What We Sacrifice [2/3]
Title: What We Sacrifice [2/3]
Author: catoasapun
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Noah
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, language, mild violence
Spoilers: Up to and through 3x03, One of Us, One of Them.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. *sigh*
Word Count: 3,262
Summary: Sylar and his partner are instructed to confront Mohinder at his lab. He doesn't like what he finds.
A/N: This is unedited. That is all. Thanks to my lovely paxlux for moral support! Ily.
“Put that away.”
Noah glares at Sylar, not lowering the gun in his hand. The silver metal catches the light from the fluorescent bulbs over their heads and glints as Noah turns it over in his hand, admiring it. An action, Sylar knows, meant merely to mock his utter lack of control over the situation.
They were instructed earlier in the morning to go immediately to Suresh’s lab, as Angela was concerned about what his alleged experimentation may mean for the Company. Sylar had been none too pleased with the turn of events, as he wasn’t sure exactly what “Go find Suresh and stop him, immediately,” meant in Angela-speak. Noah clearly knew something was up, and had been making a point of waving his gun around since they left Hartsdale.
“Doctor Suresh was trigger-happy before he decided to go and experiment on himself, I am not about to go in there without proper protection.”
“Noah,” Sylar hissed, speaking through gritted teeth, “put. It. Away. Angela said-”
Slipping the gun into a holster inside his jacket, Noah steps toward Sylar so they are face to face. His features are calm, unaffected, and this serves only to irritate Sylar further.
“Angela is wrong. Anyway, I would rather not go in there at all than go in without this,” he pats the weapon affectionately, smirking, “but, as Suresh and I have certain matters to discuss, that isn’t an option. So, you’ll deal with it-”
“Which ‘matters?’”
Noah only smiles, turning to unlock the loft door and step inside. Sylar follows, grinding his teeth and fighting against every urge he has that tells him just to take the gun.
“This place is a shithole,” Noah stops just inside the entryway, gazing around at the mess in distaste, “if it’s possible, he’s done worse damage to it than Mendez ever managed to do.”
It is most certainly possible.
The place is a disaster zone; papers are strewn about the room, coating tabletops and the floors. Mohinder’s scrawling handwriting covers chalkboards lined against the back counter, each consecutive board becoming more illegible than the next. Even from where he stands, Sylar can see the slides and empty needles that litter the desk in the back room.
Mohinder had never been known for his organizational skills, but this… this is different.
“What..?” Sylar hears himself speak, his confusion getting the better of him. Angela had informed them that Mohinder was making a mess of things and needed to be reasoned with, but she had failed to mention how much of a mess he was making.
Noah had moved down the stairs and into the far room, and he stood observing the needles.
“Well, at least we can confirm that he’s been injecting something,” he says, gingerly picking one up by the “safe” side. As soon as he does, however, he curses and throws it to the floor, rushing to the kitchen area and turning on the faucet. He shoves his hands beneath the water and rubs them together, his face contorted in disgust.
Sylar hurries to stand beside him, grinning.
“Something wrong?”
Turning off the water, Noah reaches past Sylar for a towel, drying his hands.
“There was something on the needle. Dammit.”
“Something?”
“Yes,” Noah inspects his hand as though he expects to see it spontaneously combust, but sighs when he sees nothing, “something.”
“Maybe you should sit this one out.” Sylar suggests, leaning against the counter and toying with a pair of scissors left sitting near the sink.
“And leave it to you? You know better than that, Gabriel. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here at all.”
“If it were up to you, neither would you.”
Raising an eyebrow, Noah nods, tossing the towel aside, “How very observant of you.”
Sylar grins, straightening up and setting the scissors down once more.
“Luckily for me, it’s not up to you.”
Noah barely has enough time to shoot Sylar a puzzled glance before the man raises his hand, balling it into a fist and telekinetically cutting off Noah’s air supply.
