirt and tan khaki shorts that looked as if they'd been ironed.

"How old are you?"

"Nine." A pause. For a moment Mohinder thought that was all of Gabriel's reply; thought that the other boy was clamming up on purpose, that he was trying to brush his unexpected visitor off with silence. "How old are you?"

"I turned ten last month." Mohinder let the blades of grass he'd torn from the ground fall away from his fingers. "Since you're not doing anything..." he trailed off. "Do you want to play?"

Gabriel's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Play?" he asked. But Mohinder wasn't listening -- he was digging into his pockets. After a few seconds of searching he pulled out a pack of gum. The pack was mostly depleted, only three sticks of the mint gum remained.

"Want one?" asked Mohinder. And he didn't wait for an answer; he grabbed two sticks, handed one to the other boy.

Gabriel accepted the offering, stared at his piece of gum for a long moment. Then, abruptly, one half of his mouth lifted in a smirk. He scooted closer to his new companion. Their knees bumped. "Mohinder," he said, as if testing the name out.

And they talked. They went on about school (it turned out that once Fall hit they'd be attending the same one), about Mohinder and the fact that he had just moved to New York from very far away, about Gabriel and the fact that he lived in one of the buildings that bordered the park -- the building opposite Mohinder's new home.

"Let's go play," said Mohinder during a break in the conversation. He stood, started strolling towards the trash can.

Gabriel scrambled up and followed him. He caught up as Mohinder was tossing the apple core he'd picked up on the way into the bin and spitting out his gum. "What are you doing?" he asked, spit out his own gum.

"To play," Mohinder said again and smiled wide. As if caught up in the glow of the other boy's joy, Gabriel smiled back -- but Mohinder saw his smile fall as he started away again.

He was heading for the basketball court and the group of teenagers.

He felt a hand squeeze his arm with clamp-like force, then let go; he glanced back. "You can't. Don't do that," ordered Gabriel. He sounded desperate.

Mohinder stopped. Both boys were standing at the very edge of the court. The teenagers had paused their game, were smirking and guffawing and talking to each other in low tones.

"Why not?" asked Mohinder.

Gabriel clenched his teeth, narrowed his eyes. "Because-"

"What do you want, Gray?" demanded one teen -- he and all of the others standing around the court looked about thirteen -- before the other boy could finish his explanation.

"Yeah," put in another teen; this one was holding the basketball. "We already told you to stay away. We've told you..." he trailed off. Took a few steps forward. "What is this?" he asked and gestured at Mohinder. "Back up?" There was an explosion of laughter.

"I just..." Mohinder started. All eyes turned to him, and he immediately regretted saying anything. All he'd wanted to do was ask if he and his new friend could join the game. The group standing before them were acting as if they'd been insulted somehow, as if they were readying for a fight. "I was just going to ask if we could play."

"No," said the teen with the basketball. He took a few more steps forward; ended up no more than an arm's length in front of the ten year old. "I've already told Gray here he can't play, and now I'm telling you." The teenager smiled so wide he showed teeth.

"Gray," he said, and at the same moment reached out and shoved at Mohinder's right shoulder. Wide eyed, Mohinder stumbled backward. The teen moved as if to follow the startled boy, to crowd him. But was stopped by Gabriel, who was suddenly standing between the teen and the ten year old.

"Don't," said Gabriel. His hands rolled into fists. "Don't, Mike."

Mike glared, let the basketball drop. It bounced a few times, rolled to a stop at the base of the pole the backboard was bolted to. "Don't? What is this? All of a sudden you have a spine, Gray? Are you trying to show off in front of your new friend..." The teen allowed his speech to trail off into silence.

"That's it, isn't it?" asked Mike after a pause. His grin returning, he looked back at his group of friends. "Jason," he said, and the teen who had spoken to Gabriel first snapped to attention. "Why don't you remind Gabe here that he can't play with us. I'll make sure the new kid-"

As Mike was speaking he was moving, maneuvering around Gabriel and heading for Mohinder. But Gabriel was moving, too.

The nine year old tensed, bent slightly at the waist, charged. He slammed into the teenager's stomach head first, like a bull. Mike made a strange huff noise, a noise like all of the air in his lungs had been suddenly forced out.

