Fic: Illumination In Unnatural Light (Heroes)
The phone’s ring is shrill. Shrill enough to curdle milk. Shrill enough to shatter glass. Shrill enough to shatter all of Dr. Mohinder Suresh’s hopes for the Third Floor Improvement Campaign, which began this week with the replacement of all the old-style phones in the office.
Mohinder winces at the tone. He’s going to have to surreptitiously replace the phone as soon as the board supervisor quits ‘just stopping by’ his office. Maybe he can scavenge his old one before they throw it away…
“Mohinder Suresh,” he says, into the receiver.
“Dr. Suresh,” comes the voice from the other end.
Mohinder’s mouth splits into a grimace, automatically. “Madame President,” he says, forcing his face into a smile.
“I’m having a file faxed over to your office,” the President of the Board of Directors snaps into Mohinder’s ear, abrupt and tight-lipped. “You’ll take the patient, and handle the case personally.”
Mohinder’s eyebrows go up. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have a very full caseload at the moment-”
“This is not a request, Dr. Suresh. You’ll handle it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” agrees Mohinder, with a sigh.
- - - -
“He’s a patient, transferring in,” explains the woman, again, her mouth twisting in irritation.
The secretary shrugs, palms outward. “I don’t have any records of it. You’re just going to have to wait while I clear this-”
Mohinder steps in. “So sorry,” he apologizes, “I was delayed. This is him?”
“This is Gabriel Gray,” says the woman. “My name’s Special Agent Audrey Hanson. You’re in charge of his case?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You know about this?” asks the secretary.
“I do indeed.” Mohinder takes a moment to glance over the new patient. He looks dead on his feet - they must have him drugged to the gills. Either that, or there’s been sleep deprivation in the works. With law enforcement, Mohinder can’t really rule either of them out.
“Well.” The secretary uncrosses her arms. “Let’s get the paperwork started.”
“Which way to the padded rooms?” Hanson asks, ironically.
Mohinder shoots her a sardonic look.
- - - -
The door closes, firmly, behind Gabriel Gray, and Mohinder turns to face Special Agent Hanson. “His file was remarkably bereft of actual details,” says Mohinder. “What, exactly, is he charged with?”
Hanson ignores the question. “He’s been dosed with curare.”
“Curare?” Mohinder looks through the window, to Gabriel Gray’s curled form, then back to Hanson. “Are you planning to put him under surgery any time soon?”
“No,” says Hanson. “And neither are you. He stays dosed. At all times.”
“Why?”
“You’re not authorized for that information.”
“I can’t diagnose a patient who’s so drugged he’s barely conscious.”
Hanson shrugs. “I’m sorry, Doctor. It’s not your decision.”
Mohinder crosses his arms. “I’m his psychiatrist. It should be my decision.”
“You asked what he was charged with.” Hanson looks him in the eye. “Gabriel Gray, also known as ‘Sylar’, is a serial killer.”
“Presumably innocent until proven guilty.”
“Oh, he’s guilty,” says Hanson. “It’s just a matter of a trial. He’s killed, Dr. Suresh. Men, women and children. He seems to choose his victims randomly - we don’t understand his methods, we don’t understand his motivations. It’s up to you to find that out. Are you up to it?”
“Of course.”
“Well, good.”
Mohinder has his key halfway turned in the door’s lock before Hanson stops him.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I need to get started sometime,” says Mohinder. “Might as well be now.”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” she protests, as the door swings open.
Mohinder starts to step inside, but Hanson’s hand on his shoulder brings him up short.
“He’s dangerous,” says Hansen.
“I don’t think he’ll hurt me,” says Mohinder. “Will you, Gabriel?”
Gabriel Gray looks up, too quickly, giving Mohinder the visceral impression of a trapped predator. Trapped now, but not forever, and there would be blood when he got free. “My name,” rasps the man in the cell, “is Sylar.”
Mohinder nods. “Sylar it is, then.”
Sylar’s eyes follow Mohinder as he slips past the doorway.
“Dr. Suresh.” Hanson is waiting, just beyond the cell.
“Do you want to kill me, Sylar?” asks Mohinder, moving closer.
Sylar tilts his head, expressionless, calculating. His eyes are bleary, his mind fogged, but he’s still there, he’s still thinking.
Mohinder smiles, more calmly than he feels. His heartbeat races, but he breathes, long and steady. It’s all about establishing the relationship, right now. “I’m not afraid of you,” continues Mohinder. “I just want to talk to you.”
“Really,” murmurs Sylar, then he smirks.
A shiver runs up Mohinder’s spine, but he ignores it. There’s never been a patient in Greenridge Hospital he hasn’t been able to handle.
Never.
- - - -
“So, you took that new patient, huh?” asks Mohinder’s colleague, Eden.
“Yeah,” says Mohinder, flashing her a brief smile.
