This Place Is Where I'm Meant to Be

Written by Anakin McFly

Short story spin-off sequels to Quinto Formaggi and Plane Between.

1. the apartment. | Adam + Leo + Smudge + Sasan
2. they're not that different after all. | Leo + Sylar
3. adam is lonely. sadface. | Adam + Sasan + Smudge + Tony
4. fluff. just. fluff. | Smudge/Sasan
5. saturday afternoon. | Adam + Leo + Sasan + Smudge
6. jason doesn't belong. | Jason + Adam
7. reclamation. | Mike + the usual gang

Collection II »

I.

They call it 'the apartment'.

There is rarely any need to specify which apartment, and in cases when that need arises, a single repetition with stress on the 'the' is usually sufficient. Smudge and Sasan also get to call it home; although there are days when they never set a foot in it, and there are nights spent cuddling up on Sasan's bed in his guest house before falling asleep tangled up in each other, secure in mutual love.

Leo goes by almost every day after work. Sometimes he gets dinner and brings it over to eat as he devours another one of the cryptic books in the apartment. The others aren't always around, but he still finds more warmth in the place than in his own empty home, especially in those times when solitude turns to loneliness. In the apartment, he never feels alone, even when he is. There is always that expectation of someone's return.

He's alone again tonight, crouched by the ceiling-high windows and peering with thoughtful intensity out at the garden beyond, wondering not for the first time where they are. He's no botanist, and can't decide if the trees and shrubs are native to Earth; they are just normal enough to alleviate suspicion, but there is something curiously magical about the sprig of small, dried-out berries dangling on the other side of the glass. Staring at them gives him a strange but pleasant sensation of vanilla beans and shaded clouds overlooking a wooden shack. Like a memory, almost.

Leo turns his gaze upwards to the navy-black sky, cold and majestic in its star-studded wash. He's not good with constellations, either, and neither are any of the others. Once, Tony had brought over a star map and they'd managed to find constellations that could, potentially, be the Big Dipper and Orion, but their accuracy was doubtful, and they'd given up.

There's no way out there. They could break the windows and climb through, but they don't want to do that. At least not yet.

Leo lowers himself to sit down in a corner where windows meet wall, long legs bent slightly on the ground, still looking out. The glass is cool to his fingertips. It could be below-freezing outside, for all he knows.

The apartment's main door slides open, and Adam enters with his laptop and a sheaf of paper tucked under one arm. He glances briefly at Leo to acknowledge his presence, then dumps his stuff on his desk and rummages in the drawer for more documents. He finds whatever he's been looking for, and carts the lot over to the sofa and coffee table before heading off to the kitchenette and grabbing a cup. He scowls briefly at how its previous drinker had declined to wash it, and runs it under the tap to rinse it out.

"Want coffee?" Adam asks.

"No, I'm good." It's almost midnight, and Leo doesn't have Adam's apparent ability to consume caffeine this late without unpleasant side-effects.

Adam leaves the kettle to boil and returns to his desk, almost as an afterthought. He extracts a document file from beneath a neat stack of paper and briefly rifles through it, pausing to read, one arm akimbo, until the kettle is done and he looks up at its whistle, and puts the file down and goes to make his coffee.

He eventually brings the gently-steaming mug over to the coffee table. He places it neatly in the centre of a coaster before settling into the sofa, his laptop propped open on his lap and the sheaf of paper resting by his side.

Leo idly watches him: taking in Adam's contained intensity enmeshed comfortably amongst the cushions, the way his brow is furrowed slightly in concentration, lost in engaged focus on the screen; every now and then reaching out a lanky arm to bring the mug to his lips for a sip, and then back again to the table, never missing the coaster.

The door flies open. Smudge barrels in with far too much energy for this time of night, engaged loudly and animatedly in some conversation with Sasan, who follows after with a somewhat reproachful expression as he shuts the door.

"Smudge, even if you do manage to obtain that many bricks, whatever you build is either going to sink or float. You can't build a working submarine out of Lego, believe me."

"But I could try-"

Sasan sighs. "No…" He shakes his head, then his face lights up again. "Oh, hey, I was going to show you this-"

Sasan picks his way past Adam's legs to the bookshelf, crouching down to finger through the stack of magazines arrayed there. "Mmm… Oh, there it is." He picks out the September 2011 issue of Malaysia's August Man Magazine. Adam breaks concentration long enough to look at the cover and raise an eyebrow.

Sasan ignores him, plopping onto the other sofa and flipping through the pages as Smudge drops down next to him. They pore with interest over the 16-page Zachary Quinto photo shoot, exchanging murmured conversation that Adam can't hear and isn't sure he wants to.

Sasan suddenly looks up, holding out the magazine open at a page. "Hey, Adam," he says brightly. "You're a computer guy, aren't you? Were these photos digitally enhanced, or does he naturally look that amazing?"

Adam's gaze remains stoically fixed on his computer screen. "I'm not interested in your weird narcissistic dilemmas."

Sasan lowers the magazine in exasperation. "Adam, if narcissism had anything to do with it, I'd actually be attracted to you."

Leo lets out a snort and turns it quickly into a cough.

Adam pretends he didn't hear anything, but his typing continues with a little more vehemence than before.

