The Last Two Men [10/11] - Heroes - Mohinder/Sylar
Title: The Last Two Men [10/11]
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 2831
Rating: R
Warnings: end-of-the-world, character deaths, zombie-vampires.
A/N: Inspired by 'I Am Legend'. Thank you to Babylon_pride for helping me to whip this into something readable!
Previous parts: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five :: Six :: Seven :: Eight :: Nine
Summary: On the 13th of November 2010, the dead began to remain undead. Two years later, the last men on Earth struggle to survive.
16th January 2011
The dark streets are a place he hasn't walked in years: he knows better than that. He knows better than to be out here at night. He knows better than to put himself at risk -
Yet here he is. The moon shines down upon him and bathes his movements in a silver glow. Each footstep is slow and measured. Mohinder swallows, gaze searching the shadows for his prey. He can only hope that they've got this right: he can only pray that he isn't endangering his life for nothing.
The seemingly abandoned building looms in front of him, like a haunted house at a fairground. He breathes stale air into tired lungs. Sylar had better be right about this, he thinks. If he isn't...
Well, if he isn't then Mohinder isn't going to be around to curse him and seek revenge.
A shiver that isn't caused solely by the night's chilled air runs over his skin. He huddles inside his jacket, feeling small and unimportant, as he takes a step towards the building's yawning entrance. The door has been smashed from its hinges and left in a dejected heap on the ground outside, battered and smashed to shards of wood and sawdust. Whatever did that, its strength was in no way human.
Mohinder swallows and takes another step forward, feeling the way that his pulse pounds and echoes. He clears his throat: the sound is like a needle dropping in a silent room.
"Maya?" he calls, voice like glass.
Small. So small.
"Maya, can you hear me?"
He needs to be louder than this - or maybe not, their senses seem to be heightened... - but he can't gain the courage. He's not a brave man; a foolish one, yes, but not a brave one, never a brave one. He was never like Peter, he was never like Nathan. He was never a hero with the powers to face down any number of foes.
"Maya," he calls again, taking another hesitant step towards the darkened home. Maybe they're wrong: he hopes, now, that they are. "Maya, are you in there?"
And he hears it.
A crash.
The sound is quiet, muffled by strong walls and sturdy bricks, but it's there. Banging and crashing. Furniture being thrown against walls. A temper tantrum fuelled by an unnatural strength. Mohinder's heart is beating so fast that it feels like it's buzzing.
He takes another step.
Another.
Another.
"Maya."
He shouts it this time, all his limited strength pushed into that one word, her name.
"Maya!"
It stops.
The banging. The crashing. Stops dead and lets silence take over.
Oh god.
"Maya." His voice doesn't tremble now, though it should. He's scared enough for it to shake and tremor and break. "Maya, please. It's Mohinder. You remember me, don't you?"
Does she? Does she remember anything now? Do any reminders of her old life - of who she once was and who she could still be - remain in that dark mind, those black eyes? There's surely no way of knowing until he gets her somewhere that he can run tests - and he can only hope that he finds some shred of humanity left within her. He can only pray that this isn't a lost cause.
"Maya, are you there?"
The house remains silent. The whole street does. No sound. No movement. Nothing. The world is dead and Mohinder stands in its streets, waiting for a flicker of life, waiting for the world to draw breath and open its eyes again.
He hears a sound, suddenly. Barely anything at all. Barely a footstep. It's nothing at all but it's enough to make his back go as straight as if a metal rod is stuck there. His hand is trembling but he doesn't acknowledge that fear. He swallows around the dry knot in his throat.
Another sound, another footstep, echoes from inside the house - and he sees her, then. She's still surrounded by shadows, drawn into the darkness, but the moonlight is enough to illuminate her and let Mohinder know that she's there. She still looks so human, so alive - but her chest doesn't rise and fall and no air stirs on her lips. Her black hair hangs, dark and dank and unwashed. Blood and dirt stain her skin.
