Molly can count on one hand the number of times she's really used her gun.
Once, the first time, was when a schizophrenic burst into the PI office. He started raving about a conspiracy, and the CIA sending watchdogs after him. Mohinder had tried to calm him down, but it didn't work, and he hit Mohinder, knocked him unconscious.
Twelve-year-old Molly, taking the gamble that this guy didn't actually have any special abilities, pulled the gun from Mohinder's desk. When the guy charged her, she nabbed him one in the kneecap.
Turns out those lessons on the shooting range, back when Mohinder and Sylar both got their license to carry firearms, actually paid off.
After that, Mohinder forbade Molly to be anywhere near danger. Ever. Or, really, even involve herself in their casework.
That lasted all of a week.
The second time was tracking down a runaway in the depths of Los Angeles. In this case, the runaway was a teenage girl – Molly couldn't get a solid enough fix on her location, so Sylar took Molly with him.
It took them an hour and a half to find the girl, and about another three seconds to realize that her boyfriend was, in fact, extremely violent.
This was mostly because of him shooting Sylar several times in the chest.
Of course, it didn't actually work. Sylar was stunned, not dead – still, in the approximately four seconds it took for him to get up off the ground, Molly had already shot the boyfriend. Twice.
The third time Molly pulled a gun on someone, she pulled it on Sylar.
Neither of them ever mentioned it to Mohinder.
----
"There's a new store, opening next to the market," says Sylar, dumping grocery bags onto the counter.
Molly cranes her neck around, from where she's curled up on the couch. "What kind of store?"
"New Age," Sylar tells her. "But they have some nice jewelry."
"Oh, really," drawls Molly.
Sylar tosses her the paper bag. "I don't know if you have that one yet," he says, returning to the groceries.
"You're not fooling anyone," says Molly. "You know exactly which ones I have and which I don't."
Sylar lets himself smile, then.
"Just answer me this," says Molly. "Do you just give me these so you have an excuse to have your own collection?"
Sylar's hand rests on a small, square box. "I buy them for you," says Sylar. "Not for me."
----
In her room, Molly spills the chain into her palm, tracing the symbol with the tip of her fingers. Fehu, the rune of good fortune.
This started as an apology, she remembers. Sylar's guilt, Sylar's pain, and a little way to alleviate it. She kept them in a drawer, at first, but slowly, steadily they migrated. Until she bought a rack, started hanging them up around her mirror. And then, sometime between then and now, it became a part of her.
Molly stands back, regarding her entire collection. She has crosses – large, small, gold, silver, wooden, Celtic. She has old Viking runes, and a delicate filigree pentagram. Here and there, a Star of David. Symbols of hope, belief, passion from all around the world.
This is what Molly collects.
----
Inside Sylar's room, he unfolds the box with steady fingers.
He never feels right doing this. Taking them out of the packaging. It feels like stripping them naked, somehow – opening a part of the world that Sylar shouldn't be able to see.
Paper rustles as Sylar slides it aside. Cool glass, smooth in Sylar's palm, and a rough-carved wooden base. The snow globe flies from Sylar's palm, settling in, gentle and quiet, among the others on his shelf.
I miss you, Sylar thinks, in the drift of the fake snow.
----
Late that evening, when Molly comes back from taking a shower, she finds a watch on her desk. Her mouth twists.
She takes it in her fingers, hefts it a little, then holds it next to her ear.
Tick…tick…tick…
Molly frowns, and she pulls the back off, examining the watch's interior.
----
Mohinder's eyes burn, in the glare of the laptop. This is the only time he has a chance to work on his research – theoretical models, the possibility of a – well, not a vaccine, because that would imply prevention, and not a cure, because that would imply disease. A drug, to suppress the genetic anomalies, in case of more dangerous abilities.
Mohinder is afraid to even investigate this far. If Homeland Security, the Department of Justice, the State Department had access to his research, they could do untold damage.
They already have, with the preliminary versions of the list – though, it can't really help them. As far as he knows, no government researcher has managed to track the particular sites for the genetic mutation. Mohinder is the only one in the world who holds that secret.
And now it's two in the morning, and all Mohinder can do is stare at the code, scrolling past on his screen.
On a whim, Mohinder checks his old email account. He does it very rarely – it might be dangerous. His IP address could be logged, traced to a location – and that could put Molly in danger.
But every once in a while, he risks it. The emails there could be from those with special abilities, ones who read his father's book and tried to contact him, and right now, the list is Mohinder's most important work.
It hits Mohinder like a sack of bricks, straight to his chest. A simple email, eighteen words, no more.
This…this isn't from anyone with a special ability.
----
Sylar wakes up already sure that everything isn't as it should be.
He can't see Mohinder, but he knows where Mohinder is. The heartbeat is unmistakable – in the kitchen, of course – but Mohinder's breath has a rasp in it, an odd kind of hitch.
Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
Sylar steps out to the living room, pausing in the doorway. "Mohinder?" Sylar calls, softly. Molly's heartbeat is muted, slow and long. She's still asleep, and he doesn't want to wake her.
Mohinder doesn't respond.
He's in the kitchen, perched up on the counter next to the stove. The cup of tea next to him is nearly full, and Sylar can tell that it's cold, from all the way across the room.
"Mohinder," says Sylar.
Mohinder shudders, and he drops off the counter, sliding to the floor, knees to his chest. "Go away," he says, muffled into the palms of his hands.
Sylar crouches next to Mohinder, reaching to Mohinder's wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. "What's wrong?" asks Sylar, softly.
"My mother is dead," Mohinder says, so softly. "She's—" He chokes, and Sylar hugs him, pulls him into an embrace. He expects Mohinder to pull away, twist free of his grasp, like Mohinder always does. He knows this, that Mohinder isn't ready, that he may never be ready to trust Sylar the way Sylar trusts him.
But, to his surprise, Mohinder turns his head in towards the crook of Sylar's neck, and he cries. Deep, sobbing gasps, defenseless and open. This far into the night, Mohinder's control must just be completely gone –
Sylar doesn't say a word, just rubs Mohinder's back, holds him close. Mohinder is mindless in grief, though, starting to become hysterical. If he doesn't have his own control, Sylar has to give him a chance to get it.
And so Sylar reaches in with his mind, to an artery, and he pinches it nearly shut.
Mohinder is unconscious in seconds, and Sylar restores the blood flow, letting the oxygen ease its way back into Mohinder's cells.
By the time Mohinder returns to consciousness, Sylar has moved him into his bedroom. More comfortable than the floor of the kitchen, anyhow.
Mohinder opens his eyes, still wet, and stares, without ever seeing.
"Do you want me to go?" asks Sylar.
Mohinder is still, for a long moment, and Sylar starts to get up. He won't stay where he's not welcome, as much as it hurts to be rejected, again and again and again.
"No," whispers Mohinder, finally.
If Sylar had a choice, Mohinder would never hurt. Ever. If he had a choice, Mohinder would be happy, would have a ridiculously easy life in some ridiculously beautiful place, and lots of friends, and lots of money, and work that he loves. If he had a choice –
Mohinder reaches out, with a, "please," and Sylar can't say no. He could never say no.
Eventually, Mohinder cries himself to sleep, staining the shoulder of Sylar's shirt dark with salt-water tears.
----
Molly wakes up early. Earlier than she usually does, anyhow, but there's something, something that makes her want to get up. Something that isn't right.
She listens, for a few seconds, trying to place it – and then she does. The apartment is silent. Mohinder should, at the very least, be up by now, starting to get the office ready for opening in half an hour. Sylar usually follows, come to think of it, and she can't hear either of them.
Molly's heartbeat starts to come faster, and she reaches for her gun.
First she checks Sylar's room – empty. The bed is disturbed, as though someone slept in it the night before. Molly clicks off the safety of the gun, her palms starting to sweat.
Now isn't the time, she tells herself, sternly, and takes a couple deep breaths before glancing into Mohinder's room.
She stops, in surprise.
Mohinder and Sylar are both in the bed, together – Mohinder curled into Sylar's side, his head on Sylar's shoulder, his arm around Sylar's waist. It looks a little uncomfortable, Molly thinks, but Mohinder is fast asleep, and he looks fairly content.
Molly glances up to Sylar, and meets his eyes. He's awake.
She gives him a questioning glance.
He returns it, barely nodding at her gun.
Molly grins, ruefully, and opens her mouth to say something. Sylar touches his finger to his lips, for silence, and Molly nods. She whispers, barely vocalizing, "Are you both okay?"
Sylar nods.
"I'll open the shop," she says, still so soft she can barely hear it herself, and eases the door shut, behind her.
Once it's closed, she can't help but smile.
----
When Mohinder wakes up, there's a crick in his neck, and his pillow feels suspiciously firm and warm.
Oh, right.
Mohinder rolls onto his back, stretching his spine.
"Morning," comes the voice – too cautious, far too cautious – from the man next to him.
Mohinder sits up, to regard Sylar.
"Are you all right?" asks Sylar, awkwardly.
Mohinder bites his lip. "No," he says.
"Oh."
There's a short silence.
"You know," says Mohinder, "I thought you were trying to seduce me, when you came back. The first time, after Hiro stabbed you."
He glances over at Sylar, who has pressed his mouth into a thin line. "Seductions don't usually last ten years," says Sylar, quietly. "And they don't usually involve raising a little girl."
"I know," says Mohinder.
Sylar watches Mohinder, a kind of guarded caution in his eyes, and Mohinder touches the edge of his cheek. He kisses Sylar, once, chaste and light.
Sylar keeps his eyes shut, for an instant afterwards – in shock, maybe; Mohinder feels a little bit of a smile grace his features.
