The Long Road, Chapter 1
Title: The Long Road
Author: erradnofmercy
Pairing(s), Character(s): Mylar
Rating: (this chapter) PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary: AU from "The Hard Part." Sylar hits the skids.
Disclaimer: Heroes is not mine, but it did follow me home one day and I’ve been keeping it in irons in my basement ever since >;)
Word Count: 6,101 (sit down with a mug of chai, it's gonna be a long one)
A/N: A big thanks to my beta eviinsanemonkey for her insight and stamina <3
Chapter 1: Breakdown
The steps creaked under Mohinder’s feet, one by one, as he trudged, exhausted, up the three flights to his apartment. Paint peeled from the walls, tired and brittle - the same feelings that enveloped the doctor. The last weeks of his life had been alternately terrifying and ecstatic, and he keenly felt the hollow ache of disappointment in his bones after Zane - no, Sylar's, betrayal.
Creak, creak. Crouched in the darkness near the door, Sylar heard each step. He held his breath, steadied his shaking hands and wiped his eyes, prickling with anticipation. Mohinder reached the worn door, fumbled through the brown leather shoulder bag for his keys and let out a heavy sigh. Sylar almost lost his nerve looking up at those dark eyes, the sag in those normally taut shoulders. But he swallowed, and managed to speak.
The geneticist straightened. There was a stirring from somewhere below him, and a soft, familiar voice said, “Mohinder.”
He froze, shocked. Mohinder stared hard into the void from whence the voice had come. Slowly, the familiar form of Sylar crawled out of the darkness. He was wearing glasses now, his impossibly straight hair parted to one side. His sunken, red-rimmed eyes were dull and glassy, the fierce spark they usually held absent like a blown-out candle. He looked up at Mohinder with the most pitiful, pleading expression the he had ever seen.
With Mohinder on guard, Sylar got shakily to his feet. His balance was unsteady, and he held himself to the peeling wall for support. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and chillingly soft.
“I thought you’d never get home…” he began, his stuttering uncertainty frightening Mohinder more than any act of violence had before. “I wanted to call, but I thought I’d only scare you away-“ Sylar’s breath hitched, and Mohinder watched as tears welled in his eyes. The rest of his explanation was lost as sobs began to wrench themselves from his blood-soaked chest. Mohinder was paralyzed, faced with an impossible choice. Finally, Sylar choked out, “Please, can I just - can I just come in for a minute?” Unable to meet Mohinder’s gaze, Sylar stared helplessly at the musty carpet below.
Mohinder clicked the key into the lock. He tried to show as little emotion as possible - it was safer that way. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” he said quietly, extracting another series of sobs from Sylar. Mohinder did his best to appear unmoved. “All right,” he said after a long moment, “come in.”
The apartment was just as he had left it- Mohinder obviously hadn’t taken much trouble to clean up the mess they had made a few days before. The faint green glow of the desk lamp, smashed but still functional, illuminated the rubble of their face-off. There were, as always, dishes in the sink and clothing strewn across the remaining intact furniture. Mohinder shrugged off his coat and worn shoulder bag and flicked on the kitchen light to dispel the feeling of dread settling in his stomach. Once again, he was at the mercy of the man who had killed his father and, though he was loath to admit it, broken his heart. He had fallen into his role as victim just as easily as he had fallen for the impostor Zane Taylor. But this time, he promised himself, he would not be fooled.
Sylar stumbled after him, sore from tragedy and from sitting crouched by the door for so long, waiting for Mohinder to return. The geneticist was ignoring him, unpacking his bag and shedding the many layers he wore to shield himself from the bitter New York City winter. He had been avoiding cabs since his run-in with the man in the horn-rimmed glasses, and it was a long walk home from the office that now served as his laboratory. Briefly, Mohinder wondered if Sylar’s coat kept him warm enough - or if a killer like him could even feel warm and cold after the atrocities he’d committed. Paralyzed by the unfamiliar feeling of loss that overwhelmed him, Sylar stood dumbly by the open door. Mohinder kept his distance as he circled around to close it; Sylar felt the sting of his hatred sharply in his chest. Mohinder looked him up and down, analyzing, searching for clues to explain his sudden appearance and emotional distress. It was highly out of character. Sylar had to be up to something.
The murderer and manipulator who had spoon-fed him affection and kindness, killed an innocent woman under his very nose, and overpowered a double-dose of curare to beat him senseless was now swaying unsteadily in his doorway with tears running down his newly clean-shaven face. The man who had riddled Peter Petrelli’s head with glass splinters, who had used his father’s research to locate and befriend his victims was now sniffling and wringing his hands, looking at Mohinder with an expression more terrified and lost than he himself felt.
He had thought that impossible. At least, it seemed, he had a tad more control over the situation than he’d expected to. He steeled himself, made his voice (he hoped) sound harsh and stern, and finally broke the silence between them.
“Well? What do you want?”
Sylar looked at him, eyes deep and unfathomable, his voice a rough whisper. “Please,” he replied, taking a step forward. “Forgive me.”
Images flashed before Mohinder’s mind’s eye: that room, deep within Sylar’s apartment in Queens; the copy of his father’s map, covered with photographs and that mysterious symbol; the medical textbook lying open on the desk with a two-page spread of a bloody human head, brain removed. The innermost wall of the closet that had been carved, painted and scribbled with repetitions of the same tragic phrase that had made Mohinder shiver and stare:
FATHER FORGIVE ME FOR I HAVE SINNED
Mohinder wanted to ridicule him, push him down, spit in his face. He wanted to summon up the venom and rage he’d felt when he’d (albeit shakily) pointed a gun to Sylar’s head, strapped him into a chair, forced the inches-long syringe into his neck. But those feelings were gone, replaced, to his horror, by a gut-wrenching, throat-tightening pity. The best he could do was scowl. “It won’t be that easy,” he answered coldly.
Mohinder busied himself at the stove, fixing tea for both of them mostly because he could think of nothing else to do. He hoped that Sylar would shed some light on the situation while he puttered, killing time, but no explanation came. With (surely undue) generosity, Mohinder considered that Sylar might prefer not to drink chai. He wondered if Sylar would even accept a drink from him now. The killer sat draped like a wilted plant over the small, wobbly table where Mohinder sometimes ate his meals, his ragged breathing and occasional groans making the bowl of ripe red tomatoes upon it tip precariously back and forth. He set down the two green ceramic mugs, the same as the ones they had used only days before in a toast to “new friends.” One of them still lay in shards on the floor by Mohinder’s father’s desk. Sylar looked up slowly as the mugs clanked down, eyes red and wide. The symbolism was lost on him.
Glancing at the dried blood crusting on the killer’s clenched hands, Mohinder adopted a tone much calmer than he truly felt. “You’re filthy. Do you want to take a shower?” he asked, feeling more than a little queasy at the sight of so much blood. “You’ll need a change of clothes as well…” A shower would buy Mohinder some time to - well, not that there was much he could do. Calling the police would be foolish, and alerting the Company would be, he thought wryly, either useless or disastrous. No trying to take matters into his own hands again - he had proven himself a poor captor and an even worse fighter, even without considering Sylar's obvious advantage. He supposed that ten or fifteen minutes alone would allow him to start trying to figure out the best way to come out of this alive, uninjured, and with some shred of dignity left. But it was all for naught; Sylar shook his head weakly. Mohinder stiffened, “All right, then, do you want to tell my why the Hell you came back here?” he asked, angry, afraid and completely at a loss as to what the response might be.
Sylar looked down at the mug of tea, his eyes dull and empty. “No, I don’t want to.” His voice was low and gravelly, but in a way that was more sore than sinister. He took a ragged breath, and shifted his weight slightly. “But I will.”
Mohinder waited for a long time. Sylar’s hands shook as they grasped the mug, and it clattered noisily on the tabletop. “My mother,” he finally managed, his face contorted in pain. “I k-killed her.”
