Splice of Life: Reality Evolution

John wasn't looking for a wrist, anyway. If he had been, he could have just pulled his hand up to his mouth and been done with it rather than telling him to stand. He's much more overtly sexual here than he was before. He's young enough in body that he doesn't feel awkward doing so and he didn't have the time while alive to fall so deeply in love with his wife that he shuns physical contact.

He puts a hand to his hair gently, at least partially compelled to reassure him -- this John may never have been a father to human or vampire children, but his instincts are still good -- and turns his head to one side slowly. He slips his fingers down out of his hair, brushing over his collar bone as he pushes his shirt aside, and leans into his throat. His other arm loops around his waist and, humming, he bites into the Indian's throat as gently as possible.

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Oh see there? Mohinder's not really use to it and it shows. His knees go weak and he sighs, half miserably, half happily, into John's arms. The memories, Mohinder's memories at least, are all right there. Brilliant and bright and lovely, playing like a film on a screen in his skull.

John. An older John. Taking care of him. Feeding from him. Rescuing him. Turning him. And then Mohinder losing him. And knowing he's lost.

Pleasure aside, Mohinder's tears aren't quite able to be held back.

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When John pulls away, his own eyes are damp as well, and he rubs at them briefly, furiously, and clears his throat. It takes him a moment or two after that to compose himself, his fingers running though Mohinder's hair soothingly and for both their sakes as he works at it, then he steps back. He doesn't look at him. He finds it oddly painful to, just as the John Mohinder knew had issues looking at paintings of his granddaughter.

" ... what is it you need, then?" He knows from being in Mohinder's head, but he feels a need to make conversation.

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Mohinder's fingers move over the wounds, covering them slowly, almost tenderly. "A lapis lazuli. You...my John made me a ring. My... Pet, I suppose. Former pet? Is using it. I was wondering how I could go about procuring another. Payment ought to not be an issue."

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"I can have it done. It will be a few days, though." Just as it had been with Mohinder's. Silver-work and enchantments so powerful don't just happen overnight. "I wouldn't worry too much about payment, though. My silversmith and I barter back and forth in favour, not money, and I believe he owes me."

He pauses, lingering near him, and then shakes his head. "It's odd to think I've a son running about in London, let alone a grandson."

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He'd never thought of it that way. Mohinder lowers his eyelids. "I suppose, in a way... We're the same. You changed me when a bullet aimed at you missed. And the same for me. We had no choice. I simply regret that you and I didn't have enough time."

He misses it all. Crawling into bed with him. Having tea each night. The stories. The history. The lessons on so many things.

"Even so, you taught me many things. You were a much better father than my biological one."

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"I'm sure he feels the same -- the version of me you left behind. More than that, I'm sure he misses you."

A part of this John longs for having him around, too, but he knows that he won't stay. He can't. His pet turned equal can't drop everything here and, based on what John took from Mohinder's blood, he won't leave him. He's the more important of the two, however slightly.

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Perhaps that's true now. But of his John, the old, kind, amazing man that pressed his wrist to his lips on his death bed, Mohinder might not have been able to choose Sylar over him. There's love and then there's family.

And now Sylar's family too. Progeny wins out against parents, usually. Leaving John, now, still, is going to be difficult too, though.

"You could meet him, your grandson. It's complicate. He's the President of the United States. But...You can find me. I'd like to see you again. To keep in touch."

Until they are swept apart again.

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"I think I'd like that as well," he answers, allowing Mohinder a small smile that borders vaguely on fond. "If he's the time while you're here, you can bring him along when you come for his ring. If not ... getting Stateside for a bit isn't much of a problem."

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"I rather like your crow form," Mohinder says, far more than vaguely fond. His voice drips with affection even as he leans in and kisses a smooth, unwrinkled cheek. Very strange. "We'll see each other soon then."

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"I'm far more fond of my other, but unfortunately, last I checked, cougars don't fly." He looks vaguely amused by the idea and turns his head to kiss him back. "Either way, though ... take care, boy."