"Nah," Smudge says, seemingly oblivious to that exchange. "We met Zach, remember."

"Oh yeah." Sasan makes a face. "He was wearing stripes with plaid."

They go back to appreciating the magazine; and after some time that, too, is closed and laid aside, and they are left in a warm, sleepy snuggle on the sofa, Sasan's fingers lazily playing in Smudge's hair.

Sometimes, Adam manages to bring himself to admit that, no, he doesn't really hate them all. Leo he always got along more or less fine with, but he understands the inherent hypocrisy in repeatedly dropping by the apartment every night only to be inadvertently annoyed by Smudge and Sasan doing something or other to disrupt his concentration on his work. If he'd stayed home, alone in his own apartment, he'd have all the peace and quiet he could ask for.

He still comes here.

He tells himself that it's the principle of the thing: the magic of being able to access a place not open to anyone else in his world. It's a nice place, too. Spacious, cosy, still smelling faintly of new apartment. And it's one of the few places – perhaps the only place – where Adam feels that he belongs. No matter what he does, no matter how much he implicitly dismisses everyone out of his habitual need for privacy, he's still one of them. And there's a safety in that. It makes him feel at home, and that perhaps there are people who might actually care if he suddenly dropped dead one day.

Leo shifts his legs into a different position and settles back down. He doesn't want to leave. Not yet, anyway. He's not doing anything, just sitting there, and a part of his mind is tipping over into boredom.

But he can't bring himself to go; there's always something about the apartment at night that feels as though something is going to happen, something good, if he only stayed a while longer. Going home breaks the spell; it breaks the inherent enchantment of this place that results in part from them, impossible collection of people, all together in the same place; them with nothing in common save that deep, shared knowledge of what it feels like to move through the world – whatever world it might so happen to be – with that face, that voice, that body. They know what it feels like to breathe with those lungs, to collapse those limbs onto a bed in exhaustion, to experience the inward resonance of a laugh, to smile, to cry, to hurt, and to carve out individuality amidst all that and know who they are in relation to everyone else; because to forget that is to cease to exist.

And he likes existing.

He likes it very much.

II.

"You're not that different after all," Dem says into Leo's ear in a hushed, conspiratorial whisper, but the susurrus of his voice has melted into a breath of sighing wind; and that, too, fades, and the room is quiet and still with nothing but the muted pounding of Leo's heart and the steady breathing of the sleeping Sylar.

Leo has objections. Why him, again. Why does Dem always pick on him. And how, why, is Sylar still alive, after all this time, after all they had gone through to kill him… And that, no, they were different. They were… completely… different…

He has not been aware of walking across the carpeted floor to the bed, but Leo realises he must have; because he's there, now, looking down at that same familiar face claimed by friends and foes and self. It's hard to find evil in a sleeping body. It's too peaceful. Too normal. He remembers the others, looking just like that in slumber: Smudge and Sasan curled up together, Adam dozing on the couch with his head fallen back and his mouth open, Tony napping amidst his arms on a table above a notebook of cryptic textual scribbles.

And perhaps he's been breathing too loud. Because something subtle changes in the sleeping body, as though awareness is slowly creeping up through it; and Leo dares not run – he has nowhere to run to because Dem took his key, and if he called Accio key! right now, Sylar would hear – and all he can do is stand rooted to the spot as an eye opens, and looks at him with more calmness than Leo would like. It's sinister in its calmness. As is the way the other eye eventually opens to join the first, and the mouth quirks slightly in the hint of a smirk before settling on a vague look of displeasure at the interrupted rest.

"You never give up trying, do you?" Sylar asks, voice tinged with annoyance and half-muffled by sleep.

Leo swallows and backs off. "I wasn't… this wasn't my idea, he… Dem… just dumped me here…"

Sylar pulls himself up to sit and gazes evenly at Leo, unafraid, the smirk now going at full strength. He has no reason to be afraid. Leo knows very well who would win if there were anything remotely resembling a fight, and he wonders dejectedly again at his misfortune of somehow being one of Dem's favourite playthings.

Leo tries to breathe, and is glad to realise he still can. It's a cautious breath, surreptitious, anxious, as though he's scared that Sylar might do something to hurt him if he's too obvious with the oxygen intake.

"I could kill you," Sylar muses. "But I like that carpet."

And Leo doesn't know where he finds the calm or courage to do so, or the ability to ignore the screaming panic in his head; but he finds himself pulling up a chair from the desk and settling slowly – but unsteadily – down to sit; and trying, through the effort spent on making his trembling less obvious, to meet Sylar's gaze with his own, returning the look with as much bravery as he can.

"I could kill you too," he says quietly. Because perhaps they're not that different after all, and appearances need not always be deceiving.

Sylar raises an eyebrow.

"You were asleep," Leo continues, his voice more steady than he feels, matching the timbre and pace of Sylar's voice, because doing that makes him feel stronger. "I could have killed you and you wouldn't have been able to stop me."

"But you didn't."

Leo doesn't say anything. He shifts in his seat, subtly mirroring Sylar's posture. He raises scared fingers and runs them weakly through his hair, pushing it back. Perhaps if they sounded alike, if they looked more alike, he could produce the illusion that they were equals… perhaps it would be safe…

"Because you're not a killer," Sylar continues, contempt seeping into his voice. "You're just… normal."

