Fic: Mohana
Title: Mohana
Author: starrdust411
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Girl!Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Summary: Mohana knew the danger she was putting herself in when she agreed to take Zane along with her to Montana.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes.
Warnings: AU, Het, Gender Bender, Drama, Language
Mohana knew the danger she was putting herself in when she agreed to take Zane along with her to Montana. After all, she was, as her mother had said before her return to America, a foreign woman alone in a strange country. Yet Zane, who had seemed so harmless and charming, had insisted. He had told her it would be dangerous and promised to protect and the looming shadow that was Sylar instantly flashed into her mind.
She hadn't wanted to admit to herself that she needed the help, but she was defenseless against the murderer and the idea of having Zane along -- someone with an actual ability, although not a practical one in terms of self defense, someone who could actually prove to the others that her theories were right and that they were not alone -- did seem promising. Of course there had also been the painful loneliness that ate away at her heart ever since her return to the America. She missed Eden dearly. Even if the woman had been a spy planted in her building to keep watch over her research, she had still been a shoulder to lean on, a comforting presence that, in her ignorance, she could turn to when things were overwhelming.
Mohana imagined that Zane could be that presence when she had finally agreed to have him come with her, but that was when a new fear had emerged in her mind. Mohana was no naive young virgin. She knew men and she knew how they think. As much as she was hesitant to admit it, she was in fact an attractive young woman alone in this country. This pleasant young man could be leading her into a trap. The two of them alone together in a car, in the middle of a virtually empty road only set off the warning bells in her head. In her mind, Mohana could imagine Zane very clearly taking hold of the steering wheel and leading them off the road where he would rip her clothes off and have his way with her. The idea that she could be potentially putting her life at risk in an attempt to ward off another dangerous individual was a bitter irony that made her stomach turn and her palms sweat.
"Dr. Suresh?" Zane began, his voice so quiet and sincere, yet it frightened her even still. A part of her wanted to correct him and have him call her Mohana -- Dr. Suresh made her think of her father -- but she held her tongue. Allowing Zane to call her by her given name was too personal. She could not allow herself to open up to him. Even the slightest casual gesture could be interpreted the wrong way. "Are you alright? You're trembling."
"Just cold," she said quickly, hoping that that would be the end of his questions.
Instead, she was startled to see him removing his jacket and drapping it over her shoulders.
"Oh no, you don't have to," she stammered, her fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly that she felt them turn white.
"Don't be silly," he said, a shy smile gracing his lips as he carefully adjusted the jacket so it would stay on the geneticist even as she drove. "What sort of gentleman would I be if I let you keep shivering like that?"
Mohana wanted to point out that he could have easily reached over to turn the heater on, but stayed quiet, taking in Zane's foreign scent as it surrounded her and filled her nostrils.
They fell into an awkward silence after that, but driving for hours on end on the open road was long and tedious work. Mohana supposed she only made things worse by quickly snapping the radio off whenever a remotely romantic song came on. It was no real surprise when Zane started asking her questions -- after all, she was as much a stranger to him as he was to her -- but she answered them as quickly and formally as possible.
"Where are you from?"
"Chennai."
"I hope you don't mind me saying, but your accent sounds more British than India. How'd that happen?"
"I studied in England for a while."
"I haven't seen many Indian women with short hair. Did you always have it that way?"
It was funny how that question seemed too personal. In truth, her hair had not always been this short. Its length had once been what some may consider startlingly long. Her long black locks had once gone well past her waist, making it awkward to sit and expensive to maintain, but she kept it that way for her father. Chandra had always loved her hair. In her childhood, he would run his fingers through it and tell her how beautiful it was. It seemed to be the only thing about her that made him happy. When Chandra had left for America without her, brushing off her attempts to accompany him with startling indifference, she had chopped it all off in a fit of anger.
She still remembered gathering the loose black strands in her hands and slicing furiously with the scissors she had pulled from her desk drawer. Her head and been so overwhelmed by the change that she had felt dizzy. Her intention had been to keep it short until Chandra returned from America. She wanted to show him that she no longer needed his approval and was her own person. Of course, Mohana's plans had crumpled away when she had heard the news of her father's death. Her hair was short still, but she was now allowing it to regain its natural length. Months had past and the tips of her loose curls barely brushed the backs of her shoulders, making it clear that it would take many years to reverse the damage she had done.
"I cut it," she said simply, her voice wavering slightly in spite of her best efforts to keep her tone calm and even. "Recently."
Zane nodded, sensing her discomfort and slipped back into an uneasy silence once again.
-+-+-+-
Mohana was careful to refuse anything Zane offered her. When they stopped for food, she made sure to pay for her meals. If she left her food or drinks with him, she would not finish it when she returned. When they decided to stop for the night, Mohana not only asked for separate rooms, she put them on separate floors. If Zane noticed her behavior, then he made no indications, and for that she was thankful. She was, after all, a woman and as such she was allowed to protect herself, even if her behavior seemed at times a little irrational.
"You can have your coat back," she told him before they separated for the night. Zane frowned, cocking his head to the side curiously. "It'll be very cold tomorrow," she explained, pulling the garment off her shoulders and shoving it to his chest. "You'll need it."
"I'll need it tomorrow," he corrected her, a small smile gracing his lips as he took the jacket from her and once again wrapped it around her slight frame. "You can keep it until then, Doctor."
With that said, he turned and left. Mohana had to wonder if he was taking away her chance to refuse him again on purpose, but shrugged it off.
That night, Mohana had wrapped herself under the motel room's flimsy sheets and shivered as the cold mountain air seeped in through the thin walls. After a few hours of struggling to keep herself warm, she got out of bed and checked the thermostat. It was obviously broken as it told her that her room was a toasty 80 degrees. She scowled and grabbed a pair of socks and Zane's jacket before slipping back between the sheets. She didn't bother to think of why she took his coat instead of her own as she drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the warm Indian sun.
The next morning Zane was at her door bright and early and begging for his jacket. Mohana had smiled coyly to herself as she slipped the jacket off her shoulders and approached the door cautiously. She slipped the small brass chain onto its lock before opening the door a few inches and handing the American his coat. She would not let him see her in her night clothes. It was too personal and the biting cold air was already making goose bumps spread across her exposed flesh.