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It's with mixed emotions that Mohinder returns to London. There's no car, so he walks it, quite fast and able to cover the trek in relatively little time. Still, he's cutting it close. Two hours before sunrise and he's without a ring and in a phone booth, dialling Matt's phone. "How are the briefings going? Is it possible to get an escort in to see the President?"

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Matt answers the phone near immediately, thinking something's wrong. He relaxes when he realizes there's not and excuses himself from the table to take his call without interrupting anything or being overheard. "We're just about wrapped up here -- I think everyone just wants to get home and go the hell to bed -- so uh ... yeah."

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"Good." He knows which hotel by feel. He knows they must be using a very secure conference room as well. But Matt can always use the same trick to sneak him in as he used to sneak him out. Mohinder sighs against the receiver. "It went well. With John. As well as can be expected at least. He'll help us. I'll be there in twenty minutes in the men's room on the first floor of the small office building across the street. You can find me there when you're ready for me."

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"I'll be there as soon as I can," he promises, and without so much as a goodbye, he hangs up.

Half an hour later, and looking exhausted, he steps into the men's room and looks looks around. Sylar's not with him, likely finishing up with the rest of his staff. "Uh ... hello?"

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Mohinder grins behind his hand. He can smell Sylar on him. He can smell all of Matt's deliciousness beneath that. And he's hungry. Lack of food will do that. "I'm so very grateful that Gabriel can heal you. Handicapped stall, Matt." He lets it swing open.

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"Trust me, so am I."

As much as he enjoys the sensation of being fed on, he has no real desire to die, and as of now, he's the only one of their little group who's not unbreakable and two of them are vampires. Hungry vampires. It's a very real possibility -- or would be, without Sylar.

With him in the picture, though, he just shrugs and heads into the stall, closing the door behind him. He doesn't even bother to look around, he just starts undoing his tie and collar obediently.

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Matt's such a good boy. Mohinder helps him, hungry as he is, because the Indian's always been a sensual, sensuous creature. He purrs against Matt's exposed neck. Perhaps he needs a little nametag. A little plate telling people where to contact if they find him alone. Mohinder grins at the thought as he half attacks the other man, supporting him with both arms as he feeds from him.

Sylar can heal him back at home. Or, back at the hotel. Home, really, is whereever Gabriel Gray lays his head.

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Matt hisses something in pleasure and squeezes his eyes shut, clinging to him, his heartbeat jumping several notches. As always, he seems more than a little upset when he pulls away, and again, as always, it takes him a moment or two to catch his breath, his thoughts less than pure. It's really not fair when the feed from him and then do nothing about the erection that inevitably comes from it.

Maybe Sylar will be feeling generous, when they rejoin him. Maybe Mohinder will. Either way, once he's back on his feet, he starts pulling Mohinder towards the door, wanting to get them home, where ever that happens to be for the time being and even if nothing comes of it, what with the impending dawn.

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Mohinder's pleased to see Sylar, even if he's still 'dressed' as Nathan a few minutes later, sitting on the bed removing his shoes and socks.

He pounces on the other man, face pressing to his neck. It's not fair for Matt to have to see that, but Mohinder's generally quite the idiot at times. "I missed you," he murmurs, softly, willing Nathan to turn back into that more pleasing form.

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heroslayer

"I missed you, too," he mumbles, his voice shifting mid-sentence from Nathan's to his own. The rest of his body follows suit a second later, shifting around him as he wraps his arms around him. It's an odd sensation, likely for the both of them, but Sylar doesn't give it much of a second thought. He's gotten used to it. "You found him?"

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"I found him. Forty years younger. He had no idea..." Mohinder cuts himself short, sadness in his voice. "But he'll help us. He'd like his meet his grandchild." It makes Mohinder laugh softly. "And I do believe that if Matt Parkman doesn't stop waiting for a hand written invitation, he can sleep in the room your people assigned for him instead of ours."

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heroslayer

Sylar seems highly amused both by the idea that he's someone's grandchild -- particularly when that someone is at least physically younger than him, now, apparently -- and Mohinder's comment to Matt. He looks up at the other man, a smile on his face, and Matt offers him a sheepish one in return before moving over to join them on the bed.

"Better?"

Sylar hums. "Much."

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