The conclusion to my Mylar of the Lambs crossover
Title: Choices and Time Part 7/7
Author: Megmatthews20
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Nathan, Maya, Mohinder’s mother, mentions of Bob
Rating: R for violence, blood, cutting, etc...
Word Count: 7744 (O.O it got away from me!)
Spoilers: Nope! AU!
Warnings: Blood, despair, violence, (threats of rape), more blood, angst, creepiness, death
Summary: “You’re not going to do this, Mohinder. We’re not playing your game today. This is my game, and you’re going to obey the rules.”
A/N: Widestance is my muse! Widestance is my muse! It’s this fic she did enthuse (with life)! Cuz Widestance is my muse! (This is dedicated to WS, Carmexgirl, and Piping_Hot for inspiring!) For the prompt "Mohinder Gets Revenge" on piping_hot's challenge table ... Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six
.... Carmexgirl is the best! My lovely beta PWNS ALL!!! I only hope I do her suggestions justice! (Any errors are mine)
One GIANT thanks to everyone who has read this so far, most especially to everyone who has left such lovely comments! You kept me going! And I hope you enjoy the end of the journey! (Apologies if you don’t...this was always the ending I had in mind) (Also, special thanks to Boudecia7 who was my go-to girl/technical advisor on certain things in this chapter)
Mohinder sits up when Sylar unchains his right wrist, and waits until he’s properly seated to set a plate of fruit down on the bed before him.
Mangoes, sweet melons...the breakfast he’d forced himself to request. Why starve today? Why not enjoy this? His last day on Earth, and Sylar had offered him any meal he could possibly want.
Sweet fruits. Like the kind his mother would cut up for him as a child. His family eating out on the terrace on a warm Summer morning...
“I never asked what you thought of the chapatis and dal I made for dinner,” Sylar points out, sitting down at the end of the bed.
“They were fine,” Mohinder mutters, picking up a slice of melon and popping it into his mouth.
“Fine?” Sylar repeats, and to Mohinder’s surprise he sounds almost hurt.
“For an American, they were very good,” Mohinder shrugs, looking Sylar in the eye as he casually chews on another piece of fruit.
Sylar tilts his head a little, brow furrowed, “I thought they were rather delicious.”
“Think what you like,” Mohinder shrugs. “They were what they were.”
Mohinder doesn’t tense, doesn’t care at this point if Sylar smashes his breakfast to the floor in a tantrum, or tries to choke him. It really doesn’t matter.
He simply keeps eating, enjoying the sweet taste of the fruits. It’s not like home. They’re good, but they’re not that fresh, they’re not even in season.
But they’re a hint, a reminder of what Mohinder had before. And for now, it’s enough.
“I should have had you cook,” Sylar says.
Mohinder looks at Sylar in mild surprise, hand frozen on the way to his mouth, “why?”
Sylar scoots closer to Mohinder on the bed, “I’d have a flavor. Whenever I used that recipe, I would think of you; be able to remember you. You’d cook for your friends, wouldn’t you? You’re very good, right?”
Mohinder looks down, licking his lips as he sets the melon back on the plate. He swallows, clearing his throat as memories flood into his mind. The image of cooking with Nathan and his brother, with Maya, with his mother, is enough to crash through the strange calm he’s been under this morning. He grits his teeth, continuing to hold back his tears. Whatever happens, no matter what, Sylar won’t have his sorrow.
Not today.
Not ever again.
From the corner of his eye, Mohinder can see Sylar staring at him. He glances up to see that Sylar’s mouth is slightly open, his eyes looking up and down Mohinder’s body, sweeping over him, consuming him. Mohinder can’t help but shiver a little.
“You’re so...stunning,” Sylar breathes.
Mohinder closes his eyes, concentrating on the rise and fall of his own chest. He’s not here. Sylar’s not here. They’re nowhere. They’re nothing. Not victim and killer. Not captive and kidnapper.
Sylar is speaking. His low voice is vibrating through the air with the formation of words. But Mohinder won’t hear it.
He refuses.
Refuses until he feels fingers grip his hair, pull his head up, until he feels lips crash against his own.
“I want you so much,” Sylar groans against Mohinder’s mouth as Mohinder instinctively attempts to squirm away, hearing the clank of the left cuff’s chain against the bed when he moves, “I want you again, tonight, before...”
“Fuck you,” Mohinder hisses, wincing in pain when the grip on his hair tightens.
“You don’t understand. You can never understand. I want...I’ve never wanted like this. But I can’t change now. I can’t change,” Sylar mutters, frantic, desperate.
Mohinder raises his gaze to Sylar’s, seething with anger, “Fuck you. You psychopathic prick. You’re not going to get into my head today. You’re not going to make me beg or cower! You won’t control me, Sylar! Whatever control you think you had, is gone! So go ahead, kill me! End my life, right now, you cowardly, fucking, asshole!”
Mohinder feels livid. He can see flecks of his spit hit Sylar’s face as he allows himself to get more and more worked up. He’s had it.
He’s had it.
Sylar’s expression becomes distant, unreadable, and Mohinder finds himself lashing out, punching the man in the jaw.
Taken off-guard for a moment, Sylar falls back, blinking as he touches a hand gingerly to his jaw.
Mohinder is trapped, and he knows it. He can’t protect himself, can’t try to run with the chain on his left wrist.
But he doesn’t care. He enjoys the small satisfaction that the punch allows him. Let Sylar know that Mohinder won’t be played, that he’s had enough.
No matter what, Sylar won’t control him.
Sylar stands, and Mohinder watches as the shift of weight on the bed causes his plate of fruit to slide to the floor with a clatter.
For a moment, Mohinder expects Sylar to end him right there, but then the killer is stooping to pick up the plate, leaving the room, and setting the plate by the sink. He returns a few seconds later to stand by the end of the bed.
“Maybe I’ll bring dinner tonight. Would you like that?” Sylar asks with a raised eyebrow.
Mohinder frowns at the polite behavior, feels the throb in his knuckles where he punched Sylar, and knows that Sylar must be feeling the pain.
And is doing nothing about it.
He won’t respond to Sylar’s question. He refuses.
He does keep eye contact however, and can’t help but startle when Sylar is suddenly moving around the bed rather fast.
Fingers are gripping Mohinder’s curls again, and he grimaces as Sylar leans in toward him, “You’re not going to do this, Mohinder. We’re not playing your game today. This is my game, and you’re going to obey the rules.”
Mohinder groans when Sylar pulls harshly on his hair, “you think you want to fight me, that you want to struggle, but you shouldn’t do those things. You should try and be happy today, Mohinder. So, even though you lashed out, even though you attacked me, I’m going to release you. I suggest you be a good boy, and don’t try anything stupid.”
Mohinder swallows as Sylar releases his hair and leans down to undo the cuff.
Mohinder is moving, fighting, swinging at Sylar. Sylar is prepared, and with his height and weight advantage, he knocks Mohinder off-balance, slamming him into the wall, knocking his head hard enough to cause Mohinder to slide to the floor in a daze, slumping sideways, mind a hazy fog.
“Just relax, Mohinder,” Sylar says quietly, “Do yourself a favor, and try to enjoy yourself in the small time you have left.”
Long pale fingers brush back curls from Mohinder’s face as he moans in pain, trying to focus.
Need to sit up.
Get up.
But Sylar is already leaving.
Heavy footsteps.
The slam of the hall door. The click of the deadbolt.
Mohinder lays there.
Simply stays there.
For the moment, it’s all he can do.
XXXX
Nathan punches in the next number on his list.
More ringing.
“University Genetics Department, how can I help you?” asks a calm male voice.
“Hello, this is Nathan Petrelli calling again to verify some information that my partn-”
“Mr. Petrelli, we already informed you of everything we know. There is no Niki registered in any of Dr. Suresh’s classes. No students came forward with any claims about his whereabouts. I’m not sure where your partner got his information, but it certainly wasn’t in our department,” the man says with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
“Are you saying my partner was lying?” Nathan growls, unable to control the anger, the hint of terror that is creeping back into his thoughts, unbidden.
“I’m saying he must have gotten his sources mixed up,” the man explains, sounding apologetic, “Neither Dr. Suresh, nor any of his students, gave any indication that he would be disappearing for a while. This department is as worried as you are.”
“I doubt it,” Nathan snaps, slamming the phone down in a huff, and resting his head in his hands on the desk.
Back at square one.
Yesterday evening he’d been practically cheerful, almost in bliss at the thought that Mohinder was alive, and safe, and happy.
And now.
Now his partner’s lies have been exposed.
Gabriel.
Why would Gabriel of all people tell a lie? Especially about Mohinder?
Nathan rubs his eyes harshly with the heels of his palms.
It doesn’t make sense. It’s not logical. Gabriel has always done his job. He’s always put in the utmost effort in his work. Together they’d solved enough cases to be extremely proud of themselves...but now...
Nathan looks up when he hears the door open, and sees Gabriel step inside, his gaze distant, brow furrowed as he appears to be in deep thought.
“You lied to me,” Nathan snaps, jumping up from his seat and glaring at Gabriel.
“I...what?” Gabriel asks, eyes going wide as he looks at Nathan.
“I contacted the school, the Genetics Department. They didn’t have any of the evidence you mentioned last night. They claim there wasn’t anyone in his class by the name of Niki!”
Gabriel frowns for a moment, then his expression changes to one of realization, “I didn’t talk to the Department. I waited outside his classroom, talked to students who were entering. Niki wasn’t the girl’s real name, it was a nick-name that her friend called her by. Her real name was Sara Ellis. God, I’m sorry, Nate. I was so out of it last night when I talked to you...”
Nathan blinks, his panic ebbing again, “Sara Ellis? Are you sure?”
Gabriel nods.
“Jeez man, I’m sorry for snapping,” Nathan says, cringing with his apology, “I’ve just been so...”
“Stressed. Yeah, I completely understand,” Gabriel says with a friendly smile, “don’t worry about it, Nathan. I’m a big boy.”
“You know, when I do get a hold of Mohinder, I think I may throttle him,” Nathan says with a small laugh, “for putting me through all of this.”
Gabriel chuckles, “just give him a tarantula for his birthday. It’d be enough payback to last you several years.”
“That’s sick,” Nathan points out, “poor guy would have a heart-attack.”
“Well, if you’re already going to kill him...”
Nathan smiles, feeling something dark, something unsettling nagging at the edge of his mind.
Spiders.