“I thought you weren’t taking serial killers anymore.”
Mohinder half-laughs. “Deviant psychology used to be an obsession of mine,” he says, “but I’d rather help those who can be cured. Wouldn’t you?”
Eden cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t think Sylar can be cured?”
Mohinder shakes his head. “No. Don’t be ridiculous.”
- - - -
“How’d you sleep?”
No response. Sylar’s eyes roam along the walls. Mohinder is certain, certain that Sylar heard him. This is a game, a waiting game. Sylar wants to see if he’ll speak first. And so, Mohinder waits.
“You don’t care how I slept,” Sylar says, finally.
“I care about everything you do,” says Mohinder. “It’s my job.”
Sylar snorts, in derision, but he huddles into himself. He’s almost afraid; a hint of vulnerability, and Mohinder can’t tell, yet, if it’s real or faked. He settles across from Sylar, cross-legged.
“So, how did you sleep?” Mohinder repeats, with a little more emphasis.
“I didn’t sleep.”
“Why not?”
Sylar glances away. “I can hear them.”
Mohinder leans forward, fractionally. “Hear who?”
“All of them,” and Sylar gestures all around him. “The other people in this place.”
Mohinder looks skeptical. “These rooms are soundproofed.”
Sylar shakes his head. “I can hear them.”
Delusions, then. Could be as severe as schizophrenia, maybe. Mohinder sighs a little, in disappointment, and he makes a note. Maybe the case won’t be as interesting as he-
“Benjamin,” murmurs Sylar.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s what she kept chanting.” Sylar looks back to Mohinder. “All night, a girl in the cells. She kept saying it, over and over again.” His eyes narrow, a little. “She still is.”
- - - -
Mohinder finds the girl, later. Three rooms down, across the hall from Sylar. He presses his ear to the glass, and can just barely hear her - “Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin,” repeated in an endless string of syllables.
Sylar could have heard it when he was escorted in, Mohinder tells himself. It was a gamble. No one has hearing that sharp. It’s inhuman.
- - - -
Mohinder gets a more detailed file, hand-delivered from the FBI the next afternoon. Unfortunately, it opens up more questions than it answers.
He glances over the photographs with the ease of long practice - bodies, all disfigured the same way. The skulls, the brains. Middle-aged man, young man, little girl. No pattern, none at all.
There’s always a pattern. Mohinder just has to find it.
The most interesting part of the file, however, is near the end. Delusions of paranormal powers. Psychosis. Here is the note, the prescription of curare.
Mohinder wonders.
- - - -
“How was your relationship with your mother?”
“I loved my mother.”
“Then why did you kill her?”
Sylar twists around, tensed like a spring curled as tightly as it will go, like a panther angry enough to kill. Mohinder flattens his hand against the wall, ready to run if he has to, but Sylar subsides, his eyes dark. “It was an accident,” he says.
“What happened, then?”
“The scissors were in her sewing basket,” murmurs Sylar. “She always kept them there.”
“The scissors you used to kill her.”
Sylar flinches. “She didn’t understand.”
“Why didn’t she understand?” asks Mohinder, neutral, gauging Sylar’s reaction.
Sylar’s eyes are distant. “She said,” he starts, then he shakes his head. “She didn’t understand.”
“What did she say?” presses Mohinder.
This is it, the first vulnerability that Sylar has shown since he’s been admitted - if Mohinder can only dig a little deeper -
Sylar scoffs, softly. “She said I was special.” He looks up, to Mohinder. “I showed her how special.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“I never hated her, if that’s what you’re asking,” snaps Sylar. “I never hated any of them. My family.” He pauses, as though choosing his words carefully. “They were just…insignificant.”
- - - -
“Are you making any progress, Dr. Suresh?”
Mohinder jumps, knocking his pen off the table. It clatters, turning end over end, before it rests against the wall.
“Agent Hanson,” Mohinder sighs. “I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.” He snags the pen, just barely, sitting back upright to face her.
“We need progress on this patient, Suresh,” says Hanson.
“Well,” says Mohinder, “I suppose it didn’t occur to you that everything he says to me is governed by doctor-patient confidentiality?”
Hanson uncrosses her arms, stepping into the room. “How many serial killers have you treated?”
Mohinder drops the pen.
“Seventeen, isn’t it?” She cocks her head to the side. “And none of them in the past year.”
“That’s true.”
“Why did you stop?”
Mohinder shrugs. “It didn’t hold the same fascination for me that it did before.”
“That’s a lie,” says Hanson.
Mohinder flinches. “You’re in no position to judge-”
“It’s a lie,” Hanson repeats. “I saw your face when you were looking at Sylar.” She takes a step, closer. “Why did you stop treating serial killers?”
Mohinder is silent.
“Is it because they closed active investigation on your father’s case?”
“I think you should go,” says Mohinder. “Now.”
- - - -
“Do you know anything about evolution, Dr. Suresh?”