He says the word as though it were the worst slur, infused with hatred and an intent to hurt, to subjugate. Leo is faced with a wave of conflicting desires – to prove Sylar wrong, and show him that he does have what it takes to kill; but by doing so he would prove Dem right. He doesn't want to do that.

Leo sometimes has the disturbing feeling that the only thing making him – making them – different from Sylar is their choices. Perhaps experiences, too. But ultimately, choices. And choices could be fragile things if not reinforced with conviction. He doesn't always know if he has that conviction.

"Why are you here?" Sylar asks. "The old guy must have brought you here for a reason. What… he was tired of you and thought I'd make it quick?"

"…I don't know," Leo says. He can't keep up the stare. His eyes flit downwards.

Sylar sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes and swinging his legs back onto the bed. "You're really boring, you know. I'm sure all… this-" – he gestures vaguely – "-was the most interesting thing that's ever happened to you in your life, but you're not getting any sympathy. Be glad I'm letting you go." His head hits the pillow. "I'd kill you and hand you in to the police, but I prefer them to think I'm alive. It's more… fun that way." Sylar raises a lazy finger and upends the chair, sending Leo flailing to break his fall, landing painfully on his side. "Shoo."

Leo grimaces, getting up, wondering at the strange sense of despair tightening in his chest. There is something about the casual dismissal that hurts. He's not even good enough to bother killing. He's not special.

He looks at the chair, and puts it back upright, feeling a strange forbidden thrill at touching Sylar's belongings while standing in his apartment, with no inherent possibility of death. He looks at the chair. It looks like such a normal chair; like any normal person would have. Normal, like he was. Just him, Leo Fulton Jr., regular human being, no special powers, no interesting job, no interesting anything apart from the minor detail of his childhood and how he'd effectively been adopted and raised by his kidnapper. But that was over now, and he'd never known till recently, so it had barely affected his life; and in the end it was still… just him. No one special.

He glances at the mirror a distance away, vaguely studying his reflection and wondering how the same features that inspire terror in so many could look perfectly harmless on him. He can't pinpoint it. Maybe it's the way he stands…

"Go. Away," comes the half-whine from the bed.

Leo looks away from the mirror. There's no sense in pushing his luck here.

He rubs a hand absently across his nose. "…Yeah, okay," he says; looks helplessly around for a while, says Accio key! under his breath and is comforted when it materialises securely in his palm, and opens the portal in the nearest wall, pulling the door open when it forms.

Sylar bolts up in bed at the sight. He stares. "What is that," he says. "How did you… how did you do that…"

Leo turns briefly. He raises an eyebrow – in what's not as impressive a manner as Sylar usually manages, but gets the point across – and goes through the door.

He shuts it, pausing a second to let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding… and then makes it quickly through to the apartment on the other end, to reprogram the controls and vanish the door before Sylar gets too inquisitive and tries to come through…

Safe.

Then he slides down the wall and collapses to sit with his head in his hands, full of feelings he can't define.

III.

There are times when Adam forgets. When he's just going about his day, at work perhaps, or on the commute home, and finds himself thinking that he should tell Sara something, or go for dinner one of these days, or-

…and then it would hit him, like a sudden blow to his head, that his sister is dead. And that cold, dreadful emptiness would leave him numb for a moment, drawing all his thoughts to an abrupt stop; and it would be a while before he could shake himself out of it, sometimes with a terse "I'm fine" at Chloe or whichever other person it is who still hasn't learnt to mind their own business.

Sometimes he remembers that, in his own world, he is alone now. Sure… he's valued for his technical expertise and the integral parts he's played saving lives with the others at the CTU, he's on good professional terms with most of his colleagues, and the rest have more or less learnt (though some stubbornly refuse to) not to bother him when he doesn't look like he wants to be bothered. Which is usually all the time.

But at the end of each work day (or night, as the case sometimes is) he walks back alone to his apartment, and gets his own dinner, and his computer is his only companion. Parents dead. No contact with other relatives. Sara used to be his sole gateway to the world of human interaction. Sometimes she'd nag him about getting out more. Sometimes she'd introduce him to other people. That usually didn't go well. And now she's gone, too, and just about no one would care if he followed suit. No one would really care, once the perfunctory tears were shed.

The microwave gives a tentative beep, as though a little upset at the way Adam has been glaring at it. He yanks its door open with a bit too much force, forgets what happens to food when you heat it in a microwave, and snaps his fingers back with a curse. Science kicks in after a few seconds of shaking his hand about the air, and he runs his mildly-singed fingers under the cool tap water, his other hand to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut.

"You need to get out some," Sara would have said had she still been here. "You can't be alone all the time, Adam."
"I'm not alone," he used to insist with faint annoyance. "I see people at work."
"You know what I mean."

So he finds himself staring at the odd key tucked away on the bookshelf, trying to suck up his pride enough to let himself back into the apartment. He can't remember when he was last there for a good period of time. A couple of weeks, perhaps. He'd been trying to wean himself off the place. He'd been growing dependent on it. It wasn't healthy, avoiding reality. He still dropped by now and then to pick up things and to remind himself that it existed, and sometimes one or more of the others were around; but it had been a while since he'd really been there and wasn't just passing through.