But it hadn't been forced out, because a moment later Mike yelled. "Son of a bitch!" he cried out before he hunched and clutched at his abdomen. "You-" he started -- was cut off when Gabriel straightened in a flash of movement, launched a fist at the teenager's face. There was a muffled slap of impact.

Mike let out a wordless cry (probably of pain, maybe of surprise). He toppled sideways; lost his balance and fell.

Mohinder stared at the teen. Saw that Mike was clutching at his face with one hand, saw that blood was seeping from between that hand's fingers.

The ten year old looked quickly away from the fallen Mike and the blood; stared at Gabriel.

"Why did you do that?" he asked.

Gabriel turned at the question. He was breathing hard and fast. "You..." he started, trailed off. "I tried to tell you. They're mean. They're always...my mom asked them to play with me once, asked them if they could watch after me for a little while and-"

"You didn't have to do that," said Mohinder.

"I did!" shouted Gabriel, his face twisting, and Mohinder flinched. The nine year old seemed suddenly scary, dangerous. But then he breathed -- his face smoothed and his eyes lost their fire. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry...just..."

Mohinder's eyes shifted back to Mike. One of the teens had sprinted away from the scene, another two were bending over their friend in concern, and Jason was looking beyond the two younger boys -- was staring bug eyed at something behind them.

"Mohinder!" came a deep voice. And Mohinder gasped, spun. Saw his father standing next to an idling taxi in front of their building. The man was straight-backed, staring across the space that separated them. He quickly handed the driver some money, and the taxi pulled away.

"Come on," Jason spat. He hurried over to his group of friends, helped haul Mike up. "Let's get the hell out of here." And with that, they stumbled off.

Mohinder took a step toward his obviously fuming father, saw his mother come speedily out the building's front doors and down the steps...

"I'm sorry, Mohinder."

Mohinder turned; saw that Gabriel was staring at him. The other boy looked miserable. "Will you...can we...are you my friend?" he asked. "Are we friends now? Still?"

Mohinder pursed his lips, thought about Mike shoving and the group of teens laughing and the fact that Gabriel had only been standing up for him...

He smiled. "Yes," he said. "Of course. We're friends. Maybe next time...maybe we can really play next time."

Gabriel grinned.

"Just..." the ten year old continued, then paused. "You didn't have to do that."

He waved, sprinted away from the court and from the nine year old just as his mother and father started across the street.

"Yes I did," he thought he heard Gabriel breathe as he hurried towards home and his parents. But he didn't look back. He thought perhaps he'd imagined it, or that Gabriel was just being flip.

It didn't really matter. It didn't really mean anything.

"Mohinder," said his mother when he met her on the sidewalk. She reached to cradle his face; studied him. "Are you..." she started, but was cut off by his father.

"Mohinder. What happened? Who was that?"

Mohinder smiled. "I made a new friend," he said. "His name is Gabriel. Gabriel Gray."

Part Three

Reason

2008-06-07T20:08:04Z

Title: Reason
Author: Harikari
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: NC-17 (Eventually)
Disclaimer: Don't own em'.
Warnings: Underage pre-slash/friendship (nothing graphic), eventual slash (very graphic), violence, angst, fluff, gore, strong language, AU, Sylar and Mohinder as kids/teenagers/adults, possible major spoilers for volumes 1 and 2, etc.
AN: This is an AU fic. It's basically the result of me asking myself if there is any universe/situation in which Mohinder could forgive Sylar for the horrible things he does (I'm still not quite sure on the answer, hopefully it'll come with the last chapters...). And, yeah, the result of me wanting to 'see' Mohinder and Sylar grow up together.

Summary: In 1985 Mohinder's father moved his family to New York. In New York Mohinder met Gabriel Gray, a quiet boy with a dark secret. A very dangerous boy who very quickly developed an unhealthy attachment to Mohinder, a boy who was willing to do anything to keep Mohinder safe...

-----
Reason n. 1. an explanation or justification of an act, idea, etc. 2. a sound mind; sanity.

Part One

It all started on a Wednesday morning.