“I had a background in genetics before I received my MD,” says Mohinder, carefully.
Sylar moves forward, a little, his eyes intent and dark. “There’s something amazing about it, isn’t there? The idea that our species is what it is, in basic makeup, basic structure, because of death? That death has made us who we are?”
Then, Mohinder starts to understand. “So, you killed those people, why? Because they couldn’t stop you?”
“They weren’t worthy,” and Sylar shifts up.
“Sylar,” Mohinder says, “do you believe you have paranormal powers?”
“Believe?” Sylar laughs. “I don’t have to believe.”
- - - -
“You know, it’s fascinating to watch you.”
“Excuse me?” asks Mohinder.
“Trying to figure me out.” The edge of Sylar’s mouth curls. “You need it, don’t you? I can feel it inside you. You’re broken, Mohinder.”
“I’m not the one who’s broken, between the two of us.”
“I could fix you.” Sylar shifts forward. “Who was it, Mohinder?”
Mohinder’s heart rate spikes. “What do you mean?”
“Who in your life was murdered?”
- - - -
“Are you all right, Mohinder?” asks Eden.
“No,” says Mohinder. “I don’t think I am.”
- - - -
“Gabriel Gray.” Mohinder flicks an eyebrow. “Sounds like a superhero’s name.”
Sylar is silent, his eyes closed. Listening.
“Is that what you think you are, Sylar?” asks Mohinder. “Some kind of hero?”
“I’m no hero.” Sylar’s eyes, opened, are bloodshot and focused.
“But you do have superpowers.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“No, I don’t.” Mohinder studies Sylar, for a moment - he doesn’t seem to regard it as a setback, at all. Or even a challenge.
“You will.”
Mohinder moves down, next to Sylar. “Listen, Sylar,” he says, “this isn’t real.”
“If it isn’t real,” rasps Sylar, “why am I on curare?”
Mohinder’s stomach drops.
“And you want to believe,” says Sylar. “I can feel it.” He shifts closer. “Stop the curare, and you’ll know for sure.”
Mohinder shakes his head. “I won’t.”
“You won’t be able to stop yourself.”
Sylar is too close-
“You need to know,” Sylar breathes. “And you will. You’ll believe.”
Sylar touches Mohinder’s hand, a rasp of dry skin, the touch so light Mohinder can barely feel it.
It’s enchanting, though, and Mohinder doesn’t pull away, doesn’t look away, as Sylar’s fingertips trail to his wrist, to veins pulsing just beneath his skin. “Those people were nothing. I had to kill them. It was an evolutionary imperative.”
Mohinder’s breath is coming faster. He should pull away, he knows. “Darwin made you do it?” he asks, his voice too breathy. “That’s a new one.”
“It’s the way of the world.” Sylar leans in towards Mohinder’s ear. “I can show you miracles you’ve never dreamed of.”
Mohinder tugs his hand away, stands, trembling and shaky.
- - - -
He drafts the memo in its entirety, listing possible replacement psychologists, attaching Sylar’s file, carefully writing around his specific reasons for dropping the case. He stares, for a long time, the mouse button hovering over ‘SEND’.
With a shudder, Mohinder closes the window, not bothering to save.
- - - -
Sylar is trembling, this time, unable to hide the weakness of his muscles. His pulse is slow, soft.
Mohinder touches his forehead, gentle, and his mouth twists in worry. “We shouldn’t have you on that drug,” he says. Sylar doesn’t respond, just closes his eyes.
He starts to get up, but Sylar reaches out for Mohinder’s hand. He doesn’t grasp hard enough, and Mohinder’s fingers slip away, Sylar’s arm falling back to the padded floor. “Don’t go,” whispers Sylar. “It’s better when you’re here.”
Mohinder sits, and, on impulse, lifts Sylar up, resting his head in Mohinder’s lap. Sylar sighs, in a kind of relaxation, and Mohinder touches his neck, fingers drifting to the pulse there.
“I suppose you’re convinced you’re in love with me now,” says Mohinder, his voice surprisingly steady.
“This isn’t love,” rasps Sylar, “and you know it.”
“What is it, then?”
“Love means that we’re different,” Sylar says. “It means that we’re separate souls, and we’re not, are we? We’re just one. And you burn for me. I can feel it.”
“You’re wrong,” Mohinder says. “And psychologists are forbidden from relationships with their patients.”
“I’m not wrong,” whispers Sylar, covering Mohinder’s hand with his own. “You’re broken, you need me.”
“You’re broken, too.”
“Then fix me.” Sylar looks up, to Mohinder. “Promise me you’ll fix me.”
“I will,” says Mohinder, then, “I promise.”
They don’t speak, after that.
- - - -
That night, Mohinder replaces the curare with saline solution. His hands shake, and his palms sweat, and his sleep that night is torn; too bloody and too vivid.
