Twenty-One Tokens 7/8

Okay, I'm nervous about this chapter (really nervous) because it's so freakin' sugary and I'm worried about OOCness and blargh. So... I'm sorry if this part is hugely disappointing, the hopeless romantic in me cannot be fully contained. One left to go, will post sometime this evening (around 10 pm EDT)


Title: Twenty-One Tokens Part 7/8
Rating: PG-13 overall for language?
Characters: Mylar, Matt, Molly, Nathan, Peter, Angela, one OC very late in the game for like three lines, Elle, um... hell, lots of people are here. Maya's not, though. Rejoice or weep as you choose.
Spoilers: Season 2.
Warnings: Oh dear god fluff. No seriously this time, like soap opera caliber marshmallow fluff with a side order of angst.
Summary: Unraveling. Still dedicated to LW80 and Perdi. Still a comments whore.
Disclaimer: I own NUFFINK.


Previous chapters, correctly labeled, here.


Mrs. Petrelli swept out, shutting the door behind her, not with a bang but with a soft, and final sounding click.

Sighing, Mohinder opened his phone and called Matt.

"All clear?" Matt asked.

"It's sunny in Trenton," Mohinder replied, the seemingly innocuous phrase a pre-agreed-upon code that it was safe to go home. Matt released a long exhalation of relief.

"You have so much explaining to do, you know that?" Matt laughed.

"Can't you just pull it out of my brain later? I barely understand it myself."

When they reconvened at the apartment, Molly couldn't stop hugging Mohinder. They ordered pizza and sat on the couch together, Molly comfortably bracketed by her caretakers.

"I want a new emergency plan," she said with a scowl. "One that doesn't make us leave someone behind."

"I wasn't left behind!" Mohinder soothed, stroking her hair with the hand on which she didn't have a death grip.

"Mohinder? Is the boogieman the person who was sending you all those things? Or was it Peter?"

"I see you looked for me," he sighed. "It was the boogieman. Peter was just along to keep me safe."

"He seemed different," Molly said, loosening her grip a bit now that she knew she'd get the truth.

"Peter acquires new abilities all the time; perhaps that's why."

"Not Peter, the boogieman."

Mohinder looked up at Matt in surprise.

"Different how?" Matt asked.

"It's hard to explain. When I look for him, I find him, but something changed. Like… sometimes you wear glasses, Mohinder, but I can still see it's you. It's like that, but bigger."

"Bigger?"

"Lots bigger."

"Well," Mohinder said, at a bit of a loss. "I don't think we have to be concerned anymore."

Matt gave him a long, worried look that he tried his hardest to ignore.

Over the next days, Mohinder tried to restore his old routine. He very deliberately and clinically boxed up all the larger, non-perishable gifts and stored them in the office he never used. Throwing them out felt like giving them too much significance, and to prove he'd moved on, Mohinder had to prove he was unaffected, that he just didn't care.

He returned home on Matt's day off to a wonderful smell in the air and a sheepish looking detective standing in the kitchen wearing oven mitts.

"Hi. Um… you're home early," Matt said. Mohinder narrowed his eyes.

"No, I'm home on time, actually. I've just been home late for a couple months. What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Matt said.

"You made the pie, didn't you," Mohinder sighed, walking past Matt and glancing in the oven.

"No," Matt said defensively.

"Matt, I'm looking at it."

"It's got another five minutes, so it's not 'made.' I'm still making it," he replied lamely.

"Does the Molly Walker school of rhetoric really make up for the fact that it's Sylar's recipe?" Mohinder scolded, standing upright and going into the fridge.

"No," Matt conceded, "but the fact that it's the best pie in recorded history does. I mean… "

"What?"

"Nothing," Matt sighed. "If it bugs you that much, I won't make it again."

"I don't care if you make it. Just don't stand there acting like I caught you masturbating in the kitchen. It's just sodding pie," he snapped, slamming the fridge without getting anything and stalking into the living room.

"Just don't freak out if you find any of the flowers, okay?" Matt said as Mohinder went to pull a book off the shelf. Mohinder turned, holding the volume in one hand and waited. Matt sighed. "Look. Molly hadn't seen any since her dad died, and she really wanted to keep some, so I let her press some in a few of your books."

Mohinder sat on the couch, flipping the book open to where the pages were slightly bowed.