* * *
The confession hung heavy in the air as Mohinder was assailed by conflicting emotions. Pity, infuriatingly, was the first. Poor soul, his heart blurted without consulting his head, a motherless boy is a tragic thing indeed. Then came that twisted sense of justice that always haunted him - now, it seemed, they were “even” at last. Perhaps feeling firsthand the pain of losing a parent would enlighten him as to the source of Mohinder's enduring bitterness. Would it be too much to expect some empathy from the killer now? Curiosity trumped both pity and sick satisfaction, finally prompting him to break the silence. “What happened? How did you do it?” he asked tentatively.
Sylar's trauma-fragmented thinking seemed to coalesce loosely around an explanation for a moment, but whatever he was about to say was subsumed by a tide of grief so powerful that even Mohinder's steeled countenance softened with sympathy. He curled in on himself, breath exploding from his lungs in a gust of remorse as he hid his face in the shadows of his dark coat. Fear, hatred and an indelible instinct to comfort formed a paralytic mixture in Mohinder's veins - part of him wanted to reach out to the other man, but he could only bring himself to watch in horror as Sylar broke down in braying, dry-throated sobs.
Venturing a guess, Mohinder probed quietly, hoping to still his visitor. “Was it an accident?” he asked in the gentlest tones he possessed.
Sylar managed a weak nod, and his spastic breathing began to slow. “I was... lost. I went to see her,” he ground out. “I tried to tell her about my abilities but she didn't -“ he choked on another sob - “she didn't understand.”
Mohinder was watching intently as his former tormentor poured out his loss. His incredulous gaze fixed on Sylar's fathomless dark eyes, hypnotic and wet with tears.
“When I showed her what I could do... she got scared,” Sylar continued, wringing his hands raw. “She told me to get out, she thought I was someone else -“ he wiped his eyes, the thought of his mother's failure to recognize his true self unbearably sour on his tongue.
Mohinder was digesting all this about as easily as a kidney stone, staring at Sylar in wonder, unable to strike a balance between utter horror at the man's brutality and pity at his soul-wrenching humanity. Thoughts flashed through his mind, unbidden and unwanted. An absent father. A deluded, uncomprehending, fragile mother. A son's failure to be accepted for who he truly is, resigned to blindly follow his parents' mundane, mislaid plans...
Was there really no comparing the two of them? he thought, remembering himself only a few weeks ago at this very table, weeping like a widow over his father's ashes. Were their fates irreconcilable? Or were they but two souls trapped in the same terrible karmic cycle?
“She didn't recognize you?” Mohinder prompted. Sylar shook his head.
“She thought... I don't know. She thought I was an impostor...”
Mohinder quirked an eyebrow. “Well, you look a bit… unusual, don’t you?” he asked.
Sylar tapped the pair of ugly coke-bottle glasses that rested on his sniffling nose. “I used to wear these,” he explained wearily, “all the time. And the stupid hair, and the dowdy clothes...” he sighed. “But that wasn't it. I looked the same. It was the power that scared her, the... confidence.”
Mohinder waited.
“She tried to stab me with sewing scissors,” Sylar finally admitted, the awkwardness of the truth sounding foreign on his tongue. Mohinder's eyebrows shot up in an expression of tragic surprise. “I was trying to wrestle them away, and... I don't know what happened. We were both scared. Somehow they wound up...”
He could go no further. Sylar's voice disintegrated into a cracked sob. Mohinder averted his gaze, studying the dusty tile floor with intent. So it was an accident. Not that that mattered now - besides proving that even Sylar's savagery had a limit. He wondered what his father would have thought of all this. Was it just another of evolution's cruel machinations? Was this the necessary period of suffering before the glory of adaptation?
“I'm sorry,” Mohinder broke in, half sincere and half sarcastic, “but why did you come here? What do you want with me? I can't bring back the dead, as you well know.”
Sylar looked up from where he had hunched over the table, his deep doe-y eyes penetrating Mohinder like a chill wind. The emptiness, the numbness inside them was petrifying. But Mohinder held his gaze.
“I've got nowhere else to go,” Sylar confessed, deflated. “She was the only person I had... and now she's gone.” He wiped his raw, red eyes again, sniffing. “I don't want you to bring back the dead, Mohinder. I just thought... I hoped... maybe you could bring me back.”
A tendril of twisted satisfaction curled its way like a plume of sweet cigar smoke through Mohinder's gut. It was the moment he'd been waiting for. Sylar broken, at his mercy, begging for his help. He could destroy the man with a mere word. In a heartbeat.
But there was that pesky pity again, gnawing at his deadened conscience. He relented. Sylar's resolve had been crippled, but his abilities remained just as formidable as before. There was no telling what he would do with his last ties to humanity removed, rejected by the last of the people who cared about him. Even if Mohinder cared just as much as he loathed, he reasoned, he could not expect to just write him out of his life. Not now. It was just as he'd said in that night in Montana, bundled up in a dead man's coat. Destiny.
Mohinder's attention shifted, realizing his gaze was still trained on Sylar, who was waiting, laid bare, for his redemption. “What do you mean?” he intoned, a rhetorical but necessary question. He wanted to know exactly what Sylar expected of him - and what he planned for himself.
Sylar's reply was simple. “I don't want to do this anymore,” he answered, shifting his eyes to the floor nervously.
“Killing people?”
“Mm.” Sylar nodded.
“Why not?” Mohinder's inner professor was going to work, trying to get more out of the man than he had offered.
Sylar regarded him quizzically, laying his palms up on the table. “Because... it's not working. I thought I would be relieving people of a burden, a gift they didn't deserve and didn't use. But I've killed - people with no abilities at all. People who I... cared about.”
“Like my father?” Mohinder was testing the waters, perhaps foolishly. Could he keep his personal vendetta out of the conversation and still discuss this?
Sylar groaned, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “Killing Chandra was... the first in a long line of mistakes,” he replied. “I'm sorry, Mohinder. But it ends here, tonight,” he finished firmly, his expression fierce. “If you'll help me.”
“I can't help you,” Mohinder protested. “You have to help yourself. I'm not a psychologist, and heaven knows I'm a terrible counselor.” Mohinder sighed in exasperation. “What do you expect me to do? I can't even write a prescription -“
“You're the only one who can help me, Mohinder. I know it.” Sylar's voice was grave, his gaze intent as he probed Mohinder's face for a reaction.
“And how exactly do you know this?!” Mohinder demanded.
“Because I've seen the future,” Sylar replied.
Mohinder gaped. “The painter's ability...?” he began, to which Sylar responded with a remorseful nod. “You... had a vision?”
“If you don't help me stop, it's going to get worse,” Sylar explained in quiet horror. “Much, much worse.”
Mohinder stared, the implications dawning on his confounded brain. “The city?”
“The whole city. Mohinder.” Sylar's inky eyes brimmed with tears. He looked as if he might start to weep again. “I can't let this happen. We can't let this happen,” he pleaded.
“You're right,” Mohinder conceded, covering Sylar's pale, trembling hand gingerly with his own. “We can't.”
* * *
Sylar went dreadfully still at the contact, an almost reverent expression on his haggard face. With the killer's menacing veneer stripped away, Mohinder could see the damaged creature that lived beneath Sylar's thick skin. In a gesture of inexplicable compassion, Mohinder curled his warm, solid fingers around the other man's. How could they be endowed with such otherworldly gifts, yet appear so pale and fragile? He heard a small, measured intake of breath from Sylar, who seemed to be directing all his control at biting back a tumult of emotion.
“Mohinder,” he said roughly, eyes downcast. “You don't deserve this.”
The geneticist gave a slight shrug. In his darker moments, he wasn't so sure. “It doesn't matter,” he replied, coming around the table to crouch beside the killer. “I'm here now.” From his new vantage point, Mohinder glanced under the table and noticed the boot-prints and drips of dark blood that surrounded Sylar's chair. He fought down a wave of nausea, straightening and motioning towards the W.C. “Are you ready for a bath now?” he asked, hoping to rouse Sylar from his torpid depression.
The soft ah of Mohinder's 'bath' made Sylar's numb heart flutter to life. “Sure,” he acquiesced, getting gingerly to his feet. His brows came together as the pounding in his head reached a fever pitch, and he stumbled, gripping the table.