- - - -
Sylar’s eyes are bright when Mohinder seals the door behind him; he moves faster than Mohinder expects, presses him to the wall, firm, unyielding.
“You did it,” Sylar whispers, “I know you did.”
Mohinder puts a hand flat on Sylar’s chest. “Let me go.”
“Can you imagine how it feels…” Sylar’s voice trails off, and he licks just under Mohinder’s jaw, bites. “I want to fuck you,” Sylar tells him, his breath heavy. “I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”
“Sylar,” snaps Mohinder, but it’s like resisting an avalanche. Before he knows it his pants are at his thighs, his hands flat on the floor, Sylar’s form above him - and there are hands, stroking up his sides, touching him, and legs kicking his own apart, and a pressure, an insane pressure, holding him to the ground.
Mohinder sags against it, unresisting - he doesn’t want to resist - and Sylar strokes him, every touch a drawing an ache behind it, an itch building inside Mohinder’s body.
“Yes,” gasps Sylar - Mohinder feels the press of hard flesh against his, and yields to it, whimpering, the warmth of Sylar’s body pressing against his back, hard teeth worrying the skin of his neck.
Sylar’s fingers tighten on his hips, and he pushes, brutally, seating deep inside Mohinder’s body. Mohinder bites back a cry, tightening, and Sylar kisses the back of his shoulder, soothingly. “Sssh,” he murmurs, “we’re together, we’re joined now.”
It’s the hopeless eroticism of it that brings Mohinder down, that opens him to Sylar’s invasion, thrusts too rough and too perfect. He succumbs, with a sob, the sensations wracking his body too intense to categorize or control.
And, in time, Sylar’s palm clasps over his mouth, catching Mohinder’s shriek as it tears from his throat.
Sylar pulls away, pulls out, and leaves Mohinder on the ground.
“You’ve been useful,” says Sylar, thoughtfully. “Just as useful as your father.”
Mohinder can’t breathe, can’t think. “What…?” he starts, but Sylar’s hand covers his mouth, again.
“Sssh,” says Sylar, and Mohinder blacks out.
- - - -
“Dr. Suresh!”
Mohinder turns, his head throbbing, the padding tacky under his palm. He blinks.
“Dr. Suresh, are you all right?”
Mohinder notes that his clothes are on, that he’s in Sylar’s cell, that Sylar -
“Where is he?” Mohinder sits up, and the world pitches, spins around him, his vision graying for a second. “What happened to Sylar?”
Eden is in the doorway. “We don’t know,” she says. “He’s escaped.”
- - - -
“Did he kill my father?”
Audrey Hanson pauses, in the doorway of Mohinder’s office.
“Is that why you brought him to me?” Mohinder tightens his jaw.
Audrey flattens her mouth into a line. “He may have,” she says. “He was participating in genetic research of your father’s.”
Mohinder sinks into a chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We thought he would open up to you,” she says. “Trust you. We were wrong.”
Mohinder closes his eyes.
- - - -
“You sure you don’t need someone to stay with?” asks Eden. “He might come after you, you know.”
“No,” says Mohinder. “I’ll be fine.”
“Well, remember,” says Eden, “I’m right next door.”
- - - -
Mohinder waits, alone, for Sylar to appear. Somehow, he knows - he knows - that he won’t pass the whole night alone. The chai, in a cup on the table, fades from steaming hot to lukewarm, and Mohinder’s eyes grow dry and exhausted, but still he waits.
Sylar appears at nearly three in the morning, moving up through the darkness without a noise, until the circle of the lamp’s light falls on him.
“You killed my father,” says Mohinder. “You used me to get free.”
“We all use each other,” returns Sylar. “I never lied to you.”
“You said you needed me.”
Sylar moves to Mohinder’s chair, kneeling, his hand on Mohinder’s thigh. “I do,” he says. “You’re perfect, you’re beautiful. No one can feel this way alone.”
“Don’t touch me,” says Mohinder, flinching to his feet.
“You think you can fix me, Mohinder?” asks Sylar. He stands, equal to Mohinder, eye-to-eye. “Come with me.”
“Get out of my apartment.”
“You can’t turn me away,” scoffs Sylar. “You think you can stop me from killing? Or maybe you want to see, is that it? You think you can understand me, that way?”
“You’re disgusting,” snaps Mohinder.
“Then fix me.”
Mohinder turns away.
Sylar moves up beside him, in front of him, into Mohinder’s personal space. “The world will tremble at my touch,” Sylar breathes, “and you could be by my side. I can give you a life you can’t dream of. Is that what you want?”
“No,” whispers Mohinder, but when Sylar’s hand touches his, they clasp together. They fit.
“We are the same,” says Sylar, softly, and when he kisses Mohinder there is no resistance, just a pliant warmth, a beautiful, lingering tenderness.
Mohinder’s hand tightens on Sylar’s.
