fic: heroes, mohinder/sylar, r-ish.
Yeah, I ficced them. Yeah, it's all kinds of disturbing. It'll probably be jossed as soon as 1x19 airs so I have to rush posting it. Edit: Except I'm a RETARD for not knowing the next episode wouldn't air until April 23rd. *headdesk x 1,000*
brainmates
fandom: heroes
pairing: mohinder/sylar
rating: pg-13/r
warnings: torture, mindfuck, all that good stuff.
word count: 2,482
spoilers: 1x18, 'Parasite'
disclaimer: Tim Kring and such brilliant people own.
notes: Obviously it's not a happy, fun story but a grim, dark, strange one. It's no excuse that it's my first time ficcing both but if you do find them incredibly out-of-character, tell me why. More notes at the bottom of the fic.
Mohinder's only going to be pissing blood for a couple of weeks, the doctors say, but some of the scars might be permanent. The mental ones, he adds to himself - imagines himself sitting on the sofa of a psychiatrist for ten years, talking about his father, talking about Sylar, talking about revenge and anger and hatred. Talking about how everything blurred when he was in control, talking about how he shook with fear when he wasn't.
He has trouble lifting his left arm, a sharp pain somewhere on his shoulder, and they give him strong painkillers for it. He's okay with that, as he doesn't mind feeling a bit fuzzy in the head after all that has happened. There's no need for him to focus on things now. He wants to zone out and save the thinking for a shrink's sofa.
If only it were that easy. The only comfort now aren't the painkillers, but the pain itself, interrupting his thinking whenever he starts a thought. Everything is a sentence without a full stop, left unfinished. He likes it like that, though sometimes when there is no pain, he can only think of things he will tell that shrink some day.
“He made the pain feel like I deserved it.”
It's a start, he supposes.
*
Zane was an opportunity of partnership. Mohinder rarely enjoyed working alone. Such a simple, fatal logic there. Zane was always almost too eager, too willing, too - but Mohinder placed it all aside for as Zane had his flaws, so did he himself.
They stopped over for coffee and talked about genetics, Zane full of enthusiasm. When they got back in the car, he melted a spoon he'd stolen from the diner onto the dashboard of the car. Just for the fun of it, it seemed. Mohinder just stared at the melted metal, and then Zane.
“You don't need to impress me,” he said and Zane shook his head, the most innocent look on his face.
“It's not that Dr Suresh, I wouldn't, I mean, I know you already find my abilities impressive.” (His tone here had suggestion, Mohinder remembers, but he chose to ignore it then.) Zane looked at his own hands, an odd glint of fascination in his eyes. “But I just like to test them. Make sure they exist.”
“They won't just go away, you know,” Mohinder said, starting the car, then mused aloud. “What would you do if they did?”
“I'd find new ones,” Zane replied. His tone was the same as always, and then he laughed.
Mohinder chuckled as well but couldn't drown out the thought that occurred to him then. Sylar.
Sylar Sylar Sylar.
*
Zane looked at him a lot whenever he thought Mohinder didn't notice. The look lingered and felt dirty - nearly constant on his back, his neck, his skin. He couldn't react to it or escape it, so he dealt and wondered about the way it made his blood rush. The tingle, like something creeping under his skin.
He thought it with ration and consideration, as always. He hadn't really been intimate with anybody for a devastatingly long time. Rushing to save lives of others rarely left one any time to think of or with their loins. There had been Eden - no, Sarah, Sarah Ellis - of course, her scent probably still remaining in his sheets. It was a whole other story, a story of lies and betrayal, but he could never remember just that, not without also remembering her smiles and touches and sounds.
Zane touched him, too, the accidental bumps and the brotherly gestures. There was no romanticizing the attraction and Mohinder knew that were anything to happen, it would be casual and peculiar and unforgettable - but probably not in the word's most positive meaning. He didn't think anything would, however, as he would never admit to the attraction or acknowledge it.