"Maya..." Mohinder breathes. He's lost his volume, lost his courage, and he's beginning to think that he's lost his sense.
He can't make himself move, frozen on the spot by the very sight of her. A primal fear shoots through him, a long lost acknowledgement that he is the prey, not the predator.
She steps out of the house, onto the sidewalk, and stares at him with eyes like coal mines. Her head tilts to the side with inhuman curiosity. Looking at her now, Mohinder can still remember how her face would light up when she smiled and how tightly she'd always held onto her hope, her optimism. That's something he needs now. That's something he'll need to cling onto if he wants to survive.
He moves backward - one step, just one step, one shuffling movement - and her mouth curls in a warning snarl that makes him want to vomit. A growl. It's a warning for him to stop moving; but he knows that he has to, he knows the plan, but he's beginning to wonder if he's brave enough to carry it out.
Another few stumbling footsteps answer that for him.
Instinct fuels him on as he turns, running and hearing her answering footsteps lightning-fast behind him. She has no fear to slow her down; he longs for the lumbering walk that restrained them in the movies. Instead the creatures are as fast as any human, faster perhaps; their illness doesn't appear to weigh them down like he wishes it would.
Like a flash he turns the corner of the street, limbs moving in an ungainly fashion, arms flailing. His balance falters, wavers, but he manages to keep upright, skidding sideways in his haste. The street looks longer than an Olympic race track: he can't believe that this felt like a good distance in the daylight.
Fragments of stones and pebbles fly through the air as he disrupts them with his feet, soaring along the street faster than he's ever ran before, than he's certain that anyone has ran before, around another corner and then -
Yes, there it is. Isaac's apartment. His laboratory. Their cage.
He's there. He's made it. Just a little further now. Just a little...
He can hardly breathe, barely remembers the taste of air as he takes a sharp turn and folds inside the building, ducking through the already open door. The sudden change in direction startles Maya - not by much, but she continues onwards for a step or two before his absence catches up with her - and he's given an extra second or two to make it down the short set of steps into the building, down to the main area of the lab.
It's dark inside, lit only by the moonlight that sneaks through the half-closed blinds, but he knows his way around this place perfectly by now, the knowledge learnt through long-ago nights spent working late as he hunted for the formula that put them all into this mess. Clumsily he moves through the room - a chair goes flying, catching his legs and nearly bringing him with it. His feet slam hard on the ground, waver, and he reaches out for the counter-top to keep himself upright.
He looks to the doorway and finds her silhouette standing there, waiting patiently. The moon shines upon her back and leaves her lit with a supernatural glow: a dark shadow roams where her face should be. Mohinder thanks a god he no longer believes in for being spared the sight of her pitch-black eyes and the mindless hunger that he knows he would find on her face.
His hand scrambles along the wood work of the counter as he moves away, fingers brushing against piles of papers and his microscope. She growls again: there's nowhere left to run now. There's nothing left for him to do.
Hold your ground, he tells himself, as he struggles not to panic more.
Breathes in. Breathes out.
Maya steps into the building, her head turning and tilting as she takes in her surroundings: if she recognises this place, she says nothing to acknowledge it. She makes no sound at all as she steps over the railing, balancing on the metal bars as elegantly as a tightrope walker before dropping down onto the ground on the other side. No need for stairs here; it makes Mohinder wince just to see it, just to imagine the jolting force on her bones.
She stops, hair draped lifelessly over her shoulders, and she-
Sniffs. One long, large inhale through her nose then through her mouth. Mohinder doesn't dare to breathe as she does it, as he hears that deep sound. That can't be...
She snarls again, lips curling, a sound that promises gruesome death and endless pain. Mohinder's hand tightens on the counter until his nails scrape against the wood and he can't hold this position any more: he can't restrain his panic for another second.
"Sylar, now!" he yells, ducking down onto his knees and using the counter as a shield.
He can't see a thing, crouched like this; he can only hear it. The crashes, the snarls, the grunts. The music of violence.