“What is it?” Mohinder asked, his senses on high alert as he tried to discern the source of the snarl on Sylar's face. What was the likelihood that this was all a trick? Was Sylar about to change his mind and resort to violence to quell his worries yet again?
Sylar took a deep breath and straightened. “It's just my head,” he responded hoarsely. “It's been hurting since... since last night.” Since I sawed open Isaac Mendez's skull, he did not say, but the spark of grim recognition in Mohinder's eyes told him that he already knew.
Mohinder helped him to the bathroom, pulling out a spare towel from his tiny, musty linen closet. In the failing light of the neglected room, he felt a ludicrous twinge of embarrassment at the poorly-maintained fixtures and rust-ringed drains. But then he thought of Sylar's eerily immaculate apartment, and decided his living space was, if not well-tended, at least a bit more honest about its inhabitant. Sylar, however, took no notice of such minor details. He slumped into a sitting position on the edge of the tub, wearily peeling off the sullied clothes of his former self. Mohinder pulled the rubbish bin over to him and gingerly helped him out of the crimson-splattered flannel and defiled Dockers. Sylar tossed his boots directly in the garbage - they were hardly recoverable after what they'd been through. He looked down with dismay at his blood-soaked briefs, shucking them with an air of panic.
As Sylar stepped into the shower, Mohinder's eyes traveled over his bare, ashen skin. The heavy hair on his arms and chest only brought out the contrast of his vulnerable, translucent-looking flesh. Sylar seemed to shrink from the cold, regarding Mohinder with a look of fearful gratitude.
“Thank you,” he breathed as he pulled the mildewed curtain between them.
Mohinder did not reply, slinging the bag of bloodied clothing over his shoulder to deposit it by the door. He sighed, frustrated with himself for being such a tool. Just hours ago, he had been coerced into taking care of Thompson's young prisoner - he had even enjoyed the girl's company, in spite of its compulsory nature. Now, here was again, fulfilling the whims of the man who had murdered Molly's parents as well as his own father. Was he nothing but a mindless cog in the evolutionary machine? When would he make a choice that reflected his own goals rather than the will of others?
Survive and adapt or perish, he thought, dropping the bloody evidence by his front door for disposal in the morning. He kicked aside a large chunk of glass on the floor, shaking his head. Perhaps, in this world, survival was tantamount to equity.
* * *
Mohinder listened, with a racing mind and bated breath, as Sylar washed away the last days' blood and grime a room away. He could hear the muffled sounds of misery wrenching themselves from the killer's throat amid the clink of bottles and the steady hiss of warm water. Reaching into his dusty closet, he gave a bitter smile as he retrieved the duffel bag that “Zane” had brought from Montana. Not wanting to discover any mementos that would turn his stomach, he simply tossed the whole bag into the steamy bathroom where Sylar was drying off.
“Your things are still here,” he called neutrally through the curtain as the bag landed with a soft thud.
Sylar frowned as he emerged, clean and warm, from the safety of the shower. Mohinder couldn't help raking his eyes over his damnably appealing form. He felt his mouth go dry as he stole a glance at the angular contour of his hip, pale skin dusted with dark hair. “They're not my things,” Sylar admitted, poking the bag with a freshly-scrubbed foot. He looked up pleadingly at Mohinder.
“What?” Mohinder demanded. “You won't wear any of this?”
Sylar rubbed his damp head, conflict creasing his features. “I don't think it's a good idea,” he cautioned. “Keeping his stuff…it’d be like… a reward for killing him. I think we should get rid of it.”
Mohinder sighed, hands on his hips. “So you want to borrow my clothes?”
The other man gave a disarming half-smile that (though he'd never admit it) melted Mohinder's resolve. “Fine,” he spat, heading back into his room to rifle around for something clean.
The drawers in Mohinder's dresser had been ransacked from Thompson's pillaging the day before. His clothing lay in heaps around the room, furniture turned upside down or smashed. He hadn't as yet had the resolve to start putting things back together - simply surviving had taken up all of his attention until now. As he searched the rubble, he managed to come up with an old, baggy pair of blue jeans and one of his more ghastly button-down shirts. Its garish paisley design had launched his mother into a gale of malevolent laughter when he'd first brought it home. He hoped that it would suffice.
He tried to ignore the thrill he felt as Sylar reluctantly pulled the hideous shirt over his head. He seemed too tired for humor at this point, wordlessly accepting Mohinder's selections, though Mohinder knew any other day he’d have had an earful. He wiped up the water on the floor and carefully hung up his towel, a troubled expression on his otherwise still face.
“How do you feel?” Mohinder asked tentatively.
Sylar graced him with another half-smile, though it was clear that a storm was still raging beneath his composure. “Better,” he replied, relief evident in his voice. He made his way to the living area, remorsefully kicking aside a splintered piece of Chandra's old blackboard. Mohinder followed closely behind, toting Zane's bag over to the door, where he dropped it beside the bag of Sylar's soiled clothes. He motioned over to the saggy leather sofa, where the two of them sat down wearily.
Mohinder leaned forward, planting his elbows on his bony knees. His eyes were as clear and bright as Sylar's were tired and dim as they sat, facing off yet again, in what would hopefully prove a more constructive setting. “We need to talk,” he said flatly, hoping that both of them were up to traversing the long road that lay ahead.
* * *
It was difficult for Mohinder to resist the temptation to write it all down, but Sylar insisted he didn't need to. Eidetic memory, he explained, a skill he'd “picked up” a few weeks ago. Still, the teacher in Mohinder wanted a record of what had been said. After all, though Sylar might have a flawless memory, afterwards he could (and would) twist the facts however he wanted.
In spite of his role as the reluctant savior, it was very clear to Mohinder who was in charge of the conversation. Sylar was by turns contrite and ebullient, taciturn and verbose, but their dialogue was dictated by the abrupt swings of his mood, as predictable and unstoppable as the pendulum of a grandfather clock.
“...if you really want to stop yourself from doing any further harm, the obvious answer would be to go to the police,” Mohinder said, looking sideways as he sipped his cooling tea. “You'd have a devil of a time causing a nuclear explosion from inside a prison cell...”
Sylar took the bait. “That's ridiculous!” he raged, pale face flushing with color. “I am not going to turn myself in!” His challenge hung in the air, having exactly the effect Mohinder desired.
“Well, then,” Mohinder replied in a razor-edged voice, “what are you going to turn yourself into?”
Sylar considered the question with a raised eyebrow - Mohinder could almost see the gears spinning in his magnificently complex brain. A smile of comprehension ghosted across his brightening face. When he spoke, his voice had lost its bite, the tension boiled away to a rich baritone that sent a chill down Mohinder's spine.
“A hero.”
* * *
“What time is it?” Mohinder yawned, stretching out his cramped legs on the coffee table. He scratched his growling stomach absentmindedly, wondering how long they'd been immersed in cathartic conversation.
“It's four thirty-six,” Sylar pronounced incredulously, squinting through the cracked glass of his namesake. He looked out the recessed window into the first inklings of dawn. “When did I get here? Midnight?” he asked, rolling his long-hunched shoulders.
The geneticist shrugged, stiffly climbing out of the couch to collect their mugs of cold dregs. “I don't know,” he said, “but I'm starving. Do you want something?”
A brief check-in with his trauma-wracked stomach told Sylar that yes, he did indeed want something. And whatever Mohinder could cook up would surely outshine the last tuna sandwich he'd turned down, he thought with a bittersweet twinge. “Sure.”
He watched with pleasant lassitude as Mohinder's shapely form strode over to the dingy kitchenette. His tired limbs didn't want to respond to mental commands, but he felt compelled to go and hover by Mohinder as he cooked. He could feel the psychological hooks of his attachment grappling onto the other man with each new display of kindness and compassion - at this moment, even a mere room's breadth of distance between them seemed too much.
Sylar padded over to join him, Mohinder's warm cotton socks picking up drywall dust as he walked. The geneticist was arm-deep in his decrepit refrigerator. “What are you making?” he asked quietly.