“Yeah, God, I really am sorry, Gabe. After this I need to get some sleep. Maybe take a break...”
Arachnophobic.
“I understand. I really do. You deserve it,” Gabriel agrees.
When? When did he tell?
“Do you...did you want to take the day off?” Nathan asks, mind struggling with his unease over Gabriel’s comment, over the familiarity with which he spoke of Mohinder.
Shouldn’t have known. An intimate detail...
“Why?” Gabriel asks, looking surprised.
“Because you were sick yesterday. I can finish up this case, and give Maya a call. She’s not going to be too happy that he’s with someone else.”
“No, I imagine not,” Gabriel says, his surprise twisting into a smirk, “thanks Nate, I’d love the day off.”
Nathan forces himself to grin, to act casual, as Gabriel nods and turns, leaving.
Don’t trust him.
Nathan has the strong feeling that Sara Ellis doesn’t exist.
But he needs some proof.
Needs something.
Mohinder would take walks.
“Please be home,” Nathan whispers as he snatches up his keys, and heads out of the office, barely pausing to lock the door, “please, please be home.”
XXXX
Mohinder cups his hands to drink water from the sink, splashing his face when he’s done.
It’s refreshing.
It’s calming.
It’s all he can do to bite back the terror.
All alone. Left to his thoughts. His room grows smaller and smaller.
Today, Sylar will take it all. He will take everything from Mohinder.
He’s already taken his dignity, has attempted to turn Mohinder into a shell of a man.
And when he returns...
When he comes home...
Perhaps he’ll rape Mohinder again first. Perhaps he’ll toy with him, cut him, torture him, bleed him slowly to death...
Make him beg, as he’d promised.
Or maybe Sylar will proceed directly to the murder.
Mohinder stumbles back toward the bed. His leg twinges where Sylar cut him the other night. His whole body aches, an assortment of cuts and attacks inflicted upon him by a deranged lunatic.
He’d never realized before how lucky he was to be in control of his own person. Never realized the joy of living day to day, being able to bathe himself when he wanted, to not live under the fear, the constant threat, of attack.
Of death.
Mohinder collapses to his knees on the floor beside the bed. He shifts around, pressing his back against the bed, pulling his knees up to his chest, burying his face in his crossed arms: shuddering, heaving, sobbing.
It can’t end like this.
But it is.
His whole life, as he knows it, will be over in a matter of hours.
He will be gone.
No more walks on cool Autumn nights. No more weekends where he jokes with Nathan, laughs at Nathan’s brother’s embarrassing stories about bad hookups, and cruel patients at his hospital. No more carnivals or bazaars with Maya.
No more classes, or research. The wish to prove himself in his field now forever beyond his reach.
No more dinners with his mother. Deep conversations, remembrances of the past. She’s loved him so much, cared about him so deeply.
And now she will lose him.
Forever.
Mohinder sits up, breath shuddery with his sobs. His gaze falls on the tear-stains on the sleeve of his blue shirt.
Sylar will take everything.
From Mohinder, and from those he loves.
A painful twinge radiates up from his backside, one of the many side-effects of the rape, and Mohinder shifts on the ground, wincing. His left hand moves back along the floor as he changes position, brushing over something metal.
Something sharp.
He swallows, gripping the item, the hanger he’d tossed under the bed two days ago, and holding it up before him.
Pressing his thumb over the jagged edge of the hanger, Mohinder watches a small drop of blood rise on the tip of the digit, blotting out his fingerprint.
He pushes the hanger in deeper, watching as a bit more blood begins to seep out of the torn skin, grimacing a little as his nerves scream in protest.
It’s sharp enough to cut through his flesh.
Mohinder eyes his wrist.
Sylar wants to take everything from him.
Wants to take his life.
A week ago he’d been content to help a stranger, and the stranger had overpowered him, and promised to destroy him.
A little over a week ago, he’d been in control of his life.
Sylar had whipped that control away from him as he pressed a drugged cloth over Mohinder’s mouth.
But in this moment, Mohinder begins to feel a small sense of hope.
There’s this.
This he can control.
With the image of his mother in mind, of his father, and his sister, Mohinder tears the sharp edge of the hanger into his inner-arm, watching the trails of blood begin to flow over his skin.
Sylar can’t have this.
Today...Mohinder wins.
XXXX
Sylar sits in the car biting his finger-nails. It shouldn’t be this hard.
The thrill is still there, but it’s been somehow diminished, somehow dampened at the thought that he...that Mohinder will no longer be with him.
But he can’t change today.
Can’t back down from this.
He eyes the orange shroud he’d bought with cash a few minutes ago. Mohinder would want to be cremated. As a Hindu, it was part of his religion.
Sylar usually doesn’t care about a victim’s religion. It is always necessary to dispose of the bodies, and they always go in the river. Davis River.
But Mohinder would be cremated first, before his ashes were spread in the water.
He would be wrapped lovingly...Sylar swallows as the word enters his mind. He doesn’t love.
He doesn’t care.
But why...
Then why does he...
For Mohinder, he would use cremation. He would wrap him in the shroud, and spread his ashes in the river.
That was how it would be.
Nothing can change his plan.
Nothing will change his plan.
Today is the day, and Sylar ignores the anguish in the pit of his stomach as he starts his car and drives away from the plaza where he bought the shroud and the Indian desserts, toward home...
Toward his victim.
Because today is the day.
XXXX
Nathan holds his breath, heart jumping in his chest as he hears locks clicking, hears the door opening.
“Can I help you?” a woman asks, glancing curiously out at him.
Nathan recognizes her. He and Mohinder have walked by her before.
“I’m sorry, I just need a moment of your time. I’m a P.I. I have a friend who disappeared about a week ago, and I think it was on this street. It was last Friday night...if you remember anything that could-”
“I already told a Private Investigator that I saw the U-Haul,” the woman says, raising an eyebrow in what Nathan assumes is annoyance.
“Private Invest...sorry, which Investigator?” Nathan asks, feeling his stomach plummet.
“I believe his name was Gabriel. A tall guy with dark hair, and dark eyes,” the woman says, “I told him I saw a man standing by a U-Haul around the time in question last Friday. Sorry I can’t give any more details. My memory’s even fuzzier today. I just remember it looking suspicious since it was in front of my house so late at night.”
“Th-thank you,” Nathan mutters, turning away, feeling numb as he traverses the sidewalk back to his car.
He hears the squeak and click of the door being closed behind him.
Gabriel lied.
He’s hiding something.
Nathan slumps into the driver’s seat.
He has to know.
It’s important that he knows why Gabriel lied.
Lied about this, of all things.
If he’s...
Could he be?
Nathan shakes his head, still hoping for denial. Still hoping Sara Ellis exists as he starts the car engine.
He has to go to Gabriel’s house, confront him in person.
If he is...
If it’s not too late...
Nathan slams his foot down on the gas, and rockets down the street, his mind a haze of frantic thoughts.
Maybe there’s time, if...
If.
XXXX
“Mohinder, I bought us some Kulfi,” Sylar calls once he’s in the kitchen, “maybe we can have some later.”
Sylar shoves the frozen dessert into the ice-box, snapping the door shut and turning toward the bedroom.
“I know you’re probably terrified right now. Your mind is in a daze. But today can be beautiful,” Sylar says, pulling his switch-blade from his pocket, opening it, twisting it in the light to catch the shine.
To remember why he’s doing this.
The blade is flawless, stunning, even in the dim light of the kitchen. So very beautiful.
So like Mohinder.
Shining...even in the darkness.
A beautiful blade to kill a beautiful man.
“Mohinder? Talk to me,” Sylar says, snapping the blade shut and turning his attention once more toward the bedroom, “are you asleep?”
Sylar frowns, walking carefully into the room. It’s dark. He squints, able to make out Mohinder’s form, huddled to the right of the bed. Sylar reaches in and flicks on the light.
His stomach clenches at the sight before him.
There is a small pool of blood on the bed, and Mohinder is leaning against it, unmoving, his head lying back on the mattress.
His eyes are closed, his mouth slack.
Unmoving.
“No,” Sylar whispers, rushing in, walking around to stand before Mohinder.
Not a sign of breathing. Chest perfectly still.
“You didn’t...you couldn’t...no!” Sylar shouts, his breathing ragged as he stares at the body before him.
Mohinder took this from him. Killed himself before Sylar had a chance.
Never even gave Sylar a chance.
“You bastard,” Sylar growls.
He’s fighting off more than the pang of a missed opportunity.
There’s more to it than that.
Mohinder is gone. The spirit...the man, has fled.
He’s left Sylar behind. Has beaten him in this game.
“Why’d you do it?” Sylar asks quietly, choking back a small sob, reaching forward to brush his fingers gently through Mohinder’s hair, “why’d you take this from me?”
Sylar doesn’t even register the movement, the grunt, until he tumbles backward to the floor from the sudden sharp pain in his thigh.
“Go to hell...” Mohinder gasps. Then he is scrambling up, getting away, escaping...
XXXX
Mohinder had listening intently as Sylar came in. He’d felt certain that the door leading off from the hall hadn’t been closed. Sylar was getting sloppy, or too sure of himself.
Mohinder had forced himself to remain perfectly still, holding his breath from the moment the light in the bedroom was clicked on, his fist gripped tightly around the hanger which had been twisted into a makeshift weapon.
The skin of his arm itched from dried blood. It burned where he’d cut into it. The small puddle on the bed meant to mislead had done its job.
Sylar had closed in, had panicked, had bemoaned the fact that Mohinder had ended his life before Sylar could.
He hadn’t realized that Mohinder’s heart was still beating, practically thrumming as he waited anxiously.
And then he’d come closer. The killer had moved close enough, and Mohinder had attacked, had thrown all his strength into stabbing Sylar, managing to pierce his thigh with the hanger.
“Go to hell,” Mohinder had gasped as he’d sucked in several much needed breaths, and begun to scramble up.
The door is open, and Sylar is wounded.
Mohinder slips for a moment as he finds his feet, catching himself on the bed. The blood loss is not without side-effects, and he feels a slight dizziness overtake him for a moment.
Then he is moving, reaching the bedroom door, and hurrying into the kitchen.
The door leading from the hallway is open. He can see light filtering in from the living room.
Then he can feel strong hands gripping his shoulders, throwing him harshly, sending him crashing into the wall.
Mohinder whimpers in surprise and pain as he feels the inside of his cheek tear, feels himself biting down on his tongue.