"Why would she want this, knowing where they came from?" he forced from between his teeth, trying his hardest not to shout as he stared at the red peony, flattened and its color fading. "How can Angela Petrelli claim that he's a different man when he could do something so monstrous as to send those flowers to this house?"

Matt moved to sit by him, tugging off the oven mitts.

"Molly hasn't wanted to talk about it because she's worried it'll upset you more. She's not scared of him. Not as scared, anyway. She said it was like looking at someone in a broken mirror versus looking at someone in one that isn't. She doesn't even call him the boogieman anymore. She sees him as a person who's done awful things, rather than some kind of… terrible abstract bump in the night."

"He's a monster," Mohinder said in a tone of resentment and exhaustion.

"Mohinder, please don't take this away from her," Matt said. Mohinder's head snapped up, his eyes going wide. Matt raised his hands, placating. "I know you want what's best for her, and I know you're gonna worry no matter what, but… haven't you noticed that she hasn't had a nightmare since it happened?"

Mohinder thought back, and realized that indeed, she'd slept through the night the whole week.

"My god…" he breathed. "I've been so wrapped up in myself… I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot, but… good things can come out of bad situations. It's horrible that Molly's parents were killed, but… now we have her. And it's the best apple pie in the world, so… maybe it's okay to just enjoy the damn pie and not punish yourself for how you got the recipe."

"Damn it, must you always be insightful when I'm trying to brood?" Mohinder said with a wry smirk. Matt laughed.

"Just don't be so hard on yourself."

The oven timer dinged, and Matt put his mitts on again.

"You can start by having some pie," he said. Mohinder sat back on the couch and stared at the wall. Out of this bizarre situation, his daughter had found peace and his roommate had apparently found heaven in a pie tin.

Somehow, it just wasn't enough.

Mohinder consented to have dinner with Nathan a few times, as long as there was the express understanding that it was not a date, Mohinder would be paying for his own meal, and Peter, Matt and/or Molly would be coming along as well. On this particular evening, however, Nathan had to cancel. Mohinder hoped that this signaled the beginning of the end of Nathan's infatuation; who knew, perhaps Nathan had moved on to easier prey.

"He's got a cold," Peter laughed when Mohinder excitedly inquired about whether Nathan was on another, better date as he and Peter stood in front of the restaurant. "But I'll tell him you asked about him."

"I hate you, Peter," Mohinder retorted sourly.

"I bet Nathan would feel so much better if you came to check on him, told him you wanted to play doctor."

Peter winced as a red-nailed hand reached up and smacked the back of his head.

"I didn't raise you to be vulgar," Mrs. Petrelli said sternly, stepping out from behind her younger child. "Doctor Suresh, I hope you don't mind if I take Nathan's place this evening. I, at least, can promise to keep my hands to myself."

"Not at all, Mrs. Petrelli," Mohinder said, holding the door for her as Peter got their table.

"I've decided you may call me Angela, when we're not at work, if you like. Now come along, I become less personable the hungrier I get."

They made their way into the restaurant, all the wait staff seeming terribly uneasy with the Petrelli matriarch's presence. Mohinder wasn't entirely sure how comfortable he was himself, but, despite his reputation in the company for being brash and somewhat hot-headed, he did know how to be polite. The three of them made innocuous small talk through ordering starters, blessedly innuendo free with Nathan's absence and Peter's apprehension about another slap from his mother. Soup and salads had arrived, and they'd just begun to eat when Mrs. Petrelli said:

"Gabriel's been asking about you."

Mohinder dropped his salad fork with a loud clatter.

"Mom!" Peter said with the tone of a mortified teenager.

"Oh don't be childish, Peter," she replied. "I just want to know what Doctor Suresh intends to do about the situation."

Mohinder stared at her.

"What do you mean, what I intend to do?" he asked, all thoughts of manners flying out of his head.

"One of my employees, and one of your coworkers, is wasting away over you, and the quality of your work has deteriorated unacceptably. The situation needs to be rectified, and you are in a position to do that. I just need to know what to expect."

"You promised that if I brought you, you wouldn't bring this up," Peter said miserably.

"Ask Peter," Mrs. Petrelli said. "He's talked to Gabriel; he's seen the state he's in. I'm surprised he hasn't told you."

"Why are you doing this to me?" Peter hissed at her, glancing at Mohinder.

"You've seen Sylar?" Mohinder asked, salad forgotten. Peter shifted uncomfortably now that Mohinder's eyes were boring into him.