“What do you say?” asks Sylar.
Mohinder’s eyes close, and his fingers tug, in the fabric of Sylar’s shirt.
“Yes."
Mohinder winces at the tone. He’s going to have to surreptitiously replace the phone as soon as the board supervisor quits ‘just stopping by’ his office. Maybe he can scavenge his old one before they throw it away…
“Mohinder Suresh,” he says, into the receiver.
“Dr. Suresh,” comes the voice from the other end.
Mohinder’s mouth splits into a grimace, automatically. “Madame President,” he says, forcing his face into a smile.
“I’m having a file faxed over to your office,” the President of the Board of Directors snaps into Mohinder’s ear, abrupt and tight-lipped. “You’ll take the patient, and handle the case personally.”
Mohinder’s eyebrows go up. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have a very full caseload at the moment-”
“This is not a request, Dr. Suresh. You’ll handle it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” agrees Mohinder, with a sigh.
- - - -
“He’s a patient, transferring in,” explains the woman, again, her mouth twisting in irritation.
The secretary shrugs, palms outward. “I don’t have any records of it. You’re just going to have to wait while I clear this-”
Mohinder steps in. “So sorry,” he apologizes, “I was delayed. This is him?”
“This is Gabriel Gray,” says the woman. “My name’s Special Agent Audrey Hanson. You’re in charge of his case?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You know about this?” asks the secretary.
“I do indeed.” Mohinder takes a moment to glance over the new patient. He looks dead on his feet - they must have him drugged to the gills. Either that, or there’s been sleep deprivation in the works. With law enforcement, Mohinder can’t really rule either of them out.
“Well.” The secretary uncrosses her arms. “Let’s get the paperwork started.”
“Which way to the padded rooms?” Hanson asks, ironically.
Mohinder shoots her a sardonic look.
- - - -
The door closes, firmly, behind Gabriel Gray, and Mohinder turns to face Special Agent Hanson. “His file was remarkably bereft of actual details,” says Mohinder. “What, exactly, is he charged with?”
Hanson ignores the question. “He’s been dosed with curare.”
“Curare?” Mohinder looks through the window, to Gabriel Gray’s curled form, then back to Hanson. “Are you planning to put him under surgery any time soon?”
“No,” says Hanson. “And neither are you. He stays dosed. At all times.”
“Why?”
“You’re not authorized for that information.”
“I can’t diagnose a patient who’s so drugged he’s barely conscious.”
Hanson shrugs. “I’m sorry, Doctor. It’s not your decision.”
Mohinder crosses his arms. “I’m his psychiatrist. It should be my decision.”
“You asked what he was charged with.” Hanson looks him in the eye. “Gabriel Gray, also known as ‘Sylar’, is a serial killer.”
“Presumably innocent until proven guilty.”
“Oh, he’s guilty,” says Hanson. “It’s just a matter of a trial. He’s killed, Dr. Suresh. Men, women and children. He seems to choose his victims randomly - we don’t understand his methods, we don’t understand his motivations. It’s up to you to find that out. Are you up to it?”
“Of course.”
“Well, good.”
Mohinder has his key halfway turned in the door’s lock before Hanson stops him.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I need to get started sometime,” says Mohinder. “Might as well be now.”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” she protests, as the door swings open.
Mohinder starts to step inside, but Hanson’s hand on his shoulder brings him up short.
“He’s dangerous,” says Hansen.
“I don’t think he’ll hurt me,” says Mohinder. “Will you, Gabriel?”
Gabriel Gray looks up, too quickly, giving Mohinder the visceral impression of a trapped predator. Trapped now, but not forever, and there would be blood when he got free. “My name,” rasps the man in the cell, “is Sylar.”
Mohinder nods. “Sylar it is, then.”
Sylar’s eyes follow Mohinder as he slips past the doorway.
“Dr. Suresh.” Hanson is waiting, just beyond the cell.
“Do you want to kill me, Sylar?” asks Mohinder, moving closer.
Sylar tilts his head, expressionless, calculating. His eyes are bleary, his mind fogged, but he’s still there, he’s still thinking.
Mohinder smiles, more calmly than he feels. His heartbeat races, but he breathes, long and steady. It’s all about establishing the relationship, right now. “I’m not afraid of you,” continues Mohinder. “I just want to talk to you.”
“Really,” murmurs Sylar, then he smirks.
A shiver runs up Mohinder’s spine, but he ignores it. There’s never been a patient in Greenridge Hospital he hasn’t been able to handle.
Never.
- - - -
“So, you took that new patient, huh?” asks Mohinder’s colleague, Eden.
“Yeah,” says Mohinder, flashing her a brief smile.
“I thought you weren’t taking serial killers anymore.”
Mohinder half-laughs. “Deviant psychology used to be an obsession of mine,” he says, “but I’d rather help those who can be cured. Wouldn’t you?”