“Khichdi,” came the muffled reply.
“Chili?” Sylar repeated, leaning his weary form against the countertop.
Mohinder extricated his top half from the fridge, a wry smile on his lips. “I said khichdi,” he clarified, placing a container each of pre-soaked lentils and rice on the counter. “You'll like it. Just the thing to recover from a late-night nervous breakdown.”
Sylar half-sighed and rolled his eyes. He swept off some counter space for Mohinder, collecting even more filthy dishes in the tiny steel sink. Splashing the fetid water in the sink released a wave of stench that made them both cough. “Wow,” Sylar choked, eyes watering. “Smells like that's been there for a while.”
“I've been busy,” Mohinder grumbled, heating up the ingredients in a large, dubiously-clean saucepan. “The washing-up didn't seem as important when I was trying to carry out the corpse of Peter Petrelli.” Sylar flinched.
“He's not dead, you know,” he offered. Mohinder gaped.
“What?!” he sputtered. “I held him in my arms. He's quite dead.”
“I... followed you to their house,” Sylar admitted sheepishly. “After you left, he - the cheerleader girl was there. She came running to see him. She touched him, and he... regenerated.”
“You can't be serious.” The aromatic mixture in the pot was starting to boil.
Sylar was insistent, penitent palms in the air. “I saw her pull the piece of glass clean out of his head. He was up and talking a minute later. I swear.”
"Wh-” Mohinder paused thoughtfully. “Why didn't you attack them?” he asked in disbelief.
Sylar shifted uncomfortably. “I don't know,” he replied in a low voice. “I guess... I was tired.”
“Tired?”
“I didn't have a plan. I'm not good with improvisation,” he added.
“You certainly fooled me,” Mohinder scoffed, glancing behind him at the duffel of stolen clothes in his bedroom doorway. He took the steaming khichdi off the heat and brushed past Sylar to fetch them some plates. Sylar caught a quick whiff of the dish's spices mixing deliciously with Mohinder's scent as he swept past, his empty stomach twisting into a pleasant knot.
The geneticist offered him a warm bowl, cocking an eyebrow as he dug in without hesitation. “You're not expecting any ‘surprises,’ I presume?” he asked, taking an egregiously large bite of the soothing dish. Recognition dawned on Sylar's tired features, but he managed to swallow down his khichdi without incident.
“Are there any?” he replied through a mouthful of rice. Mohinder shook his head.
“Not that I would bother to tell you if there were,” he only half-joked, “but no.”
Sylar wolfed down a bit more of his unusual breakfast, relief spreading visibly through him as the warm mixture worked its magic. “I guess if I want your trust, I should give you mine first,” he reasoned. Mohinder gave a small smirk in response. “Plus,” Sylar continued, wiping his mouth with the back of a pale hand, “This tastes too good. Even if it was drugged I'd probably still eat it.” Black humor glinted in his fatigue-ringed eyes.
Mohinder gave a small, genuine smile as he made his way back to the sofa that had been their forum through the night. The practical part of his mind was appalled at how quickly the sense of easy companionship he'd shared with “Zane” had returned. Perhaps it was just the fatigue, endless days of worry and overwork finally catching up with him in a punchy, irrational haze. Or perhaps, as he feared, he really was a traitorous son who had been overtaken by false forgiveness and hopeless, impossible desire.
Mohinder brushed these recurring thoughts aside as he felt the gentle weight of Sylar settling in, rather close considering recent circumstances, on the sofa. Their knees brushed casually and both men tried studiously to ignore the awkward intensity of the contact. It was far too late (or rather, too early) and they were both too exhausted to worry about such trifles. While Mohinder studied a stain on the carpet with diminishing consciousness, chewing a now-lukewarm mouthful of khichdi with bovine determination, Sylar ruminated in a slightly different fashion. His sanity, which had nearly unraveled hours before, seemed to be solidifying into something relatively sound. As long as he kept his thoughts strictly confined to himself, the blissfully hot meal in his belly, and the rapidly deteriorating form of Mohinder beside him, it looked as though everything was going to be all right. The rest of the miasma of his life, he hoped, could wait.
“So,” Mohinder finally cut in, his spoon scraping an empty bowl. “What's the plan?” He set his bowl on the coffee table and leaned back into the sofa, fatigue like a crust all over his stiff body. “I'd like to see Peter, by myself, of course. But the rest is up to you.”
Anxiety splashed into Sylar's gut like icewater, and he tried futilely to push it away. “I was hoping you wouldn't say that,” he groaned, feeling the pleasant suspension of consequences that Mohinder's reprieve had brought falling away. “I guess...” he continued, stiffening, “I have to go back.”
Mohinder sought his gaze, empathetic and tactful. “To your mother's place?” he clarified. Sylar nodded.
“She'll... I mean, her body... I'll have to take care of it somehow.” The quiet horror in his voice seemed to contradict that of the cold-blooded killer Mohinder used to know. It sent a hopeful flutter through the his heart. “That is, if no one's found her yet.”
“I doubt it,” Mohinder replied, trying to sound reassuring.
Suddenly, Sylar turned to him, his face as open and vulnerable as a child's. “Mohinder,” he implored desperately, “will you come with me?”
“Ahh-” Mohinder stammered, unsure of the level of commitment he was willing to provide to the too-freshly-reformed villain. “I'm not sure-”
But Sylar was grave. “Please,” he declared, his voice bearing a sense of command in spite of its vulnerability. “This is probably going to be the hardest thing I've ever done.” He grasped Mohinder's warm wrist with a pale, anxiety-chilled hand. “I don't know if I can do it alone. If I... if something happens, if I lose it, I want you to be there.”
Mohinder felt the cold dread that always came when their fates entwined descending on him. “Sylar, she's already dead,” he tried to reason with the man. “What could I possibly do to help?”
A strange distance seemed to enter Sylar's features. “I need you,” he replied, “to keep me from losing control.”
Losing control...the image of Isaac Mendez's doomsday panorama, a matricidal, grief-stricken Sylar at its molten core, flitted through Mohinder's mind. He shivered as he registered the source of the hollow darkness in the killer's eyes.
“All right,” he acquiesced. “But we'd better get some sleep first.”
Sylar felt his anxiety evaporate at Mohinder's casual “we” and the luxuriant, navel-baring stretch that followed. He wondered, with a surprising flash of egotism, if the good doctor would invite him to bed.
Mohinder rose and padded towards the bedroom, looking back at Sylar gravely. “Well? Are you coming?”
Sylar gaped, arousal flooding his frazzled nerves. “Uh...”
“I'm only pulling your leg,” Mohinder chided with a tired laugh. “I assume you still remember where all the linens are. You can sleep on the sofa. Or I'll inflate the air mattress, if you like. Although, with all this glass everywhere-”
Frustration flared inside him as Sylar realized how easily and effortlessly he'd been manipulated. He fought back the urge to punish Mohinder for the insult, trying to ignore the tingle that had sizzled through his groin. “This is fine,” he insisted weakly. “I'll take the couch.”
Mohinder disappeared into the dark bedroom with a curt nod. After a few moments of shuffling clothes and running water, Sylar heard him slip into bed with a relieved sigh. Pulling a borrowed blanket around his stiff shoulders, Sylar buried his face in the ugly polyester upholstery and closed his eyes for what he hoped would be a few hours of blank, dreamless sleep.
After tonight, the task that lay before him would make his journey thus far look like the random wanderings of a child. To right the wrongs he'd done... it could take a lifetime, if he could find it within himself to do it at all. And it would be a journey full of hardship, pain and humiliation.
He might never find the redemption he sought. He might devote the rest of his days to doing good, only to find himself thrown into the lake of fire at the end of everything. He might become a hero and watch the city burn at the hands of someone else.
The future had changed, and now it was out of Sylar's vision and beyond his control. But somehow, with warm khichdi in his stomach and Mohinder on his side, for tonight it was enough.
End of Chapter 1
Thank you for reading! Comments, questions and criticism are much appreciated!