"Not… really."

"Peter. Tell me," Mohinder demanded. Peter sighed, flashing another glare at his mother.

"Gabriel is Sylar, but he's not. Sylar was Gabriel when Gabriel was… shattered? I mean, he sat there and just let me read his mind for hours, like an open book, and it's just–"

Peter's eyes flicked from his plate to Mohinder, widening in surprise.

"You're jealous," he whispered. He glanced back at his mother, impassively eating her salad as Mohinder sputtered.

"I'm not jealous. I just— I want to understand what happened. Why this happened. Why everyone suddenly seems perfectly fine with the fact that Sylar is alive and well and living in New York and sending me bloody love notes!"

Peter sighed.

"I can't break his trust by telling you all that. It's not mine to tell," he said, face begging Mohinder to understand. Mohinder rolled his eyes and stood, tossing his napkin on the table.

"If you'll excuse me, I've lost my appetite," he said, opening his wallet and extracting enough money to cover his salad and thrusting it at Peter. Peter in turn rolled his own eyes.

"Mohinder—"

"I really have to be going," Mohinder said icily. Peter reached out and took the money, brushing Mohinder's fingers as he did so with a solid zap. Mohinder yelped and released the money, rubbing his fingers to ease the prickling tingle.

"Brat," he muttered. Peter just beamed up at him, a lopsided grin of benevolent satisfaction. "What? What are you smirking about?"

"I think your watch is broken," Peter replied. Mohinder glanced at his wrist to see that the second hand had indeed stopped moving, narrowed his eyes at Peter, and stormed out.

He should go home. He should really just go home, be with Matt and Molly, keep moving on with his life and damn Peter and his mother for trying to drag him back.

He found himself in the Kirby Plaza building anyway, leafing through personnel files until he found Gabriel Gray's. Unsurprisingly, there was a full dossier on Sylar, up until he'd been, as they put it in the file, 'A.P.ed,' but there were also pictures from the months since that point, occasional moments of what would've been laughter, subdued into a ducked head, a shy smile, moments of glassy-eyed sorrow, frustration, guilt, and always in the eyes the familiar and intense warmth that Mohinder had enjoyed so much in that car in Montana.

He found the personnel page with the most recent date and looked at the address.

He laughed hysterically for about five minutes, then put everything back as he found it and reemerged into the rapidly cooling city night. Sylar had been right, he thought over and over as he made his way to Brooklyn and his father's, his old apartment and knocked on the door.

Life did have its poetry.

He rapped on the door just below the brass 613, staccato and insistent. It had been months since he'd lived here, but it felt utterly bizarre to knock, particularly given Sylar's past tendency to just… let himself in. Mohinder briefly wondered if his key still worked, but too late. He heard the door unbolt, security chain still hooked, and Mohinder could not, for the life of him, think of something that a security chain would keep out that Sylar himself couldn't destroy.

Their eyes locked through that three inch gap, an incredible stillness coming over Mohinder as he looked into that eye, the color of rich black tea in a white porcelain cup. A tremor went over Sylar's face as he blinked first, and he appeared to be trying to school his features into something intimidating.

"Hello, Mohin—"

"Stop," Mohinder said quietly. "I spoke to Angella Petrelli."

Just like that, Sylar's face obediently settled into soft, uneasy shyness.

"Do... would you like to come in?" Sylar asked.

"Please," Mohinder agreed. For a moment he was afraid that the door wouldn't reopen, that Sylar would leave him standing there in front of that door like a fool, but the chain immediately scraped aside, and the door slowly opened wide for him. Sylar ducked his head, fiddling with his sleeves as he stepped aside, letting Mohinder in.

"Your watch is broken," Sylar observed as he shut the door.

"Peter thought he was being clever," Mohinder explained. They stood there in awkward silence.

"Well, have a seat. Do you want tea? I have–"

"I need to know why," Mohinder interrupted softly. "Peter and Molly say you're different, and Angela says you're sane and healthy but you tried to get me to kill you, and I'm sorry, but I just don't understand."

Sylar sat down on the couch, gesturing towards a chair. Mohinder stepped around and cautiously sat.

"What do you want to know?" Sylar asked.

"Why did you want me to kill you?" Mohinder started.

"Because you were going to once before and I took that chance away," he answered. "I thought if you got to, you'd find peace."