The metallic taste of blood is in his mouth, all consuming and bitter. Mohinder spits, as much to remove the taste as to clear his mouth of the choking liquid. Crimson sprays across the floor as he struggles to get up again.
Sylar is trying to grab hold of him once more. As he attempts to fight the man off, Mohinder can see that Sylar has removed the makeshift weapon from his leg.
“That was clever,” Sylar snarls, hoisting Mohinder up by the front of his shirt.
Mohinder kicks out with his bare foot as hard as he can. His toes throb painfully, but the attack on Sylar’s shin is just enough to make the man fall back a few steps, releasing Mohinder in surprise.
Adrenaline pumps through Mohinder’s veins, making everything strange. Sounds are suddenly a thousand times magnified. He turns and starts toward the door again, and it feels as though he’s moving in slow motion. His palm slaps against the door, knocking it open, and then he is being tackled to the ground, Sylar’s heavy frame crushing the air from his body.
“No,” Mohinder gasps, pausing to force the air back into his lungs for one frightening moment.
Sylar flips Mohinder over, hands going to his throat, and Mohinder instinctively punches out with his left hand. It’s weaker than his right, but he still manages to daze Sylar, and uses the opportunity to topple him off, onto the ground.
Mohinder pulls himself up, crab-walking quickly backwards a few feet before Sylar lunges at him again, and he kicks out once more in response, landing a blow to Sylar’s left arm, eliciting a cry of pain from the man.
The door. The front door.
A few feet away.
Mohinder flips over and starts to scramble up.
“No!” Sylar shouts, and the cry is almost animal in its desperation.
Mohinder finds himself thrown sideways, back colliding with the wall.
In a surreal moment, one where time seems to stop altogether, Mohinder swings at Sylar, fist making contact with the killer’s head at the same moment he feels a blunt pressure to his chest.
As Sylar topples to the ground, Mohinder looks down to see the black handle of the switch-blade protruding from the right side of his chest.
It hovers there, rising and falling with his own increasingly raspy breaths.
He’s been stabbed.
Mohinder swallows, stumbling forward, collapsing to the floor as he trips over Sylar.
He’s on all fours, head swimming, feeling warm blood dribble down his lip from his bleeding mouth.
He coughs. The sound is harsh, startling, and he feels a painful tearing within his chest.
This is it...
Was so close...
Mohinder pushes onto his knees, staring at the door.
He was mere feet away from escape.
From winning.
From defeating Sylar.
There is another pressure now, and he’s pulled backward when Sylar wraps an arm around his throat. Mohinder gasps, choking, and coughing up more blood as he feels the killer tighten his grip around Mohinder’s throat.
“Beg me, Mohinder,” Sylar growls into Mohinder’s ear, “beg me to spare your life.”
Sylar’s words are so desperate. So unlike him. Even in this state, so close to death, Mohinder can tell there’s something off about Sylar.
Something has changed.
“Give me an excuse, a reason, to spare your life,” Sylar hisses, and Mohinder can feel the killer’s warm breath on his ear.
Even if he could talk, could choke words past the blood in his mouth, Mohinder knows he wouldn’t say anything.
Won’t give Sylar the satisfaction.
He shakes his head slightly, spitting out a spray of blood as he grips onto Sylar’s arm, as he chokes and sputters.
“Beg me,” Sylar says, and he’s the one begging, the one needing this from Mohinder.
And Mohinder won’t give it to him.
He feels the world dimming, slowly tunneling away.
He hopes he’ll be okay. That it’ll all be okay...after...
“Mohinder,” Sylar whispers, and it’s barely a sound at all.
A warbled distant thing.
Being numb is nice. Feels nice. Mohinder closes his eyes.
And that’s when he hears it.
The loudest sound he’s heard in his life.
The clearest. The most amazing.
He opens his eyes with a gasp as Sylar’s grip lets up on him slightly.
Because the doorbell rang.
Mohinder isn’t sure why he does it. Can’t even feel it as he pulls the knife from his chest, immediately feeling a choking pressure when he twists around and stabs with his last ounce of strength at the only part of Sylar he can reach.
Sylar cries out.
He falls back.
The doorbell rings again as Mohinder looks at Sylar, sees the wide-eyed man staring down at the blade sticking out just below his clavicle.
The door!
Mohinder’s mind is screaming, even in his fog, and as he feels the pressure growing in his chest, painful, suffocating, he forces himself to stand, immediately collapsing down again to all fours.
A week of malnourishment.
He crawls forward a few feet.
Constant fear, and anxiety.
His fingers scramble over the doorknob, attempting to twist it open.
Attacks to his body. A brutal rape.
Mohinder groans, pulling himself weakly up.
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. So weak.
Where’s Sylar? Why isn’t he attacking? Why isn’t he making good on his promise?
A sharp hiss as he tries to breathe in, and can’t. No more oxygen. He’s suffocating.
Please.
Please.
Mohinder’s fingers find the deadbolt, and turn it.
The door’s unlocked.
Please...
He can’t open it.
Collapsing. Sliding down.
It’s too late.
Please. Not here. Not now.
Too late.
“Gabriel?!”
The door opens a crack. Mohinder coughs, blood and mucus. Harsh, and painful.
“Fuck! Mohinder?!”
So familiar. Desperate, and calming, and friendly...concerned...
So familiar.
Mohinder closes his eyes, collapsing against the wall. It’s okay now.
It’s okay.
“Mohinder, hang in there buddy. Hang in there.”
Warm fingers on his chest.
“Hang in there.”
More and more distant.
Mohinder drifts into darkness.
XXXX
A steady beeping.
It sounds familiar.
Sounds safe.
Mohinder’s eyes flutter open.
He’s in a room. Dim lights around.
The beeping still. He turns slightly to the right. Heart monitor. O2 monitor.
A hospital.
“Mohinder?” the voice is quiet, surprised.
Mohinder makes a small confused sound in the back of his throat as he turns to the left, eyes focusing to take in Nathan, who is standing slowly from a chair. There is a nervous smile on his face as he crosses over to the bed.
“Hey buddy,” Nathan says quietly, patting Mohinder’s arm gently, “it’s good to see you awake.”
Mohinder tries to talk, finds his throat is too hoarse to do so, and attempts to swallow against the dryness in his mouth. When he goes to speak again, he finds he can’t, and closes his eyes, shaking his head gently in frustration.
“Hang on, I’ll be right back,” Nathan says, squeezing Mohinder’s arm gently.
Mohinder lays there quietly, listening to the hum of the machines, the steady beep of the heart-monitor, the continued swishing of a different machine he hadn’t noticed before.
He opens his eyes again, trailing his gaze over to the right, to a machine with a small tube that he finds, upon lifting his head slightly, leads from the right side of his chest.
There is pinkish red blood in the machine, which is making a sucking sound.
Chest tube.
Mohinder lies back on his pillow as Nathan re-enters the room, wearing a small grin, and carrying a little cup with a straw.
“Nurses said it’s okay if you drink some water,” Nathan explains, holding the straw up to Mohinder’s mouth.
Mohinder feels his throat burn as the ice-cool water enters his body, slowly soothing away the burning dryness of his mouth.
He stops sipping, laying back and swallowing again.
“What happened?” Mohinder croaks.
Nathan frowns, setting the cup on a tray nearby, and gently gripping Mohinder’s left hand in his hand.
“You were stabbed. They gave you a chest tube. When I found you...well, let’s just say it’s a good thing that I paid attention to my brother the nurse once in awhile. Your lung was-”
“To Sylar,” Mohinder interrupts hoarsely, “where is he?”
Nathan sighs, looking anxiously down at the bed, and Mohinder feels his stomach drop.
“Gabriel...got away,” Nathan says quietly, “he was headed around the corner...into the hall when I got into the house. I had to tend to you, I couldn’t go after him. When the ambulance showed up, I tried to find him, but he was gone. Got out a back door, or a window, or...I’m sorry, I am so so sorry, Mohinder.”
Mohinder can just make out the tears glistening in Nathan’s eyes.
“It’s alright,” Mohinder mutters, “thank you, Nathan. You found me. You saved me.”
“You’re amazing, Mohinder. What you must have gone through...you survived in spite of everything. No one’s ever survived him before,” Nathan says with awe in his voice.
Mohinder turns his gaze to the ceiling, fighting off the tears that threaten to overtake him. All this machinery keeping him alive, keeping him from moving anywhere. The drugs in his system only dull the pain, numb it a little, keep him from tumbling over the edge.
He survived.
He’s alive.
And none of it can take away what Sylar did to him.
“I’m s-sorry,” Nathan stammers nervously, “don’t cr-do you need something? Should I get a nurse?”
Nathan gently rubs Mohinder’s arm in an attempt to calm him.
“I’m okay,” Mohinder whispers, smiling gently at Nathan.
“Good, that’s good,” Nathan says, his mouth quirking into a half grin, “I have some good news. When you’re ready...your mother is here. She’s sleeping now, out in the waiting room.”
“She’s here?” Mohinder says, feeling a rush of gratitude, of inexplicable happiness.
“Yes, yeah, she’s here,” Nathan nods, “do you want me to go get her?”
Mohinder nods, and Nathan hurries away.
He can forget for awhile.
With the drugs in his system, with his mother by his side, gently stroking his face with her nimble fingers, he can forget.
He’s safe now.
He’s with loved ones.
He’s alive.
XXXX
In the weeks that follow, as his body heals, as doctors run test after test, and social workers and police come to question him, Mohinder can feel his strength returning. The questions are painful.
The truth is terrifying.
His week with Sylar, the infamous Davis River Killer becomes a national news story. The attention isn’t welcome.
Nathan, for the most part, does a smooth job of holding off questioning reporters.
Maya is by Mohinder’s side when the police question him for the thousandth time, hoping to find something that will lead them to Sylar’s whereabouts.
His mother is constantly there to nurture him, sometimes to the point of being annoying, but Mohinder really doesn’t mind for the most part. He needs her there. Her support, and the support of his friends means the whole world to him.
Eventually his lung heals.
The chest tube is removed.
The scar that remains is a reminder of his battle with a killer. A battle he fought his way through, and survived.
With Nathan’s help, and his mother’s, Mohinder finally goes home.
XXXX One Year Later
A swirl of leaves on the deadened grass.
Mohinder rubs his arms quickly through the sleeves of his green sweater to warm them as he walks toward his home in the darkness. There is a gust of wind, bringing with it the smell of mulch; dead leaves, and dried grass. Autumn.