Mohinder was sitting on the couch in front of the television (the game show The Price Is Right was on -- a young woman had just dominated at plinko and was jumping up and down and screaming, ecstatic). He was sitting on the very edge of the lumpy sofa, swinging his legs; the heels of his sandals were making a thump sound every time they bumped the piece of furniture.

His father was at work. His mother was bustling around the cubic apartment, dusting and muttering and shooting harried looks at the boxes scattered across the small living room's carpet. "Why don't you..." she started in Tamil, then trailed off. Mohinder tore his gaze away from the television's screen to stare at her.

She looked...different. Her eyes were dull, her posture was somewhat slumped, the expression on her face was sad and angry all at the same time. She noticed he was looking at her and lifted one half of her mouth in a smile. "Mohinder. No more TV. Why don't you go play?" This time she spoke in English and her eyes slid to the large window behind the television. Mohinder followed his mother's gaze. The window's blinds were pulled up and he could clearly make out the square expanse of grass and asphalt, surrounded by sidewalk, that their building sat directly across from. A park. A really horrible park with no play equipment and dry grass and hardly any kids.

"But-" he started, because he really didn't want to do what his mother was asking him to do. He wanted to stay inside and watch game shows and soap opera's that he didn't quite get and avoid having to think about the fact that he was really, actually in the United States. That he was in New York. That he was very, very far away from home and friends and everything and anything that mattered.

"Mohinder. You'll be fine. I will watch you from here, I'll be able to see you through the window. And you need to get out. We've been here almost two weeks and you've only been out of the house a few times, and only to shop with me." She placed the feather duster she'd been using atop the television and stepped close to her son, bent at the waist a little and slid her arms around his narrow shoulders before pulling him into an awkward hug. "Maybe you'll meet some friends."

"Fine," he relented. "I'll go to the park."

His mother smiled. "Just for a little while. And I'll be watching you. Still....be careful." And then she let him go.

-----

Mohinder looked left, then right. When he saw there was no traffic he sprinted across the street, away from his new apartment building -- his new home.

He froze when he hit the sidewalk that lined the park; stood staring at the stretch of green and gray before him. Except for a group of teenagers shouting and throwing a basketball around the court and a boy who looked about his age sitting under a large tree the park was empty.

Mohinder bit at his lip. He looked from the teenagers to the lone boy; headed for the large tree.

"Hello," he said once he'd reached the spread of shade the tree provided.

The boy was eating an apple, watching the gaggle of teens and their game. He jumped at Mohinder's greeting, coughed.

"Oh. I'm sorry," said Mohinder. He felt suddenly nervous; smiled.

The boy with the apple looked up at him. There was a moment of deep silence, a moment during which the boy with the apple gazed into Mohinder's dark eyes. The boy seemed a little surprised at the sight before him, a little stunned. "Hey," came the reply.

Mohinder's nervous smile turned into a grin. He dropped down onto the grass beside the boy. "Hi. I'm Mohinder."

The boy nodded; launched the apple (now just a core) at a trash can that was sitting behind them, a little less than ten feet away, and missed. He made a face, a dramatic twist of his features into something intense and angry, then turned back to his new companion. "I'm Gabriel."

Part Two

hari_kari @ 2008-05-29T06:44:00

2008-05-29T12:52:04Z

Strange Condition
by Harikari

AN: Much thanks to my flist (and to levitatethis, in particular) for reading this chapter before I thought it fit for comms and giving me some very helpful crit/suggestions.
-----

Part Six

The diner was two buildings down from the motel. It was small, a square stretch of space filled with worn red booths, wooden tables and enclosed by walls of scratched plexiglass.

Mohinder sat at a booth tucked into a corner of the diner. He was staring dazedly down at his toast.

"Mohinder," said Sylar, and the geneticist looked up. The killer was sitting directly across from his captive; he'd speared some scrambled eggs with his fork, was holding the utensil a few inches away from his mouth. "You need to eat."

Mohinder narrowed his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached for his squat glass of orange juice. Sipped at it.

Sylar watched him. When the geneticist placed the glass back onto the table after only a few tentative drinks and didn't reach for his toast the killer frowned, dropped his fork. It landed on his plate, still laden with scrambled eggs, with a sharp clang sound.