Eden cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t think Sylar can be cured?”
Mohinder shakes his head. “No. Don’t be ridiculous.”
- - - -
“How’d you sleep?”
No response. Sylar’s eyes roam along the walls. Mohinder is certain, certain that Sylar heard him. This is a game, a waiting game. Sylar wants to see if he’ll speak first. And so, Mohinder waits.
“You don’t care how I slept,” Sylar says, finally.
“I care about everything you do,” says Mohinder. “It’s my job.”
Sylar snorts, in derision, but he huddles into himself. He’s almost afraid; a hint of vulnerability, and Mohinder can’t tell, yet, if it’s real or faked. He settles across from Sylar, cross-legged.
“So, how did you sleep?” Mohinder repeats, with a little more emphasis.
“I didn’t sleep.”
“Why not?”
Sylar glances away. “I can hear them.”
Mohinder leans forward, fractionally. “Hear who?”
“All of them,” and Sylar gestures all around him. “The other people in this place.”
Mohinder looks skeptical. “These rooms are soundproofed.”
Sylar shakes his head. “I can hear them.”
Delusions, then. Could be as severe as schizophrenia, maybe. Mohinder sighs a little, in disappointment, and he makes a note. Maybe the case won’t be as interesting as he-
“Benjamin,” murmurs Sylar.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s what she kept chanting.” Sylar looks back to Mohinder. “All night, a girl in the cells. She kept saying it, over and over again.” His eyes narrow, a little. “She still is.”
- - - -
Mohinder finds the girl, later. Three rooms down, across the hall from Sylar. He presses his ear to the glass, and can just barely hear her - “Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin,” repeated in an endless string of syllables.
Sylar could have heard it when he was escorted in, Mohinder tells himself. It was a gamble. No one has hearing that sharp. It’s inhuman.
- - - -
Mohinder gets a more detailed file, hand-delivered from the FBI the next afternoon. Unfortunately, it opens up more questions than it answers.
He glances over the photographs with the ease of long practice - bodies, all disfigured the same way. The skulls, the brains. Middle-aged man, young man, little girl. No pattern, none at all.
There’s always a pattern. Mohinder just has to find it.
The most interesting part of the file, however, is near the end. Delusions of paranormal powers. Psychosis. Here is the note, the prescription of curare.
Mohinder wonders.
- - - -
“How was your relationship with your mother?”
“I loved my mother.”
“Then why did you kill her?”
Sylar twists around, tensed like a spring curled as tightly as it will go, like a panther angry enough to kill. Mohinder flattens his hand against the wall, ready to run if he has to, but Sylar subsides, his eyes dark. “It was an accident,” he says.
“What happened, then?”
“The scissors were in her sewing basket,” murmurs Sylar. “She always kept them there.”
“The scissors you used to kill her.”
Sylar flinches. “She didn’t understand.”
“Why didn’t she understand?” asks Mohinder, neutral, gauging Sylar’s reaction.
Sylar’s eyes are distant. “She said,” he starts, then he shakes his head. “She didn’t understand.”
“What did she say?” presses Mohinder.
This is it, the first vulnerability that Sylar has shown since he’s been admitted - if Mohinder can only dig a little deeper -
Sylar scoffs, softly. “She said I was special.” He looks up, to Mohinder. “I showed her how special.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“I never hated her, if that’s what you’re asking,” snaps Sylar. “I never hated any of them. My family.” He pauses, as though choosing his words carefully. “They were just…insignificant.”
- - - -
“Are you making any progress, Dr. Suresh?”
Mohinder jumps, knocking his pen off the table. It clatters, turning end over end, before it rests against the wall.
“Agent Hanson,” Mohinder sighs. “I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.” He snags the pen, just barely, sitting back upright to face her.
“We need progress on this patient, Suresh,” says Hanson.
“Well,” says Mohinder, “I suppose it didn’t occur to you that everything he says to me is governed by doctor-patient confidentiality?”
Hanson uncrosses her arms, stepping into the room. “How many serial killers have you treated?”
Mohinder drops the pen.
“Seventeen, isn’t it?” She cocks her head to the side. “And none of them in the past year.”
“That’s true.”
“Why did you stop?”
Mohinder shrugs. “It didn’t hold the same fascination for me that it did before.”
“That’s a lie,” says Hanson.
Mohinder flinches. “You’re in no position to judge-”
“It’s a lie,” Hanson repeats. “I saw your face when you were looking at Sylar.” She takes a step, closer. “Why did you stop treating serial killers?”
Mohinder is silent.
“Is it because they closed active investigation on your father’s case?”
“I think you should go,” says Mohinder. “Now.”
- - - -
“Do you know anything about evolution, Dr. Suresh?”
“I had a background in genetics before I received my MD,” says Mohinder, carefully.