His eyes roll back in his head and he starts to fall as Sylar releases the invisible grip, catching him before he can hit the floor. He grunts as he drags Noah across the slick concrete, propping him up against a far wall in the back room, ensuring that he won’t be visible to Mohinder when he arrives. After checking Noah’s pulse, Sylar stands up and takes in his surroundings once more, eyes skating over the slides.
He lets out a heavy breath, his stomach twisting into knots.
He looks up as he hears the scraping of a key against the locked door in time to see Mohinder through the window. He moves quickly to hide in a dark corner, listening and waiting.
*
“You feeling all right, Doctor?” Sylar steps out from behind the wall and towards Mohinder, being sure to keep his tone even and mocking.
He watches as the other man tenses, still leaning over the sink. Sylar can only see his profile, but he is sure Mohinder is about to be sick.
“Sylar.” He whispers, not looking up.
Feeling his mouth pull into a self-satisfied grin, Sylar takes another step into the room, eyes never moving from Mohinder.
“You look like hell.”
Mohinder scoffs and Sylar notes the whitening of his knuckles as his grip on the counter increases.
Cocking his head slightly, he observes as sweat beads along the curves of Mohinder’s neck and forehead, coating him in a sickly sheen. His breathing becomes heavy, his chest trembling slightly with each intake.
Something is off.
“Mohinder-?”
Sylar doesn’t see the scissors until they’re covered in his blood. Mohinder moves too fast, smooth and almost effortless, swiping at Sylar and catching his arm, leaving a pulsating gash two inches long.
Hissing, Sylar steps back and holds the wound as Mohinder rounds on him once more, shoving him hard into a wall and bringing his face close to Sylar’s own. He holds the taller man in place with unnatural strength, the force of his hands almost painful. His eyes are wide, the pupils dilated, and he reminds Sylar of a rabid animal: mad, out of control. So unlike the Mohinder he knows.
He feels himself being pressed into the cement wall, feels the blade of the scissors pressing lightly to his throat. He knows his arm is healing itself, knitting the skin together as though nothing had happened, but Mohinder hasn’t noticed yet.
“Why aren’t you fighting me?” he demands, accent flowing through clenched teeth, “I could kill you right now, it would be so easy. Too easy.”
Laughing, Sylar nods.
“Yeah? Then do it,” He lowers his face, inching closer to Mohinder so that their noses nearly touch, and he can smell the scent of the man’s sweat, “Go on. Do it.”
The blade shakes against his throat, matching the tremors of Mohinder’s body. The man’s chest is pressed to Sylar’s, and he can feel Mohinder’s heartbeat, wild and erratic.
Not right, something is wrong.
Sylar slides his gaze over Mohinder’s face, taking in every tic, ever twitch of his brow, each drop of sweat, before returning his eyes to the black of Mohinder’s. Slowly, he pulls his healed arm from where it is crushed between Mohinder’s body and the wall, and runs his hand up Mohinder’s arm, grasping the scissors and pulling them away from his throat. Mohinder doesn’t fight it, doesn’t react.
“This,” Sylar whispers, sure that if he were to speak any louder Mohinder would attack again, “is not you. Don’t… don’t become me.”
Mohinder swallows hard, stumbling backwards slightly.
“I wanted to-I want to-” he mumbles, his voice soft. He sounds confused, like he isn’t quite registering the words he is speaking, and he turns away, pushing his sweat-soaked hair from his face. “I was supposed to-”
He wanders back toward the counter, appearing to forget completely that he had just been about to murder Sylar. Awkwardly, he begins removing his jacket and rolls his sleeves up, examining his arm.
Sylar watches for a moment, caught entirely off-guard by Mohinder’s sudden change in demeanor, and is at a loss for what to do.
A first.
“Mohinder-”
“It’s infected.” Mohinder groans matter-of-factly, no hint in his voice that he heard Sylar speak. “I assume it is, anyway. I can’t be sure what a proper side-effect is, after all.”
“A side-effect? What the hell do-?”
“That has become very real fear of mine, you know.” Stepping back from the counter and lowering his sleeve again, Mohinder turns back and addresses Sylar.
“What has? Infection?”
“In a way, I suppose: Becoming you. Becoming a monster.”