Zane was company, Zane was help. When it came to the big picture, this was all Mohinder needed. It didn't matter that his desire had grown as time passed, that tingle increasing, unfamiliar and unwelcome like a newborn parasite. Under his skin. (If only things were that simple.)
*
In retrospect Mohinder thinks, maybe it was the plural that gave him away to begin with. There was usually talk of Zane's one ability, but every now and then he'd let the plural slip past his lips.
His abilities, his talents, his skills.
Mohinder was going to ask him, once, just casually mention it, “You do know you only have one ability, right?”, but then he decided not to.
Maybe it was the plural, or maybe it wasn't. Maybe he ought to stop staying awake at night, thinking about plurals coming out of Sylar's mouth. But exactly when he thinks of that, he can no longer think about anything else.
Sylar Sylar Sylar.
*
He doesn't sleep at all that night but calls a therapist the next day to schedule an appointment. He picks up the phone with his right hand, which isn't exactly smart as the pain pierces through what feels like his entire body. He blames the painkillers for messing up his rationale. The irony in that would make him laugh, if he was in the mood. He hasn't laughed in a while. Hasn't done a lot of things in a while.
*
If Zane was a partnership, Sylar was a power game. One that Mohinder enjoyed, much to his own disgust. The manipulation, the high of control, the revenge - simple, horrible pain he caused somebody. Sylar's screams of agony, the writhing of his body against restraints like a snake you step on. Make it suffer just so you know it's still under your boot, and it's not going to get away.
His mouth spoke the word “parasite” and meant it. Sylar was a human being just like everybody, a bunch of gene date in form of a living organism, influenced by its surroundings but in Mohinder's eyes he was worthless just then. The eyes that stared back at him never looked guilty or regretful - human, he wants to say - but the insanity behind them was far too calculating to be animal, too vibrant to ever die down.
Something inside him made him want to shake this creature, this human monster, not just to extract information, but to experiment. Rationally speaking insanity was just a chemical imbalance in the brain but Mohinder was ruled by his passions now, his feelings. He examined Sylar like a lab rat, only without the scientific indifference and with the enraged desire to harm, ruin, destroy.
If only it were that simple.
*
“Open your mouth,” he said and Sylar obeyed. So obedient, almost like in his Zane avatar, but the glare in his eyes didn't go away, it followed Mohinder around the room, around the apartment, constant. The rush of blood, coupled with its new best friends, disgust and embarrassment, too, now almost too familiar.
“Fuck,” Sylar cursed, grunting, bending his head down, sucking in his own lower lip. Blood was dropping on his shirt from it.
Mohinder smiled. “Sorry. I suppose I could've not used a knife.”
Sylar was a snake, spitting poison on his wounds, fuel to his fire. Laughing at him now. “It's okay, Dr Suresh. Whatever turns you on.”
A flush of anger now. “I've enough samples by now, thank you.”
As he turned around, something landed on the small of his back. Spit and blood straight from the wide grin on Sylar's face. “My treat,” he said.
Mohinder wanted to kiss him on that moment, and make sure the kiss would hurt.
*
He remembers all those moments a bit too well, those tiny few hours he spent then, studying, examining, - and the one thing he never wants to admit to - torturing.
Pain was all they had left then, though of course thinking they ever had anything else at all was foolish. Partnership was not an option - the help of Sylar was not help at all. Mohinder was angry over things he was never supposed to be angry over. Angry that he had formed a peculiar connection - or at least was stupid enough to think of it as a connection - with a man who had murdered his father and many others. That he had actually considered possibilities on where the connection might lead, back when he hadn't been aware of the manipulation and worse, even when he knew about everything.
Pain was all they had left so he used it, spun his own pain and anger back at Sylar, not for his actions (though for those as well) but mostly for who he was and who he couldn't be. On some twisted part of his sexual psyche, he enjoyed the feeling of absolute control over another human being, he enjoyed the sickening game he played with Sylar and he knew Sylar did, too. They fed on each other, their common illness.