An old man and woman sitting near the door and a young woman a few tables away – the only other patrons in the small restaurant – turned and stared. Mohinder flinched; then he clenched his teeth, angry at himself for the involuntary display of fear.

"Fine," hissed Sylar. His lips pursed and his eyebrows drew together in a show of anger. He held up his hand to get the attention of the diner's lone on-duty waitress. She was stepping out from behind the long counter that ran almost the length of the entire diner, carrying a pot of steaming coffee (to offer her few customers refills, Mohinder presumed). She stopped short when she saw the serial killer's gesture. "Check," he said. And she nodded.

Mohinder turned back to his untouched toast, turned away from his captor's heated gaze. A tense and quiet minute crawled by. And then the waitress was dropping the bill onto their table. "Here you go," she said. "You gentlemen have a nice day."

"Thank you," managed the geneticist.

Sylar looked at the bill, then slipped his wallet from his pocket. He pulled a twenty from the wallet and stuffed it into the miniature, faux leather folder the bill was tucked in.

"Come on," he said, and stood.

Mohinder stood, too. He followed the killer. Stopped suddenly when they reached the door that led out to the parking lot. "I..." he started, hesitated when Sylar's dark eyes met his. "I need to stop off," he said – felt an embarrassed heat make its way up his neck, then spread across his entire face.

The serial killer eyed him. Mohinder fought the urge to squirm and wondered if the taller man could actually listen for that sort of thing with his enhanced hearing. If he could hear the inner workings of a person's body and deduce what exactly was happening inside of it.

"You have five minutes," proclaimed the killer after a moment. His gaze swept away from his captive. Locked on to a pair of doors, one marked with a male sign and the other with a female sign, that were the dead end to a little alcove across the diner. "One second over that and I'm coming to get you."

Mohinder gave a tight nod; watched as Sylar pushed open the door and stepped outside. Then he walked across the diner, passed the young woman sitting at a tiny table (she shot a smile at him as he went by), reached the little hallway and entered the bathroom.

-----

Mohinder stepped out of the stall, walked to the sink. Once he was finished washing up he reached for a paper towel; stared into the mirror as he dried his hands.

He tossed the bunched up paper towel into the trash can near the sink, studied his reflection. Despite the fact that he'd slept the night before his face looked unhealthy and pale, his eyes sunken. There was a reddish mark near the collar of his shirt, at the juncture between his shoulder and his neck; it was the spot where Sylar had bitten him – the serial killer hadn't actually broken skin with his teeth, but the bite looked irritated and bruised.

Sylar...bit me.

Mohinder swallowed. He really didn't want to think about it. About that. He'd already replayed the disturbing scene with Sylar the night before numerous times in his head. He'd even been forced to relive the event in his dreams, had as a result spent most of that morning dry heaving at the memories of the killer's large body looming over his own and the feel of moist breath against his flesh, standing in the shower and scrubbing his skin until it stung.

I should have known, thought the geneticist. And it was true. He should have known.

He should have guessed what Sylar wanted because, before, he'd guessed what Zane wanted. Because Zane had been all longing looks and meaningful speeches and glancing touches. And because Mohinder himself, despite never having been with another man romantically and despite never having had any wish to be with a man, had picked up on those things. Those signals. Had not been completely put off by them, had even...

Mohinder took a deep breath. This isn't helping, he realized, and tried to push most of his troubling thoughts to the back of his mind. Attempted to focus on what mattered most – on staying alive, on escape.

A cool rush of air blew in from the single, small window in the bathroom. The geneticist shivered as goose bumps rose on his skin. He zipped up his jacket and stuffed his hands into his pockets in search of his gloves. His fingers hit something solid. He froze.

The phone.

And he moved, pulled the cell phone from his pocket. It was still turned off; its screen was still blank and its plastic frame was cold despite having been in his jacket's pocket, tucked close to his body.

He said five minutes. The geneticist licked his lips, hoped that when Sylar had said five minutes he'd meant five minutes of complete privacy. (And he realized a brief moment later that that was a foolish hope, that even if the serial killer wasn't listening in he'd already used up a significant chunk of his time alone).