Sylar looks away from Mohinder, glaring at the floor by the man’s feet. This has been something that has plagued his own thoughts lately, distracting him, tearing at his insides when he lies awake at night. Is Gabriel Gray nothing more than a monster? Is he capable of nothing more than murder, nothing more than lies?
Shaking his head and returning his attention to Mohinder, Sylar hisses, “How can you know when you’ve ‘become’ me, when you don’t know anything about me?”
“I know you murdered my father and countless others. I know you used Maya, I know you used me. What else matters, Sylar?”
“Maya was weak; she needed direction, I gave it to her. I did her a favor.” Sylar’s stomach drops and his tie suddenly feels too tight, constricting. He reaches his fingers up to loosen it, trying to free himself from the itching, choking sensation.
“Yes, and I assume you count killing her brother as a favor as well? Aren’t you the charitable one?”
“And yes, I killed your father. I-that wasn’t about you. I didn’t use you. That was different.”
Mohinder moves forward quickly, grabbing Sylar’s arm in a furious grip.
“How?” he snaps.
Sylar’s mind freezes.
Fuck.
An instant feels like an eon as his brain kicks into overdrive, a flurry of possible excuses chasing themselves though his mind, each one more unbelievable than the one before.
“I-”
Before Sylar can trip over his tongue and fall face first into a complex mess, Mohinder’s eyes snap to his arm, the skin now painted red with dried blood. Horror washes over his face, and his long fingers release Sylar’s arm as he steps backward, his eyes wide with realization.
“You killed her? A little girl… you killed her?” he speaks slowly, each word dripping with disbelief.
Sylar holds his hands up, the only action he can think to make.
“No, I didn’t.”
“But you-I stabbed you. You were bleeding… you’re even more despicable than I could have imagined! A little girl, Sylar!”
“She isn’t dead, Mohinder. And, I thought you were supposed to be the expert here.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?!” Mohinder’s voice cracks in his distress.
“If you were, you would realize that she can easily survive most of what I could do to her. I didn’t kill her: that’s not why I do what I do… She’s alive.” Sylar hates how his words end up sounding like a plea, how the word “alive” drags out as though begging Mohinder to really hear it. It wasn’t his intention… he would never give that to Mohinder.
“Alive? But you still… you’re never going to quit, are you? Nothing will ever be enough for you,” Mohinder raises the scissors once more, glaring at the blood-stained blades, “And you’ve taken away the only thing I had left.”
“The fact that you can’t kill me has never stopped you from trying, Mohinder.”
Mohinder’s eyes meet Sylar’s once more and, of every emotion he has ever seen therein: passion, disgust, terror, hate, nothing has ever hit Sylar as hard, made him feel so sick as what he sees in them now. Or what he doesn’t. They are blank, empty; lifeless.
This is not Mohinder.
This is someone who has given up.
The noise of the scissors hitting the floor is deafening, the sound of the first impact cracking through the air like the snap of electricity. It clatters and finally stills, but neither man moves.
They stare each other down and words are unnecessary. Sylar watches as Mohinder silently breaks apart, something he never thought he’d live to see. Something he never wanted to see.
He moves to step toward Mohinder, but a groan from the other room stops him. He hopes Mohinder didn’t hear, but another, louder groan follows the first, and Mohinder looks into the back room, confused.
“Who’s there?” he asks, looking back at Sylar, “Who did you harm this time?”
He steps toward the entryway, but Sylar blocks his path.
“It’s Noah, and he’s fine. I wouldn’t recommend going in there if I were you, Doctor. He’ll be awake soon, and would like nothing better than to kill you as soon as he is able.”
Mohinder’s mouth falls open and he shakes his head with puzzlement.
“Noah? Noah Bennet?”
“Yes.” Sylar nods, not looking forward to explaining the circumstances surrounding their visit to the lab. The word partner doesn’t quite roll off his tongue all that smoothly, even after several weeks of having one.
“Why on Earth is he here? Why are you here?”