You need this, he hears his sister telling him in his head. So he packs up his dinner, picks up his laptop, takes the key, and opens the portal to the apartment.

There's no one else there, he notices with a bitter masochism. Not at the moment. A single light is on by the kitchenette. He puts his laptop down on his desk and trudges over to the kitchen table with his food.

There's no one else around.

Adam swallows, a tightness in his throat as he forcefully pulls up a chair.

Even they don't care about you. No one cares. No one cares about you. No one likes you, Kaufman.

He goes over to the cupboards, pulling open drawers in search of cutlery, his arms tense.

That's why you have no friends. These guys only put up with you because you have the same eyebrows.

Adam rinses the discovered fork and spoon, flings them dry, and returns to the table, his hands trembling slightly as he sits.

They wouldn't care, otherwise. Like all the rest of them. You know that.

He looks at his forkful of food, but his hand is shaking and his mouth is dry and his chest hurts, and he puts it back down, blinking away the sting of hot tears in his eyes.

Can you honestly think of even one person who loves you? …No.

There's no one around, and there's no one to see.

Adam pushes his plate aside, and cries silently into his arms.

#

The door opens, but no sound follows. Adam stems his tears, not daring to lift his head and face whoever it is who caught him in his moment of abject self-pity, hating himself for crying, for even being bothered enough about this to do so, for-

Footsteps pad softly across the carpet. Adam feels an arm slide across his back, and then Smudge gives him the biggest hug he knows.

Smudge doesn't say anything. He just holds him there in that awkward position bent over the chair, and Adam's face is flushed with embarrassment.

"Smudge-" he starts, but Smudge just hugs him tighter, and Adam suddenly wants to take back anything bad he's ever said to the kid.

The door opens again and Sasan comes in, nearly tripping over the bag of groceries that Smudge left at the doorway, and he's about to complain when he sees them, and the mild frustration leaves his face.

"Adam," he says uncertainly. "Hey…"

Sasan walks over, putting the groceries down on the table and slowly unpacking them, his eyes still on Adam.

Adam thinks that Smudge can stop hugging him now. It's getting awkward. Smudge seems to get the hint – though probably more out of the desire to help Sasan put the groceries away than what would have been an uncharacteristic lapse in his usual immunity to awkwardness – and finally pulls away. He starts moving things out of the bags and into the fridge and larder, all without saying a word.

"We haven't seen you around for a while," Sasan continues.

"I've had work," Adam says, forcing the lingering quaver out of his voice and raising what fails to be a surreptitious hand to wipe the telltale wetness off his face. It's a terrible excuse. He's always had work. He'd always been perfectly able to do it here – preferred to, even.

Sasan shrugs. "We were just wondering recently if you were okay. And… it doesn't look like it."

"I'm fine," Adam says shortly, some of his defences kicking back in, all the fiercer for their attempt to counteract the sudden burst of emotion at the thought that they had cared.

Smudge looks suspiciously at him from where he's trying to stuff a terrifying amount of grapes into the butter compartment of the fridge. "No you're not," he says.

Sasan sighs. "Smudge, the grapes don't go there. Fruits are down below, remember?"

Smudge looks. "Oh." He starts the transfer. "He's not okay," he reiterates matter-of-factly.

Adam glares at his back.

Sasan appears to finally notice the pathetic plate of food. "Adam, please say that's not your dinner."

"Why?"

"Leftovers? Come on, we can do better than that-"

Adam wants to make a snarky comment about how some of them can't afford caviar every meal, but holds his tongue. "I don't waste food," he says instead.

"We'll find someone else who appreciates it," Sasan says. "Tony will eat anything. You're going to have dinner with us, and then you're staying the night so you won't have a chance to go back to your poky little apartment and feel miserable about yourself."

Adam opens his mouth to argue – primarily to defend his home – but no words rise to the challenge.

Sasan gestures in the direction of Adam's desk and the laptop sitting on it. "You've got your work here, so that shouldn't be a problem. From the looks of it you haven't showered, so you can do that while we get the food. Take whatever clothes you need, and hopefully you'll look less boring for a while. Go."

Sasan gives him a smile that's at once warm and borderline-patronising. Adam goes silently, heading up the spiral stairs torn between peace and his wounded pride.

#

Adam stands in the shower, letting the water run off his closed eyelids, feeling some of the tension drain away. If there are tears, he can't distinguish them from the water.

He's missed this apartment so much it hurts. It's pervasive sense of peace and welcome. It feels more of a home than any of his own ever did.

He's so lonely.

Here, he feels a little less so. Downstairs there's going to be a meal waiting.

And friends. They're his friends.

Smudge gives good hugs.

#

There are no decent clothes in the closet. Adam looks despairingly at the array of stripes and plaid. He pulls out the least-offensive shirt he can find to put on, and hides that under some black sweater with black stripes that from a distance almost looks like a solid colour. Then he spends an agonising few minutes getting on a pair of skinny jeans, as the closet seems to lack any other form of pants. Adam determines that he's not going to bed in these. If there's nothing more reasonable to be found after further searching, he's going back home for proper clothes.