There is a loud clattering, and Mohinder tenses, hand going to the gun in his belt as he pauses, holding his breath, listening intently.
There’s nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Squinting in the dim light of the street lamp, he sees a garbage bin that appears to have been toppled over by the wind.
Mohinder’s hand slowly leaves the gun, and he walks over to pick the garbage bin up, resting it against a telephone pole to steady it.
He walks over to lean against the other side of the pole, closing his eyes, and listening to the sounds of the night, the breeze, the distant swish of cars driving.
The world here is a million miles from the hell he’d been through a year ago. Several gun training classes later, and a weapon’s permit, and Mohinder feels more protected, and yet still more vulnerable than he ever has before.
No one has seen Sylar in a year.
One year ago today, a date forever lodged in Mohinder’s mind. The day he was drugged and kidnapped. The day he made the biggest mistake of his life, and the reason he still suffers nightmares on such a regular basis.
One year in which a lot had happened.
Bob had died, leaving his daughter, and Maya, a massive amount of money, which Maya had immediately put to use attempting to cheer Mohinder up. Mohinder had had to turn her away several times as politely as he could. She meant well, but he couldn’t stand the attention anymore.
They’d remained friends. Happy, visiting once a week, but never taking it further than dinner and a chat. Friends they were, and friends they would stay.
Nathan had quit his job as a P.I, and actually ran for congress with Mohinder’s blessing, succeeding where Mohinder had secretly believed he wouldn’t.
Mohinder didn’t mind that Nathan’s attentions were on running, it took them away from Mohinder, who was feeling suffocated by the constant worrying of others on his behalf.
His mother had offered to move closer, and Mohinder had politely but firmly told her no. He did, however, begin to visit her bi-monthly, thoroughly enjoying every dinner they had together. Enjoying each conversation, each shared chapati as though it would be their last together, and the talk and food was all the richer for it as far as Mohinder was concerned.
He might think Sylar was dead.
Not a single Davis River murder in one year.
No hint of the man’s whereabouts.
And yet, despite moving, Mohinder still receives mail from an unnamed source.
Small messages, vague and yet direct in their meaning.
I bought some Kulfi today.
They were playing our song on the radio at the store.
I saw that classes were starting again, and I thought of you.
Mohinder had quit teaching.
Had actually been taken in by Sylar’s words, and thrown himself into his own research, soon finding himself loving it. He enjoyed the attention when it was for his breakthroughs, and not the fact that he was a victim, and a survivor.
He now enjoys going to work every day with a purpose, and a goal, and the hope that tomorrow he’ll discover something even more exciting, even more amazing than before.
He misses certain aspects of being a teacher, misses helping mold young minds, the thrill of showing up to school every day and wondering what will happen next, the occasional adoration he received from impressed students.
Altogether though, Mohinder would have to admit that his current life is much more appealing than the one he had before he was kidnapped.
Rolling his head around gently to stretch out his neck, Mohinder takes in a deep breath and turns to continue his walk home.
Once inside, he sets his gun down on the desk and picks up his glasses and a new text he’d been asked to study for work.
Mohinder walks to his favorite seat in the living room, a cream-colored chair which faces away from the desk. He sits down, sliding his reading glasses on, and flipping the book open to gaze at the text.
DNA.
Genomes.
Chromosomes.
Tissue.
Genetic anomalies.
The words begin to run together, forming strange pictures. Dancing chromosomes splitting, then splitting again.
There is a small clatter, something dropping, and Mohinder gasps, opening his eyes and looking around from his chair. He’d fallen asleep while reading. He glances down at the book which has fallen to the floor.
Adjusting his glasses, Mohinder leans over and picks up the book.
He stretches his back, then stands and turns toward the desk, gazing down at the book, wondering what page he was on.
“Hello, Mohinder.”
Mohinder’s head snaps up, his body jolting to a stop, the book falling from his fingers to clatter to the floor again.
Sylar.
Standing in his living room, looking all too casual.
Mohinder’s gaze goes to the gun in Sylar’s hand.
Mohinder’s gun.
This isn’t happening. It’s another bad dream.
But Mohinder knows it isn’t. He can feel the scratch of his sweater against his skin, and if he bothered to pinch himself right now, he’d feel that too.
It’s no dream.
The panic is building.
Ten months of therapy offer nothing for a situation like this.
Mohinder trembles, mind flitting to all the exits in the room. He’s faster now. And he’s in his own home. He can...
“That was a greeting,” Sylar says, raising an eyebrow, “you’re supposed to say ‘hello’ back.”
Mohinder licks his lips but says nothing.
The door to Mohinder’s left is unlocked. Mohinder wonders if that’s how the killer got in. He wasn’t paying attention tonight, wasn’t properly on his guard.
Mohinder wonders if he might be able to reach the door before...
He makes to head toward it, freezing after two steps when Sylar raises the gun in his right hand, and points it at Mohinder.
“W-wait,” Mohinder pleads, raising his hands defensively.
“It’s been a year, Mohinder,” Sylar says, taking a step toward him, causing Mohinder to step backward in response.
And suddenly it’s a year ago.
They are killer and captive.
And the game is on again.
Mohinder feels sick; feels physically ill.
“If I go missing now...people will know,” Mohinder says quietly, backing up until he runs into the cream-colored chair. Sylar continues to walk forward, a small smirk of amusement twisting his lips.
“I don’t need to take you anywhere in order to kill you,” Sylar points out.
Mohinder swallows, forcing himself to remain calm and coherent, keeping his gaze on Sylar’s eyes which stare at him so intently it makes him feel completely naked.
“One whole year, Mohinder. Look how far you’ve come. Look how much you’ve done, what you’ve accomplished. You’re a new man.”
“Thanks to you,” Mohinder admits with a slight scoff.
“Yes,” Sylar nods.
Mohinder lets out a shaky breath, looking down, knowing he’s just lost everything. That there’s no way he can win this one.
“Look at me, Mohinder,” Sylar demands, nudging the gun against Mohinder’s chin to raise his head up so that they are once again eye to eye.
“What do you want?” Mohinder asks, his voice barely a murmur. After all this time, he has still allowed the power to fall into Sylar’s hands. He is still weakened, and at a disadvantage.
“I want to tell you how you’ve changed me,” Sylar says, offering Mohinder a genuine smile.
“How have I changed you?” Mohinder asks, frowning slightly in confusion.
“I nearly died,” Sylar says quietly, leaning toward Mohinder until Mohinder can feel the killer’s warm breath against his cheek, “a sweet woman named Michelle took me in, with no questions. She patched me up. I guess you missed all my major organs in your attack. I would have let her live if she hadn’t questioned me about the newscasts, about the pictures proclaiming me as the Davis River Killer. Couldn’t have her turning me in, but I didn’t want to kill her.”
Mohinder frowns, “what do you mean?”
“I mean that in one whole year, my mind has been consumed, intrigued, obsessed with the thought of you...the one that got away. I as good as killed you that day, and you still survived, Mohinder.”
“And you couldn’t have that,” Mohinder says, noting the sudden anger in his own voice, “you of all people have to finish what you started, right? Can’t change. You’re too great to change, I suppose.”
Sylar scoffs, the look on his face one of utmost amusement.
“What do you have to show for your week with me, Mohinder, besides some PTSD, and a few scars,” Sylar asks, pressing the barrel of the gun to Mohinder’s throat as he shoves his left hand under the bottom of Mohinder’s sweater, trailing fingers up his stomach, toward the scar inflicted by the switch-blade.
Mohinder ignores the gun, catching Sylar’s arm, shoving him back. Sylar stumbles a few feet, frowning when he manages to steady himself.
“You won’t touch me again,” Mohinder states.
“Is that right?” Sylar quirks an eyebrow.
“What do you want, Sylar?” Mohinder asks angrily.
“You changed me,” Sylar says, and Mohinder can tell that it bothers Sylar a great deal to say those words.
And Mohinder still doesn’t understand them.
“Changed you how?”
“I thought of ending your life every chance I got. I could go to your house, and kill you execution style. I could break in and strangle you in your sleep. I might hit you with a car. But every time I was near you, every time it was possible to hurt you, I couldn’t bring myself to do it...”
Mohinder grips the chair behind him as he listens to the startling words, “You...”
Sylar shakes his head to silence Mohinder, “The thing is...I’m not going to kill you tonight. I’m not ever going to kill you, Mohinder. I can’t.”
The words sound honest, sound true, but Mohinder is too scared to hope. Sylar is, after all, a serial-killer. And all the things he’s done, all his outbursts and manic behaviors have led Mohinder to question every action that Sylar makes.
“You...you came here to tell me that you can’t kill me?” Mohinder says, easily sounding as confused as he feels.
“Yes,” Sylar says.
“You couldn’t have sent that in a letter?” Mohinder asks.
Sylar laughs a bit, “a letter just doesn’t have the same impact as my physical presence.”
“No, I suppose you’re right,” Mohinder says, shaking his head in disbelief at their conversation.
“What about you, Mohinder?” Sylar asks, moving toward Mohinder again. Mohinder doesn’t move fast enough to evade Sylar’s grip when strong fingers reach around to the back of his neck to pull him closer to the killer. “Do you wish me dead?”
“Yes,” Mohinder says, swallowing when he feels Sylar’s lips brush over his.
“And are you willing to kill me?” Sylar asks.
“If I have the chance...yes,” Mohinder says, reaching around to grip Sylar’s fingers and pull them off his neck, shoving the man’s hand away.
“Then I suppose I’d better not give you a chance,” Sylar says quietly.
Mohinder jerks back when Sylar holds up the gun suddenly.
“Don’t...” Mohinder starts, trailing off when he sees Sylar release the cartridge from the gun into his hand, tucking the bullets into his jacket pocket.
He then cocks the slide of the gun, quickly catching the bullet with his left hand when it’s popped from the chamber. He holds it up for Mohinder to see, a playful smile on his face, then he drops that into his pocket as well.
“There, I’ve removed temptation,” Sylar says, handing the empty gun back to Mohinder.
Mohinder stares at the useless weapon, holding it in both hands, a symbol of...something.
Of defeat? Of his loss?
No.
A symbol of Sylar.
The man who swept into his life, turned it upside down, tried viciously to destroy it...
And couldn’t.
By the time Mohinder looks up, Sylar is already at the door. He turns the knob, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Sylar’s glance up at him tells Mohinder everything he needs to know.
The next words out of Sylar’s mouth only solidify that truth.
“You won’t see me again,” Sylar says quietly, “goodbye, Mohinder.”