Sylar can sense Mohinder starting to panic again, and holds up his hands once more, signaling for him to calm down.
“We’re-I’m-the Company sent us. They’re concerned.”
Mohinder doesn’t respond immediately, he seems entirely unable to do so. He folds one arm across his chest, lifting the other up to hold his chin as the shock of what Sylar has just said settles in.
“You are working for the Company?”
Sylar winces.
“I am not working for anyone.”
“This is absolutely wonderful,” Mohinder scoffs, holding both hands over his eyes and shaking his head violently, as if to get the very idea out of his head, “I mean, really. It is absolutely beautiful. And I’m guessing that Bennet is here as well because he is your partner? Because that would just be the icing on the proverbial cake.”
“Mohinder-”
“Why did they send you, Sylar? Or did you lie: is this just a personal visit? I know that you and Mr. Bennet must have a common reason for being here; I’m sure he’s told you about our little mishap?”
“They sent us here to stop you from killing yourself.”
“Killing myself? I’m not killing anyone, let alone myself.”
Sylar closes the space between them, snatching Mohinder’s wrist and ripping his sleeve back up, exposing the swollen, bloody wound on his arm.
“If you keep this shit up, you’ll be dead soon. Count on it.”
“What the hell do you care?” Mohinder pulls away, scrambling to hide the marks once more.
Sylar snarls at this, his lip curling to expose sharp white teeth.
“It was just an observation.”
“I don’t care to hear your observations,” Mohinder retorts, turning and heading back to the counter, stopping in front of a particularly unreadable chalkboard.
“You can tell your partner that I have absolutely no interest in what the Company thinks is best for me anymore. You can tell them that I’m done with them and their games. It’s over and you need to leave; now. Take him and go.”
Sylar barely hears this, however, because he is too distracted by his thoughts, his unease. Mohinder is falling apart right in front of him; physically, emotionally, mentally. Every way a person can fall apart.
Above all else, Mohinder Suresh had always been strong. When his father had died, he’d done everything in his power to find out why, to find Sylar and stop him. When he’d learned the truth, that someone he had allowed himself to trust, Zane Taylor, was really the man for whom he had been searching, he didn’t let it break him. No, as much as Sylar had hated it, he’d used it. He’d become stronger, more determined.
Every time Sylar had tried to weaken him, to intimidate him, Mohinder had refused to back down. He’d always stood his ground, something Sylar long ago came to admire about him. Love about him.
But now, Mohinder can’t even keep him emotions in check. He backed down, gave in. And this throws Sylar off more than anything ever has in his entire life.
Without thinking, Sylar steps forward, brushing his fingers gingerly across the back of Mohinder’s shoulders, feeling lesions beneath the light fabric of his shirt.
“What’s happening to you?” he whispers, feeling his breath become shallow.
Mohinder turns back to face him, pulling away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Mohinder, you have to stop,” Sylar struggles to hold Mohinder still, eventually moving his hands up to hold Mohinder’s face in place, directing the man’s eyes to look into his, “Why did you do this to yourself?”
Mohinder stops trying to pull away, swallowing hard as his eyes begin to shimmer with tears.
“I did this so I could finally do my duty as a son. I told myself it was for science, then that it was for the good of humanity… but it was always about you. I want to kill you, but I can’t. Even if you could die… I still couldn’t do it. Many times I’ve had the chance, but I never went through with it,” he pauses, closing his eyes tight for a moment before opening them once more to continue, “I want to blame you, but I can’t. If you had any idea what I’ve done, who I’ve hurt…Why am I like this, Sylar? When did I become this? When did I become worse than the monster I was trying to defeat?”
Sylar simply stares back at him, not sure how to respond.
But it was always about you.
He shakes his head, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead to Mohinder’s, still holding his face in his hands. He runs his thumbs over smooth, damp skin as he finally begins to understand.
“You’re not me, Mohinder,” he breathes, “you’re a good person, a better person than I ever was… you’re not me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m worse.”
Again, Sylar shakes his head, his eyes still closed as he holds Mohinder’s face delicately, feeling their noses brush.