In just a couple of hours Sylar got into his brain in the metaphorical sense and made his damage. For one insane moment Mohinder felt connected to this madman, and it both scared him and thrilled him. But he could never join Sylar, so he said no and ended Sylar's life. Tried to.
But Sylar didn't see that they only had pain and death and nothing else, nothing else to share, nothing. The realm of opportunities was not abandoned in his eyes yet, but then, the man was insane. He thought he had thrown Mohinder a lifeline but when Mohinder turned it down, Sylar ended his life. Well. Tried to.
He made the pain feel like I deserved it, but maybe that wasn't Sylar, maybe that was guilt worsening the pain. For a moment Mohinder had felt like he was Sylar, like he was crazy and omnipotent and in control, to be feared of. For that, maybe he did deserve it all.
*
He cancels the appointment the next day - can't wallow in any of it any more. He packs his bags and leaves for India. It's not that he can catch his breath there but it is in Chennai that he becomes busy with something that isn't all about him. Shift of focus, sort of - suddenly nothing revolves around just himself and everything is about everybody else around him.
For a while, as he teaches classes and takes care of his mother, he feels a sense of purpose. Everything is fine. He lets his mother set him up for dates with girls whose fathers were friends of his own father, because his mother insists that's “how they do things in India” and though he may be England-educated, he shouldn't forget his culture, his roots. He goes to temples, prays, re-reads The Gita. Everything is fine.
Then one day one of the university's elderly professors sees through him and they discuss moral conflicts, ethics in science.
“You're not in any danger of becoming like that man,” the professor tells him, but then, Mohinder hasn't told him the full story, the whole truth. He can't burden others with his own irrational worries, his own nightmares.
He travels to Delhi to a conference and runs into Sanjog Iyer, the boy who could enter his dreams. He doesn't say anything, doesn't return Mohinder's smile, and for a while Mohinder wonders whether this is all a dream. If he's going to wake up at some point and he'll be somewhere, sometime where he'd rather be than here. Various scenarios run through his head and for a while he suspects Sanjog can see his thoughts.
“Hello,” Mohinder finally says. The boy smiles and runs away, disappearing somewhere amongst the masses of the market place.
*
The next night he dreams and Sanjog is there, his father's New York apartment surrounding them. Dr Chandra Suresh sits behind his desk and before him, though it takes a while to recognize him, is Sylar. In here he doesn't look like a predator but a mouse, none of the danger present, just a confused, hopeful look in his eyes.
“Gabriel,” his father calls Sylar.
They talk and Mohinder just stays still, and he wonders if it stops being reality when the boy leaves. He hears his father say things he's always assumed he was thinking. None of what he sees or hears brings him a sense of relief, or fulfilment. The questions he wanted answered will never be answered, but the realist in him always knew that anyway. There's disappointment but nothing worse than what he has never experienced before.
Sylar's words were those of manipulation and his answers wouldn't have been the ones Mohinder wanted to hear. He couldn't have trusted whatever Sylar said. Not enough.
He wakes up and falls asleep again into a peculiar dream where he wanders on the streets of London until he steps into a small shop.
“Can I help you?” a familiar voice asks behind the counter. Sylar's lips are covered in blood but Mohinder doesn't even flinch at the sight, gruesome though it may be.
“I need you to fix me,” he says without meaning to. Every cell in his dream form wants out of the shop but he's paralysed and stands there as Sylar, grinning that weird wide grin of his, enters his brain and doesn't leave it, stays like a tumor manifesting all over his body. Under his skin.
He wakes up, covered in sweat, breathing like there isn't enough air anywhere to fill his lungs, scared and nauseous and turned on. Nothing about any of this is normal. That excites and repulses him even more.
If only it was simple somehow, but it never ever will be.