"So why the month of gifts?" Mohinder spat heatedly, standing and pacing as his temper rose. "If you wanted me to kill you, you could've just… why did you spend all that effort taunting me if you wanted me to have peace?"

"Taunting?" came the quiet question. Mohinder looked at Sylar, startled by the tone, and was met with an expression so full of hurt that he stopped in mid-stride.

"I'm sorry," Mohinder found himself saying, sitting in the chair again, leaning forward. "I truly don't understand why there would be these gifts leading to death."

"The death was another gift," Sylar murmured. "I was never taunting you, Mohinder. I meant every word."

"I still don't see," Mohinder said. "I don't see the connection."

"I've killed so many people, taken so much. I tried to give back, for them, the people I broke for good, so that maybe I could fix what I'd broken in you."

"James Walker's peonies," Mohinder said, eyes widening slightly. "And Cassie Walker made quilts…"

"Brian Davis was an accountant, God himself couldn't stop my mother from making you a sandwich if she thought you were hungry–"

"Eden's macaroni and cheese, Zane's mix tape–"

"The tape was one of my favorites. Did you like it?"

"It makes more sense now," Mohinder said, nodding.

"But did you like it? Any of it?" Sylar asked, his voice so hopeful he almost seemed innocent.

"I did," Mohinder admitted. "All of it."

Sylar shut his eyes at that in an expression which appeared to be pain and joy, though in what ratio Mohinder didn't know.

"You seem so different," Mohinder mused, mostly to himself. Sylar's eyes opened again.

"But you don't know if you can believe me," Sylar said. Mohinder swallowed.

"There were plenty of times in Montana when I looked into your eyes and would've sworn that you were telling me the truth."

"I was. I was," he answered, leaning forward, touching his chest with the fingertips protruding from a camouflage sleeve. "The lies… that wasn't me, Mohinder, I wish there was a way I could prove it to you."

Sylar slid off the couch and knelt before him.

"I wish there was… but you can't look right into my mind, you can't hear my heart and know if I'm lying. Christ help me, I missed you," he whispered, fingertips hovering over Mohinder's knee before he drew back without touching.

Panic shot through Mohinder's chest as he watched Sylar withdraw so completely into himself, moving back up to the couch and ducking his head.

"You seem so different," Mohinder said again, rising from the chair and joining Sylar on the couch. Sylar's head snapped up, his eyes blinking rapidly in shock as he found Mohinder so close, peering at him.

"Does that answer your question?" Sylar asked.

"Who else?" Mohinder asked. "The statue?"

"Dale Smithers," Sylar answered. "She used to make sculptures with scrap metal. I melted it and… reshaped it. I thought it might be too much. I was the man who hit the mugger, for an FBI agent I killed. I was the doctor in the ER for the one I killed when I escaped from the company the first time. I was the old woman in the dance studio; Maya's brother was a hell of a dancer." He went through, recounting each gift, and whose hobby or career had inspired it. "And… the gift of my death. That was from me. From Gabriel, not Sylar, I mean."

"You forgot one," Mohinder said, recoiling a bit. "You never said my father."

"I couldn't put it into words, Mohinder, not on paper… do you know how inspiring you are? How in awe I am of you? He was. He must have been. He should've told you how proud you made him. Even if I never said it, I would still have felt it, and so I… I made the same mistake he did; I was going to let it go unsaid. Maybe I should've let all of it go unsaid, I just… I couldn't."

"Why me, Sylar?" Mohinder asked, shaking his head.

"Please don't call me that," Sylar– Gabriel? –pleaded with him, breaking Mohinder's gaze and staring at his lap, pulling his hands into his sleeves like a child.

"Gabriel?" Mohinder said, trying the name, tasting it. It felt strange coming out of his mouth, but the peaceful pleasure that came over the other man's face, the soft smile in profile, was worth it. "Why me?"

"I'm in love with you," Gabriel replied, face burning as he forced the words out. "I have been since the day we met in Virginia Beach, and I figured it out when Mrs. Petrelli fixed me. I've been thinking of you ever since."

Gabriel covered his face with his hands, hunching forward.

"Is that enough?" his trembling, muffled voice came through his fingers. "Do you understand now?"

Mohinder sat in silence, staring at a man he had once thought he knew. He reached out and brushed Gabriel's fingers with his right hand, stroked his hair (so much longer than the last time they were together) with his left.