“No, you’re not.”
Mohinder moves his own hands up to and holds Sylar’s; his fingers are cold, clammy.
“Let me help you,” Sylar whispers, his lips ghosting across Mohinder’s as he does, “let me help you.”
“Why would you want to do that? I don’t deserve saving.”
Sylar wraps his arms around Mohinder’s shoulders, taking care not to hurt him, and pulls his smaller frame flush with his own. He rests his face against the man’s dark, unruly curls and feels Mohinder press his damp face into his shirt.
“Because I have to.”
* *
On the other side of the loft, Noah sits leaning against a cold concrete wall, listening, watching. From where he is, he can see every move the other men make, and he is sure they are completely unaware that he has been eavesdropping.
He takes careful note of the way Sylar handles Mohinder’s erratic mood swings: gentle, patient. Nothing like the way he handles everyone else.
As he watches Sylar kiss Mohinder’s hair in a way that can only be described as loving, Noah knows he has the answer he has been searching for since the moment Angela announced Sylar was to be his new partner.
He has found Sylar’s weakness.
PART 3
Author: catoasapun
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Noah
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, language, mild violence
Spoilers: Up to and through 3x03, One of Us, One of Them.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. *sigh*
Word Count: 3,262
Summary: Sylar and his partner are instructed to confront Mohinder at his lab. He doesn't like what he finds.
A/N: This is unedited. That is all. Thanks to my lovely paxlux for moral support! Ily.
“Put that away.”
Noah glares at Sylar, not lowering the gun in his hand. The silver metal catches the light from the fluorescent bulbs over their heads and glints as Noah turns it over in his hand, admiring it. An action, Sylar knows, meant merely to mock his utter lack of control over the situation.
They were instructed earlier in the morning to go immediately to Suresh’s lab, as Angela was concerned about what his alleged experimentation may mean for the Company. Sylar had been none too pleased with the turn of events, as he wasn’t sure exactly what “Go find Suresh and stop him, immediately,” meant in Angela-speak. Noah clearly knew something was up, and had been making a point of waving his gun around since they left Hartsdale.
“Doctor Suresh was trigger-happy before he decided to go and experiment on himself, I am not about to go in there without proper protection.”
“Noah,” Sylar hissed, speaking through gritted teeth, “put. It. Away. Angela said-”
Slipping the gun into a holster inside his jacket, Noah steps toward Sylar so they are face to face. His features are calm, unaffected, and this serves only to irritate Sylar further.
“Angela is wrong. Anyway, I would rather not go in there at all than go in without this,” he pats the weapon affectionately, smirking, “but, as Suresh and I have certain matters to discuss, that isn’t an option. So, you’ll deal with it-”
“Which ‘matters?’”
Noah only smiles, turning to unlock the loft door and step inside. Sylar follows, grinding his teeth and fighting against every urge he has that tells him just to take the gun.
“This place is a shithole,” Noah stops just inside the entryway, gazing around at the mess in distaste, “if it’s possible, he’s done worse damage to it than Mendez ever managed to do.”
It is most certainly possible.
The place is a disaster zone; papers are strewn about the room, coating tabletops and the floors. Mohinder’s scrawling handwriting covers chalkboards lined against the back counter, each consecutive board becoming more illegible than the next. Even from where he stands, Sylar can see the slides and empty needles that litter the desk in the back room.
Mohinder had never been known for his organizational skills, but this… this is different.
“What..?” Sylar hears himself speak, his confusion getting the better of him. Angela had informed them that Mohinder was making a mess of things and needed to be reasoned with, but she had failed to mention how much of a mess he was making.
Noah had moved down the stairs and into the far room, and he stood observing the needles.
“Well, at least we can confirm that he’s been injecting something,” he says, gingerly picking one up by the “safe” side. As soon as he does, however, he curses and throws it to the floor, rushing to the kitchen area and turning on the faucet. He shoves his hands beneath the water and rubs them together, his face contorted in disgust.
Sylar hurries to stand beside him, grinning.
“Something wrong?”