"Thanks," Zane said, grasping the jacket and brushing the tips of her fingers with his knuckles. "Do you want me to get you some coffee?"
"No thank you," she declined politely before pressing the door closed, shutting out Zane and the too harsh wind. She would not drink anything he gave her.
-+-+-+-
The meeting with Dale Smither had Mohana's body tingling with promise and hope. It was exciting to find more people from her father's list, to be able to meet them and discover their potential. She must have been grinning like a fool as they drove to their motel as Zane kept stealing probing glances at her from the corner of his eyes.
His behavior today had been... curious to put it mildly. Although the young man had claimed that it was excitement that was setting him off, Mohana could not help recalling the strange way Dale had looked at him, overhearing the unusual beats in his heart. The memory did nothing to ease her already hesitant feelings towards the American, but his warm and friendly smile was a clear attempt to turn her head.
"I'm sorry," she chuckled, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "Do I look silly?"
"What?" Zane blinked, startled out of his hypnotic gaze.
"You keep staring at me," she clarified.
Zane turned away quickly then, a horrified look on his face as his cheeks burned bright red. "I... I didn't mean..." he stammered, wringing his hands nervously. "Sorry."
She turned and smiled at him and -- despite the voice in her head that told her not to -- she reached out and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Mohana was loathe to admit it, but she did like Zane. He was sweet in an awkward way and his chivalrous behavior did warm her. Maybe they could be friends, if not something more. Later. Not now.
"It's alright," she said, slipping him his motel key.
It was unfortunate that this time she could not find rooms on separate floors, but suddenly that precaution seemed so unnecessary. She was certain she'd still be safe sleeping in the room next to his. With that thought in mind, she slipped out of the driver's seat and closed the door behind her, intent on grabbing her bag from the trunk. Yet Zane was already there, lifting the lid for her with an eager smile. Something inside her quivered with hesitance, but she brushed it away. He was just being polite.
"When you told that woman Dale that you could help her," he began as her lifted her bag out of the trunk carefully before grabbing his own, “is that really possible?"
"It's only theoretical at this point," she began, motioning to grab her bag, but Zane took it from her, carrying both suitcases with easy. She blushed, closing the trunk swiftly before getting in step beside the American man and heading towards their rooms. "But I am working on an inhibitor, a chemical that'll isolate the genetic mutation that causes these abnormalities. We can offer these people understanding, control, or, if needed, elimination of their ability."
As she spoke, she couldn’t help but feel her heart quicken with excitement. She felt a bit silly rambling on like this about ideas and possibilities, but it exhilarated her. Yet when she turned to look back at Zane she was saddened to see her feelings were not reflected.
"Elimination?" he repeated, a look of disgust clear on his face. "You make it sound like a virus or a plague."
Mohana frowned, suddenly feeling very foolish for indirectly insulting the man in front of her. She should have known to be more sensitive. The Indian woman would not appreciate someone belittling her like that, indirectly or not. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I didn't mean to imply... It's just not all of you exhibit the same set of skills that you do and they can be dangerous." Her voice grew quiet as the shadow of Sylar crawled its way into the forefront of her mind. "My father had to learn that firsthand."
Zane frowned, concern flashing in his dark eyes as they came to a stop in front of their respective doors. "How's that?" he asked, still holding her bag over his shoulder.
The geneticist felt a lump well up in her throat at the memory of the strange, far too clear dream that child in India had brought to her. She could still see it, her father's head being smashed against the taxi's window as determined white hands gripped his skull. It made her shiver even then. "He was murdered," she whispered, "by a man named Sylar."
Zane paled, his mouth hanging open slightly as he took a step closer to her. Mohana trembled, unconsciously taking a step back. She did not want to be touched or pitied so openly by this stranger. "What happened to this... Sylar?"
"I'm not sure," she confessed quietly as Zane took another step towards her, backing her into thick red door of her motel room. Her heart was pounding wildly and her legs wobbled as the pale young man loomed over her. She suddenly wanted to grab her bags and lock herself in her motel room.
"He just got away with killing your dad?" he asked, staring down at her, although Mohana could tell that it was not her eyes he was gazing into so fiercely.
"I only know he's gone," she told him, gripping the cold doorknob in her trembling fingers, "locked away. What does it matter? Even if I could come face-to-face with him, what difference would it make? Justice can never really be served."
"What a shame," he breathed and for a moment, the Indian woman felt certain Zane was going to kiss her. Yet she breathed a sigh of relief when he turned towards the horizon. "They're out there," he said, his voice rich with something dark and ominous. "I can feel them... so innocent, so unaware of what's happening to them. We'll find them, Mohana. All of them. Together. The two of us. It's our destiny."
She shuddered, her knuckles nearly white as she tried to turn the knob and remembered that it was still locked. "Can... Can I have my b-"
Her words were cut off as Zane quickly turned and pressed his lips to hers, pressing her flat against the door and pinning her there. She squirmed, realizing for the first time how tall and large Zane was and how foolish she had been to think that this capable, strong young man was "harmless." She squeaked and struggled, pushing at his broad shoulders with her tiny brown hands before they eventually parted with a slight pop.
"Please," she panted. "I'm... I'm not that kind of girl."
For a moment she expected Zane to be angry, for his eyes to flash with rage and for him to drag her unwillingly into his motel room, but it didn't happen. Instead his eyes widened and he pulled away as if realizing for the first time what he was doing. "I... I'm so sorry," he breathed quickly. "I just... I thought... you're very beautiful."
"I'm sorry," she told him, even as she realized she was not the one who should be apologizing. "You're very nice, but... I'm in no place for this sort of thing. We just met."
"I know," Zane nodded.
"I hardly know you."
"I understand."
"I'm not like that."
"Of course not," he sighed, taking her bag off his shoulder and handing it to her. She took it in her trembling hands, hugging the thick suitcase to her chest. "You're a lady and I should treat you like one." A small, apologetic smile spread across his lips as he grasped her hand in his, raising it to his mouth and placing a gentle kiss on her nearly frozen skin. "I'll see you in the morning," he murmured, his hot breath warming her flesh.