It's over in only a few seconds. It feels as if it should go on for longer than that: it can't be that easy, so simple, but the door slams with a sound that echoes throughout Mohinder's skull. Inside the converted bathroom, he can hear Maya thrashing and throwing herself against the sturdy door.
Mohinder crawls forward on his hands and knees until he reaches the edge of the counter and is able to peer around it. Sylar stands in the centre of the room, his feet planted on the painting on the floor. His hands are open and he glares at the closed door - his eyes contain just as much danger and violence as Maya's ever did. It's hard not to shiver; it's harder still not to run.
"You took your time," Mohinder grouches as he gets to his feet, brushing the dust and dirt from the knees of his trousers to little avail. Small patches still remain there.
Sylar glances towards him and relaxes, inch by inch, until his stance doesn't scream of the destruction that Mohinder knows him to be capable of. He rolls his eyes. "You're welcome, doctor," he says sarcastically. "We caught her, didn't we?"
"That we did," Mohinder agrees in a quiet murmur as he looks over his shoulder to the door. The slamming against it continues ceaselessly, but she won't manage to break free. While a great deal of his life remains cast in uncertainty, he can at least place his faith in that: they built that prison well, they built it strong. There's no way that Maya will find her way free. "Now I just need to work out what to do with her."
"That's your job, Mohinder. Not mine."
Mohinder nods thoughtfully, knowing that that's true. He's the scientist here. He's the one that has to bear this responsibility.
He takes a deep breath and smiles in satisfaction: it looks like it's time to get to work.
*
15th June 2011
He winces as he closes the front door behind himself, turning to lock it properly and put up each and every level of protection that they have. Bolts and locks and barriers - all of which could no doubt be overcome if the creatures wanted in here, if the creatures knew that warm and living bodies lay in here. Fresh food.
Outside, the sun is beginning to dip steadily. The sky had turned to a warm shade of orange by the time he got inside: he hadn't been able to help it. Every day he feels that he's right on the brink of a breakthrough. One day, he knows... One day he'll get there. One day that spark of knowledge will ignite within him and he'll do it - he'll save them. Put it right.
That day, however, is not today. When it had got too late he'd had to tuck away his papers and switch off his microscope and say good night to Maya were she hid, dormant, in the prison that they'd created for her together.
Even giving himself this amount of time to walk back to the ramshackle home that he had Sylar had constructed had left him cutting it fine. Sunset is too close. There is no doubt that-
"It's late," Sylar says, appearing in the doorway like a sinister spirit.
Mohinder's jaw clenches: he fights the instinct to shout at him, to yell at him to back off, to demand to know why they're carrying on with this pretence. How long can they live like this? How long will fate lock them together? It's cruel. So cruel.
"The sun hasn't set yet," Mohinder argues. "I know what I'm doing."
Sylar snorts in response, a dry and disbelieving sound that Mohinder wishes he could wash away: punch that damn smirk and gain some sense of morality again. Look at what this world has reduced him to: living with a killer, depending on a monster...
It weighs down on him at every opportunity, threatening to drag him down at any second.
"You should be more careful," Sylar says - pushing, always pushing. He can never just let something be. "They know she's there."
It's Mohinder's turn to smile derisively now, to roll his eyes. "Don't start on that again, Sylar. It's ridiculous."
"They know, Mohinder," he insists.
But they can't. There's no way, no way at all.
"She's locked away safely," Mohinder repeats wearily. They've had this argument too many times for it to anger him any more. "They can't 'know'."
"She's their mother," Sylar responds; his tone is almost petulant like a pouting child's. Mohinder wants to smirk; 'Mommy issues'. He's hardly surprised. If anything, it makes all of this make even more sense. It makes Sylar make more sense, and that is hardly an easy thing to accomplish. Mohinder feels like he could laugh - and it shows on his face, forcing Sylar to bristle in response. "Trust me. They know."