Turning off the water, Noah reaches past Sylar for a towel, drying his hands.
“There was something on the needle. Dammit.”
“Something?”
“Yes,” Noah inspects his hand as though he expects to see it spontaneously combust, but sighs when he sees nothing, “something.”
“Maybe you should sit this one out.” Sylar suggests, leaning against the counter and toying with a pair of scissors left sitting near the sink.
“And leave it to you? You know better than that, Gabriel. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here at all.”
“If it were up to you, neither would you.”
Raising an eyebrow, Noah nods, tossing the towel aside, “How very observant of you.”
Sylar grins, straightening up and setting the scissors down once more.
“Luckily for me, it’s not up to you.”
Noah barely has enough time to shoot Sylar a puzzled glance before the man raises his hand, balling it into a fist and telekinetically cutting off Noah’s air supply.
His eyes roll back in his head and he starts to fall as Sylar releases the invisible grip, catching him before he can hit the floor. He grunts as he drags Noah across the slick concrete, propping him up against a far wall in the back room, ensuring that he won’t be visible to Mohinder when he arrives. After checking Noah’s pulse, Sylar stands up and takes in his surroundings once more, eyes skating over the slides.
He lets out a heavy breath, his stomach twisting into knots.
He looks up as he hears the scraping of a key against the locked door in time to see Mohinder through the window. He moves quickly to hide in a dark corner, listening and waiting.
*
“You feeling all right, Doctor?” Sylar steps out from behind the wall and towards Mohinder, being sure to keep his tone even and mocking.
He watches as the other man tenses, still leaning over the sink. Sylar can only see his profile, but he is sure Mohinder is about to be sick.
“Sylar.” He whispers, not looking up.
Feeling his mouth pull into a self-satisfied grin, Sylar takes another step into the room, eyes never moving from Mohinder.
“You look like hell.”
Mohinder scoffs and Sylar notes the whitening of his knuckles as his grip on the counter increases.
Cocking his head slightly, he observes as sweat beads along the curves of Mohinder’s neck and forehead, coating him in a sickly sheen. His breathing becomes heavy, his chest trembling slightly with each intake.
Something is off.
“Mohinder-?”
Sylar doesn’t see the scissors until they’re covered in his blood. Mohinder moves too fast, smooth and almost effortless, swiping at Sylar and catching his arm, leaving a pulsating gash two inches long.
Hissing, Sylar steps back and holds the wound as Mohinder rounds on him once more, shoving him hard into a wall and bringing his face close to Sylar’s own. He holds the taller man in place with unnatural strength, the force of his hands almost painful. His eyes are wide, the pupils dilated, and he reminds Sylar of a rabid animal: mad, out of control. So unlike the Mohinder he knows.
He feels himself being pressed into the cement wall, feels the blade of the scissors pressing lightly to his throat. He knows his arm is healing itself, knitting the skin together as though nothing had happened, but Mohinder hasn’t noticed yet.
“Why aren’t you fighting me?” he demands, accent flowing through clenched teeth, “I could kill you right now, it would be so easy. Too easy.”
Laughing, Sylar nods.
“Yeah? Then do it,” He lowers his face, inching closer to Mohinder so that their noses nearly touch, and he can smell the scent of the man’s sweat, “Go on. Do it.”
The blade shakes against his throat, matching the tremors of Mohinder’s body. The man’s chest is pressed to Sylar’s, and he can feel Mohinder’s heartbeat, wild and erratic.
Not right, something is wrong.
Sylar slides his gaze over Mohinder’s face, taking in every tic, ever twitch of his brow, each drop of sweat, before returning his eyes to the black of Mohinder’s. Slowly, he pulls his healed arm from where it is crushed between Mohinder’s body and the wall, and runs his hand up Mohinder’s arm, grasping the scissors and pulling them away from his throat. Mohinder doesn’t fight it, doesn’t react.
“This,” Sylar whispers, sure that if he were to speak any louder Mohinder would attack again, “is not you. Don’t… don’t become me.”