Sylar moves forward, a little, his eyes intent and dark. “There’s something amazing about it, isn’t there? The idea that our species is what it is, in basic makeup, basic structure, because of death? That death has made us who we are?”
Then, Mohinder starts to understand. “So, you killed those people, why? Because they couldn’t stop you?”
“They weren’t worthy,” and Sylar shifts up.
“Sylar,” Mohinder says, “do you believe you have paranormal powers?”
“Believe?” Sylar laughs. “I don’t have to believe.”
- - - -
“You know, it’s fascinating to watch you.”
“Excuse me?” asks Mohinder.
“Trying to figure me out.” The edge of Sylar’s mouth curls. “You need it, don’t you? I can feel it inside you. You’re broken, Mohinder.”
“I’m not the one who’s broken, between the two of us.”
“I could fix you.” Sylar shifts forward. “Who was it, Mohinder?”
Mohinder’s heart rate spikes. “What do you mean?”
“Who in your life was murdered?”
- - - -
“Are you all right, Mohinder?” asks Eden.
“No,” says Mohinder. “I don’t think I am.”
- - - -
“Gabriel Gray.” Mohinder flicks an eyebrow. “Sounds like a superhero’s name.”
Sylar is silent, his eyes closed. Listening.
“Is that what you think you are, Sylar?” asks Mohinder. “Some kind of hero?”
“I’m no hero.” Sylar’s eyes, opened, are bloodshot and focused.
“But you do have superpowers.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“No, I don’t.” Mohinder studies Sylar, for a moment - he doesn’t seem to regard it as a setback, at all. Or even a challenge.
“You will.”
Mohinder moves down, next to Sylar. “Listen, Sylar,” he says, “this isn’t real.”
“If it isn’t real,” rasps Sylar, “why am I on curare?”
Mohinder’s stomach drops.
“And you want to believe,” says Sylar. “I can feel it.” He shifts closer. “Stop the curare, and you’ll know for sure.”
Mohinder shakes his head. “I won’t.”
“You won’t be able to stop yourself.”
Sylar is too close-
“You need to know,” Sylar breathes. “And you will. You’ll believe.”
Sylar touches Mohinder’s hand, a rasp of dry skin, the touch so light Mohinder can barely feel it.
It’s enchanting, though, and Mohinder doesn’t pull away, doesn’t look away, as Sylar’s fingertips trail to his wrist, to veins pulsing just beneath his skin. “Those people were nothing. I had to kill them. It was an evolutionary imperative.”
Mohinder’s breath is coming faster. He should pull away, he knows. “Darwin made you do it?” he asks, his voice too breathy. “That’s a new one.”
“It’s the way of the world.” Sylar leans in towards Mohinder’s ear. “I can show you miracles you’ve never dreamed of.”
Mohinder tugs his hand away, stands, trembling and shaky.
- - - -
He drafts the memo in its entirety, listing possible replacement psychologists, attaching Sylar’s file, carefully writing around his specific reasons for dropping the case. He stares, for a long time, the mouse button hovering over ‘SEND’.
With a shudder, Mohinder closes the window, not bothering to save.
- - - -
Sylar is trembling, this time, unable to hide the weakness of his muscles. His pulse is slow, soft.
Mohinder touches his forehead, gentle, and his mouth twists in worry. “We shouldn’t have you on that drug,” he says. Sylar doesn’t respond, just closes his eyes.
He starts to get up, but Sylar reaches out for Mohinder’s hand. He doesn’t grasp hard enough, and Mohinder’s fingers slip away, Sylar’s arm falling back to the padded floor. “Don’t go,” whispers Sylar. “It’s better when you’re here.”
Mohinder sits, and, on impulse, lifts Sylar up, resting his head in Mohinder’s lap. Sylar sighs, in a kind of relaxation, and Mohinder touches his neck, fingers drifting to the pulse there.
“I suppose you’re convinced you’re in love with me now,” says Mohinder, his voice surprisingly steady.
“This isn’t love,” rasps Sylar, “and you know it.”
“What is it, then?”
“Love means that we’re different,” Sylar says. “It means that we’re separate souls, and we’re not, are we? We’re just one. And you burn for me. I can feel it.”
“You’re wrong,” Mohinder says. “And psychologists are forbidden from relationships with their patients.”
“I’m not wrong,” whispers Sylar, covering Mohinder’s hand with his own. “You’re broken, you need me.”
“You’re broken, too.”
“Then fix me.” Sylar looks up, to Mohinder. “Promise me you’ll fix me.”
“I will,” says Mohinder, then, “I promise.”
They don’t speak, after that.
- - - -
That night, Mohinder replaces the curare with saline solution. His hands shake, and his palms sweat, and his sleep that night is torn; too bloody and too vivid.
- - - -
Sylar’s eyes are bright when Mohinder seals the door behind him; he moves faster than Mohinder expects, presses him to the wall, firm, unyielding.