Author: erradnofmercy
Pairing(s), Character(s): Mylar
Rating: (this chapter) PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary: AU from "The Hard Part." Sylar hits the skids.
Disclaimer: Heroes is not mine, but it did follow me home one day and I’ve been keeping it in irons in my basement ever since >;)
Word Count: 6,101 (sit down with a mug of chai, it's gonna be a long one)
A/N: A big thanks to my beta eviinsanemonkey for her insight and stamina <3
Chapter 1: Breakdown
The steps creaked under Mohinder’s feet, one by one, as he trudged, exhausted, up the three flights to his apartment. Paint peeled from the walls, tired and brittle - the same feelings that enveloped the doctor. The last weeks of his life had been alternately terrifying and ecstatic, and he keenly felt the hollow ache of disappointment in his bones after Zane - no, Sylar's, betrayal.
Creak, creak. Crouched in the darkness near the door, Sylar heard each step. He held his breath, steadied his shaking hands and wiped his eyes, prickling with anticipation. Mohinder reached the worn door, fumbled through the brown leather shoulder bag for his keys and let out a heavy sigh. Sylar almost lost his nerve looking up at those dark eyes, the sag in those normally taut shoulders. But he swallowed, and managed to speak.
The geneticist straightened. There was a stirring from somewhere below him, and a soft, familiar voice said, “Mohinder.”
He froze, shocked. Mohinder stared hard into the void from whence the voice had come. Slowly, the familiar form of Sylar crawled out of the darkness. He was wearing glasses now, his impossibly straight hair parted to one side. His sunken, red-rimmed eyes were dull and glassy, the fierce spark they usually held absent like a blown-out candle. He looked up at Mohinder with the most pitiful, pleading expression the he had ever seen.
With Mohinder on guard, Sylar got shakily to his feet. His balance was unsteady, and he held himself to the peeling wall for support. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and chillingly soft.
“I thought you’d never get home…” he began, his stuttering uncertainty frightening Mohinder more than any act of violence had before. “I wanted to call, but I thought I’d only scare you away-“ Sylar’s breath hitched, and Mohinder watched as tears welled in his eyes. The rest of his explanation was lost as sobs began to wrench themselves from his blood-soaked chest. Mohinder was paralyzed, faced with an impossible choice. Finally, Sylar choked out, “Please, can I just - can I just come in for a minute?” Unable to meet Mohinder’s gaze, Sylar stared helplessly at the musty carpet below.
Mohinder clicked the key into the lock. He tried to show as little emotion as possible - it was safer that way. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” he said quietly, extracting another series of sobs from Sylar. Mohinder did his best to appear unmoved. “All right,” he said after a long moment, “come in.”
The apartment was just as he had left it- Mohinder obviously hadn’t taken much trouble to clean up the mess they had made a few days before. The faint green glow of the desk lamp, smashed but still functional, illuminated the rubble of their face-off. There were, as always, dishes in the sink and clothing strewn across the remaining intact furniture. Mohinder shrugged off his coat and worn shoulder bag and flicked on the kitchen light to dispel the feeling of dread settling in his stomach. Once again, he was at the mercy of the man who had killed his father and, though he was loath to admit it, broken his heart. He had fallen into his role as victim just as easily as he had fallen for the impostor Zane Taylor. But this time, he promised himself, he would not be fooled.
Sylar stumbled after him, sore from tragedy and from sitting crouched by the door for so long, waiting for Mohinder to return. The geneticist was ignoring him, unpacking his bag and shedding the many layers he wore to shield himself from the bitter New York City winter. He had been avoiding cabs since his run-in with the man in the horn-rimmed glasses, and it was a long walk home from the office that now served as his laboratory. Briefly, Mohinder wondered if Sylar’s coat kept him warm enough - or if a killer like him could even feel warm and cold after the atrocities he’d committed. Paralyzed by the unfamiliar feeling of loss that overwhelmed him, Sylar stood dumbly by the open door. Mohinder kept his distance as he circled around to close it; Sylar felt the sting of his hatred sharply in his chest. Mohinder looked him up and down, analyzing, searching for clues to explain his sudden appearance and emotional distress. It was highly out of character. Sylar had to be up to something.
The murderer and manipulator who had spoon-fed him affection and kindness, killed an innocent woman under his very nose, and overpowered a double-dose of curare to beat him senseless was now swaying unsteadily in his doorway with tears running down his newly clean-shaven face. The man who had riddled Peter Petrelli’s head with glass splinters, who had used his father’s research to locate and befriend his victims was now sniffling and wringing his hands, looking at Mohinder with an expression more terrified and lost than he himself felt.
He had thought that impossible. At least, it seemed, he had a tad more control over the situation than he’d expected to. He steeled himself, made his voice (he hoped) sound harsh and stern, and finally broke the silence between them.
“Well? What do you want?”
Sylar looked at him, eyes deep and unfathomable, his voice a rough whisper. “Please,” he replied, taking a step forward. “Forgive me.”
Images flashed before Mohinder’s mind’s eye: that room, deep within Sylar’s apartment in Queens; the copy of his father’s map, covered with photographs and that mysterious symbol; the medical textbook lying open on the desk with a two-page spread of a bloody human head, brain removed. The innermost wall of the closet that had been carved, painted and scribbled with repetitions of the same tragic phrase that had made Mohinder shiver and stare:
FATHER FORGIVE ME FOR I HAVE SINNED
Mohinder wanted to ridicule him, push him down, spit in his face. He wanted to summon up the venom and rage he’d felt when he’d (albeit shakily) pointed a gun to Sylar’s head, strapped him into a chair, forced the inches-long syringe into his neck. But those feelings were gone, replaced, to his horror, by a gut-wrenching, throat-tightening pity. The best he could do was scowl. “It won’t be that easy,” he answered coldly.
Mohinder busied himself at the stove, fixing tea for both of them mostly because he could think of nothing else to do. He hoped that Sylar would shed some light on the situation while he puttered, killing time, but no explanation came. With (surely undue) generosity, Mohinder considered that Sylar might prefer not to drink chai. He wondered if Sylar would even accept a drink from him now. The killer sat draped like a wilted plant over the small, wobbly table where Mohinder sometimes ate his meals, his ragged breathing and occasional groans making the bowl of ripe red tomatoes upon it tip precariously back and forth. He set down the two green ceramic mugs, the same as the ones they had used only days before in a toast to “new friends.” One of them still lay in shards on the floor by Mohinder’s father’s desk. Sylar looked up slowly as the mugs clanked down, eyes red and wide. The symbolism was lost on him.
Glancing at the dried blood crusting on the killer’s clenched hands, Mohinder adopted a tone much calmer than he truly felt. “You’re filthy. Do you want to take a shower?” he asked, feeling more than a little queasy at the sight of so much blood. “You’ll need a change of clothes as well…” A shower would buy Mohinder some time to - well, not that there was much he could do. Calling the police would be foolish, and alerting the Company would be, he thought wryly, either useless or disastrous. No trying to take matters into his own hands again - he had proven himself a poor captor and an even worse fighter, even without considering Sylar's obvious advantage. He supposed that ten or fifteen minutes alone would allow him to start trying to figure out the best way to come out of this alive, uninjured, and with some shred of dignity left. But it was all for naught; Sylar shook his head weakly. Mohinder stiffened, “All right, then, do you want to tell my why the Hell you came back here?” he asked, angry, afraid and completely at a loss as to what the response might be.
Sylar looked down at the mug of tea, his eyes dull and empty. “No, I don’t want to.” His voice was low and gravelly, but in a way that was more sore than sinister. He took a ragged breath, and shifted his weight slightly. “But I will.”
Mohinder waited for a long time. Sylar’s hands shook as they grasped the mug, and it clattered noisily on the tabletop. “My mother,” he finally managed, his face contorted in pain. “I k-killed her.”