He glances at the final result in the mirror and is a little disturbed by how he almost looks like a completely different person. Identity is a fragile thing in this place and in present company.

Adam wonders at the hygiene of using someone else's comb and eventually just runs his fingers through his hair. It's not completely to his satisfaction, but he's getting a free dinner and shouldn't complain.

He opens the trapdoor and heads back downstairs.

#

Adam doesn't say much, after a grateful "Thanks" when handed a plate of food that is decidedly more appetising than the previous plan. Neither Sasan nor Smudge push the matter, and are soon engaged in a conversation of their own about Sasan's parents. But Adam never feels ignored, and he takes quiet comfort in their company. It's been too long since he's had something like this: just being around people other than those he works with, feeling that gentle suffusion of friendship and belonging in the air.

"So, Adam – have you averted any national crisis lately?" Sasan asks with a smile.

He shakes his head. "There hasn't been much," he says.

"Mm. We were worried about you," Sasan says.

Adam blinks and says nothing.

"We thought you might have blown yourself up," Smudge says.

"I don't… I don't go into the field." He just stayed safely within CTU with the high security and his computers. Unlike Jack and the others. Unlike all the vulnerable civilians. Unlike Sara.

Some of the bitterness starts to surface again, and Adam pushes it down. Not now. Not now. He brings another spoonful of food into his mouth and tries to focus on the taste of it against his tongue.

Sasan is watching him, mild concern on his face. "Adam," he says cautiously. "What happened?"

He doesn't know if they know about Sara; really know. That bartender in Kenselton Hotel – Arthur – mentioned her death once, but he doesn't know if the others had been paying attention. Arthur had mentioned other deaths too, of people the others knew, but Adam hadn't remembered those, and so there's no reason for the others to have remembered Sara.

"Other people die," he manages to say as casually as he can manage. It's vague enough but still gets the point across. "I don't."

"Survivor's guilt?" Sasan asks.

Adam takes a tight breath. "I… don’t want to talk about it, okay? Sorry."

"Okay."

They go back to their meal, a little quieter than before. Smudge keeps throwing him searching looks, as though trying to assess if he needs another hug.

Tony comes by just as they are finishing the meal. He looks disappointed until presented with Adam's original dinner, which seems to sufficiently appeal to his teenage hunger. He acknowledges Adam's presence with a glance; and then a second one as he tries to reconcile the clothes with the person wearing them. Tony leaves shortly after, prompting a frustrated comment on Sasan's part about how they're not a soup kitchen.

Later, back at his old spot on the couch with his computer on his lap, Adam wonders why he had ever thought to leave this place. That whole thing about growing up and dealing with reality didn't matter… shouldn't matter. He can do his growing up here.

The couch pulls out into a sofa bed. At Adam's comment, Sasan goes off to his home to get more appropriate sleepwear, insisting that Adam just stay there. So he does, sitting and staring at the blank television screen.

Smudge looks at him.

Somehow, in Sasan's absence, Adam finds the words. "How do you get over it?" he asks quietly. "When someone dies."

Smudge shrugs. "You don't," he replies. "You just have to accept it, that's all."

"What if you can't."

Smudge doesn't say anything, and Sasan is back with more comfortable clothes, and so the matter is left at that.

Adam still manages to fall asleep feeling less alone than he had the previous nights. He wonders if he can just abandon his world and stay here forever-

But no, that would be irresponsible. And this isn't his home. It just feels like it, sometimes.

#

When he wakes, morning has broken. The smell of fresh coffee fills the air, mingling with the hush of conversation by the kitchen table.

Adam doesn't open his eyes.

He wants this moment to last.

IV.

Smudge never gets tired of waking in the apartment. Even after a few months, there's still always that brief moment when he thinks that everything must have been a dream and he's still alone in his rent-overdue apartment in New York, surrounded by his misguided experiments and the odd trinkets he's collected from around the place. Or that he's still out in the streets, curled up in the cardboard box he'd christened Eric, having to meet another day of claiming offense from unsuspecting passersby and refusing to leave them alone until they compensated him with money or other necessities just to get him to go.

Eyes still shut, he hears the muted patter of rain against the roof, and is temporarily brought back to rainy nights in Eric. But the surface beneath him is soft; and as he lies there, he feels someone else roll over by his side, and an arm crosses his back in a sleepy embrace.

"Sas," Smudge murmurs.

Sasan nuzzles the back of his head with his nose and makes a non-committal sound. Smudge brings up a hand to meet Sasan's, their fingers lazily entwining.

The rain is nice. It's not bright as it usually is in the mornings, the room cast in dim shadows by the overcast sky outside the window. The digital clock reads 8:42. Its accuracy is doubtful with respect to their location – they'd once tried to set the clocks by attempting to judge noon by when the sun was directly overhead, but that too was hard to see due to the simple inability to actually go outside. At least, whatever planet they're on seems to have similar day lengths to that of Earth, and they eventually decided that keeping the clocks in sync with those in their own worlds was both practical and worked well enough.

It's hard to get out of bed when it's raining, and so they just lie there for a while, drifting in that space of eternal contentment between dreams and waking life, feeling that nothing could ever go wrong.

Sasan dozes off again, his hand falling limp in Smudge's grasp. Smudge shifts until he's lying flat on his back, and turns his head to look at Sasan just to watch him sleep.