The door closes behind Sylar with a small click.
Author: Megmatthews20
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Nathan, Maya, Mohinder’s mother, mentions of Bob
Rating: R for violence, blood, cutting, etc...
Word Count: 7744 (O.O it got away from me!)
Spoilers: Nope! AU!
Warnings: Blood, despair, violence, (threats of rape), more blood, angst, creepiness, death
Summary: “You’re not going to do this, Mohinder. We’re not playing your game today. This is my game, and you’re going to obey the rules.”
A/N: Widestance is my muse! Widestance is my muse! It’s this fic she did enthuse (with life)! Cuz Widestance is my muse! (This is dedicated to WS, Carmexgirl, and Piping_Hot for inspiring!) For the prompt "Mohinder Gets Revenge" on piping_hot's challenge table ... Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six
.... Carmexgirl is the best! My lovely beta PWNS ALL!!! I only hope I do her suggestions justice! (Any errors are mine)
One GIANT thanks to everyone who has read this so far, most especially to everyone who has left such lovely comments! You kept me going! And I hope you enjoy the end of the journey! (Apologies if you don’t...this was always the ending I had in mind) (Also, special thanks to Boudecia7 who was my go-to girl/technical advisor on certain things in this chapter)
Mohinder sits up when Sylar unchains his right wrist, and waits until he’s properly seated to set a plate of fruit down on the bed before him.
Mangoes, sweet melons...the breakfast he’d forced himself to request. Why starve today? Why not enjoy this? His last day on Earth, and Sylar had offered him any meal he could possibly want.
Sweet fruits. Like the kind his mother would cut up for him as a child. His family eating out on the terrace on a warm Summer morning...
“I never asked what you thought of the chapatis and dal I made for dinner,” Sylar points out, sitting down at the end of the bed.
“They were fine,” Mohinder mutters, picking up a slice of melon and popping it into his mouth.
“Fine?” Sylar repeats, and to Mohinder’s surprise he sounds almost hurt.
“For an American, they were very good,” Mohinder shrugs, looking Sylar in the eye as he casually chews on another piece of fruit.
Sylar tilts his head a little, brow furrowed, “I thought they were rather delicious.”
“Think what you like,” Mohinder shrugs. “They were what they were.”
Mohinder doesn’t tense, doesn’t care at this point if Sylar smashes his breakfast to the floor in a tantrum, or tries to choke him. It really doesn’t matter.
He simply keeps eating, enjoying the sweet taste of the fruits. It’s not like home. They’re good, but they’re not that fresh, they’re not even in season.
But they’re a hint, a reminder of what Mohinder had before. And for now, it’s enough.
“I should have had you cook,” Sylar says.
Mohinder looks at Sylar in mild surprise, hand frozen on the way to his mouth, “why?”
Sylar scoots closer to Mohinder on the bed, “I’d have a flavor. Whenever I used that recipe, I would think of you; be able to remember you. You’d cook for your friends, wouldn’t you? You’re very good, right?”
Mohinder looks down, licking his lips as he sets the melon back on the plate. He swallows, clearing his throat as memories flood into his mind. The image of cooking with Nathan and his brother, with Maya, with his mother, is enough to crash through the strange calm he’s been under this morning. He grits his teeth, continuing to hold back his tears. Whatever happens, no matter what, Sylar won’t have his sorrow.
Not today.
Not ever again.
From the corner of his eye, Mohinder can see Sylar staring at him. He glances up to see that Sylar’s mouth is slightly open, his eyes looking up and down Mohinder’s body, sweeping over him, consuming him. Mohinder can’t help but shiver a little.
“You’re so...stunning,” Sylar breathes.
Mohinder closes his eyes, concentrating on the rise and fall of his own chest. He’s not here. Sylar’s not here. They’re nowhere. They’re nothing. Not victim and killer. Not captive and kidnapper.
Sylar is speaking. His low voice is vibrating through the air with the formation of words. But Mohinder won’t hear it.
He refuses.
Refuses until he feels fingers grip his hair, pull his head up, until he feels lips crash against his own.
“I want you so much,” Sylar groans against Mohinder’s mouth as Mohinder instinctively attempts to squirm away, hearing the clank of the left cuff’s chain against the bed when he moves, “I want you again, tonight, before...”
“Fuck you,” Mohinder hisses, wincing in pain when the grip on his hair tightens.
“You don’t understand. You can never understand. I want...I’ve never wanted like this. But I can’t change now. I can’t change,” Sylar mutters, frantic, desperate.
Mohinder raises his gaze to Sylar’s, seething with anger, “Fuck you. You psychopathic prick. You’re not going to get into my head today. You’re not going to make me beg or cower! You won’t control me, Sylar! Whatever control you think you had, is gone! So go ahead, kill me! End my life, right now, you cowardly, fucking, asshole!”
Mohinder feels livid. He can see flecks of his spit hit Sylar’s face as he allows himself to get more and more worked up. He’s had it.
He’s had it.
Sylar’s expression becomes distant, unreadable, and Mohinder finds himself lashing out, punching the man in the jaw.
Taken off-guard for a moment, Sylar falls back, blinking as he touches a hand gingerly to his jaw.
Mohinder is trapped, and he knows it. He can’t protect himself, can’t try to run with the chain on his left wrist.
But he doesn’t care. He enjoys the small satisfaction that the punch allows him. Let Sylar know that Mohinder won’t be played, that he’s had enough.
No matter what, Sylar won’t control him.
Sylar stands, and Mohinder watches as the shift of weight on the bed causes his plate of fruit to slide to the floor with a clatter.
For a moment, Mohinder expects Sylar to end him right there, but then the killer is stooping to pick up the plate, leaving the room, and setting the plate by the sink. He returns a few seconds later to stand by the end of the bed.
“Maybe I’ll bring dinner tonight. Would you like that?” Sylar asks with a raised eyebrow.
Mohinder frowns at the polite behavior, feels the throb in his knuckles where he punched Sylar, and knows that Sylar must be feeling the pain.
And is doing nothing about it.
He won’t respond to Sylar’s question. He refuses.
He does keep eye contact however, and can’t help but startle when Sylar is suddenly moving around the bed rather fast.
Fingers are gripping Mohinder’s curls again, and he grimaces as Sylar leans in toward him, “You’re not going to do this, Mohinder. We’re not playing your game today. This is my game, and you’re going to obey the rules.”
Mohinder groans when Sylar pulls harshly on his hair, “you think you want to fight me, that you want to struggle, but you shouldn’t do those things. You should try and be happy today, Mohinder. So, even though you lashed out, even though you attacked me, I’m going to release you. I suggest you be a good boy, and don’t try anything stupid.”
Mohinder swallows as Sylar releases his hair and leans down to undo the cuff.
Mohinder is moving, fighting, swinging at Sylar. Sylar is prepared, and with his height and weight advantage, he knocks Mohinder off-balance, slamming him into the wall, knocking his head hard enough to cause Mohinder to slide to the floor in a daze, slumping sideways, mind a hazy fog.
“Just relax, Mohinder,” Sylar says quietly, “Do yourself a favor, and try to enjoy yourself in the small time you have left.”
Long pale fingers brush back curls from Mohinder’s face as he moans in pain, trying to focus.
Need to sit up.
Get up.
But Sylar is already leaving.
Heavy footsteps.
The slam of the hall door. The click of the deadbolt.
Mohinder lays there.
Simply stays there.
For the moment, it’s all he can do.
XXXX
Nathan punches in the next number on his list.
More ringing.
“University Genetics Department, how can I help you?” asks a calm male voice.
“Hello, this is Nathan Petrelli calling again to verify some information that my partn-”
“Mr. Petrelli, we already informed you of everything we know. There is no Niki registered in any of Dr. Suresh’s classes. No students came forward with any claims about his whereabouts. I’m not sure where your partner got his information, but it certainly wasn’t in our department,” the man says with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
“Are you saying my partner was lying?” Nathan growls, unable to control the anger, the hint of terror that is creeping back into his thoughts, unbidden.
“I’m saying he must have gotten his sources mixed up,” the man explains, sounding apologetic, “Neither Dr. Suresh, nor any of his students, gave any indication that he would be disappearing for a while. This department is as worried as you are.”
“I doubt it,” Nathan snaps, slamming the phone down in a huff, and resting his head in his hands on the desk.
Back at square one.
Yesterday evening he’d been practically cheerful, almost in bliss at the thought that Mohinder was alive, and safe, and happy.
And now.
Now his partner’s lies have been exposed.
Gabriel.
Why would Gabriel of all people tell a lie? Especially about Mohinder?
Nathan rubs his eyes harshly with the heels of his palms.
It doesn’t make sense. It’s not logical. Gabriel has always done his job. He’s always put in the utmost effort in his work. Together they’d solved enough cases to be extremely proud of themselves...but now...
Nathan looks up when he hears the door open, and sees Gabriel step inside, his gaze distant, brow furrowed as he appears to be in deep thought.
“You lied to me,” Nathan snaps, jumping up from his seat and glaring at Gabriel.
“I...what?” Gabriel asks, eyes going wide as he looks at Nathan.
“I contacted the school, the Genetics Department. They didn’t have any of the evidence you mentioned last night. They claim there wasn’t anyone in his class by the name of Niki!”
Gabriel frowns for a moment, then his expression changes to one of realization, “I didn’t talk to the Department. I waited outside his classroom, talked to students who were entering. Niki wasn’t the girl’s real name, it was a nick-name that her friend called her by. Her real name was Sara Ellis. God, I’m sorry, Nate. I was so out of it last night when I talked to you...”
Nathan blinks, his panic ebbing again, “Sara Ellis? Are you sure?”
Gabriel nods.
“Jeez man, I’m sorry for snapping,” Nathan says, cringing with his apology, “I’ve just been so...”
“Stressed. Yeah, I completely understand,” Gabriel says with a friendly smile, “don’t worry about it, Nathan. I’m a big boy.”
“You know, when I do get a hold of Mohinder, I think I may throttle him,” Nathan says with a small laugh, “for putting me through all of this.”
Gabriel chuckles, “just give him a tarantula for his birthday. It’d be enough payback to last you several years.”
“That’s sick,” Nathan points out, “poor guy would have a heart-attack.”
“Well, if you’re already going to kill him...”
Nathan smiles, feeling something dark, something unsettling nagging at the edge of his mind.
Spiders.
“Yeah, God, I really am sorry, Gabe. After this I need to get some sleep. Maybe take a break...”