* * *
The confession hung heavy in the air as Mohinder was assailed by conflicting emotions. Pity, infuriatingly, was the first. Poor soul, his heart blurted without consulting his head, a motherless boy is a tragic thing indeed. Then came that twisted sense of justice that always haunted him - now, it seemed, they were “even” at last. Perhaps feeling firsthand the pain of losing a parent would enlighten him as to the source of Mohinder's enduring bitterness. Would it be too much to expect some empathy from the killer now? Curiosity trumped both pity and sick satisfaction, finally prompting him to break the silence. “What happened? How did you do it?” he asked tentatively.
Sylar's trauma-fragmented thinking seemed to coalesce loosely around an explanation for a moment, but whatever he was about to say was subsumed by a tide of grief so powerful that even Mohinder's steeled countenance softened with sympathy. He curled in on himself, breath exploding from his lungs in a gust of remorse as he hid his face in the shadows of his dark coat. Fear, hatred and an indelible instinct to comfort formed a paralytic mixture in Mohinder's veins - part of him wanted to reach out to the other man, but he could only bring himself to watch in horror as Sylar broke down in braying, dry-throated sobs.
Venturing a guess, Mohinder probed quietly, hoping to still his visitor. “Was it an accident?” he asked in the gentlest tones he possessed.
Sylar managed a weak nod, and his spastic breathing began to slow. “I was... lost. I went to see her,” he ground out. “I tried to tell her about my abilities but she didn't -“ he choked on another sob - “she didn't understand.”
Mohinder was watching intently as his former tormentor poured out his loss. His incredulous gaze fixed on Sylar's fathomless dark eyes, hypnotic and wet with tears.
“When I showed her what I could do... she got scared,” Sylar continued, wringing his hands raw. “She told me to get out, she thought I was someone else -“ he wiped his eyes, the thought of his mother's failure to recognize his true self unbearably sour on his tongue.
Mohinder was digesting all this about as easily as a kidney stone, staring at Sylar in wonder, unable to strike a balance between utter horror at the man's brutality and pity at his soul-wrenching humanity. Thoughts flashed through his mind, unbidden and unwanted. An absent father. A deluded, uncomprehending, fragile mother. A son's failure to be accepted for who he truly is, resigned to blindly follow his parents' mundane, mislaid plans...
Was there really no comparing the two of them? he thought, remembering himself only a few weeks ago at this very table, weeping like a widow over his father's ashes. Were their fates irreconcilable? Or were they but two souls trapped in the same terrible karmic cycle?
“She didn't recognize you?” Mohinder prompted. Sylar shook his head.
“She thought... I don't know. She thought I was an impostor...”
Mohinder quirked an eyebrow. “Well, you look a bit… unusual, don’t you?” he asked.
Sylar tapped the pair of ugly coke-bottle glasses that rested on his sniffling nose. “I used to wear these,” he explained wearily, “all the time. And the stupid hair, and the dowdy clothes...” he sighed. “But that wasn't it. I looked the same. It was the power that scared her, the... confidence.”
Mohinder waited.
“She tried to stab me with sewing scissors,” Sylar finally admitted, the awkwardness of the truth sounding foreign on his tongue. Mohinder's eyebrows shot up in an expression of tragic surprise. “I was trying to wrestle them away, and... I don't know what happened. We were both scared. Somehow they wound up...”
He could go no further. Sylar's voice disintegrated into a cracked sob. Mohinder averted his gaze, studying the dusty tile floor with intent. So it was an accident. Not that that mattered now - besides proving that even Sylar's savagery had a limit. He wondered what his father would have thought of all this. Was it just another of evolution's cruel machinations? Was this the necessary period of suffering before the glory of adaptation?
“I'm sorry,” Mohinder broke in, half sincere and half sarcastic, “but why did you come here? What do you want with me? I can't bring back the dead, as you well know.”
Sylar looked up from where he had hunched over the table, his deep doe-y eyes penetrating Mohinder like a chill wind. The emptiness, the numbness inside them was petrifying. But Mohinder held his gaze.
“I've got nowhere else to go,” Sylar confessed, deflated. “She was the only person I had... and now she's gone.” He wiped his raw, red eyes again, sniffing. “I don't want you to bring back the dead, Mohinder. I just thought... I hoped... maybe you could bring me back.”
A tendril of twisted satisfaction curled its way like a plume of sweet cigar smoke through Mohinder's gut. It was the moment he'd been waiting for. Sylar broken, at his mercy, begging for his help. He could destroy the man with a mere word. In a heartbeat.
But there was that pesky pity again, gnawing at his deadened conscience. He relented. Sylar's resolve had been crippled, but his abilities remained just as formidable as before. There was no telling what he would do with his last ties to humanity removed, rejected by the last of the people who cared about him. Even if Mohinder cared just as much as he loathed, he reasoned, he could not expect to just write him out of his life. Not now. It was just as he'd said in that night in Montana, bundled up in a dead man's coat. Destiny.
Mohinder's attention shifted, realizing his gaze was still trained on Sylar, who was waiting, laid bare, for his redemption. “What do you mean?” he intoned, a rhetorical but necessary question. He wanted to know exactly what Sylar expected of him - and what he planned for himself.
Sylar's reply was simple. “I don't want to do this anymore,” he answered, shifting his eyes to the floor nervously.
“Killing people?”
“Mm.” Sylar nodded.
“Why not?” Mohinder's inner professor was going to work, trying to get more out of the man than he had offered.
Sylar regarded him quizzically, laying his palms up on the table. “Because... it's not working. I thought I would be relieving people of a burden, a gift they didn't deserve and didn't use. But I've killed - people with no abilities at all. People who I... cared about.”
“Like my father?” Mohinder was testing the waters, perhaps foolishly. Could he keep his personal vendetta out of the conversation and still discuss this?
Sylar groaned, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “Killing Chandra was... the first in a long line of mistakes,” he replied. “I'm sorry, Mohinder. But it ends here, tonight,” he finished firmly, his expression fierce. “If you'll help me.”
“I can't help you,” Mohinder protested. “You have to help yourself. I'm not a psychologist, and heaven knows I'm a terrible counselor.” Mohinder sighed in exasperation. “What do you expect me to do? I can't even write a prescription -“
“You're the only one who can help me, Mohinder. I know it.” Sylar's voice was grave, his gaze intent as he probed Mohinder's face for a reaction.
“And how exactly do you know this?!” Mohinder demanded.
“Because I've seen the future,” Sylar replied.
Mohinder gaped. “The painter's ability...?” he began, to which Sylar responded with a remorseful nod. “You... had a vision?”
“If you don't help me stop, it's going to get worse,” Sylar explained in quiet horror. “Much, much worse.”
Mohinder stared, the implications dawning on his confounded brain. “The city?”
“The whole city. Mohinder.” Sylar's inky eyes brimmed with tears. He looked as if he might start to weep again. “I can't let this happen. We can't let this happen,” he pleaded.
“You're right,” Mohinder conceded, covering Sylar's pale, trembling hand gingerly with his own. “We can't.”
* * *
Sylar went dreadfully still at the contact, an almost reverent expression on his haggard face. With the killer's menacing veneer stripped away, Mohinder could see the damaged creature that lived beneath Sylar's thick skin. In a gesture of inexplicable compassion, Mohinder curled his warm, solid fingers around the other man's. How could they be endowed with such otherworldly gifts, yet appear so pale and fragile? He heard a small, measured intake of breath from Sylar, who seemed to be directing all his control at biting back a tumult of emotion.
“Mohinder,” he said roughly, eyes downcast. “You don't deserve this.”
The geneticist gave a slight shrug. In his darker moments, he wasn't so sure. “It doesn't matter,” he replied, coming around the table to crouch beside the killer. “I'm here now.” From his new vantage point, Mohinder glanced under the table and noticed the boot-prints and drips of dark blood that surrounded Sylar's chair. He fought down a wave of nausea, straightening and motioning towards the W.C. “Are you ready for a bath now?” he asked, hoping to rouse Sylar from his torpid depression.
The soft ah of Mohinder's 'bath' made Sylar's numb heart flutter to life. “Sure,” he acquiesced, getting gingerly to his feet. His brows came together as the pounding in his head reached a fever pitch, and he stumbled, gripping the table.