"Yeah," she whispered, her voice trembling as he slipped away into the darkness.
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In the morning everything was different. Dale was dead and suddenly her awkward encounter with Zane seemed so small and unimportant. Sylar was on the loose. He had escaped his captors and was killing again. Her skin broke out into a panicked sweat and her heart beat like a jackhammer in her chest as she clutched the steering wheel, determined not to stop until they were safe in New York.
Her thoughts whirled in her head, her father's murder and Dale's lifeless body flashing before her eyes every time she blinked. She was a bit embarrassed by the way she had reacted. Her scream had probably made Zane’s already blinding headache even worse and throwing up all over the hood of their rental car was not one of her finest moments.
"Dr. Suresh," Zane began, pulling her out of her panicked daydreams. "You're shaking like a leaf. Pull over. I'll drive."
"I... I don't... I can't," she stuttered. The Indian knew she sounded like a lunatic, but her mind was too frightened to form any coherent thoughts.
"Mohana," Zane said, resting a warm hand on her shoulder. "Pull over."
"You're sick," she reminded him, her eyes watering even as she spoke. She knew couldn't keep going like this.
"I'm feeling better," he assured her. "Come on, let's pull over."
Reluctantly she did as he said. Mohana's body was still quaking as she slipped out of the driver's seat and made her way to the passenger's side. Zane met her halfway and engulfed her in his strong arms. She stiffened at first, embarrassed at having to be soothed like a frightened child, but after a while she allowed herself to bury her face in Zane's warm chest and cried.
"It's okay," Zane whispered, rocking her back and forth. "Everything's going to be okay."
"How can you say that?" she gasped even as she breathed in his scent, her mind slowly calming as she took in his heat. "You're in danger because of me. He'll come after you! He'll kill you for your abilities and... It's all because of me."
Her stomach twisted and turned as her mother's words suddenly came back into her mind. Mohana remembered learning through her about her sister less than a day after her father's funeral, and that was when all the pieces seemed to fall into place. It was why her father had held her forever at arm's length. It was why he could never love her and only looked at her with disappointment in his tired eyes. Shanti had been the child they had planned for, the child they had wanted. Mohana was just a back up. Second best in every way. Shanti would probably be better at all of this. She probably would have gone to America with their father and protected him from this monster. She wished so fiercely in that moment that she had never been born. It hurt to live in a world where she could not measure up no matter how hard she tried. She was a failure in every sense of the word and now Zane was going to pay the price for her incompetence.
"Shhhh," Zane soothed, running a tender hand down her back. "It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself."
"You don't understand," she whimpered, but Zane quickly cut her off, holding her tighter and pressing his cheek against the top of her head.
"I understand," he whispered. "I'm here for you. Let me be here for you."
She trembled as he breathed in her scent and then kissed the top of her head. Mohana did not try to stop him or push him away. She wanted to feel safe and loved for once.
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The gun trembled in her hands even as she stared into the hard, black eyes of her father's killer. This was not where she wanted to be. Even as the urge to shoot, to end this man's life screamed inside of her, she hesitated. Mohana knew that she was not a killer. To shoot him now would make her sink to his level and she was above that. She was above him.
She clenched her jaw, gripping the weapon with both hands, her finger itching to pull the trigger.
Sylar merely sat there staring at her, disbelief clear in his dark eyes. She had to feel proud of herself. Being able to trick and sedate a serial killer was not something many women could boast about doing on their own, but she had. She'd managed to keep her cool even as she read the real Zane Taylor’s obituary on the computer screen. She had stayed as calm and level headed as humanly possible as she slipped the sedative into Sylar's tea. Yet Sylar's taunting words had stung her heart. The mere whisper of Shanti and her father's love for her long gone sister was all that was needed to set her off. Mohana had wanted to break down right then and there, but she hadn't. But she had what she needed now. Sylar's DNA had helped with the list and now it was time to dispose of the rat once and for all.
"You love me," he whispered to her. "That's why you can't do it. Even now, you feel it. Our connection."
"Don't flatter yourself," she spat, fighting to steady her hands once more. "Just because I am reluctant to take another human life, even one as worthless as yours, does not mean I feel anything more than contempt for you."
"Then why did you let me hold you like that, Mohana?" he asked, a too cocky smirk on his pale features. "Why'd you let me kiss you and tell you how beautiful you were?"
"I let Zane Taylor do those things!" she corrected. "Not you."
"Just like a woman," he sneered. "Complicating your emotions more than necessary."
"This has nothing to do with me being a woman," she snapped.
"You're right. A real woman wouldn't be this cold."
Mohana scowled at his words, narrowing her eyes as the cruel voice in the back of her head told her to silence him once and for all. "And what would a 'real woman' do with you?"
His face softened, as he flexed his pale hands, still strapped down to the arms of the chair, in a nervous twitch. "Help me find a way," he pleaded. "Give me salvation." Her eyes softened for just the briefest second as she took in his pathetic words. Less than a heart beat passed as she actually entertained the idea of letting him go, before the serial killer screwed his eyes shut and let out a frustrated growl. "Give me that damn list so I can skin my teeth into it!"
That was all she needed to hear to make up her mind. Sylar could beg and plead and promise everything under the sun, but he would not change and he would not feel sorry for what he had done. She schooled her looks as she cocked the gun in her hands. A single tear slid down the man's pale cheek, but she paid it now mind. It meant nothing.
"I'm a natural progression of the species," he told her, a soft smile gracing his lips as if he expected her to understand. "Evolution is part of nature, and nature kills."
"What you've done is not evolution, it's murder," she spat, her hands no longer trembling and all the troubled thoughts in her mind quieted. "What I'm doing is revenge. I can finally fulfill my duty as a daughter."
With those words spoken, she pulled the trigger, without a single drop of remorse or regret filling her heart. She expected it to be over. She had anticipated the horrific sight of blood and brains splattering against the walls, yet it never came. Instead, Sylar's head jerked back, but the bullet did not hit home. It merely floated in the space between them, a good foot away from its target. Mohana's blood ran cold as her arms, suddenly so tired from holding the pistol in her hands, fell loosely to her sides. Her eyes widened and her heart stilled as bullet clinked to the floor, useless and forgotten.