“You did it,” Sylar whispers, “I know you did.”
Mohinder puts a hand flat on Sylar’s chest. “Let me go.”
“Can you imagine how it feels…” Sylar’s voice trails off, and he licks just under Mohinder’s jaw, bites. “I want to fuck you,” Sylar tells him, his breath heavy. “I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”
“Sylar,” snaps Mohinder, but it’s like resisting an avalanche. Before he knows it his pants are at his thighs, his hands flat on the floor, Sylar’s form above him - and there are hands, stroking up his sides, touching him, and legs kicking his own apart, and a pressure, an insane pressure, holding him to the ground.
Mohinder sags against it, unresisting - he doesn’t want to resist - and Sylar strokes him, every touch a drawing an ache behind it, an itch building inside Mohinder’s body.
“Yes,” gasps Sylar - Mohinder feels the press of hard flesh against his, and yields to it, whimpering, the warmth of Sylar’s body pressing against his back, hard teeth worrying the skin of his neck.
Sylar’s fingers tighten on his hips, and he pushes, brutally, seating deep inside Mohinder’s body. Mohinder bites back a cry, tightening, and Sylar kisses the back of his shoulder, soothingly. “Sssh,” he murmurs, “we’re together, we’re joined now.”
It’s the hopeless eroticism of it that brings Mohinder down, that opens him to Sylar’s invasion, thrusts too rough and too perfect. He succumbs, with a sob, the sensations wracking his body too intense to categorize or control.
And, in time, Sylar’s palm clasps over his mouth, catching Mohinder’s shriek as it tears from his throat.
Sylar pulls away, pulls out, and leaves Mohinder on the ground.
“You’ve been useful,” says Sylar, thoughtfully. “Just as useful as your father.”
Mohinder can’t breathe, can’t think. “What…?” he starts, but Sylar’s hand covers his mouth, again.
“Sssh,” says Sylar, and Mohinder blacks out.
- - - -
“Dr. Suresh!”
Mohinder turns, his head throbbing, the padding tacky under his palm. He blinks.
“Dr. Suresh, are you all right?”
Mohinder notes that his clothes are on, that he’s in Sylar’s cell, that Sylar -
“Where is he?” Mohinder sits up, and the world pitches, spins around him, his vision graying for a second. “What happened to Sylar?”
Eden is in the doorway. “We don’t know,” she says. “He’s escaped.”
- - - -
“Did he kill my father?”
Audrey Hanson pauses, in the doorway of Mohinder’s office.
“Is that why you brought him to me?” Mohinder tightens his jaw.
Audrey flattens her mouth into a line. “He may have,” she says. “He was participating in genetic research of your father’s.”
Mohinder sinks into a chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We thought he would open up to you,” she says. “Trust you. We were wrong.”
Mohinder closes his eyes.
- - - -
“You sure you don’t need someone to stay with?” asks Eden. “He might come after you, you know.”
“No,” says Mohinder. “I’ll be fine.”
“Well, remember,” says Eden, “I’m right next door.”
- - - -
Mohinder waits, alone, for Sylar to appear. Somehow, he knows - he knows - that he won’t pass the whole night alone. The chai, in a cup on the table, fades from steaming hot to lukewarm, and Mohinder’s eyes grow dry and exhausted, but still he waits.
Sylar appears at nearly three in the morning, moving up through the darkness without a noise, until the circle of the lamp’s light falls on him.
“You killed my father,” says Mohinder. “You used me to get free.”
“We all use each other,” returns Sylar. “I never lied to you.”
“You said you needed me.”
Sylar moves to Mohinder’s chair, kneeling, his hand on Mohinder’s thigh. “I do,” he says. “You’re perfect, you’re beautiful. No one can feel this way alone.”
“Don’t touch me,” says Mohinder, flinching to his feet.
“You think you can fix me, Mohinder?” asks Sylar. He stands, equal to Mohinder, eye-to-eye. “Come with me.”
“Get out of my apartment.”
“You can’t turn me away,” scoffs Sylar. “You think you can stop me from killing? Or maybe you want to see, is that it? You think you can understand me, that way?”
“You’re disgusting,” snaps Mohinder.
“Then fix me.”
Mohinder turns away.
Sylar moves up beside him, in front of him, into Mohinder’s personal space. “The world will tremble at my touch,” Sylar breathes, “and you could be by my side. I can give you a life you can’t dream of. Is that what you want?”
“No,” whispers Mohinder, but when Sylar’s hand touches his, they clasp together. They fit.
“We are the same,” says Sylar, softly, and when he kisses Mohinder there is no resistance, just a pliant warmth, a beautiful, lingering tenderness.
Mohinder’s hand tightens on Sylar’s.
“What do you say?” asks Sylar.
Mohinder’s eyes close, and his fingers tug, in the fabric of Sylar’s shirt.
“Yes."