*
Ten years down the line, he's married to Meera and they have a young son called Arjun, all three living in the suburbs of New York - everything comes back to New York. He mostly writes for various science publications, not just in the field of genetics. Meera works as a biology teacher and knows just about everything there is to know about her husband. He told her that the nightmares are mostly of his father dying in front of his eyes, even though he was never there in actuality. She knows he's come face-to-face with his father's killer, too. That's unusual enough in her books, and he gets that, doesn't push that line even if it means lying.
Most of the days he's fine. Little by little he learns to adapt to his inner demons. He knows them better than most people, knows what they can do. It's scary but it doesn't just go away by wishing. Lord knows he's tried.
Sylar - Gabriel, as Mohinder's learning to call him as Gabriel is the nutcase whose mere creation Sylar is - remains a ghost haunting him every second step he takes. But only every second, and in the end that's what matters the most. Nothing lasts forever.
Not even parasites.
----
Story notes:
* Since Sendhil's English has a definite British accent and because it's not completely unheard of for upper class Indians to study in England, I thought it was safe to assume Mohinder went to university in England. Oh, and I used British spellings for the same reason, too. Except "tumour" because that just looks weird.
* Yeah, I slipped in some Mo/Eden. If that severely grossed out somebody, I apologise. But c'mon. If those two didn't screw then my name is Nathan Petrelli.
* I couldn't porn it up with these boys. They were too happy just fucking with each other's heads. Damn them! Though seriously, I just couldn't see it happening in a scenario that was *actual*. Fantasies, yes. It's sort of difficult to see Mohinder suddenly gaying it up with anybody, what with his various het canon interests so I had to work up the "eww, I want to bonk a dude!" angle here.
* Actually, on that note, I'm SO worried about my Mo characterization, I cannot tell you. Perhaps he's a tad too messed up in the head in this fic but the way I see it, there's just some major trauma there to work through.
* I'm not Tim Kring so I left the whole "what works to Heroes in the future" part out of this and thus isolated Mohinder from all that action. I'm also sort of a drop-out when it comes to webcanon, apologies for that.
* I pussied out from writing the scenes where Sylar tortures our poor Momo. There's only so much violence I can write out without being totally grossed out myself.
Hoped you enjoyed reading. I know I had fun writing it.
brainmates
fandom: heroes
pairing: mohinder/sylar
rating: pg-13/r
warnings: torture, mindfuck, all that good stuff.
word count: 2,482
spoilers: 1x18, 'Parasite'
disclaimer: Tim Kring and such brilliant people own.
notes: Obviously it's not a happy, fun story but a grim, dark, strange one. It's no excuse that it's my first time ficcing both but if you do find them incredibly out-of-character, tell me why. More notes at the bottom of the fic.
Mohinder's only going to be pissing blood for a couple of weeks, the doctors say, but some of the scars might be permanent. The mental ones, he adds to himself - imagines himself sitting on the sofa of a psychiatrist for ten years, talking about his father, talking about Sylar, talking about revenge and anger and hatred. Talking about how everything blurred when he was in control, talking about how he shook with fear when he wasn't.
He has trouble lifting his left arm, a sharp pain somewhere on his shoulder, and they give him strong painkillers for it. He's okay with that, as he doesn't mind feeling a bit fuzzy in the head after all that has happened. There's no need for him to focus on things now. He wants to zone out and save the thinking for a shrink's sofa.
If only it were that easy. The only comfort now aren't the painkillers, but the pain itself, interrupting his thinking whenever he starts a thought. Everything is a sentence without a full stop, left unfinished. He likes it like that, though sometimes when there is no pain, he can only think of things he will tell that shrink some day.
“He made the pain feel like I deserved it.”
It's a start, he supposes.
*
Zane was an opportunity of partnership. Mohinder rarely enjoyed working alone. Such a simple, fatal logic there. Zane was always almost too eager, too willing, too - but Mohinder placed it all aside for as Zane had his flaws, so did he himself.