"'Trust you'," Mohinder repeats. The cynical smirk on his face never fades even as he wanders further into the house without saying anything further on the subject: what is there left to say? They've covered all of this ground a thousand times before. "Have you locked up?"
"Yeah, we're ready for the night," Sylar confirms. He stands at the foot of the stairs. "I think I'll sleep in your room tonight."
It's Mohinder's turn to bristle now, tension forming instantly as he looks at Sylar, assessing him: trying to gauge if he's being serious with that statement. No tell-tale smirk appears on the killer's face. "Please," he says, "You are joking, aren't you?"
"They're getting closer." Sylar looks to the locked and boarded door. "It might be coincidence - I don't know. Either way, we should stick closer together until they move on."
"What do you-" Mohinder bites his tongue before any further words can splutter forth from him. No point. Sylar's advanced hearing allows him to keep track of the creatures' movements, allows him to tell when they're nearby. It's a godsend, but Mohinder's thoughts shudder to Dale every time he's thankful for it. His arms cross over his chest angrily. "You're sleeping on the floor," he states.
Sylar doesn't bother to roll his eyes or sigh. He just nods, accepting something that Mohinder would have expected him to fight against: if he's honest, he'd be surprised if he isn't the one on the cold, hard floor tonight instead of Sylar. "You should get something to eat," Sylar says, taking one step up the stairs. "I'm going to get some rest."
He looks exhausted, his face a study of pale skin and dark lines. Mohinder isn't sure why; he spends so much time holed up in his laboratory these days that Sylar never gathers much attention from him any more.
"Check the window before you go to sleep," Mohinder advises as he remembers, causing Sylar to pause in his ascent. "Sometimes the bolt sticks."
Sylar nods but doesn't say anything; he continues upwards and Mohinder winds his way to their well-stocked kitchen, wondering what tin he'll decide to feed himself from tonight. All the options seem equally dreary, but he knows that he has to do it - he has to force himself to keep on going, to keep on living, because there is no alternative. He's the one that needs to get the world out of this mess: death is not an option.
*
Part Eleven
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 2831
Rating: R
Warnings: end-of-the-world, character deaths, zombie-vampires.
A/N: Inspired by 'I Am Legend'. Thank you to Babylon_pride for helping me to whip this into something readable!
Previous parts: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five :: Six :: Seven :: Eight :: Nine
Summary: On the 13th of November 2010, the dead began to remain undead. Two years later, the last men on Earth struggle to survive.
16th January 2011
The dark streets are a place he hasn't walked in years: he knows better than that. He knows better than to be out here at night. He knows better than to put himself at risk -
Yet here he is. The moon shines down upon him and bathes his movements in a silver glow. Each footstep is slow and measured. Mohinder swallows, gaze searching the shadows for his prey. He can only hope that they've got this right: he can only pray that he isn't endangering his life for nothing.
The seemingly abandoned building looms in front of him, like a haunted house at a fairground. He breathes stale air into tired lungs. Sylar had better be right about this, he thinks. If he isn't...
Well, if he isn't then Mohinder isn't going to be around to curse him and seek revenge.
A shiver that isn't caused solely by the night's chilled air runs over his skin. He huddles inside his jacket, feeling small and unimportant, as he takes a step towards the building's yawning entrance. The door has been smashed from its hinges and left in a dejected heap on the ground outside, battered and smashed to shards of wood and sawdust. Whatever did that, its strength was in no way human.
Mohinder swallows and takes another step forward, feeling the way that his pulse pounds and echoes. He clears his throat: the sound is like a needle dropping in a silent room.
"Maya?" he calls, voice like glass.
Small. So small.
"Maya, can you hear me?"
He needs to be louder than this - or maybe not, their senses seem to be heightened... - but he can't gain the courage. He's not a brave man; a foolish one, yes, but not a brave one, never a brave one. He was never like Peter, he was never like Nathan. He was never a hero with the powers to face down any number of foes.