"I wasn't begging for my life," Sylar said, his voice hauntingly even as the duct tape that had been holding his hands and legs still were telekinetically peeled off. "I was offering you yours. You are your father's child. So determined that you didn't even notice I stopped the IV."
Mohana's knees almost gave way under her weight as the pale American approached her. Her legs shook and her mind reeled with horrific possibilities as she took a few hesitant steps backwards before stumbling into her desk. "I won't give you the list," she bit out, trying her best to steady her wavering voice.
Sylar laughed, a deep a rumbling sound that only made ice run through her being. "You poor creature," he whispered, cupping her cheek in his hand. "It's not just about that anymore."
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When Mohana woke up, she was no longer in her father's apartment. She moaned, cradling her head in her hands as she slowly sat up on the soft bed she had been resting in. From the looks of things, she was in a hotel room, a rather expensive one at that. The room was engulfed in soft lighting from a floor lamp near the entrance. She could tell from the wide window that it was late at night, but she still felt groggy, as if she had not actually slept at all.
The walls and furniture consisted of soft cream and gold colors. In the far corner of the room, what she assumed to be the dining area, there was a small glass table with a bottle of champagne stuffed in a bucket of ice and two glasses sitting side by side. On the bedside table next to her was a bouquet of white peonies tied off at the stems with a white ribbon. The sound of rushing water greeted her ears and she suddenly wanted something to drink to wash away the taste of cotton that clung to her mouth.
Almost as soon as the thought had entered her mind the water was shut off and a door that had been only a few feet away from her creaked open, revealing Sylar's tall figure. He smiled at her, leaning against the door frame and drinking in her appearance. "Sleep well?"
The Indian woman felt her heart beat quicken and her stomach drop to her feet as she took in his attire. He was wearing what looked like a tuxedo suit except the jacket was missing and the bow tie was undone and hanging loosely around his neck and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up over his elbows.
"Wha... where?" she stammered, noticing for the first time that his jacket was covering her upper half like blanket. She frowned, pushing the coat off of her as if it suddenly burned her flesh only to be horrified by the sight that greeted her. The stripped blouse and jeans that she had passed out in were now gone. Instead, she was wrapped in a long, white gown. Sheer capped sleeves hung from her delicate shoulders. The dress she wore fit like a glove, hugging her shapely form in all the right places before spreading out at her knees in a delicate bloom of fabric. "What the hell is going on?"
Sylar's smile only widened as he glanced over at a radio on the opposite side of the room, using his telekinesis to turn it on. Mohana felt her insides turn cold as soft music began filling the room. It took her a moment to recognize the song as Dusty Springfield's The Look of Love. "You don't remember?" the serial killer asked, a faint note of humor clear in his tone as he slowly approached the king sized bed. "I could have sworn you were awake."
"What happened?" she snapped, scooting away slightly only to find invisible hands pressing her down on the mattress, freezing her to the spot.
The American was silent as he slid onto the bed beside her propping himself up on one elbow and staring at the Indian woman affectionately. "You know, when I first met you," he began, grasping her left hand gently in his. "I couldn't help wondering why no one had put a ring on that pretty little finger of yours." Her breath caught in her throat when he lifted her slim hand, exposing the gold band that now rested on her fourth finger. "I fixed that."
"You... we?" Mohana could practically feel the color drain from her face as she tried to piece her thoughts together. "You're lying!"
Sylar said nothing, he merely grabbed his suit jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. "Sorry," he shrugged, unfolding the paper and waving it an inch away from her nose.
The geneticist let out a trembling breath as she snatched the paper away from him, sitting erect as she read it over carefully. As if things couldn't possibly get any worse she saw their names (her name at least, she had to wonder if "Gabriel Gray" was another pseudonym as it sounded terribly fake) side by side on the legal document and what looked like a smug in place of her signature. "My gods," she choked. "This isn't possible."
"Don't worry about missing the ceremony," he murmured sitting up behind her and wrapping the horrified woman in his strong arms. "I got it on tape. You looked radiant of course. Although, I hear that every girl dreams about her wedding night. I guess you're lucky you'll be wide awake for this."
"No!" she shouted, twisting in his arms and struggling to push the murderer away from her, yet no matter how hard she struggled he would not let her go. "This can't be happening! Why are you doing this to me?"
"Because I love you," he said, his words plain and to the point as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"You're crazy!"
He gave her an amused smirk, pulling her closer to him and breathing in her scent as if it were the most divine thing in the world. "Love makes you act kinda crazy."
"I'm sure you were already emotionally unstable before we met, so don't blame your madness on me!"
Sylar pulled her away then, holding the Indian woman by her slim shoulders. The look he gave her was one of absolute pity as if she had just said the saddest thing in the world to him and it made her feel sick inside. "You poor creature," he whispered. "Did your father really hurt you so badly that you don't think any man could love you?"
"This isn't about my father!" she barked, beating on his chest and struggling to break free of his fierce hold. "This is about you kidnapping me and forcing me to marry you against my will!"
Sylar gave out a long sigh as he spread out his hand, telekinetically pressing Mohana down flat against the mattress before climbing on top of her, straddling the geneticist’s hips. "Don't worry, angel," he purred, bending down to drop fiery kisses against her cold skin. "I'm going to take good care of you. We're going to be happy. So happy." Mohana whimpered as her father's killer nuzzled her ear, drinking in her fragrance, her taste, the feel of her skin against his. "I've waited so long for this, Mohinder."
The name hit her like a bullet to the chest. She flinched away from him, struggling under the telekinetic hold. "What did you just call me?"
"Your real name," he explained between kisses. "Time travel's a funny thing. You change one little event and then the whole world shifts. But that's okay. We're alright this way. We'll still be happy and I'll still take good care of you."
He covered her lips with his searing hot mouth, his fingers burning their way down her soft white gown, and his whole body radiating with anticipation. Mohana closed her eyes, feeling a trail of tears running down her full cheeks, as she laid there thinking of India and the warm sun.
Author's Notes: In case anyone is curious, Mohana (which is a unisex name) means "bewitching, infatuating, charming." I thought it was the prefect name for a female version of Mohinder and it inspired me to write this fic. I also was inspired by the urge to write a serious girl!Mohinder story for once :P
Author: starrdust411
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Girl!Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Summary: Mohana knew the danger she was putting herself in when she agreed to take Zane along with her to Montana.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes.