Arachnophobic.
“I understand. I really do. You deserve it,” Gabriel agrees.
When? When did he tell?
“Do you...did you want to take the day off?” Nathan asks, mind struggling with his unease over Gabriel’s comment, over the familiarity with which he spoke of Mohinder.
Shouldn’t have known. An intimate detail...
“Why?” Gabriel asks, looking surprised.
“Because you were sick yesterday. I can finish up this case, and give Maya a call. She’s not going to be too happy that he’s with someone else.”
“No, I imagine not,” Gabriel says, his surprise twisting into a smirk, “thanks Nate, I’d love the day off.”
Nathan forces himself to grin, to act casual, as Gabriel nods and turns, leaving.
Don’t trust him.
Nathan has the strong feeling that Sara Ellis doesn’t exist.
But he needs some proof.
Needs something.
Mohinder would take walks.
“Please be home,” Nathan whispers as he snatches up his keys, and heads out of the office, barely pausing to lock the door, “please, please be home.”
XXXX
Mohinder cups his hands to drink water from the sink, splashing his face when he’s done.
It’s refreshing.
It’s calming.
It’s all he can do to bite back the terror.
All alone. Left to his thoughts. His room grows smaller and smaller.
Today, Sylar will take it all. He will take everything from Mohinder.
He’s already taken his dignity, has attempted to turn Mohinder into a shell of a man.
And when he returns...
When he comes home...
Perhaps he’ll rape Mohinder again first. Perhaps he’ll toy with him, cut him, torture him, bleed him slowly to death...
Make him beg, as he’d promised.
Or maybe Sylar will proceed directly to the murder.
Mohinder stumbles back toward the bed. His leg twinges where Sylar cut him the other night. His whole body aches, an assortment of cuts and attacks inflicted upon him by a deranged lunatic.
He’d never realized before how lucky he was to be in control of his own person. Never realized the joy of living day to day, being able to bathe himself when he wanted, to not live under the fear, the constant threat, of attack.
Of death.
Mohinder collapses to his knees on the floor beside the bed. He shifts around, pressing his back against the bed, pulling his knees up to his chest, burying his face in his crossed arms: shuddering, heaving, sobbing.
It can’t end like this.
But it is.
His whole life, as he knows it, will be over in a matter of hours.
He will be gone.
No more walks on cool Autumn nights. No more weekends where he jokes with Nathan, laughs at Nathan’s brother’s embarrassing stories about bad hookups, and cruel patients at his hospital. No more carnivals or bazaars with Maya.
No more classes, or research. The wish to prove himself in his field now forever beyond his reach.
No more dinners with his mother. Deep conversations, remembrances of the past. She’s loved him so much, cared about him so deeply.
And now she will lose him.
Forever.
Mohinder sits up, breath shuddery with his sobs. His gaze falls on the tear-stains on the sleeve of his blue shirt.
Sylar will take everything.
From Mohinder, and from those he loves.
A painful twinge radiates up from his backside, one of the many side-effects of the rape, and Mohinder shifts on the ground, wincing. His left hand moves back along the floor as he changes position, brushing over something metal.
Something sharp.
He swallows, gripping the item, the hanger he’d tossed under the bed two days ago, and holding it up before him.
Pressing his thumb over the jagged edge of the hanger, Mohinder watches a small drop of blood rise on the tip of the digit, blotting out his fingerprint.
He pushes the hanger in deeper, watching as a bit more blood begins to seep out of the torn skin, grimacing a little as his nerves scream in protest.
It’s sharp enough to cut through his flesh.
Mohinder eyes his wrist.
Sylar wants to take everything from him.
Wants to take his life.
A week ago he’d been content to help a stranger, and the stranger had overpowered him, and promised to destroy him.
A little over a week ago, he’d been in control of his life.
Sylar had whipped that control away from him as he pressed a drugged cloth over Mohinder’s mouth.
But in this moment, Mohinder begins to feel a small sense of hope.
There’s this.
This he can control.
With the image of his mother in mind, of his father, and his sister, Mohinder tears the sharp edge of the hanger into his inner-arm, watching the trails of blood begin to flow over his skin.
Sylar can’t have this.
Today...Mohinder wins.
XXXX
Sylar sits in the car biting his finger-nails. It shouldn’t be this hard.
The thrill is still there, but it’s been somehow diminished, somehow dampened at the thought that he...that Mohinder will no longer be with him.
But he can’t change today.
Can’t back down from this.
He eyes the orange shroud he’d bought with cash a few minutes ago. Mohinder would want to be cremated. As a Hindu, it was part of his religion.
Sylar usually doesn’t care about a victim’s religion. It is always necessary to dispose of the bodies, and they always go in the river. Davis River.
But Mohinder would be cremated first, before his ashes were spread in the water.
He would be wrapped lovingly...Sylar swallows as the word enters his mind. He doesn’t love.
He doesn’t care.
But why...
Then why does he...
For Mohinder, he would use cremation. He would wrap him in the shroud, and spread his ashes in the river.
That was how it would be.
Nothing can change his plan.
Nothing will change his plan.
Today is the day, and Sylar ignores the anguish in the pit of his stomach as he starts his car and drives away from the plaza where he bought the shroud and the Indian desserts, toward home...
Toward his victim.
Because today is the day.
XXXX
Nathan holds his breath, heart jumping in his chest as he hears locks clicking, hears the door opening.
“Can I help you?” a woman asks, glancing curiously out at him.
Nathan recognizes her. He and Mohinder have walked by her before.
“I’m sorry, I just need a moment of your time. I’m a P.I. I have a friend who disappeared about a week ago, and I think it was on this street. It was last Friday night...if you remember anything that could-”
“I already told a Private Investigator that I saw the U-Haul,” the woman says, raising an eyebrow in what Nathan assumes is annoyance.
“Private Invest...sorry, which Investigator?” Nathan asks, feeling his stomach plummet.
“I believe his name was Gabriel. A tall guy with dark hair, and dark eyes,” the woman says, “I told him I saw a man standing by a U-Haul around the time in question last Friday. Sorry I can’t give any more details. My memory’s even fuzzier today. I just remember it looking suspicious since it was in front of my house so late at night.”
“Th-thank you,” Nathan mutters, turning away, feeling numb as he traverses the sidewalk back to his car.
He hears the squeak and click of the door being closed behind him.
Gabriel lied.
He’s hiding something.
Nathan slumps into the driver’s seat.
He has to know.
It’s important that he knows why Gabriel lied.
Lied about this, of all things.
If he’s...
Could he be?
Nathan shakes his head, still hoping for denial. Still hoping Sara Ellis exists as he starts the car engine.
He has to go to Gabriel’s house, confront him in person.
If he is...
If it’s not too late...
Nathan slams his foot down on the gas, and rockets down the street, his mind a haze of frantic thoughts.
Maybe there’s time, if...
If.
XXXX
“Mohinder, I bought us some Kulfi,” Sylar calls once he’s in the kitchen, “maybe we can have some later.”
Sylar shoves the frozen dessert into the ice-box, snapping the door shut and turning toward the bedroom.
“I know you’re probably terrified right now. Your mind is in a daze. But today can be beautiful,” Sylar says, pulling his switch-blade from his pocket, opening it, twisting it in the light to catch the shine.
To remember why he’s doing this.
The blade is flawless, stunning, even in the dim light of the kitchen. So very beautiful.
So like Mohinder.
Shining...even in the darkness.
A beautiful blade to kill a beautiful man.
“Mohinder? Talk to me,” Sylar says, snapping the blade shut and turning his attention once more toward the bedroom, “are you asleep?”
Sylar frowns, walking carefully into the room. It’s dark. He squints, able to make out Mohinder’s form, huddled to the right of the bed. Sylar reaches in and flicks on the light.
His stomach clenches at the sight before him.
There is a small pool of blood on the bed, and Mohinder is leaning against it, unmoving, his head lying back on the mattress.
His eyes are closed, his mouth slack.
Unmoving.
“No,” Sylar whispers, rushing in, walking around to stand before Mohinder.
Not a sign of breathing. Chest perfectly still.
“You didn’t...you couldn’t...no!” Sylar shouts, his breathing ragged as he stares at the body before him.
Mohinder took this from him. Killed himself before Sylar had a chance.
Never even gave Sylar a chance.
“You bastard,” Sylar growls.
He’s fighting off more than the pang of a missed opportunity.
There’s more to it than that.
Mohinder is gone. The spirit...the man, has fled.
He’s left Sylar behind. Has beaten him in this game.
“Why’d you do it?” Sylar asks quietly, choking back a small sob, reaching forward to brush his fingers gently through Mohinder’s hair, “why’d you take this from me?”
Sylar doesn’t even register the movement, the grunt, until he tumbles backward to the floor from the sudden sharp pain in his thigh.
“Go to hell...” Mohinder gasps. Then he is scrambling up, getting away, escaping...
XXXX
Mohinder had listening intently as Sylar came in. He’d felt certain that the door leading off from the hall hadn’t been closed. Sylar was getting sloppy, or too sure of himself.
Mohinder had forced himself to remain perfectly still, holding his breath from the moment the light in the bedroom was clicked on, his fist gripped tightly around the hanger which had been twisted into a makeshift weapon.
The skin of his arm itched from dried blood. It burned where he’d cut into it. The small puddle on the bed meant to mislead had done its job.
Sylar had closed in, had panicked, had bemoaned the fact that Mohinder had ended his life before Sylar could.
He hadn’t realized that Mohinder’s heart was still beating, practically thrumming as he waited anxiously.
And then he’d come closer. The killer had moved close enough, and Mohinder had attacked, had thrown all his strength into stabbing Sylar, managing to pierce his thigh with the hanger.
“Go to hell,” Mohinder had gasped as he’d sucked in several much needed breaths, and begun to scramble up.
The door is open, and Sylar is wounded.
Mohinder slips for a moment as he finds his feet, catching himself on the bed. The blood loss is not without side-effects, and he feels a slight dizziness overtake him for a moment.
Then he is moving, reaching the bedroom door, and hurrying into the kitchen.
The door leading from the hallway is open. He can see light filtering in from the living room.
Then he can feel strong hands gripping his shoulders, throwing him harshly, sending him crashing into the wall.
Mohinder whimpers in surprise and pain as he feels the inside of his cheek tear, feels himself biting down on his tongue.
The metallic taste of blood is in his mouth, all consuming and bitter. Mohinder spits, as much to remove the taste as to clear his mouth of the choking liquid. Crimson sprays across the floor as he struggles to get up again.