"Maya," he calls again, taking another hesitant step towards the darkened home. Maybe they're wrong: he hopes, now, that they are. "Maya, are you in there?"
And he hears it.
A crash.
The sound is quiet, muffled by strong walls and sturdy bricks, but it's there. Banging and crashing. Furniture being thrown against walls. A temper tantrum fuelled by an unnatural strength. Mohinder's heart is beating so fast that it feels like it's buzzing.
He takes another step.
Another.
Another.
"Maya."
He shouts it this time, all his limited strength pushed into that one word, her name.
"Maya!"
It stops.
The banging. The crashing. Stops dead and lets silence take over.
Oh god.
"Maya." His voice doesn't tremble now, though it should. He's scared enough for it to shake and tremor and break. "Maya, please. It's Mohinder. You remember me, don't you?"
Does she? Does she remember anything now? Do any reminders of her old life - of who she once was and who she could still be - remain in that dark mind, those black eyes? There's surely no way of knowing until he gets her somewhere that he can run tests - and he can only hope that he finds some shred of humanity left within her. He can only pray that this isn't a lost cause.
"Maya, are you there?"
The house remains silent. The whole street does. No sound. No movement. Nothing. The world is dead and Mohinder stands in its streets, waiting for a flicker of life, waiting for the world to draw breath and open its eyes again.
He hears a sound, suddenly. Barely anything at all. Barely a footstep. It's nothing at all but it's enough to make his back go as straight as if a metal rod is stuck there. His hand is trembling but he doesn't acknowledge that fear. He swallows around the dry knot in his throat.
Another sound, another footstep, echoes from inside the house - and he sees her, then. She's still surrounded by shadows, drawn into the darkness, but the moonlight is enough to illuminate her and let Mohinder know that she's there. She still looks so human, so alive - but her chest doesn't rise and fall and no air stirs on her lips. Her black hair hangs, dark and dank and unwashed. Blood and dirt stain her skin.
"Maya..." Mohinder breathes. He's lost his volume, lost his courage, and he's beginning to think that he's lost his sense.
He can't make himself move, frozen on the spot by the very sight of her. A primal fear shoots through him, a long lost acknowledgement that he is the prey, not the predator.
She steps out of the house, onto the sidewalk, and stares at him with eyes like coal mines. Her head tilts to the side with inhuman curiosity. Looking at her now, Mohinder can still remember how her face would light up when she smiled and how tightly she'd always held onto her hope, her optimism. That's something he needs now. That's something he'll need to cling onto if he wants to survive.
He moves backward - one step, just one step, one shuffling movement - and her mouth curls in a warning snarl that makes him want to vomit. A growl. It's a warning for him to stop moving; but he knows that he has to, he knows the plan, but he's beginning to wonder if he's brave enough to carry it out.
Another few stumbling footsteps answer that for him.
Instinct fuels him on as he turns, running and hearing her answering footsteps lightning-fast behind him. She has no fear to slow her down; he longs for the lumbering walk that restrained them in the movies. Instead the creatures are as fast as any human, faster perhaps; their illness doesn't appear to weigh them down like he wishes it would.
Like a flash he turns the corner of the street, limbs moving in an ungainly fashion, arms flailing. His balance falters, wavers, but he manages to keep upright, skidding sideways in his haste. The street looks longer than an Olympic race track: he can't believe that this felt like a good distance in the daylight.
Fragments of stones and pebbles fly through the air as he disrupts them with his feet, soaring along the street faster than he's ever ran before, than he's certain that anyone has ran before, around another corner and then -
Yes, there it is. Isaac's apartment. His laboratory. Their cage.
He's there. He's made it. Just a little further now. Just a little...
He can hardly breathe, barely remembers the taste of air as he takes a sharp turn and folds inside the building, ducking through the already open door. The sudden change in direction startles Maya - not by much, but she continues onwards for a step or two before his absence catches up with her - and he's given an extra second or two to make it down the short set of steps into the building, down to the main area of the lab.