They stopped over for coffee and talked about genetics, Zane full of enthusiasm. When they got back in the car, he melted a spoon he'd stolen from the diner onto the dashboard of the car. Just for the fun of it, it seemed. Mohinder just stared at the melted metal, and then Zane.
“You don't need to impress me,” he said and Zane shook his head, the most innocent look on his face.
“It's not that Dr Suresh, I wouldn't, I mean, I know you already find my abilities impressive.” (His tone here had suggestion, Mohinder remembers, but he chose to ignore it then.) Zane looked at his own hands, an odd glint of fascination in his eyes. “But I just like to test them. Make sure they exist.”
“They won't just go away, you know,” Mohinder said, starting the car, then mused aloud. “What would you do if they did?”
“I'd find new ones,” Zane replied. His tone was the same as always, and then he laughed.
Mohinder chuckled as well but couldn't drown out the thought that occurred to him then. Sylar.
Sylar Sylar Sylar.
*
Zane looked at him a lot whenever he thought Mohinder didn't notice. The look lingered and felt dirty - nearly constant on his back, his neck, his skin. He couldn't react to it or escape it, so he dealt and wondered about the way it made his blood rush. The tingle, like something creeping under his skin.
He thought it with ration and consideration, as always. He hadn't really been intimate with anybody for a devastatingly long time. Rushing to save lives of others rarely left one any time to think of or with their loins. There had been Eden - no, Sarah, Sarah Ellis - of course, her scent probably still remaining in his sheets. It was a whole other story, a story of lies and betrayal, but he could never remember just that, not without also remembering her smiles and touches and sounds.
Zane touched him, too, the accidental bumps and the brotherly gestures. There was no romanticizing the attraction and Mohinder knew that were anything to happen, it would be casual and peculiar and unforgettable - but probably not in the word's most positive meaning. He didn't think anything would, however, as he would never admit to the attraction or acknowledge it.
Zane was company, Zane was help. When it came to the big picture, this was all Mohinder needed. It didn't matter that his desire had grown as time passed, that tingle increasing, unfamiliar and unwelcome like a newborn parasite. Under his skin. (If only things were that simple.)
*
In retrospect Mohinder thinks, maybe it was the plural that gave him away to begin with. There was usually talk of Zane's one ability, but every now and then he'd let the plural slip past his lips.
His abilities, his talents, his skills.
Mohinder was going to ask him, once, just casually mention it, “You do know you only have one ability, right?”, but then he decided not to.
Maybe it was the plural, or maybe it wasn't. Maybe he ought to stop staying awake at night, thinking about plurals coming out of Sylar's mouth. But exactly when he thinks of that, he can no longer think about anything else.
Sylar Sylar Sylar.
*
He doesn't sleep at all that night but calls a therapist the next day to schedule an appointment. He picks up the phone with his right hand, which isn't exactly smart as the pain pierces through what feels like his entire body. He blames the painkillers for messing up his rationale. The irony in that would make him laugh, if he was in the mood. He hasn't laughed in a while. Hasn't done a lot of things in a while.
*
If Zane was a partnership, Sylar was a power game. One that Mohinder enjoyed, much to his own disgust. The manipulation, the high of control, the revenge - simple, horrible pain he caused somebody. Sylar's screams of agony, the writhing of his body against restraints like a snake you step on. Make it suffer just so you know it's still under your boot, and it's not going to get away.
His mouth spoke the word “parasite” and meant it. Sylar was a human being just like everybody, a bunch of gene date in form of a living organism, influenced by its surroundings but in Mohinder's eyes he was worthless just then. The eyes that stared back at him never looked guilty or regretful - human, he wants to say - but the insanity behind them was far too calculating to be animal, too vibrant to ever die down.
Something inside him made him want to shake this creature, this human monster, not just to extract information, but to experiment. Rationally speaking insanity was just a chemical imbalance in the brain but Mohinder was ruled by his passions now, his feelings. He examined Sylar like a lab rat, only without the scientific indifference and with the enraged desire to harm, ruin, destroy.