"I'm so sorry," Gabriel whispered into his hands. "I wish it wasn't me. I wish it was someone better."

Mohinder gently took Gabriel's wrist in his hand, pulling slowly but insistently, trying to get Gabriel to let him see his face, tearful and vulnerable and so damned lovely.

"Won't you look at me?" he murmured softly to Gabriel. "You've been hiding for so long."

Gabriel lowered his hands cautiously, turning those dark, sorrowful eyes over to Mohinder.

"Please don't be kind to me out of pity," Gabriel said, intoning it like a question. "If I get to be with you, hold you, and then I have to give you up, I don't think I could survive it."

"I don't know if I can promise you that, Gabriel," Mohinder confessed. "I have to consider how letting you back into my life could affect Molly."

Gabriel nodded, turning his face forward again.

"Of course," he said, trying to keep his voice level, swiping at a tear trailing down his cheek. Mohinder caught another with his thumb, stroking along Gabriel's cheekbone, gently turning his head and coaxing his gaze back.

"I thought you were just a dream," Mohinder said. "A lie I wanted too badly to believe in."

"You mean Zane," Gabriel said, looking worried. "But I'm not Zane–"

"No, you're not. But everything about the idea of him that captured me, I see now that it was you, breaking through all that darkness."

Mohinder's fingers eased up Gabriel's temples into his hair, stroking and soothing softly as Gabriel leaned his face into his palm.

"I never hoped I'd see it again," Mohinder said, voice breaking just slightly. He leaned in and brushed Gabriel's lips with his, a bare, chaste touch.

"If there's a way," Mohinder whispered against his lips. "I swear I'll find it. I promise you, if there's a way for us to be together, I'll find it."

His hands slipped slowly from Gabriel's hair to his shoulders, giving them a brief squeeze before rising.

"Wait," Gabriel said, catching Mohinder's arm and removing his watch. "I'll take care of this."

He stood and placed it over on a desk cluttered with minute, shining metal bits and tools. Gabriel smiled up bashfully.

"Now you have to come back," he said. "At least once."

"I will," Mohinder answered, standing by the door. Reluctantly, he turned the knob. "Good night, Gabriel."

"Good night, Mohinder," came the quiet reply.

Mohinder reached the street and was able to capture a cab fairly quickly. As he slid in, he glanced back up at the window he knew was Gabriel's.

I am in such trouble, he thought as the cab pulled away from the curb, back into a New York fading into night.

He repeated the same thing aloud to Matt when he arrived home, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Molly.

"What happened?" Matt asked.

"Read my mind; you won't believe me otherwise. I barely believe myself," Mohinder said, going into the kitchen and pulling a bottle of wine from a cabinet and retrieving a glass.

"Is it really worth self-medicating over?" Matt asked. Mohinder gave him a stern look. Matt grimaced as the past few hours of Mohinder's life flashed through his head.

"Damn," Matt said.

"You see?"

"Self-medicate away," Matt conceded. "I though you weren't gay!"

"The fact that I'm not attracted to Nathan doesn't mean I'm opposed to all men," Mohinder grumbled, wrenching out the cork.

"You could do a lot worse than Nathan!" Matt pointed out.

"You sleep with him then," Mohinder snipped, splashing wine into the glass.

"I haven't seen you this sad since Molly was in a coma," Matt sighed, going over to the fridge and grabbing a beer before joining Mohinder on the couch.

"The one true love of my life was not, as I previously believed, a well constructed act, but that fact doesn't change the one that he murdered my daughter's parents when he wasn't quite himself. I will be bloody astonished if I'm ever happy again."

Matt tossed his arm over Mohinder's shoulders, a rare physical gesture of camraderie.

"I never figured you for a romantic, Doc. What are you going to do?"

"I haven't a clue, Matt," Mohinder said, taking a long sip of wine. "Perhaps I'll see if he wants to jump off the Empire State building together."

Matt smacked him upside the head.

"Not funny," he admonished.

"Sorry," Mohinder replied. "I'm out of my element. A love story is the last place I belong."

"I know it's not what you want to hear, but speaking as the divorced guy in the room… Mohinder, if it doesn't work out, you'll get through it. So will he."

Mohinder leaned forward, out from under Matt's arm, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I wonder if that's true," he mused. "Because honestly Matt, it doesn't feel like something that can be gotten over."