“What is it?” Mohinder asked, his senses on high alert as he tried to discern the source of the snarl on Sylar's face. What was the likelihood that this was all a trick? Was Sylar about to change his mind and resort to violence to quell his worries yet again?
Sylar took a deep breath and straightened. “It's just my head,” he responded hoarsely. “It's been hurting since... since last night.” Since I sawed open Isaac Mendez's skull, he did not say, but the spark of grim recognition in Mohinder's eyes told him that he already knew.
Mohinder helped him to the bathroom, pulling out a spare towel from his tiny, musty linen closet. In the failing light of the neglected room, he felt a ludicrous twinge of embarrassment at the poorly-maintained fixtures and rust-ringed drains. But then he thought of Sylar's eerily immaculate apartment, and decided his living space was, if not well-tended, at least a bit more honest about its inhabitant. Sylar, however, took no notice of such minor details. He slumped into a sitting position on the edge of the tub, wearily peeling off the sullied clothes of his former self. Mohinder pulled the rubbish bin over to him and gingerly helped him out of the crimson-splattered flannel and defiled Dockers. Sylar tossed his boots directly in the garbage - they were hardly recoverable after what they'd been through. He looked down with dismay at his blood-soaked briefs, shucking them with an air of panic.
As Sylar stepped into the shower, Mohinder's eyes traveled over his bare, ashen skin. The heavy hair on his arms and chest only brought out the contrast of his vulnerable, translucent-looking flesh. Sylar seemed to shrink from the cold, regarding Mohinder with a look of fearful gratitude.
“Thank you,” he breathed as he pulled the mildewed curtain between them.
Mohinder did not reply, slinging the bag of bloodied clothing over his shoulder to deposit it by the door. He sighed, frustrated with himself for being such a tool. Just hours ago, he had been coerced into taking care of Thompson's young prisoner - he had even enjoyed the girl's company, in spite of its compulsory nature. Now, here was again, fulfilling the whims of the man who had murdered Molly's parents as well as his own father. Was he nothing but a mindless cog in the evolutionary machine? When would he make a choice that reflected his own goals rather than the will of others?
Survive and adapt or perish, he thought, dropping the bloody evidence by his front door for disposal in the morning. He kicked aside a large chunk of glass on the floor, shaking his head. Perhaps, in this world, survival was tantamount to equity.
* * *
Mohinder listened, with a racing mind and bated breath, as Sylar washed away the last days' blood and grime a room away. He could hear the muffled sounds of misery wrenching themselves from the killer's throat amid the clink of bottles and the steady hiss of warm water. Reaching into his dusty closet, he gave a bitter smile as he retrieved the duffel bag that “Zane” had brought from Montana. Not wanting to discover any mementos that would turn his stomach, he simply tossed the whole bag into the steamy bathroom where Sylar was drying off.
“Your things are still here,” he called neutrally through the curtain as the bag landed with a soft thud.
Sylar frowned as he emerged, clean and warm, from the safety of the shower. Mohinder couldn't help raking his eyes over his damnably appealing form. He felt his mouth go dry as he stole a glance at the angular contour of his hip, pale skin dusted with dark hair. “They're not my things,” Sylar admitted, poking the bag with a freshly-scrubbed foot. He looked up pleadingly at Mohinder.
“What?” Mohinder demanded. “You won't wear any of this?”
Sylar rubbed his damp head, conflict creasing his features. “I don't think it's a good idea,” he cautioned. “Keeping his stuff…it’d be like… a reward for killing him. I think we should get rid of it.”
Mohinder sighed, hands on his hips. “So you want to borrow my clothes?”
The other man gave a disarming half-smile that (though he'd never admit it) melted Mohinder's resolve. “Fine,” he spat, heading back into his room to rifle around for something clean.
The drawers in Mohinder's dresser had been ransacked from Thompson's pillaging the day before. His clothing lay in heaps around the room, furniture turned upside down or smashed. He hadn't as yet had the resolve to start putting things back together - simply surviving had taken up all of his attention until now. As he searched the rubble, he managed to come up with an old, baggy pair of blue jeans and one of his more ghastly button-down shirts. Its garish paisley design had launched his mother into a gale of malevolent laughter when he'd first brought it home. He hoped that it would suffice.
He tried to ignore the thrill he felt as Sylar reluctantly pulled the hideous shirt over his head. He seemed too tired for humor at this point, wordlessly accepting Mohinder's selections, though Mohinder knew any other day he’d have had an earful. He wiped up the water on the floor and carefully hung up his towel, a troubled expression on his otherwise still face.
“How do you feel?” Mohinder asked tentatively.
Sylar graced him with another half-smile, though it was clear that a storm was still raging beneath his composure. “Better,” he replied, relief evident in his voice. He made his way to the living area, remorsefully kicking aside a splintered piece of Chandra's old blackboard. Mohinder followed closely behind, toting Zane's bag over to the door, where he dropped it beside the bag of Sylar's soiled clothes. He motioned over to the saggy leather sofa, where the two of them sat down wearily.
Mohinder leaned forward, planting his elbows on his bony knees. His eyes were as clear and bright as Sylar's were tired and dim as they sat, facing off yet again, in what would hopefully prove a more constructive setting. “We need to talk,” he said flatly, hoping that both of them were up to traversing the long road that lay ahead.
* * *
It was difficult for Mohinder to resist the temptation to write it all down, but Sylar insisted he didn't need to. Eidetic memory, he explained, a skill he'd “picked up” a few weeks ago. Still, the teacher in Mohinder wanted a record of what had been said. After all, though Sylar might have a flawless memory, afterwards he could (and would) twist the facts however he wanted.
In spite of his role as the reluctant savior, it was very clear to Mohinder who was in charge of the conversation. Sylar was by turns contrite and ebullient, taciturn and verbose, but their dialogue was dictated by the abrupt swings of his mood, as predictable and unstoppable as the pendulum of a grandfather clock.
“...if you really want to stop yourself from doing any further harm, the obvious answer would be to go to the police,” Mohinder said, looking sideways as he sipped his cooling tea. “You'd have a devil of a time causing a nuclear explosion from inside a prison cell...”
Sylar took the bait. “That's ridiculous!” he raged, pale face flushing with color. “I am not going to turn myself in!” His challenge hung in the air, having exactly the effect Mohinder desired.
“Well, then,” Mohinder replied in a razor-edged voice, “what are you going to turn yourself into?”
Sylar considered the question with a raised eyebrow - Mohinder could almost see the gears spinning in his magnificently complex brain. A smile of comprehension ghosted across his brightening face. When he spoke, his voice had lost its bite, the tension boiled away to a rich baritone that sent a chill down Mohinder's spine.
“A hero.”
* * *
“What time is it?” Mohinder yawned, stretching out his cramped legs on the coffee table. He scratched his growling stomach absentmindedly, wondering how long they'd been immersed in cathartic conversation.
“It's four thirty-six,” Sylar pronounced incredulously, squinting through the cracked glass of his namesake. He looked out the recessed window into the first inklings of dawn. “When did I get here? Midnight?” he asked, rolling his long-hunched shoulders.
The geneticist shrugged, stiffly climbing out of the couch to collect their mugs of cold dregs. “I don't know,” he said, “but I'm starving. Do you want something?”
A brief check-in with his trauma-wracked stomach told Sylar that yes, he did indeed want something. And whatever Mohinder could cook up would surely outshine the last tuna sandwich he'd turned down, he thought with a bittersweet twinge. “Sure.”
He watched with pleasant lassitude as Mohinder's shapely form strode over to the dingy kitchenette. His tired limbs didn't want to respond to mental commands, but he felt compelled to go and hover by Mohinder as he cooked. He could feel the psychological hooks of his attachment grappling onto the other man with each new display of kindness and compassion - at this moment, even a mere room's breadth of distance between them seemed too much.
Sylar padded over to join him, Mohinder's warm cotton socks picking up drywall dust as he walked. The geneticist was arm-deep in his decrepit refrigerator. “What are you making?” he asked quietly.