Warnings: AU, Het, Gender Bender, Drama, Language
Mohana knew the danger she was putting herself in when she agreed to take Zane along with her to Montana. After all, she was, as her mother had said before her return to America, a foreign woman alone in a strange country. Yet Zane, who had seemed so harmless and charming, had insisted. He had told her it would be dangerous and promised to protect and the looming shadow that was Sylar instantly flashed into her mind.
She hadn't wanted to admit to herself that she needed the help, but she was defenseless against the murderer and the idea of having Zane along -- someone with an actual ability, although not a practical one in terms of self defense, someone who could actually prove to the others that her theories were right and that they were not alone -- did seem promising. Of course there had also been the painful loneliness that ate away at her heart ever since her return to the America. She missed Eden dearly. Even if the woman had been a spy planted in her building to keep watch over her research, she had still been a shoulder to lean on, a comforting presence that, in her ignorance, she could turn to when things were overwhelming.
Mohana imagined that Zane could be that presence when she had finally agreed to have him come with her, but that was when a new fear had emerged in her mind. Mohana was no naive young virgin. She knew men and she knew how they think. As much as she was hesitant to admit it, she was in fact an attractive young woman alone in this country. This pleasant young man could be leading her into a trap. The two of them alone together in a car, in the middle of a virtually empty road only set off the warning bells in her head. In her mind, Mohana could imagine Zane very clearly taking hold of the steering wheel and leading them off the road where he would rip her clothes off and have his way with her. The idea that she could be potentially putting her life at risk in an attempt to ward off another dangerous individual was a bitter irony that made her stomach turn and her palms sweat.
"Dr. Suresh?" Zane began, his voice so quiet and sincere, yet it frightened her even still. A part of her wanted to correct him and have him call her Mohana -- Dr. Suresh made her think of her father -- but she held her tongue. Allowing Zane to call her by her given name was too personal. She could not allow herself to open up to him. Even the slightest casual gesture could be interpreted the wrong way. "Are you alright? You're trembling."
"Just cold," she said quickly, hoping that that would be the end of his questions.
Instead, she was startled to see him removing his jacket and drapping it over her shoulders.
"Oh no, you don't have to," she stammered, her fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly that she felt them turn white.
"Don't be silly," he said, a shy smile gracing his lips as he carefully adjusted the jacket so it would stay on the geneticist even as she drove. "What sort of gentleman would I be if I let you keep shivering like that?"
Mohana wanted to point out that he could have easily reached over to turn the heater on, but stayed quiet, taking in Zane's foreign scent as it surrounded her and filled her nostrils.
They fell into an awkward silence after that, but driving for hours on end on the open road was long and tedious work. Mohana supposed she only made things worse by quickly snapping the radio off whenever a remotely romantic song came on. It was no real surprise when Zane started asking her questions -- after all, she was as much a stranger to him as he was to her -- but she answered them as quickly and formally as possible.
"Where are you from?"
"Chennai."
"I hope you don't mind me saying, but your accent sounds more British than India. How'd that happen?"
"I studied in England for a while."
"I haven't seen many Indian women with short hair. Did you always have it that way?"
It was funny how that question seemed too personal. In truth, her hair had not always been this short. Its length had once been what some may consider startlingly long. Her long black locks had once gone well past her waist, making it awkward to sit and expensive to maintain, but she kept it that way for her father. Chandra had always loved her hair. In her childhood, he would run his fingers through it and tell her how beautiful it was. It seemed to be the only thing about her that made him happy. When Chandra had left for America without her, brushing off her attempts to accompany him with startling indifference, she had chopped it all off in a fit of anger.
She still remembered gathering the loose black strands in her hands and slicing furiously with the scissors she had pulled from her desk drawer. Her head and been so overwhelmed by the change that she had felt dizzy. Her intention had been to keep it short until Chandra returned from America. She wanted to show him that she no longer needed his approval and was her own person. Of course, Mohana's plans had crumpled away when she had heard the news of her father's death. Her hair was short still, but she was now allowing it to regain its natural length. Months had past and the tips of her loose curls barely brushed the backs of her shoulders, making it clear that it would take many years to reverse the damage she had done.
"I cut it," she said simply, her voice wavering slightly in spite of her best efforts to keep her tone calm and even. "Recently."
Zane nodded, sensing her discomfort and slipped back into an uneasy silence once again.
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Mohana was careful to refuse anything Zane offered her. When they stopped for food, she made sure to pay for her meals. If she left her food or drinks with him, she would not finish it when she returned. When they decided to stop for the night, Mohana not only asked for separate rooms, she put them on separate floors. If Zane noticed her behavior, then he made no indications, and for that she was thankful. She was, after all, a woman and as such she was allowed to protect herself, even if her behavior seemed at times a little irrational.
"You can have your coat back," she told him before they separated for the night. Zane frowned, cocking his head to the side curiously. "It'll be very cold tomorrow," she explained, pulling the garment off her shoulders and shoving it to his chest. "You'll need it."
"I'll need it tomorrow," he corrected her, a small smile gracing his lips as he took the jacket from her and once again wrapped it around her slight frame. "You can keep it until then, Doctor."
With that said, he turned and left. Mohana had to wonder if he was taking away her chance to refuse him again on purpose, but shrugged it off.
That night, Mohana had wrapped herself under the motel room's flimsy sheets and shivered as the cold mountain air seeped in through the thin walls. After a few hours of struggling to keep herself warm, she got out of bed and checked the thermostat. It was obviously broken as it told her that her room was a toasty 80 degrees. She scowled and grabbed a pair of socks and Zane's jacket before slipping back between the sheets. She didn't bother to think of why she took his coat instead of her own as she drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the warm Indian sun.
The next morning Zane was at her door bright and early and begging for his jacket. Mohana had smiled coyly to herself as she slipped the jacket off her shoulders and approached the door cautiously. She slipped the small brass chain onto its lock before opening the door a few inches and handing the American his coat. She would not let him see her in her night clothes. It was too personal and the biting cold air was already making goose bumps spread across her exposed flesh.