The falling rain creates rippling shadows on the ceiling.

No one knows they're here, Smudge realises with a groggy calm. Or rather, some do, but they can't get here. Sasan's friends and family, the few people Smudge knows… they can't get into this place even if they know about it. Only Adam and the others can, and they tend not to drop by mornings; when they do, they stay downstairs.

Up here, it's just him and Sasan with no one to disrupt them for as long as they'd like.

Smudge closes his eyes again, and dozes off himself.

When he wakes again, the rain has petered off to nothing, the sun has extended tentative rays into the sky, and Sasan is running his fingers lightly through Smudge's hair.

"Wha' time s'it?" Smudge asks.

"9:15." Sasan kisses his neck.

"I liked the rain," Smudge says. It was nice, when in the apartment. It reminded him of his childhood before he'd got kicked out of his home for being bisexual. He'd used to stand by the windows watching the rain, occasionally naming the raindrops that made their way down the glass panes. Out on the streets, rain meant getting wet and Eric getting soggy and damp and smelling weird. In his old apartment, sometimes rain meant water getting through the gaps in the broken window and drenching his experiments.

But here… here, the rain stayed outside and gave everything a hue of surreal calm. He liked the rain here.

"C'mon," Sasan says, rolling off the bed with admirable levels of energy. "Breakfast. I promised Tori I'd meet her at ten to go over the business, so we've got a little less than an hour."

Smudge finally pulls himself off the bed and trudges over to join Sasan in the bathroom to wash up. He glances at the laundry basket, currently full to the brim, and figures that he could drop by a laundromat while Sasan is off at his meeting. Adam's clothes are somewhere in there from a couple nights ago – they stand out from the more interesting stuff – and he'd probably want them back.

This apartment has actually made him responsible, Smudge thinks as he brushes his teeth. Or maybe it's just wanting to be good enough for Sasan. Or both.

Sasan smiles and affectionately touches Smudge's shoulder as he leaves the bathroom, just a simple reminder of his presence, and Smudge once again doesn't know what he ever did to deserve this.

They have toast downstairs in the kitchenette.

This, Smudge thinks, is how life was always meant to be.

V.

It's a Saturday afternoon, and Smudge and Sasan aren't in when Leo drops by the apartment. There's just Adam, sitting somewhat sprawled out on the couch, gazing silently out the windows.

It's a cool, clear day: everything is bright, and the apartment's walls almost seem to sparkle in the whiteness.

"Hey," Leo says in greeting.

Adam turns his head, sees him, and goes back to looking out the windows. "Hi."

Leo goes cautiously towards him. "I… haven't seen you around for a while," he says.

Adam shifts slightly but doesn't respond.

"I stayed over Thursday night," he finally says, in a quieter voice than usual. There's an odd brokenness to it that Leo doesn't think he's heard before. Not from Adam. Now, closer to him, he sees the familiar tension in Adam's shoulders, even in his relatively relaxed position on the couch. But Adam isn't doing anything – there's no computer in sight, no stacks of classified documents… he's just sitting there, and Leo doesn't think that's happened before. Adam was always busy.

But to press further would be awkward, and so Leo leaves the matter.

The few potted plants stand about in crisp greenness. Leo goes to fill a cup with water at the sink. He doesn't actually know what he's doing here; it just seemed a good idea at the time. Some days he feels lonely, and someone has to water those plants.

He goes up the spiral stairs to the bedroom, and gives the cactus on the windowsill the last few drops of water. It looks grateful. Leo wonders when the last time it got watered was, and how often it had been neglected just because it was a cactus and didn't need as much water.

He goes back down, puts the empty cup back on the rack, casts a concerned glance at Adam – he's still just sitting there – and makes himself a sandwich. Sasan and Smudge stock their fridge with a far better variety of ingredients than he has at home.

Leo debates over whether to eat it there at the kitchen table or to join Adam by the coffee table, and eventually chooses the latter, settling down in the couch opposite without making eye contact. Adam looks at him, then returns his gaze to the forested outside, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration.

Leo realises belatedly that it probably isn't polite to eat sandwiches around people who don't have sandwiches of their own.

The awkward silence lapses into calm. Adam appears to relax a bit more.

The door opens, and Sasan and Smudge return from wherever they had spent the morning.

"Oh, you're here," Sasan greets. He heads up the stairs.

Smudge dumps the basket of freshly washed laundry on the floor. He roots through it for Adam's clothes, finds them, and hands them over in a messy bundle. "Here," he says.

Adam takes them. "Thanks." He shakes out the bundle and folds the separate articles neatly, but there isn't much energy in it.

"Is that a sandwich?" Smudge asks Leo with suspicion.

"Yep."

"Oh." Curiosity satiated, Smudge wanders off to pick up the basket of clothes and bring it upstairs.

Sasan bounds down the stairs shortly after. He pauses by the couches, regarding Adam with what is almost patronising pity.

Adam looks up at him. "What?" he asks, irritability sneaking into his voice.

Sasan shakes his head. He hops onto the couch to sit next to him. "You're always so tense," he chastises, hands gripping Adam's shoulders in a light massage. "Adam, you seriously need to learn to relax or you're going to get back problems."