Mohinder got up and walked to Molly's room, opening the door a crack to peer inside. Molly slept soundly, free of nightmares or concerns. Mohinder shut the door with a quiet click and leaned against it, looking back at Matt.

"I suppose I'll just have to try," he said, rubbing his forehead. "I think I'll try to get some sleep."

"Night, Mohinder," Matt nodded, picking up the remote and turning on the television.

Mohinder changed out of his work clothes and lay down, pulling a plain blanket over himself, and drifted off to sleep, longing for the sun, for long white fingers and rich dark eyes.

At work, Mohinder found himself unable to resist unpacking his gifts and placing them around the lab. The painting was the only thing he left in his office; he was pushing his luck enough with one depiction of himself, let alone two. Elle's mocking would be merciless either way.

He sat in his lab and just drifted off sometimes, letting the thrill of knowing that Gabriel was in his very building overtake him. The first time they ran across each other in the corridors, both talking to other Company employees about their projects, the first time their eyes met when Mohinder wasn't expecting it, it hit him like a punch to the chest. He stopped in mid-sentence, nearly stopped in mid-step, dropping his folder. He knelt to retrieve his papers, and glanced up as Gabriel glanced back at him over his shoulder, a sympathetic smile on his face as he flicked his fingers, telekinetically shuffling the stray documents back into a neat pile. Mohinder excused himself from his group quickly and ducked into a restroom, breathing deeply and trying to calm his hard-thudding heart.

In spite of how it derailed him, Mohinder began indulging this new addiction. He would open the main Company calendar and lurk around meetings at which he suspected Gabriel would be, just for a quick moment of eye contact and that shy smile.

In spite of that smile, and the light-headed feeling he got whenever he saw it, they never spoke. One or both of them was always with a colleague, ever busy with the singular occupation of making the world a better place.

For a while, it was enough, but a while didn't last terribly long. Mohinder turned a corner one afternoon and caught sight of Gabriel as he walked down a corridor, both of them by themselves for the first time. Gabriel was so engrossed in the file he was reading that he failed to notice Mohinder until his arm was grabbed and Mohinder yanked him into a supply closet.

For a moment, Mohinder felt a firm telekinetic wall between them which evaporated the moment their eyes met and Gabriel recognized him.

"Mohinder," Gabriel gasped, now reassured that he wasn't under attack but equally nervous. "…Hi."

"Hi," Mohinder replied, unable to keep the smile off his face.

"I still have your watch," Gabriel said. "How'd you manage to… manage to…"

Gabriel trailed off as Mohinder slipped his fingertips into Gabriel's sleeve, carressing his wrist softly.

"I think I've found a way," Mohinder said. "It's not ideal, but… we're both here. We spend most of our lives in this building, we could be together here and no one would ever–"

"No," Gabriel cut him off. "I can't. I can't have you here and then go home to an empty apartment, to being alone again. You're not Persephone, Mohinder, and despite all appearances to the contrary, this isn't the underworld. You can't compartmentalize your life like that."

"Why not?" Mohinder asked, frustration seeping into his voice.

"Because neither your family or I will stay compartmentalized. I know how things work, Mohinder, and they don't work like that."

"I don't know what to do," Mohinder confessed.

"The way I had it planned out, I was dead," Gabriel replied regretfully. "I didn't count on your unpredictability."

Gabriel leaned down and kissed Mohinder's lips, then his forehead.

"I'm sorry," Gabriel murmured against his skin. Mohinder shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he was alone.

"How was work?" Molly asked when he arrived home.

"It was fine," he answered, trying to force some life into the flat tone of his voice. Staring into the fridge vacantly, he missed Molly's eyes narrow appraisingly.

He was distant with her and Matt throughout dinner. He did the dishes in silence and then said he'd be turning in early. Molly went to her room as Matt watched a game on TV and pulled a New York city map from her school bag and stared at the tiny hole in Kirby Plaza. She'd placed a pin there for Mohinder, but couldn't fit another when she found the man she used to call the boogieman.

They'd been too close together. Much too close together.

She used her ability to look in on Mohinder now and saw him curled up in the sun quilt, looking very small and very alone, shuddering with what were probably sobs. A quick glance at the man formerly known as the boogieman showed him slumped in a chair, staring at an empty wall with a watch in his hand.

Molly let her consciousness return to her own room and sighed. This had better be worth the trouble she was going to be in by this time tomorrow.