Sylar is trying to grab hold of him once more. As he attempts to fight the man off, Mohinder can see that Sylar has removed the makeshift weapon from his leg.
“That was clever,” Sylar snarls, hoisting Mohinder up by the front of his shirt.
Mohinder kicks out with his bare foot as hard as he can. His toes throb painfully, but the attack on Sylar’s shin is just enough to make the man fall back a few steps, releasing Mohinder in surprise.
Adrenaline pumps through Mohinder’s veins, making everything strange. Sounds are suddenly a thousand times magnified. He turns and starts toward the door again, and it feels as though he’s moving in slow motion. His palm slaps against the door, knocking it open, and then he is being tackled to the ground, Sylar’s heavy frame crushing the air from his body.
“No,” Mohinder gasps, pausing to force the air back into his lungs for one frightening moment.
Sylar flips Mohinder over, hands going to his throat, and Mohinder instinctively punches out with his left hand. It’s weaker than his right, but he still manages to daze Sylar, and uses the opportunity to topple him off, onto the ground.
Mohinder pulls himself up, crab-walking quickly backwards a few feet before Sylar lunges at him again, and he kicks out once more in response, landing a blow to Sylar’s left arm, eliciting a cry of pain from the man.
The door. The front door.
A few feet away.
Mohinder flips over and starts to scramble up.
“No!” Sylar shouts, and the cry is almost animal in its desperation.
Mohinder finds himself thrown sideways, back colliding with the wall.
In a surreal moment, one where time seems to stop altogether, Mohinder swings at Sylar, fist making contact with the killer’s head at the same moment he feels a blunt pressure to his chest.
As Sylar topples to the ground, Mohinder looks down to see the black handle of the switch-blade protruding from the right side of his chest.
It hovers there, rising and falling with his own increasingly raspy breaths.
He’s been stabbed.
Mohinder swallows, stumbling forward, collapsing to the floor as he trips over Sylar.
He’s on all fours, head swimming, feeling warm blood dribble down his lip from his bleeding mouth.
He coughs. The sound is harsh, startling, and he feels a painful tearing within his chest.
This is it...
Was so close...
Mohinder pushes onto his knees, staring at the door.
He was mere feet away from escape.
From winning.
From defeating Sylar.
There is another pressure now, and he’s pulled backward when Sylar wraps an arm around his throat. Mohinder gasps, choking, and coughing up more blood as he feels the killer tighten his grip around Mohinder’s throat.
“Beg me, Mohinder,” Sylar growls into Mohinder’s ear, “beg me to spare your life.”
Sylar’s words are so desperate. So unlike him. Even in this state, so close to death, Mohinder can tell there’s something off about Sylar.
Something has changed.
“Give me an excuse, a reason, to spare your life,” Sylar hisses, and Mohinder can feel the killer’s warm breath on his ear.
Even if he could talk, could choke words past the blood in his mouth, Mohinder knows he wouldn’t say anything.
Won’t give Sylar the satisfaction.
He shakes his head slightly, spitting out a spray of blood as he grips onto Sylar’s arm, as he chokes and sputters.
“Beg me,” Sylar says, and he’s the one begging, the one needing this from Mohinder.
And Mohinder won’t give it to him.
He feels the world dimming, slowly tunneling away.
He hopes he’ll be okay. That it’ll all be okay...after...
“Mohinder,” Sylar whispers, and it’s barely a sound at all.
A warbled distant thing.
Being numb is nice. Feels nice. Mohinder closes his eyes.
And that’s when he hears it.
The loudest sound he’s heard in his life.
The clearest. The most amazing.
He opens his eyes with a gasp as Sylar’s grip lets up on him slightly.
Because the doorbell rang.
Mohinder isn’t sure why he does it. Can’t even feel it as he pulls the knife from his chest, immediately feeling a choking pressure when he twists around and stabs with his last ounce of strength at the only part of Sylar he can reach.
Sylar cries out.
He falls back.
The doorbell rings again as Mohinder looks at Sylar, sees the wide-eyed man staring down at the blade sticking out just below his clavicle.
The door!
Mohinder’s mind is screaming, even in his fog, and as he feels the pressure growing in his chest, painful, suffocating, he forces himself to stand, immediately collapsing down again to all fours.
A week of malnourishment.
He crawls forward a few feet.
Constant fear, and anxiety.
His fingers scramble over the doorknob, attempting to twist it open.
Attacks to his body. A brutal rape.
Mohinder groans, pulling himself weakly up.
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. So weak.
Where’s Sylar? Why isn’t he attacking? Why isn’t he making good on his promise?
A sharp hiss as he tries to breathe in, and can’t. No more oxygen. He’s suffocating.
Please.
Please.
Mohinder’s fingers find the deadbolt, and turn it.
The door’s unlocked.
Please...
He can’t open it.
Collapsing. Sliding down.
It’s too late.
Please. Not here. Not now.
Too late.
“Gabriel?!”
The door opens a crack. Mohinder coughs, blood and mucus. Harsh, and painful.
“Fuck! Mohinder?!”
So familiar. Desperate, and calming, and friendly...concerned...
So familiar.
Mohinder closes his eyes, collapsing against the wall. It’s okay now.
It’s okay.
“Mohinder, hang in there buddy. Hang in there.”
Warm fingers on his chest.
“Hang in there.”
More and more distant.
Mohinder drifts into darkness.
XXXX
A steady beeping.
It sounds familiar.
Sounds safe.
Mohinder’s eyes flutter open.
He’s in a room. Dim lights around.
The beeping still. He turns slightly to the right. Heart monitor. O2 monitor.
A hospital.
“Mohinder?” the voice is quiet, surprised.
Mohinder makes a small confused sound in the back of his throat as he turns to the left, eyes focusing to take in Nathan, who is standing slowly from a chair. There is a nervous smile on his face as he crosses over to the bed.
“Hey buddy,” Nathan says quietly, patting Mohinder’s arm gently, “it’s good to see you awake.”
Mohinder tries to talk, finds his throat is too hoarse to do so, and attempts to swallow against the dryness in his mouth. When he goes to speak again, he finds he can’t, and closes his eyes, shaking his head gently in frustration.
“Hang on, I’ll be right back,” Nathan says, squeezing Mohinder’s arm gently.
Mohinder lays there quietly, listening to the hum of the machines, the steady beep of the heart-monitor, the continued swishing of a different machine he hadn’t noticed before.
He opens his eyes again, trailing his gaze over to the right, to a machine with a small tube that he finds, upon lifting his head slightly, leads from the right side of his chest.
There is pinkish red blood in the machine, which is making a sucking sound.
Chest tube.
Mohinder lies back on his pillow as Nathan re-enters the room, wearing a small grin, and carrying a little cup with a straw.
“Nurses said it’s okay if you drink some water,” Nathan explains, holding the straw up to Mohinder’s mouth.
Mohinder feels his throat burn as the ice-cool water enters his body, slowly soothing away the burning dryness of his mouth.
He stops sipping, laying back and swallowing again.
“What happened?” Mohinder croaks.
Nathan frowns, setting the cup on a tray nearby, and gently gripping Mohinder’s left hand in his hand.
“You were stabbed. They gave you a chest tube. When I found you...well, let’s just say it’s a good thing that I paid attention to my brother the nurse once in awhile. Your lung was-”
“To Sylar,” Mohinder interrupts hoarsely, “where is he?”
Nathan sighs, looking anxiously down at the bed, and Mohinder feels his stomach drop.
“Gabriel...got away,” Nathan says quietly, “he was headed around the corner...into the hall when I got into the house. I had to tend to you, I couldn’t go after him. When the ambulance showed up, I tried to find him, but he was gone. Got out a back door, or a window, or...I’m sorry, I am so so sorry, Mohinder.”
Mohinder can just make out the tears glistening in Nathan’s eyes.
“It’s alright,” Mohinder mutters, “thank you, Nathan. You found me. You saved me.”
“You’re amazing, Mohinder. What you must have gone through...you survived in spite of everything. No one’s ever survived him before,” Nathan says with awe in his voice.
Mohinder turns his gaze to the ceiling, fighting off the tears that threaten to overtake him. All this machinery keeping him alive, keeping him from moving anywhere. The drugs in his system only dull the pain, numb it a little, keep him from tumbling over the edge.
He survived.
He’s alive.
And none of it can take away what Sylar did to him.
“I’m s-sorry,” Nathan stammers nervously, “don’t cr-do you need something? Should I get a nurse?”
Nathan gently rubs Mohinder’s arm in an attempt to calm him.
“I’m okay,” Mohinder whispers, smiling gently at Nathan.
“Good, that’s good,” Nathan says, his mouth quirking into a half grin, “I have some good news. When you’re ready...your mother is here. She’s sleeping now, out in the waiting room.”
“She’s here?” Mohinder says, feeling a rush of gratitude, of inexplicable happiness.
“Yes, yeah, she’s here,” Nathan nods, “do you want me to go get her?”
Mohinder nods, and Nathan hurries away.
He can forget for awhile.
With the drugs in his system, with his mother by his side, gently stroking his face with her nimble fingers, he can forget.
He’s safe now.
He’s with loved ones.
He’s alive.
XXXX
In the weeks that follow, as his body heals, as doctors run test after test, and social workers and police come to question him, Mohinder can feel his strength returning. The questions are painful.
The truth is terrifying.
His week with Sylar, the infamous Davis River Killer becomes a national news story. The attention isn’t welcome.
Nathan, for the most part, does a smooth job of holding off questioning reporters.
Maya is by Mohinder’s side when the police question him for the thousandth time, hoping to find something that will lead them to Sylar’s whereabouts.
His mother is constantly there to nurture him, sometimes to the point of being annoying, but Mohinder really doesn’t mind for the most part. He needs her there. Her support, and the support of his friends means the whole world to him.
Eventually his lung heals.
The chest tube is removed.
The scar that remains is a reminder of his battle with a killer. A battle he fought his way through, and survived.
With Nathan’s help, and his mother’s, Mohinder finally goes home.
XXXX One Year Later
A swirl of leaves on the deadened grass.
Mohinder rubs his arms quickly through the sleeves of his green sweater to warm them as he walks toward his home in the darkness. There is a gust of wind, bringing with it the smell of mulch; dead leaves, and dried grass. Autumn.
There is a loud clattering, and Mohinder tenses, hand going to the gun in his belt as he pauses, holding his breath, listening intently.