"Come on," he says, getting to his feet. "Let's open the shop."
----
Molly steps up into the silence of the office lighthearted, for the first time in ages. This could change things – it could really change things, eliminate the tension between the two of them, maybe, or change it into something healthy –
Then Molly sees him.
Her first instinct is to shriek, but something stills her throat, something holds her fast. The world spins; she blinks, long and slow, and the floor rises to meet her.
----
It feels like a buzz at the edge of Sylar's senses. He doesn't really notice it, at first – he's too absorbed in euphoria, disbelief, but slowly, bit by bit, it penetrates.
He can't hear. He can't hear Molly, upstairs – can't hear Mohinder's heartbeat, can't hear…
Something is blocking his powers.
"Mohinder!" Sylar yells, and the world goes black.
----
Molly wakes with a pinprick, into her neck. She twists, in reflex, reaching her hand to her neck – but it stops, halfway.
She's cuffed.
Molly's fist clenches, and she can feel her heartbeat hammering. This is terrible, this is awful –
"Calm down."
Molly looks up, blinking against the room's light. The man is there, the one from before. The Haitian.
"What do you want?" she asks, trying not to let her voice tremble.
"The President wants to see you."
"We're in Los Angeles," Molly points out. "Not Washington, DC."
"Not anymore," is all the man says.
----
And so Molly is un-cuffed, and led, through fancy corridors and plush carpets of what she's rapidly realizing is the White House.
They got her all the way across the country, while she was unconscious. And Mohinder, and Sylar – they could be anywhere, and they wouldn't know where she is, and they must be so worried –
They stop in front of an office entranceway.
"You can go on in," says the secretary, with a reassuring smile.
"Go," says the Haitian.
Molly grits her jaw, pushes through the door in front of her, and then stops short.
She's in the Oval Office.
It's just like it looks in The West Wing – complete with the carpeting, the furniture setup. The man at the far end is facing away from her, out the windows.
Molly slams the door shut behind her.
Peter Petrelli turns and shoots her a grin. "Molly, it's great to see you again," he says.
"You're a lot uglier than you look on TV," says Molly.
Peter laughs, as though indulging a sub-par joke. "You don't have to insult me to get my attention," Peter tells her. "Have a seat."
Molly stays standing. "Where is Mohinder?"
"And Sylar, you mean?" asks Peter.
Molly tilts her head.
"They're in custody," says Peter. "Somewhere safe."
"Better be pretty damn safe," snaps Molly, "cause Sylar's going to break out. There isn't any prison in the world that can keep him locked up."
Peter raises an eyebrow. "Fortunately for us," he says, "he can't use his powers when he's unconscious."
Crap.
"Then why aren't I locked up, too?" asks Molly.
"Well, that's the question of the day, isn't it?" Peter sits down, on the couch, and looks at her, his expression earnest. "I need your help, Molly."
"Forget about it," says Molly, flatly.
"I think you might want to reconsider that."
Molly swallows. Peter's voice – it changed, right then, to something colder, something different –
"Are you threatening me?"
Peter shakes his head, smiling again. "No, I wouldn't do that," he says. "I'm threatening your two – ah, adoptive fathers."
"What are you going to do to them?" asks Molly, cautiously.
"Sylar's murdered, I don't know, a few dozen people?" Peter shrugs. "Death penalty, probably. Mohinder Suresh might be a little harder, but I'll see what we can find."
"And if I do you a favor…?"
"They can go free," says Peter.
Molly shakes her head. "I don't believe you."
"Sorry to say this, Molly," laughs Peter, "but you don't have a choice."
Molly sits down, across from Peter. "Out of curiosity," she says, "what is it you want me to do?"
"Track down someone for me," says Peter. "You might call him your natural enemy."
A folder from his desk shoots into Peter's hand; he hands it to Molly.
"Claude Raines?" Molly glances through the folder. "I've never heard of him."
"You wouldn't have," says Peter. "He can turn invisible."
Molly raises an eyebrow. "My natural enemy. I see what you mean." She shuts the folder, looking up at Peter. "So, why me?" she asks "You can do everything I can, can't you? That's your power."
Peter's jaw clenches, and Molly's heart comes faster.
"So, there's some reason you can't," Molly reasons, tilting her head to the side. "Is it that you can't use my power? Can't steal it?"
"Are you done?"
Molly crosses her arms. "What's different about me, from all the rest of the powers you have?" She leans forward. "Only one thing I can think of. The nerve damage, from the disease that Mohinder cured. What is it, your power can't properly sense mine? That means you can't have it, right?"
Peter's eyes are pure poison.
"That must be infuriating," Molly baits. "Only one power in the world that you'll never, ever have."
The corner of Peter's mouth twitches. "So, you going to save Suresh and Sylar or not?"
Molly looks at him, for a long moment. "Yeah," she says, finally. "I'll do it."