He turned on the phone, watched as it lit up. As soon as the main screen was loaded he scrolled through speed dial, called Niki Sanders. He lifted the phone to his ear. Almost immediately there was a loud beeping.

He pulled the phone away. The words CALL FAILED were dominating the screen. Mohinder cursed, went back to the main screen and saw that there were no bars. No signal.

Damn it.

He sighed; almost without thinking scrolled to voice mail and selected it. His phone was strange. Sometimes he could call voice mail and get his messages even when his signal was non-existent.

An automated voice sounded in his ear. He had five new messages. The first message began to play.

It was Molly, asking him why he hadn't called to talk and assuring him that no matter what time he called Niki and D.L. would let her talk to him and reciting Niki's cell number just in case he'd forgotten it. The third message was from Niki. She sounded equal parts worried and annoyed, asked why he hadn't called Molly and informed him that Matt Parkman was doing well and told him that if he needed anything he shouldn't hesitate to call her. The fourth message was Bennet – 'call me', he ordered before hanging up. The final message was Molly again.

"Hi Mohinder." Her voice sounded tinny and small coming through the phone. "It's me. I...um. Are you okay? Because you always call me, and you haven't called me." She sounded scared, on the verge of tears, young. "I've searched for you, and you're still in New York and you said that's where you were going to be so I guess that's good." There was a short pause, a moment of just breathing. "Um. We're at your apartment. I used the key you gave me before. And don't worry because I've got Mohinder now and D.L. says I can take care of him until we find...see you." The geneticist's mind reeled for a moment at that, then he realized she was talking about his lizard. His father's poor pet lizard. "Just...call me, okay?" Another pause, some background noise. "Someone's at the door..." More noise, as if Molly was moving.

And then there was Niki's voice. And then some deep rumbling that must have been a male voice. Maybe two male voices. "...Harris..." he thought he heard Niki say after a moment. "...sounds like...Kirby..."

"Okay. I love you see you soon bye." Molly's parting came suddenly and in a rush.

Then nothing.

Mohinder blinked and turned off the phone. He shoved it back into his pocket. He walked out of the bathroom, made his way across the diner (the girl who had flashed him a smile was gone). He pushed open the door and stepped outside.

Sylar was leaning against the Kia's hood. He straightened when he saw the geneticist, walked around to the driver's side and got in the car. Mohinder walked to the passenger's side and also slid in.

"Okay," said the serial killer as the car rumbled to life. He didn't complain about how long his captive had taken, didn't act as if he'd overheard the phone use. "Let's get going. We've got some...errands to run before we leave."

The geneticist started at that. "Leave?"

The killer nodded and put the car in reverse. "New York. We've got some things to take care of before we leave New York."

Mohinder sank back in his seat. He felt overwhelmed, frightened, delirious with hope.

Niki Sanders and her family were looking for him. Molly was looking for him. And they had, apparently, found Jake Harris.

They had found Harris. A man who had gone up against Sylar once and survived. A man who might be willing to go up against the serial killer again, a man capable of saving him.

Mohinder breathed in deep; stared out the smeared car window and thought about Niki and Molly and danger and love and the fact that Niki and D.L. had thought him important enough to go from Las Vegas to New York when he'd gone missing.

He blinked again, noticed that the late morning sky was gray with heavy clouds. Noticed it was snowing.

Part Seven

First Kiss

2008-05-04T07:56:55Z

Title: First Kiss
Author: Harikari
Pairing: Jesse & Xander
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own em'.
Warnings: Underage kissing, pre-slash/friendship, some strong language, angst, fluff. Spoilers for season one and possible spoilers for elements of all later seasons.
AN: I set out to write a Spander fic that involved hacking apart demons and Angel, Investigations. Instead, this happened. Hope you like. Written for spring_with_xan. Feedback is love.

Summary: Xander's first kiss.

-----

It happened at the park. That park next to Sunnydale Middle School, with the swings and the really old merry-go-round (seriously, that thing had to be a health hazard) and the slide that was way too small and squat to be fun for any kid who was over the age of five.

Xander was thirteen and a half. Jesse was fourteen. They were both sitting on a swing, coltish legs dragging in the dirt, hands gripping twisted metal chains.