“Khichdi,” came the muffled reply.
“Chili?” Sylar repeated, leaning his weary form against the countertop.
Mohinder extricated his top half from the fridge, a wry smile on his lips. “I said khichdi,” he clarified, placing a container each of pre-soaked lentils and rice on the counter. “You'll like it. Just the thing to recover from a late-night nervous breakdown.”
Sylar half-sighed and rolled his eyes. He swept off some counter space for Mohinder, collecting even more filthy dishes in the tiny steel sink. Splashing the fetid water in the sink released a wave of stench that made them both cough. “Wow,” Sylar choked, eyes watering. “Smells like that's been there for a while.”
“I've been busy,” Mohinder grumbled, heating up the ingredients in a large, dubiously-clean saucepan. “The washing-up didn't seem as important when I was trying to carry out the corpse of Peter Petrelli.” Sylar flinched.
“He's not dead, you know,” he offered. Mohinder gaped.
“What?!” he sputtered. “I held him in my arms. He's quite dead.”
“I... followed you to their house,” Sylar admitted sheepishly. “After you left, he - the cheerleader girl was there. She came running to see him. She touched him, and he... regenerated.”
“You can't be serious.” The aromatic mixture in the pot was starting to boil.
Sylar was insistent, penitent palms in the air. “I saw her pull the piece of glass clean out of his head. He was up and talking a minute later. I swear.”
"Wh-” Mohinder paused thoughtfully. “Why didn't you attack them?” he asked in disbelief.
Sylar shifted uncomfortably. “I don't know,” he replied in a low voice. “I guess... I was tired.”
“Tired?”
“I didn't have a plan. I'm not good with improvisation,” he added.
“You certainly fooled me,” Mohinder scoffed, glancing behind him at the duffel of stolen clothes in his bedroom doorway. He took the steaming khichdi off the heat and brushed past Sylar to fetch them some plates. Sylar caught a quick whiff of the dish's spices mixing deliciously with Mohinder's scent as he swept past, his empty stomach twisting into a pleasant knot.
The geneticist offered him a warm bowl, cocking an eyebrow as he dug in without hesitation. “You're not expecting any ‘surprises,’ I presume?” he asked, taking an egregiously large bite of the soothing dish. Recognition dawned on Sylar's tired features, but he managed to swallow down his khichdi without incident.
“Are there any?” he replied through a mouthful of rice. Mohinder shook his head.
“Not that I would bother to tell you if there were,” he only half-joked, “but no.”
Sylar wolfed down a bit more of his unusual breakfast, relief spreading visibly through him as the warm mixture worked its magic. “I guess if I want your trust, I should give you mine first,” he reasoned. Mohinder gave a small smirk in response. “Plus,” Sylar continued, wiping his mouth with the back of a pale hand, “This tastes too good. Even if it was drugged I'd probably still eat it.” Black humor glinted in his fatigue-ringed eyes.
Mohinder gave a small, genuine smile as he made his way back to the sofa that had been their forum through the night. The practical part of his mind was appalled at how quickly the sense of easy companionship he'd shared with “Zane” had returned. Perhaps it was just the fatigue, endless days of worry and overwork finally catching up with him in a punchy, irrational haze. Or perhaps, as he feared, he really was a traitorous son who had been overtaken by false forgiveness and hopeless, impossible desire.
Mohinder brushed these recurring thoughts aside as he felt the gentle weight of Sylar settling in, rather close considering recent circumstances, on the sofa. Their knees brushed casually and both men tried studiously to ignore the awkward intensity of the contact. It was far too late (or rather, too early) and they were both too exhausted to worry about such trifles. While Mohinder studied a stain on the carpet with diminishing consciousness, chewing a now-lukewarm mouthful of khichdi with bovine determination, Sylar ruminated in a slightly different fashion. His sanity, which had nearly unraveled hours before, seemed to be solidifying into something relatively sound. As long as he kept his thoughts strictly confined to himself, the blissfully hot meal in his belly, and the rapidly deteriorating form of Mohinder beside him, it looked as though everything was going to be all right. The rest of the miasma of his life, he hoped, could wait.
“So,” Mohinder finally cut in, his spoon scraping an empty bowl. “What's the plan?” He set his bowl on the coffee table and leaned back into the sofa, fatigue like a crust all over his stiff body. “I'd like to see Peter, by myself, of course. But the rest is up to you.”
Anxiety splashed into Sylar's gut like icewater, and he tried futilely to push it away. “I was hoping you wouldn't say that,” he groaned, feeling the pleasant suspension of consequences that Mohinder's reprieve had brought falling away. “I guess...” he continued, stiffening, “I have to go back.”
Mohinder sought his gaze, empathetic and tactful. “To your mother's place?” he clarified. Sylar nodded.
“She'll... I mean, her body... I'll have to take care of it somehow.” The quiet horror in his voice seemed to contradict that of the cold-blooded killer Mohinder used to know. It sent a hopeful flutter through the his heart. “That is, if no one's found her yet.”
“I doubt it,” Mohinder replied, trying to sound reassuring.
Suddenly, Sylar turned to him, his face as open and vulnerable as a child's. “Mohinder,” he implored desperately, “will you come with me?”
“Ahh-” Mohinder stammered, unsure of the level of commitment he was willing to provide to the too-freshly-reformed villain. “I'm not sure-”
But Sylar was grave. “Please,” he declared, his voice bearing a sense of command in spite of its vulnerability. “This is probably going to be the hardest thing I've ever done.” He grasped Mohinder's warm wrist with a pale, anxiety-chilled hand. “I don't know if I can do it alone. If I... if something happens, if I lose it, I want you to be there.”
Mohinder felt the cold dread that always came when their fates entwined descending on him. “Sylar, she's already dead,” he tried to reason with the man. “What could I possibly do to help?”
A strange distance seemed to enter Sylar's features. “I need you,” he replied, “to keep me from losing control.”
Losing control...the image of Isaac Mendez's doomsday panorama, a matricidal, grief-stricken Sylar at its molten core, flitted through Mohinder's mind. He shivered as he registered the source of the hollow darkness in the killer's eyes.
“All right,” he acquiesced. “But we'd better get some sleep first.”
Sylar felt his anxiety evaporate at Mohinder's casual “we” and the luxuriant, navel-baring stretch that followed. He wondered, with a surprising flash of egotism, if the good doctor would invite him to bed.
Mohinder rose and padded towards the bedroom, looking back at Sylar gravely. “Well? Are you coming?”
Sylar gaped, arousal flooding his frazzled nerves. “Uh...”
“I'm only pulling your leg,” Mohinder chided with a tired laugh. “I assume you still remember where all the linens are. You can sleep on the sofa. Or I'll inflate the air mattress, if you like. Although, with all this glass everywhere-”
Frustration flared inside him as Sylar realized how easily and effortlessly he'd been manipulated. He fought back the urge to punish Mohinder for the insult, trying to ignore the tingle that had sizzled through his groin. “This is fine,” he insisted weakly. “I'll take the couch.”
Mohinder disappeared into the dark bedroom with a curt nod. After a few moments of shuffling clothes and running water, Sylar heard him slip into bed with a relieved sigh. Pulling a borrowed blanket around his stiff shoulders, Sylar buried his face in the ugly polyester upholstery and closed his eyes for what he hoped would be a few hours of blank, dreamless sleep.
After tonight, the task that lay before him would make his journey thus far look like the random wanderings of a child. To right the wrongs he'd done... it could take a lifetime, if he could find it within himself to do it at all. And it would be a journey full of hardship, pain and humiliation.
He might never find the redemption he sought. He might devote the rest of his days to doing good, only to find himself thrown into the lake of fire at the end of everything. He might become a hero and watch the city burn at the hands of someone else.
The future had changed, and now it was out of Sylar's vision and beyond his control. But somehow, with warm khichdi in his stomach and Mohinder on his side, for tonight it was enough.
End of Chapter 1
Thank you for reading! Comments, questions and criticism are much appreciated!