"Thanks," Zane said, grasping the jacket and brushing the tips of her fingers with his knuckles. "Do you want me to get you some coffee?"
"No thank you," she declined politely before pressing the door closed, shutting out Zane and the too harsh wind. She would not drink anything he gave her.
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The meeting with Dale Smither had Mohana's body tingling with promise and hope. It was exciting to find more people from her father's list, to be able to meet them and discover their potential. She must have been grinning like a fool as they drove to their motel as Zane kept stealing probing glances at her from the corner of his eyes.
His behavior today had been... curious to put it mildly. Although the young man had claimed that it was excitement that was setting him off, Mohana could not help recalling the strange way Dale had looked at him, overhearing the unusual beats in his heart. The memory did nothing to ease her already hesitant feelings towards the American, but his warm and friendly smile was a clear attempt to turn her head.
"I'm sorry," she chuckled, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "Do I look silly?"
"What?" Zane blinked, startled out of his hypnotic gaze.
"You keep staring at me," she clarified.
Zane turned away quickly then, a horrified look on his face as his cheeks burned bright red. "I... I didn't mean..." he stammered, wringing his hands nervously. "Sorry."
She turned and smiled at him and -- despite the voice in her head that told her not to -- she reached out and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Mohana was loathe to admit it, but she did like Zane. He was sweet in an awkward way and his chivalrous behavior did warm her. Maybe they could be friends, if not something more. Later. Not now.
"It's alright," she said, slipping him his motel key.
It was unfortunate that this time she could not find rooms on separate floors, but suddenly that precaution seemed so unnecessary. She was certain she'd still be safe sleeping in the room next to his. With that thought in mind, she slipped out of the driver's seat and closed the door behind her, intent on grabbing her bag from the trunk. Yet Zane was already there, lifting the lid for her with an eager smile. Something inside her quivered with hesitance, but she brushed it away. He was just being polite.
"When you told that woman Dale that you could help her," he began as her lifted her bag out of the trunk carefully before grabbing his own, “is that really possible?"
"It's only theoretical at this point," she began, motioning to grab her bag, but Zane took it from her, carrying both suitcases with easy. She blushed, closing the trunk swiftly before getting in step beside the American man and heading towards their rooms. "But I am working on an inhibitor, a chemical that'll isolate the genetic mutation that causes these abnormalities. We can offer these people understanding, control, or, if needed, elimination of their ability."
As she spoke, she couldn’t help but feel her heart quicken with excitement. She felt a bit silly rambling on like this about ideas and possibilities, but it exhilarated her. Yet when she turned to look back at Zane she was saddened to see her feelings were not reflected.
"Elimination?" he repeated, a look of disgust clear on his face. "You make it sound like a virus or a plague."
Mohana frowned, suddenly feeling very foolish for indirectly insulting the man in front of her. She should have known to be more sensitive. The Indian woman would not appreciate someone belittling her like that, indirectly or not. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I didn't mean to imply... It's just not all of you exhibit the same set of skills that you do and they can be dangerous." Her voice grew quiet as the shadow of Sylar crawled its way into the forefront of her mind. "My father had to learn that firsthand."
Zane frowned, concern flashing in his dark eyes as they came to a stop in front of their respective doors. "How's that?" he asked, still holding her bag over his shoulder.
The geneticist felt a lump well up in her throat at the memory of the strange, far too clear dream that child in India had brought to her. She could still see it, her father's head being smashed against the taxi's window as determined white hands gripped his skull. It made her shiver even then. "He was murdered," she whispered, "by a man named Sylar."
Zane paled, his mouth hanging open slightly as he took a step closer to her. Mohana trembled, unconsciously taking a step back. She did not want to be touched or pitied so openly by this stranger. "What happened to this... Sylar?"
"I'm not sure," she confessed quietly as Zane took another step towards her, backing her into thick red door of her motel room. Her heart was pounding wildly and her legs wobbled as the pale young man loomed over her. She suddenly wanted to grab her bags and lock herself in her motel room.
"He just got away with killing your dad?" he asked, staring down at her, although Mohana could tell that it was not her eyes he was gazing into so fiercely.
"I only know he's gone," she told him, gripping the cold doorknob in her trembling fingers, "locked away. What does it matter? Even if I could come face-to-face with him, what difference would it make? Justice can never really be served."
"What a shame," he breathed and for a moment, the Indian woman felt certain Zane was going to kiss her. Yet she breathed a sigh of relief when he turned towards the horizon. "They're out there," he said, his voice rich with something dark and ominous. "I can feel them... so innocent, so unaware of what's happening to them. We'll find them, Mohana. All of them. Together. The two of us. It's our destiny."
She shuddered, her knuckles nearly white as she tried to turn the knob and remembered that it was still locked. "Can... Can I have my b-"
Her words were cut off as Zane quickly turned and pressed his lips to hers, pressing her flat against the door and pinning her there. She squirmed, realizing for the first time how tall and large Zane was and how foolish she had been to think that this capable, strong young man was "harmless." She squeaked and struggled, pushing at his broad shoulders with her tiny brown hands before they eventually parted with a slight pop.
"Please," she panted. "I'm... I'm not that kind of girl."
For a moment she expected Zane to be angry, for his eyes to flash with rage and for him to drag her unwillingly into his motel room, but it didn't happen. Instead his eyes widened and he pulled away as if realizing for the first time what he was doing. "I... I'm so sorry," he breathed quickly. "I just... I thought... you're very beautiful."
"I'm sorry," she told him, even as she realized she was not the one who should be apologizing. "You're very nice, but... I'm in no place for this sort of thing. We just met."
"I know," Zane nodded.
"I hardly know you."
"I understand."
"I'm not like that."
"Of course not," he sighed, taking her bag off his shoulder and handing it to her. She took it in her trembling hands, hugging the thick suitcase to her chest. "You're a lady and I should treat you like one." A small, apologetic smile spread across his lips as he grasped her hand in his, raising it to his mouth and placing a gentle kiss on her nearly frozen skin. "I'll see you in the morning," he murmured, his hot breath warming her flesh.
"Yeah," she whispered, her voice trembling as he slipped away into the darkness.