"Twenty bucks says I jump farther than you do," said Jesse. And he pushed off of the dirt and into the air with his legs, started pumping his limbs to get the swing going high and fast.

"You don't have twenty bucks," said Xander, starting up his own swing. "And I don't have twenty bucks. So, um, both of us? Are big with the not having twenty bucks thing."

"Fine." Jesse was already breathing hard - his eyes were gleaming. With excitement, maybe. "Fine. That new Captain Kill comic book, the one I got yesterday. You jump farther than I do? It's yours."

Panting with exertion, Xander shot a look at his friend. He'd gone with Jesse the day before, after school, to buy the Captain Kill comic book at the little shop next to that strange occult goods store. He hadn't been able to buy one for himself - was pretty much never able to buy anything for himself, because of his parents. Because of how they were.

"You're on," he shouted. And then they were frantic, pumping themselves and their swings high into the air.

Suddenly, Jesse let out a loud whoop, and let go. Xander watched him fly through the air. And for a second he held his breath, was afraid for his best friend (he could land wrong, he could maybe die). But then Jesse landed - knobby knees bent awkwardly and sneakers dug deep in the sand. "Beat that, bitch," he said. Laughed.

Xander tensed, took a deep breath...released his hold on the swing's chains and flew. There was a rushing sound in his ears, his heart jumped into his throat, and then he landed. A shock of pain shot up the flat of his foot, shot all the way up to his knee. He gasped. Fell. "Ow," he groaned.

And then Jesse was kneeling next to him, hovering over him. "Are you okay?" he asked. "What's wrong? Should I get someone?"

Xander blinked. "I'm fine." He tried to sit up, was pushed back down. "I just landed wrong. I'm okay." He breathed; watched Jesse watching him. "Did I win?"

Jesse laughed; a sharp, surprised bark. Then he grabbed Xander's shoulders, pulled him up and forward into a crushing hug. "You're such an idiot, Xan." He sounded upset. Really upset. Like he was on the verge of crying.

Xander, feeling as if he was missing something important, hugged his friend back. "Are you...." he started, trailed off. "I said I'm cool, man. I just-"

Jesse leaned in and their lips brushed. Awkward and not quite on target (mostly on the left side of Xander's mouth) and a little wet. "You're an idiot," Jesse said again. He tightened his hold. Let go and stood up.

Xander stared up at him. A moment beat by. "So," he said into the silence. "Did I jump farther than you?"

Jesse's mouth turned upward in a grin. "Yeah. Yeah, you did."

"Ha!" Xander pushed himself up, stood and brushed dirt from his jeans. Jesse was already turning away, picking up his backpack and heading for the gate that was the exit to the playground. "I knew it. I'm awesome. I'm awesome, and you're not as awesome. So of course I won. That comic book is mine."

Xander picked up his own bag, worked the straps onto his shoulders. Abruptly, something important occurred to him - he rushed to catch up with his friend. "Hey. You know, you said I'd get Captain Kill if I won. But we never agreed on what I'd give you if you won. Which you didn't. Because I rule."

Jesse shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. You beat me, right? I lose, you get the comic."

Xander nodded. Thought about the way his best friend frowned whenever he didn't have money for something, and the way he always begged his parents to let Xander stay at his house, and the way he'd glared so fiercely at Xander's father the few times he'd seen the man...

"I guess we better hurry," said Xander, bumping shoulders with his slightly taller friend. "Willow's expecting us. She wants to look over our English reports before we have to turn them in tomorrow."

Jesse snorted. "Yeah. Because I'm totally finished with my report. Not."

Xander laughed, and they both reached the gate - ambled away from the playground thinking about homework, and Willow, and that X-men cartoon.

Xander didn't dwell on the kiss, didn't think about it much at all.

Wouldn't think about it until years later, when he was grown and Jesse was dead and Sunnydale was a hole in the ground and vampires and Slayers and witches were normal.

Jesse's breath had smelled of cinnamon gum. So why then, he wondered all of those years later, did his mouth now taste of ash when he remembered his friend? When he thought about his first kiss?

Why, Xander wondered. And wished it wasn't so.