If only it were that simple.
*
“Open your mouth,” he said and Sylar obeyed. So obedient, almost like in his Zane avatar, but the glare in his eyes didn't go away, it followed Mohinder around the room, around the apartment, constant. The rush of blood, coupled with its new best friends, disgust and embarrassment, too, now almost too familiar.
“Fuck,” Sylar cursed, grunting, bending his head down, sucking in his own lower lip. Blood was dropping on his shirt from it.
Mohinder smiled. “Sorry. I suppose I could've not used a knife.”
Sylar was a snake, spitting poison on his wounds, fuel to his fire. Laughing at him now. “It's okay, Dr Suresh. Whatever turns you on.”
A flush of anger now. “I've enough samples by now, thank you.”
As he turned around, something landed on the small of his back. Spit and blood straight from the wide grin on Sylar's face. “My treat,” he said.
Mohinder wanted to kiss him on that moment, and make sure the kiss would hurt.
*
He remembers all those moments a bit too well, those tiny few hours he spent then, studying, examining, - and the one thing he never wants to admit to - torturing.
Pain was all they had left then, though of course thinking they ever had anything else at all was foolish. Partnership was not an option - the help of Sylar was not help at all. Mohinder was angry over things he was never supposed to be angry over. Angry that he had formed a peculiar connection - or at least was stupid enough to think of it as a connection - with a man who had murdered his father and many others. That he had actually considered possibilities on where the connection might lead, back when he hadn't been aware of the manipulation and worse, even when he knew about everything.
Pain was all they had left so he used it, spun his own pain and anger back at Sylar, not for his actions (though for those as well) but mostly for who he was and who he couldn't be. On some twisted part of his sexual psyche, he enjoyed the feeling of absolute control over another human being, he enjoyed the sickening game he played with Sylar and he knew Sylar did, too. They fed on each other, their common illness.
In just a couple of hours Sylar got into his brain in the metaphorical sense and made his damage. For one insane moment Mohinder felt connected to this madman, and it both scared him and thrilled him. But he could never join Sylar, so he said no and ended Sylar's life. Tried to.
But Sylar didn't see that they only had pain and death and nothing else, nothing else to share, nothing. The realm of opportunities was not abandoned in his eyes yet, but then, the man was insane. He thought he had thrown Mohinder a lifeline but when Mohinder turned it down, Sylar ended his life. Well. Tried to.
He made the pain feel like I deserved it, but maybe that wasn't Sylar, maybe that was guilt worsening the pain. For a moment Mohinder had felt like he was Sylar, like he was crazy and omnipotent and in control, to be feared of. For that, maybe he did deserve it all.
*
He cancels the appointment the next day - can't wallow in any of it any more. He packs his bags and leaves for India. It's not that he can catch his breath there but it is in Chennai that he becomes busy with something that isn't all about him. Shift of focus, sort of - suddenly nothing revolves around just himself and everything is about everybody else around him.
For a while, as he teaches classes and takes care of his mother, he feels a sense of purpose. Everything is fine. He lets his mother set him up for dates with girls whose fathers were friends of his own father, because his mother insists that's “how they do things in India” and though he may be England-educated, he shouldn't forget his culture, his roots. He goes to temples, prays, re-reads The Gita. Everything is fine.
Then one day one of the university's elderly professors sees through him and they discuss moral conflicts, ethics in science.
“You're not in any danger of becoming like that man,” the professor tells him, but then, Mohinder hasn't told him the full story, the whole truth. He can't burden others with his own irrational worries, his own nightmares.
He travels to Delhi to a conference and runs into Sanjog Iyer, the boy who could enter his dreams. He doesn't say anything, doesn't return Mohinder's smile, and for a while Mohinder wonders whether this is all a dream. If he's going to wake up at some point and he'll be somewhere, sometime where he'd rather be than here. Various scenarios run through his head and for a while he suspects Sanjog can see his thoughts.