It's dark inside, lit only by the moonlight that sneaks through the half-closed blinds, but he knows his way around this place perfectly by now, the knowledge learnt through long-ago nights spent working late as he hunted for the formula that put them all into this mess. Clumsily he moves through the room - a chair goes flying, catching his legs and nearly bringing him with it. His feet slam hard on the ground, waver, and he reaches out for the counter-top to keep himself upright.
He looks to the doorway and finds her silhouette standing there, waiting patiently. The moon shines upon her back and leaves her lit with a supernatural glow: a dark shadow roams where her face should be. Mohinder thanks a god he no longer believes in for being spared the sight of her pitch-black eyes and the mindless hunger that he knows he would find on her face.
His hand scrambles along the wood work of the counter as he moves away, fingers brushing against piles of papers and his microscope. She growls again: there's nowhere left to run now. There's nothing left for him to do.
Hold your ground, he tells himself, as he struggles not to panic more.
Breathes in. Breathes out.
Maya steps into the building, her head turning and tilting as she takes in her surroundings: if she recognises this place, she says nothing to acknowledge it. She makes no sound at all as she steps over the railing, balancing on the metal bars as elegantly as a tightrope walker before dropping down onto the ground on the other side. No need for stairs here; it makes Mohinder wince just to see it, just to imagine the jolting force on her bones.
She stops, hair draped lifelessly over her shoulders, and she-
Sniffs. One long, large inhale through her nose then through her mouth. Mohinder doesn't dare to breathe as she does it, as he hears that deep sound. That can't be...
She snarls again, lips curling, a sound that promises gruesome death and endless pain. Mohinder's hand tightens on the counter until his nails scrape against the wood and he can't hold this position any more: he can't restrain his panic for another second.
"Sylar, now!" he yells, ducking down onto his knees and using the counter as a shield.
He can't see a thing, crouched like this; he can only hear it. The crashes, the snarls, the grunts. The music of violence.
It's over in only a few seconds. It feels as if it should go on for longer than that: it can't be that easy, so simple, but the door slams with a sound that echoes throughout Mohinder's skull. Inside the converted bathroom, he can hear Maya thrashing and throwing herself against the sturdy door.
Mohinder crawls forward on his hands and knees until he reaches the edge of the counter and is able to peer around it. Sylar stands in the centre of the room, his feet planted on the painting on the floor. His hands are open and he glares at the closed door - his eyes contain just as much danger and violence as Maya's ever did. It's hard not to shiver; it's harder still not to run.
"You took your time," Mohinder grouches as he gets to his feet, brushing the dust and dirt from the knees of his trousers to little avail. Small patches still remain there.
Sylar glances towards him and relaxes, inch by inch, until his stance doesn't scream of the destruction that Mohinder knows him to be capable of. He rolls his eyes. "You're welcome, doctor," he says sarcastically. "We caught her, didn't we?"
"That we did," Mohinder agrees in a quiet murmur as he looks over his shoulder to the door. The slamming against it continues ceaselessly, but she won't manage to break free. While a great deal of his life remains cast in uncertainty, he can at least place his faith in that: they built that prison well, they built it strong. There's no way that Maya will find her way free. "Now I just need to work out what to do with her."
"That's your job, Mohinder. Not mine."
Mohinder nods thoughtfully, knowing that that's true. He's the scientist here. He's the one that has to bear this responsibility.
He takes a deep breath and smiles in satisfaction: it looks like it's time to get to work.
*
15th June 2011
He winces as he closes the front door behind himself, turning to lock it properly and put up each and every level of protection that they have. Bolts and locks and barriers - all of which could no doubt be overcome if the creatures wanted in here, if the creatures knew that warm and living bodies lay in here. Fresh food.
Outside, the sun is beginning to dip steadily. The sky had turned to a warm shade of orange by the time he got inside: he hadn't been able to help it. Every day he feels that he's right on the brink of a breakthrough. One day, he knows... One day he'll get there. One day that spark of knowledge will ignite within him and he'll do it - he'll save them. Put it right.