Adam flinches slightly at the touch, gritting his teeth and almost wanting to tell Sasan to stop that. But it feels strangely all right. It's familiar in an odd way. Like they're his own hands. He closes his eyes and lets out a breath. "I'm fine," he says.

"I highly doubt that," Sasan demurs. "You're one of the most uptight people I've ever known, and that's saying something, trust me."

"Are you just going to insult me?" Adam shoots back. "Because that's not helpful-"

"Shhhh," Sasan says in an aggravatingly calm way. "Breathe, Adam," he murmurs. "Let it go."

Adam swallows back angry tears he can't pinpoint the source of, and tries to relax. Sasan's voice is soothing, and the fingers lightly rubbing his shoulders are comforting in their concern.

Smudge comes back down, glances at them, decides that Adam would probably be a nicer person if he had more frequent hugs in his life, and goes to raid the fridge.

"You could always stay here for a few days, you know," Sasan offers. "We won't mind."

A part of Adam wants that, so much. But pride gets in the way, as does his persistent nagging need to grow up, and he shakes his head no. "I've got my own place," he states.

"Well, it's an open offer," Sasan says, and then he gets off the couch to go over to Smudge; and for a moment a part of Adam cries No! as Sasan's hands leave his back, longing for that simple human physical contact that he hasn't been aware he's missed so much…

He'd like a hug, his traitorous mind thinks. But he'd rather die than ask for one.

So he sinks back against the couch, and glares at Leo's sandwich, and eventually forces himself up to retrieve his laptop from his desk and get to work, and tries to pretend – as he always does – that everything is okay.

VI.

He's been here before: once to check out what the key gave him access to, and another time to request tech support from Adam. It feels different, this time, with no one else around, and Jason has the uncomfortable impression that he's being an intruder.

It's a paradoxical feeling, because the moment he steps into the apartment, he's hit with an overwhelming sense of familiarity. Like he's lived here, and made this place his home for a while. He knows that's not true. But he also knows that the clothes lying about would fit him perfectly; that the fingerprints on the windows and door handles and cups and everywhere all match his; that the swivel chair by the desk is adjusted at just the right height; that the handwriting on the bulletin board notices is identical to his.

Yet he's still a stranger to this place. And with none of its residents or usual visitors around, he's hesitant to teach anything, or even to move from where he's near-frozen by the main door.

He looks down at the key in his hand, with his name on it, and feels a pang of… something. This place is supposed to be his, too. It was meant just as much for him as for the others. But even a single step in feels like trespassing.

How did you do it? he wonders mournfully to himself. How did you manage to be a stranger even to this group of people?

He's still bogged down by old guilt, remembering a time when he'd grasped desperately at the possibility of living at their expense, in another strange apartment in another world, guiltily sharing a secret loaf of bread with Peter Sullivan; Peter, who had died, possibly because of that.

But it's over. It should be over. He doesn't even know if these people remember it was him. It might not have mattered, anyhow, because these people had been friends long before he and the others came into the picture. They were outsiders from the start. Peter and Jay were dead. It was just him, Mitchell and Louis… if they were still alive. He hasn't seen them since. Perhaps if they had all been closer… perhaps if they'd cared enough to look out for each other instead of sinking into distrust and rivalry…

Jason takes a step further in, tentative but longing. He belongs here. Some deep part of him recognises that, senses it in the air or in all the subtle signs slipping into his subconscious that mark this place as home.

But if he took something from here, it would be stealing. The couches are not for him to sit on; the TV is not for him to watch; the food is not for him to eat; none of that, unless invited.

He turns and takes a few more steps in to look at the bulletin board to the left of the door.

whoever takes the honey PLEASE do not screw the lid on so tight. it gets stuck. – A.

Can we name the cactus Spike? – Smudge
no. – L

Sink in downstairs bathroom is clogged. Try not to use it. – L

We could call in a plumber. – Smudge
maybe sylar could fix it. – tony
kill yourself – A.
That's not nice, Adam. – Sas

Who took all the spoons? – Sas
there is no spoon – A.
Shifted them to the second drawer because the first was too full. – L

sylar was here. – sylar
hi sylar. fix the sink. it's clogged. – tony
tony you just wrote both those things. – A.
no I didn't. – t
it's in exactly the same bright orange ink. what is wrong with you. -A.
we just have similar tastes in stationery, sylar and i. – t
hi i am adam and i suck – A.
tony I hate you. – A.
you know you don't mean that. – t.
adam loves everyone. – L
leo, go fix the sink. – A.

ok, I've arranged all the books alphabetically by author. please try to return books to their proper places. – A.
I don't think the CTU is giving you enough work. – Sas

When was the last time Spike got watered? :( – Smudge

Jason wonders what it's like to be them.

He turns as the door opens and Adam walks in, giving Jason a casual glance and then a double take, and for a while Adam just stares…

"…Jason, right?"

Jason gives a mildly apologetic smile. "That's me."

Adam breaks the stare and goes over to the kitchenette, leaving Jason feeling awkward by the door. Perhaps he should go, he thinks uncomfortably. But Adam hasn't chased him out, and Adam isn't exactly known for politeness. So his presence is on some level accepted, unless Adam is also wrestling with the same issue of how Jason technically has as much right to be here as he does.