There’s nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Squinting in the dim light of the street lamp, he sees a garbage bin that appears to have been toppled over by the wind.
Mohinder’s hand slowly leaves the gun, and he walks over to pick the garbage bin up, resting it against a telephone pole to steady it.
He walks over to lean against the other side of the pole, closing his eyes, and listening to the sounds of the night, the breeze, the distant swish of cars driving.
The world here is a million miles from the hell he’d been through a year ago. Several gun training classes later, and a weapon’s permit, and Mohinder feels more protected, and yet still more vulnerable than he ever has before.
No one has seen Sylar in a year.
One year ago today, a date forever lodged in Mohinder’s mind. The day he was drugged and kidnapped. The day he made the biggest mistake of his life, and the reason he still suffers nightmares on such a regular basis.
One year in which a lot had happened.
Bob had died, leaving his daughter, and Maya, a massive amount of money, which Maya had immediately put to use attempting to cheer Mohinder up. Mohinder had had to turn her away several times as politely as he could. She meant well, but he couldn’t stand the attention anymore.
They’d remained friends. Happy, visiting once a week, but never taking it further than dinner and a chat. Friends they were, and friends they would stay.
Nathan had quit his job as a P.I, and actually ran for congress with Mohinder’s blessing, succeeding where Mohinder had secretly believed he wouldn’t.
Mohinder didn’t mind that Nathan’s attentions were on running, it took them away from Mohinder, who was feeling suffocated by the constant worrying of others on his behalf.
His mother had offered to move closer, and Mohinder had politely but firmly told her no. He did, however, begin to visit her bi-monthly, thoroughly enjoying every dinner they had together. Enjoying each conversation, each shared chapati as though it would be their last together, and the talk and food was all the richer for it as far as Mohinder was concerned.
He might think Sylar was dead.
Not a single Davis River murder in one year.
No hint of the man’s whereabouts.
And yet, despite moving, Mohinder still receives mail from an unnamed source.
Small messages, vague and yet direct in their meaning.
I bought some Kulfi today.
They were playing our song on the radio at the store.
I saw that classes were starting again, and I thought of you.
Mohinder had quit teaching.
Had actually been taken in by Sylar’s words, and thrown himself into his own research, soon finding himself loving it. He enjoyed the attention when it was for his breakthroughs, and not the fact that he was a victim, and a survivor.
He now enjoys going to work every day with a purpose, and a goal, and the hope that tomorrow he’ll discover something even more exciting, even more amazing than before.
He misses certain aspects of being a teacher, misses helping mold young minds, the thrill of showing up to school every day and wondering what will happen next, the occasional adoration he received from impressed students.
Altogether though, Mohinder would have to admit that his current life is much more appealing than the one he had before he was kidnapped.
Rolling his head around gently to stretch out his neck, Mohinder takes in a deep breath and turns to continue his walk home.
Once inside, he sets his gun down on the desk and picks up his glasses and a new text he’d been asked to study for work.
Mohinder walks to his favorite seat in the living room, a cream-colored chair which faces away from the desk. He sits down, sliding his reading glasses on, and flipping the book open to gaze at the text.
DNA.
Genomes.
Chromosomes.
Tissue.
Genetic anomalies.
The words begin to run together, forming strange pictures. Dancing chromosomes splitting, then splitting again.
There is a small clatter, something dropping, and Mohinder gasps, opening his eyes and looking around from his chair. He’d fallen asleep while reading. He glances down at the book which has fallen to the floor.
Adjusting his glasses, Mohinder leans over and picks up the book.
He stretches his back, then stands and turns toward the desk, gazing down at the book, wondering what page he was on.
“Hello, Mohinder.”
Mohinder’s head snaps up, his body jolting to a stop, the book falling from his fingers to clatter to the floor again.
Sylar.
Standing in his living room, looking all too casual.
Mohinder’s gaze goes to the gun in Sylar’s hand.
Mohinder’s gun.
This isn’t happening. It’s another bad dream.
But Mohinder knows it isn’t. He can feel the scratch of his sweater against his skin, and if he bothered to pinch himself right now, he’d feel that too.
It’s no dream.
The panic is building.
Ten months of therapy offer nothing for a situation like this.
Mohinder trembles, mind flitting to all the exits in the room. He’s faster now. And he’s in his own home. He can...
“That was a greeting,” Sylar says, raising an eyebrow, “you’re supposed to say ‘hello’ back.”
Mohinder licks his lips but says nothing.
The door to Mohinder’s left is unlocked. Mohinder wonders if that’s how the killer got in. He wasn’t paying attention tonight, wasn’t properly on his guard.
Mohinder wonders if he might be able to reach the door before...
He makes to head toward it, freezing after two steps when Sylar raises the gun in his right hand, and points it at Mohinder.
“W-wait,” Mohinder pleads, raising his hands defensively.
“It’s been a year, Mohinder,” Sylar says, taking a step toward him, causing Mohinder to step backward in response.
And suddenly it’s a year ago.
They are killer and captive.
And the game is on again.
Mohinder feels sick; feels physically ill.
“If I go missing now...people will know,” Mohinder says quietly, backing up until he runs into the cream-colored chair. Sylar continues to walk forward, a small smirk of amusement twisting his lips.
“I don’t need to take you anywhere in order to kill you,” Sylar points out.
Mohinder swallows, forcing himself to remain calm and coherent, keeping his gaze on Sylar’s eyes which stare at him so intently it makes him feel completely naked.
“One whole year, Mohinder. Look how far you’ve come. Look how much you’ve done, what you’ve accomplished. You’re a new man.”
“Thanks to you,” Mohinder admits with a slight scoff.
“Yes,” Sylar nods.
Mohinder lets out a shaky breath, looking down, knowing he’s just lost everything. That there’s no way he can win this one.
“Look at me, Mohinder,” Sylar demands, nudging the gun against Mohinder’s chin to raise his head up so that they are once again eye to eye.
“What do you want?” Mohinder asks, his voice barely a murmur. After all this time, he has still allowed the power to fall into Sylar’s hands. He is still weakened, and at a disadvantage.
“I want to tell you how you’ve changed me,” Sylar says, offering Mohinder a genuine smile.
“How have I changed you?” Mohinder asks, frowning slightly in confusion.
“I nearly died,” Sylar says quietly, leaning toward Mohinder until Mohinder can feel the killer’s warm breath against his cheek, “a sweet woman named Michelle took me in, with no questions. She patched me up. I guess you missed all my major organs in your attack. I would have let her live if she hadn’t questioned me about the newscasts, about the pictures proclaiming me as the Davis River Killer. Couldn’t have her turning me in, but I didn’t want to kill her.”
Mohinder frowns, “what do you mean?”
“I mean that in one whole year, my mind has been consumed, intrigued, obsessed with the thought of you...the one that got away. I as good as killed you that day, and you still survived, Mohinder.”
“And you couldn’t have that,” Mohinder says, noting the sudden anger in his own voice, “you of all people have to finish what you started, right? Can’t change. You’re too great to change, I suppose.”
Sylar scoffs, the look on his face one of utmost amusement.
“What do you have to show for your week with me, Mohinder, besides some PTSD, and a few scars,” Sylar asks, pressing the barrel of the gun to Mohinder’s throat as he shoves his left hand under the bottom of Mohinder’s sweater, trailing fingers up his stomach, toward the scar inflicted by the switch-blade.
Mohinder ignores the gun, catching Sylar’s arm, shoving him back. Sylar stumbles a few feet, frowning when he manages to steady himself.
“You won’t touch me again,” Mohinder states.
“Is that right?” Sylar quirks an eyebrow.
“What do you want, Sylar?” Mohinder asks angrily.
“You changed me,” Sylar says, and Mohinder can tell that it bothers Sylar a great deal to say those words.
And Mohinder still doesn’t understand them.
“Changed you how?”
“I thought of ending your life every chance I got. I could go to your house, and kill you execution style. I could break in and strangle you in your sleep. I might hit you with a car. But every time I was near you, every time it was possible to hurt you, I couldn’t bring myself to do it...”
Mohinder grips the chair behind him as he listens to the startling words, “You...”
Sylar shakes his head to silence Mohinder, “The thing is...I’m not going to kill you tonight. I’m not ever going to kill you, Mohinder. I can’t.”
The words sound honest, sound true, but Mohinder is too scared to hope. Sylar is, after all, a serial-killer. And all the things he’s done, all his outbursts and manic behaviors have led Mohinder to question every action that Sylar makes.
“You...you came here to tell me that you can’t kill me?” Mohinder says, easily sounding as confused as he feels.
“Yes,” Sylar says.
“You couldn’t have sent that in a letter?” Mohinder asks.
Sylar laughs a bit, “a letter just doesn’t have the same impact as my physical presence.”
“No, I suppose you’re right,” Mohinder says, shaking his head in disbelief at their conversation.
“What about you, Mohinder?” Sylar asks, moving toward Mohinder again. Mohinder doesn’t move fast enough to evade Sylar’s grip when strong fingers reach around to the back of his neck to pull him closer to the killer. “Do you wish me dead?”
“Yes,” Mohinder says, swallowing when he feels Sylar’s lips brush over his.
“And are you willing to kill me?” Sylar asks.
“If I have the chance...yes,” Mohinder says, reaching around to grip Sylar’s fingers and pull them off his neck, shoving the man’s hand away.
“Then I suppose I’d better not give you a chance,” Sylar says quietly.
Mohinder jerks back when Sylar holds up the gun suddenly.
“Don’t...” Mohinder starts, trailing off when he sees Sylar release the cartridge from the gun into his hand, tucking the bullets into his jacket pocket.
He then cocks the slide of the gun, quickly catching the bullet with his left hand when it’s popped from the chamber. He holds it up for Mohinder to see, a playful smile on his face, then he drops that into his pocket as well.
“There, I’ve removed temptation,” Sylar says, handing the empty gun back to Mohinder.
Mohinder stares at the useless weapon, holding it in both hands, a symbol of...something.
Of defeat? Of his loss?
No.
A symbol of Sylar.
The man who swept into his life, turned it upside down, tried viciously to destroy it...
And couldn’t.
By the time Mohinder looks up, Sylar is already at the door. He turns the knob, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Sylar’s glance up at him tells Mohinder everything he needs to know.
The next words out of Sylar’s mouth only solidify that truth.
“You won’t see me again,” Sylar says quietly, “goodbye, Mohinder.”
The door closes behind Sylar with a small click.