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In the morning everything was different. Dale was dead and suddenly her awkward encounter with Zane seemed so small and unimportant. Sylar was on the loose. He had escaped his captors and was killing again. Her skin broke out into a panicked sweat and her heart beat like a jackhammer in her chest as she clutched the steering wheel, determined not to stop until they were safe in New York.
Her thoughts whirled in her head, her father's murder and Dale's lifeless body flashing before her eyes every time she blinked. She was a bit embarrassed by the way she had reacted. Her scream had probably made Zane’s already blinding headache even worse and throwing up all over the hood of their rental car was not one of her finest moments.
"Dr. Suresh," Zane began, pulling her out of her panicked daydreams. "You're shaking like a leaf. Pull over. I'll drive."
"I... I don't... I can't," she stuttered. The Indian knew she sounded like a lunatic, but her mind was too frightened to form any coherent thoughts.
"Mohana," Zane said, resting a warm hand on her shoulder. "Pull over."
"You're sick," she reminded him, her eyes watering even as she spoke. She knew couldn't keep going like this.
"I'm feeling better," he assured her. "Come on, let's pull over."
Reluctantly she did as he said. Mohana's body was still quaking as she slipped out of the driver's seat and made her way to the passenger's side. Zane met her halfway and engulfed her in his strong arms. She stiffened at first, embarrassed at having to be soothed like a frightened child, but after a while she allowed herself to bury her face in Zane's warm chest and cried.
"It's okay," Zane whispered, rocking her back and forth. "Everything's going to be okay."
"How can you say that?" she gasped even as she breathed in his scent, her mind slowly calming as she took in his heat. "You're in danger because of me. He'll come after you! He'll kill you for your abilities and... It's all because of me."
Her stomach twisted and turned as her mother's words suddenly came back into her mind. Mohana remembered learning through her about her sister less than a day after her father's funeral, and that was when all the pieces seemed to fall into place. It was why her father had held her forever at arm's length. It was why he could never love her and only looked at her with disappointment in his tired eyes. Shanti had been the child they had planned for, the child they had wanted. Mohana was just a back up. Second best in every way. Shanti would probably be better at all of this. She probably would have gone to America with their father and protected him from this monster. She wished so fiercely in that moment that she had never been born. It hurt to live in a world where she could not measure up no matter how hard she tried. She was a failure in every sense of the word and now Zane was going to pay the price for her incompetence.
"Shhhh," Zane soothed, running a tender hand down her back. "It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself."
"You don't understand," she whimpered, but Zane quickly cut her off, holding her tighter and pressing his cheek against the top of her head.
"I understand," he whispered. "I'm here for you. Let me be here for you."
She trembled as he breathed in her scent and then kissed the top of her head. Mohana did not try to stop him or push him away. She wanted to feel safe and loved for once.
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The gun trembled in her hands even as she stared into the hard, black eyes of her father's killer. This was not where she wanted to be. Even as the urge to shoot, to end this man's life screamed inside of her, she hesitated. Mohana knew that she was not a killer. To shoot him now would make her sink to his level and she was above that. She was above him.
She clenched her jaw, gripping the weapon with both hands, her finger itching to pull the trigger.
Sylar merely sat there staring at her, disbelief clear in his dark eyes. She had to feel proud of herself. Being able to trick and sedate a serial killer was not something many women could boast about doing on their own, but she had. She'd managed to keep her cool even as she read the real Zane Taylor’s obituary on the computer screen. She had stayed as calm and level headed as humanly possible as she slipped the sedative into Sylar's tea. Yet Sylar's taunting words had stung her heart. The mere whisper of Shanti and her father's love for her long gone sister was all that was needed to set her off. Mohana had wanted to break down right then and there, but she hadn't. But she had what she needed now. Sylar's DNA had helped with the list and now it was time to dispose of the rat once and for all.
"You love me," he whispered to her. "That's why you can't do it. Even now, you feel it. Our connection."
"Don't flatter yourself," she spat, fighting to steady her hands once more. "Just because I am reluctant to take another human life, even one as worthless as yours, does not mean I feel anything more than contempt for you."
"Then why did you let me hold you like that, Mohana?" he asked, a too cocky smirk on his pale features. "Why'd you let me kiss you and tell you how beautiful you were?"
"I let Zane Taylor do those things!" she corrected. "Not you."
"Just like a woman," he sneered. "Complicating your emotions more than necessary."
"This has nothing to do with me being a woman," she snapped.
"You're right. A real woman wouldn't be this cold."
Mohana scowled at his words, narrowing her eyes as the cruel voice in the back of her head told her to silence him once and for all. "And what would a 'real woman' do with you?"
His face softened, as he flexed his pale hands, still strapped down to the arms of the chair, in a nervous twitch. "Help me find a way," he pleaded. "Give me salvation." Her eyes softened for just the briefest second as she took in his pathetic words. Less than a heart beat passed as she actually entertained the idea of letting him go, before the serial killer screwed his eyes shut and let out a frustrated growl. "Give me that damn list so I can skin my teeth into it!"
That was all she needed to hear to make up her mind. Sylar could beg and plead and promise everything under the sun, but he would not change and he would not feel sorry for what he had done. She schooled her looks as she cocked the gun in her hands. A single tear slid down the man's pale cheek, but she paid it now mind. It meant nothing.
"I'm a natural progression of the species," he told her, a soft smile gracing his lips as if he expected her to understand. "Evolution is part of nature, and nature kills."
"What you've done is not evolution, it's murder," she spat, her hands no longer trembling and all the troubled thoughts in her mind quieted. "What I'm doing is revenge. I can finally fulfill my duty as a daughter."
With those words spoken, she pulled the trigger, without a single drop of remorse or regret filling her heart. She expected it to be over. She had anticipated the horrific sight of blood and brains splattering against the walls, yet it never came. Instead, Sylar's head jerked back, but the bullet did not hit home. It merely floated in the space between them, a good foot away from its target. Mohana's blood ran cold as her arms, suddenly so tired from holding the pistol in her hands, fell loosely to her sides. Her eyes widened and her heart stilled as bullet clinked to the floor, useless and forgotten.