Adam retrieves a can of iced coffee from the fridge and walks back in Jason's direction, a wariness in his eyes. But he passes him without a word and goes to his desk, where he settles amongst the files and data; and Jason suddenly thinks he should have said something, anything… an apology for past infractions, a simple greeting, a "this is a nice place, isn't it?"…

Should have. It's too late, now.

There's something about how comfortable Adam seems here – how at home he looks – that cuts Jason with a painful jealousy. He wants that. To have a place like this to go to, with ready companionship, where he belongs…

But he doesn't know this place, no matter how much it seems to know him. He doesn't know what's in the fridge, he doesn't know what's on the shelf, he doesn't know how the third drawer by the kitchen sink is kind of stiff and hard to open, he doesn't know who put the pillows behind the couch, he doesn't know how to talk to Adam as someone closer than a vague acquaintance.

And he's stayed too long.

Jason gives the place a last look-over from his vantage point and swallows down the longing. He gives Adam a final lingering glance that is not returned. Adam doesn't even notice.

"I… um."

Adam looks up.

"It's a nice place, I…" Jason takes a breath, gives a smile, somehow keeping his voice pleasant. "Maybe I'll see you around again sometime."

"Sure," Adam says, and returns to his work.

And that is that.

To stay longer would be rude.

Jason humbly takes his leave.

VII.

The abject fear is gone, but a shadow of it still remains in an indelible stain on his mind, particularly stark in Mike's darker moments of which there now seem to be more. It's often unnoticed, even by him. He's resumed his usual life, more or less, and he's learnt to smile again. But there are times – a fleeting reflection in a mirror, a particular tone in his voice, a newspaper headline about a murder – that it comes back to him, that same creeping, debilitating horror and repulsion, and no amount of attempt to rationalise it away ever does him any good.

He tells himself that it's over, that there's no real danger, that he's met Sylar, recognised him as just another human, and come out of that unscathed… but the old fear still finds its way to return, sometimes. He still remembers the hostile glances from the good guys, the pure seething hate from his attackers, the condescending smiles from Noah Bennet, the soul-rending disgust at his own skin, face, voice, body, self that was mercilessly drilled into him with all of that and with gruesome images of another life flashing before his eyes as he curled up on the ground, sobbing, in an isolated time bubble with no escape.

He's tried to forget, telling himself that it was all right now. But sometimes trying to forget just makes it worse.

He tells himself that he's his own person, and this is his own life, and he can be whoever he wants to be. He tells himself that he owns his body, and it is his, only his, and no psychopathic serial killer from another universe has any claim on it whatsoever. He can reclaim himself. He has to. Yet sometimes his will and conviction falter, and he remembers the still-extant truth that there are many – perhaps hundreds, perhaps thousands – of perfect strangers out there in another world (or more) who would react with terror and loathing were they ever somehow meet, and that there is nothing that he can do about it.

It unsettles him. He's spent his life wanting to do good, to help others, not to hurt them. And that has results, here in his own world with friends and family who care. But it's hard to stop thinking about other worlds, especially when they've made such a lasting impact on his life.

The apartment is both a fear and comfort. Being there and seeing the others drives home the fact that all of that had happened, had been real. That there are others like him and yet not. But there, he no longer feels alone.

"You're safe here," Sasan told him the first time he visited, and Mike saw the gentle friendliness in his eyes and believed him.

Mike goes back to the apartment one night when things are bad. It's midnight. His parents are asleep, and he's supposed to be, but when he tentatively opens the portal in his bedroom wall – the light flushes his bedroom gold – and enters the apartment, the five people inside are still awake. Adam is working at his laptop on the couch; near him, around the coffee table, Sasan, Smudge, Leo and Tony are engaged in a game of Scrabble.

"I can't sleep," Mike explains.

He declines the offer to join in. He takes a seat to watch, hands clasped by his knees, feeling suddenly at peace.

Things have changed. He feels more, not less, like himself here. There's that mutual understanding of individuality in this place: the acknowledgement that, amongst people with a similar physical form, what makes you you is who you are, because that's what stands out and makes you different from the rest.

They've all found themselves, Mike thinks. He almost envies the ease at which they interact, exchanging quips and joking (or not so joking) insults over the course of the game. They each know who they are and who they are not. Their faces don't define them, here; their characters do. Here, Sylar would be, truly, just another guy, no more similar to him than Hitler in their shared humanity is.

The others are good people. Mike can see that. He thinks Noah and his colleagues should be able to see that if they were open and honest enough. And if the others are good people, Mike thinks he could be, too, and it suddenly seems unfathomable that he had ever thought himself irrevocably tainted and destined for evil. Here, he feels free again, if only for a moment. The shadow is gone.

He falls asleep on the couch.

The others later finish their game. Sasan and Leo shift Mike from his seated position to lie fully down on the couch, and their hands do not flinch at his skin. Mike stirs but does not wake. Sasan grabs a blanket and lays it over him.

The guests take their leave. Smudge turns off the lights, then he Sasan head upstairs to the bedroom and shut the trapdoor with a soft thud.

And Mike sleeps on, basked in the dim glow of distant alien starlight from the window.

He's safe here.

For now.

Collection II »

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