“Hello,” Mohinder finally says. The boy smiles and runs away, disappearing somewhere amongst the masses of the market place.
*
The next night he dreams and Sanjog is there, his father's New York apartment surrounding them. Dr Chandra Suresh sits behind his desk and before him, though it takes a while to recognize him, is Sylar. In here he doesn't look like a predator but a mouse, none of the danger present, just a confused, hopeful look in his eyes.
“Gabriel,” his father calls Sylar.
They talk and Mohinder just stays still, and he wonders if it stops being reality when the boy leaves. He hears his father say things he's always assumed he was thinking. None of what he sees or hears brings him a sense of relief, or fulfilment. The questions he wanted answered will never be answered, but the realist in him always knew that anyway. There's disappointment but nothing worse than what he has never experienced before.
Sylar's words were those of manipulation and his answers wouldn't have been the ones Mohinder wanted to hear. He couldn't have trusted whatever Sylar said. Not enough.
He wakes up and falls asleep again into a peculiar dream where he wanders on the streets of London until he steps into a small shop.
“Can I help you?” a familiar voice asks behind the counter. Sylar's lips are covered in blood but Mohinder doesn't even flinch at the sight, gruesome though it may be.
“I need you to fix me,” he says without meaning to. Every cell in his dream form wants out of the shop but he's paralysed and stands there as Sylar, grinning that weird wide grin of his, enters his brain and doesn't leave it, stays like a tumor manifesting all over his body. Under his skin.
He wakes up, covered in sweat, breathing like there isn't enough air anywhere to fill his lungs, scared and nauseous and turned on. Nothing about any of this is normal. That excites and repulses him even more.
If only it was simple somehow, but it never ever will be.
*
Ten years down the line, he's married to Meera and they have a young son called Arjun, all three living in the suburbs of New York - everything comes back to New York. He mostly writes for various science publications, not just in the field of genetics. Meera works as a biology teacher and knows just about everything there is to know about her husband. He told her that the nightmares are mostly of his father dying in front of his eyes, even though he was never there in actuality. She knows he's come face-to-face with his father's killer, too. That's unusual enough in her books, and he gets that, doesn't push that line even if it means lying.
Most of the days he's fine. Little by little he learns to adapt to his inner demons. He knows them better than most people, knows what they can do. It's scary but it doesn't just go away by wishing. Lord knows he's tried.
Sylar - Gabriel, as Mohinder's learning to call him as Gabriel is the nutcase whose mere creation Sylar is - remains a ghost haunting him every second step he takes. But only every second, and in the end that's what matters the most. Nothing lasts forever.
Not even parasites.
----
Story notes:
* Since Sendhil's English has a definite British accent and because it's not completely unheard of for upper class Indians to study in England, I thought it was safe to assume Mohinder went to university in England. Oh, and I used British spellings for the same reason, too. Except "tumour" because that just looks weird.
* Yeah, I slipped in some Mo/Eden. If that severely grossed out somebody, I apologise. But c'mon. If those two didn't screw then my name is Nathan Petrelli.
* I couldn't porn it up with these boys. They were too happy just fucking with each other's heads. Damn them! Though seriously, I just couldn't see it happening in a scenario that was *actual*. Fantasies, yes. It's sort of difficult to see Mohinder suddenly gaying it up with anybody, what with his various het canon interests so I had to work up the "eww, I want to bonk a dude!" angle here.
* Actually, on that note, I'm SO worried about my Mo characterization, I cannot tell you. Perhaps he's a tad too messed up in the head in this fic but the way I see it, there's just some major trauma there to work through.
* I'm not Tim Kring so I left the whole "what works to Heroes in the future" part out of this and thus isolated Mohinder from all that action. I'm also sort of a drop-out when it comes to webcanon, apologies for that.
* I pussied out from writing the scenes where Sylar tortures our poor Momo. There's only so much violence I can write out without being totally grossed out myself.
Hoped you enjoyed reading. I know I had fun writing it.