"I wasn't begging for my life," Sylar said, his voice hauntingly even as the duct tape that had been holding his hands and legs still were telekinetically peeled off. "I was offering you yours. You are your father's child. So determined that you didn't even notice I stopped the IV."
Mohana's knees almost gave way under her weight as the pale American approached her. Her legs shook and her mind reeled with horrific possibilities as she took a few hesitant steps backwards before stumbling into her desk. "I won't give you the list," she bit out, trying her best to steady her wavering voice.
Sylar laughed, a deep a rumbling sound that only made ice run through her being. "You poor creature," he whispered, cupping her cheek in his hand. "It's not just about that anymore."
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When Mohana woke up, she was no longer in her father's apartment. She moaned, cradling her head in her hands as she slowly sat up on the soft bed she had been resting in. From the looks of things, she was in a hotel room, a rather expensive one at that. The room was engulfed in soft lighting from a floor lamp near the entrance. She could tell from the wide window that it was late at night, but she still felt groggy, as if she had not actually slept at all.
The walls and furniture consisted of soft cream and gold colors. In the far corner of the room, what she assumed to be the dining area, there was a small glass table with a bottle of champagne stuffed in a bucket of ice and two glasses sitting side by side. On the bedside table next to her was a bouquet of white peonies tied off at the stems with a white ribbon. The sound of rushing water greeted her ears and she suddenly wanted something to drink to wash away the taste of cotton that clung to her mouth.
Almost as soon as the thought had entered her mind the water was shut off and a door that had been only a few feet away from her creaked open, revealing Sylar's tall figure. He smiled at her, leaning against the door frame and drinking in her appearance. "Sleep well?"
The Indian woman felt her heart beat quicken and her stomach drop to her feet as she took in his attire. He was wearing what looked like a tuxedo suit except the jacket was missing and the bow tie was undone and hanging loosely around his neck and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up over his elbows.
"Wha... where?" she stammered, noticing for the first time that his jacket was covering her upper half like blanket. She frowned, pushing the coat off of her as if it suddenly burned her flesh only to be horrified by the sight that greeted her. The stripped blouse and jeans that she had passed out in were now gone. Instead, she was wrapped in a long, white gown. Sheer capped sleeves hung from her delicate shoulders. The dress she wore fit like a glove, hugging her shapely form in all the right places before spreading out at her knees in a delicate bloom of fabric. "What the hell is going on?"
Sylar's smile only widened as he glanced over at a radio on the opposite side of the room, using his telekinesis to turn it on. Mohana felt her insides turn cold as soft music began filling the room. It took her a moment to recognize the song as Dusty Springfield's The Look of Love. "You don't remember?" the serial killer asked, a faint note of humor clear in his tone as he slowly approached the king sized bed. "I could have sworn you were awake."
"What happened?" she snapped, scooting away slightly only to find invisible hands pressing her down on the mattress, freezing her to the spot.
The American was silent as he slid onto the bed beside her propping himself up on one elbow and staring at the Indian woman affectionately. "You know, when I first met you," he began, grasping her left hand gently in his. "I couldn't help wondering why no one had put a ring on that pretty little finger of yours." Her breath caught in her throat when he lifted her slim hand, exposing the gold band that now rested on her fourth finger. "I fixed that."
"You... we?" Mohana could practically feel the color drain from her face as she tried to piece her thoughts together. "You're lying!"
Sylar said nothing, he merely grabbed his suit jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. "Sorry," he shrugged, unfolding the paper and waving it an inch away from her nose.
The geneticist let out a trembling breath as she snatched the paper away from him, sitting erect as she read it over carefully. As if things couldn't possibly get any worse she saw their names (her name at least, she had to wonder if "Gabriel Gray" was another pseudonym as it sounded terribly fake) side by side on the legal document and what looked like a smug in place of her signature. "My gods," she choked. "This isn't possible."
"Don't worry about missing the ceremony," he murmured sitting up behind her and wrapping the horrified woman in his strong arms. "I got it on tape. You looked radiant of course. Although, I hear that every girl dreams about her wedding night. I guess you're lucky you'll be wide awake for this."
"No!" she shouted, twisting in his arms and struggling to push the murderer away from her, yet no matter how hard she struggled he would not let her go. "This can't be happening! Why are you doing this to me?"
"Because I love you," he said, his words plain and to the point as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"You're crazy!"
He gave her an amused smirk, pulling her closer to him and breathing in her scent as if it were the most divine thing in the world. "Love makes you act kinda crazy."
"I'm sure you were already emotionally unstable before we met, so don't blame your madness on me!"
Sylar pulled her away then, holding the Indian woman by her slim shoulders. The look he gave her was one of absolute pity as if she had just said the saddest thing in the world to him and it made her feel sick inside. "You poor creature," he whispered. "Did your father really hurt you so badly that you don't think any man could love you?"
"This isn't about my father!" she barked, beating on his chest and struggling to break free of his fierce hold. "This is about you kidnapping me and forcing me to marry you against my will!"
Sylar gave out a long sigh as he spread out his hand, telekinetically pressing Mohana down flat against the mattress before climbing on top of her, straddling the geneticist’s hips. "Don't worry, angel," he purred, bending down to drop fiery kisses against her cold skin. "I'm going to take good care of you. We're going to be happy. So happy." Mohana whimpered as her father's killer nuzzled her ear, drinking in her fragrance, her taste, the feel of her skin against his. "I've waited so long for this, Mohinder."
The name hit her like a bullet to the chest. She flinched away from him, struggling under the telekinetic hold. "What did you just call me?"
"Your real name," he explained between kisses. "Time travel's a funny thing. You change one little event and then the whole world shifts. But that's okay. We're alright this way. We'll still be happy and I'll still take good care of you."
He covered her lips with his searing hot mouth, his fingers burning their way down her soft white gown, and his whole body radiating with anticipation. Mohana closed her eyes, feeling a trail of tears running down her full cheeks, as she laid there thinking of India and the warm sun.
Author's Notes: In case anyone is curious, Mohana (which is a unisex name) means "bewitching, infatuating, charming." I thought it was the prefect name for a female version of Mohinder and it inspired me to write this fic. I also was inspired by the urge to write a serious girl!Mohinder story for once :P