That day, however, is not today. When it had got too late he'd had to tuck away his papers and switch off his microscope and say good night to Maya were she hid, dormant, in the prison that they'd created for her together.
Even giving himself this amount of time to walk back to the ramshackle home that he had Sylar had constructed had left him cutting it fine. Sunset is too close. There is no doubt that-
"It's late," Sylar says, appearing in the doorway like a sinister spirit.
Mohinder's jaw clenches: he fights the instinct to shout at him, to yell at him to back off, to demand to know why they're carrying on with this pretence. How long can they live like this? How long will fate lock them together? It's cruel. So cruel.
"The sun hasn't set yet," Mohinder argues. "I know what I'm doing."
Sylar snorts in response, a dry and disbelieving sound that Mohinder wishes he could wash away: punch that damn smirk and gain some sense of morality again. Look at what this world has reduced him to: living with a killer, depending on a monster...
It weighs down on him at every opportunity, threatening to drag him down at any second.
"You should be more careful," Sylar says - pushing, always pushing. He can never just let something be. "They know she's there."
It's Mohinder's turn to smile derisively now, to roll his eyes. "Don't start on that again, Sylar. It's ridiculous."
"They know, Mohinder," he insists.
But they can't. There's no way, no way at all.
"She's locked away safely," Mohinder repeats wearily. They've had this argument too many times for it to anger him any more. "They can't 'know'."
"She's their mother," Sylar responds; his tone is almost petulant like a pouting child's. Mohinder wants to smirk; 'Mommy issues'. He's hardly surprised. If anything, it makes all of this make even more sense. It makes Sylar make more sense, and that is hardly an easy thing to accomplish. Mohinder feels like he could laugh - and it shows on his face, forcing Sylar to bristle in response. "Trust me. They know."
"'Trust you'," Mohinder repeats. The cynical smirk on his face never fades even as he wanders further into the house without saying anything further on the subject: what is there left to say? They've covered all of this ground a thousand times before. "Have you locked up?"
"Yeah, we're ready for the night," Sylar confirms. He stands at the foot of the stairs. "I think I'll sleep in your room tonight."
It's Mohinder's turn to bristle now, tension forming instantly as he looks at Sylar, assessing him: trying to gauge if he's being serious with that statement. No tell-tale smirk appears on the killer's face. "Please," he says, "You are joking, aren't you?"
"They're getting closer." Sylar looks to the locked and boarded door. "It might be coincidence - I don't know. Either way, we should stick closer together until they move on."
"What do you-" Mohinder bites his tongue before any further words can splutter forth from him. No point. Sylar's advanced hearing allows him to keep track of the creatures' movements, allows him to tell when they're nearby. It's a godsend, but Mohinder's thoughts shudder to Dale every time he's thankful for it. His arms cross over his chest angrily. "You're sleeping on the floor," he states.
Sylar doesn't bother to roll his eyes or sigh. He just nods, accepting something that Mohinder would have expected him to fight against: if he's honest, he'd be surprised if he isn't the one on the cold, hard floor tonight instead of Sylar. "You should get something to eat," Sylar says, taking one step up the stairs. "I'm going to get some rest."
He looks exhausted, his face a study of pale skin and dark lines. Mohinder isn't sure why; he spends so much time holed up in his laboratory these days that Sylar never gathers much attention from him any more.
"Check the window before you go to sleep," Mohinder advises as he remembers, causing Sylar to pause in his ascent. "Sometimes the bolt sticks."
Sylar nods but doesn't say anything; he continues upwards and Mohinder winds his way to their well-stocked kitchen, wondering what tin he'll decide to feed himself from tonight. All the options seem equally dreary, but he knows that he has to do it - he has to force himself to keep on going, to keep on living, because there is no alternative. He's the one that needs to get the world out of this mess: death is not an option.
*
Part Eleven