Mohinder swallows hard, stumbling backwards slightly.
“I wanted to-I want to-” he mumbles, his voice soft. He sounds confused, like he isn’t quite registering the words he is speaking, and he turns away, pushing his sweat-soaked hair from his face. “I was supposed to-”
He wanders back toward the counter, appearing to forget completely that he had just been about to murder Sylar. Awkwardly, he begins removing his jacket and rolls his sleeves up, examining his arm.
Sylar watches for a moment, caught entirely off-guard by Mohinder’s sudden change in demeanor, and is at a loss for what to do.
A first.
“Mohinder-”
“It’s infected.” Mohinder groans matter-of-factly, no hint in his voice that he heard Sylar speak. “I assume it is, anyway. I can’t be sure what a proper side-effect is, after all.”
“A side-effect? What the hell do-?”
“That has become very real fear of mine, you know.” Stepping back from the counter and lowering his sleeve again, Mohinder turns back and addresses Sylar.
“What has? Infection?”
“In a way, I suppose: Becoming you. Becoming a monster.”
Sylar looks away from Mohinder, glaring at the floor by the man’s feet. This has been something that has plagued his own thoughts lately, distracting him, tearing at his insides when he lies awake at night. Is Gabriel Gray nothing more than a monster? Is he capable of nothing more than murder, nothing more than lies?
Shaking his head and returning his attention to Mohinder, Sylar hisses, “How can you know when you’ve ‘become’ me, when you don’t know anything about me?”
“I know you murdered my father and countless others. I know you used Maya, I know you used me. What else matters, Sylar?”
“Maya was weak; she needed direction, I gave it to her. I did her a favor.” Sylar’s stomach drops and his tie suddenly feels too tight, constricting. He reaches his fingers up to loosen it, trying to free himself from the itching, choking sensation.
“Yes, and I assume you count killing her brother as a favor as well? Aren’t you the charitable one?”
“And yes, I killed your father. I-that wasn’t about you. I didn’t use you. That was different.”
Mohinder moves forward quickly, grabbing Sylar’s arm in a furious grip.
“How?” he snaps.
Sylar’s mind freezes.
Fuck.
An instant feels like an eon as his brain kicks into overdrive, a flurry of possible excuses chasing themselves though his mind, each one more unbelievable than the one before.
“I-”
Before Sylar can trip over his tongue and fall face first into a complex mess, Mohinder’s eyes snap to his arm, the skin now painted red with dried blood. Horror washes over his face, and his long fingers release Sylar’s arm as he steps backward, his eyes wide with realization.
“You killed her? A little girl… you killed her?” he speaks slowly, each word dripping with disbelief.
Sylar holds his hands up, the only action he can think to make.
“No, I didn’t.”
“But you-I stabbed you. You were bleeding… you’re even more despicable than I could have imagined! A little girl, Sylar!”
“She isn’t dead, Mohinder. And, I thought you were supposed to be the expert here.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?!” Mohinder’s voice cracks in his distress.
“If you were, you would realize that she can easily survive most of what I could do to her. I didn’t kill her: that’s not why I do what I do… She’s alive.” Sylar hates how his words end up sounding like a plea, how the word “alive” drags out as though begging Mohinder to really hear it. It wasn’t his intention… he would never give that to Mohinder.
“Alive? But you still… you’re never going to quit, are you? Nothing will ever be enough for you,” Mohinder raises the scissors once more, glaring at the blood-stained blades, “And you’ve taken away the only thing I had left.”
“The fact that you can’t kill me has never stopped you from trying, Mohinder.”
Mohinder’s eyes meet Sylar’s once more and, of every emotion he has ever seen therein: passion, disgust, terror, hate, nothing has ever hit Sylar as hard, made him feel so sick as what he sees in them now. Or what he doesn’t. They are blank, empty; lifeless.
This is not Mohinder.
This is someone who has given up.
The noise of the scissors hitting the floor is deafening, the sound of the first impact cracking through the air like the snap of electricity. It clatters and finally stills, but neither man moves.
They stare each other down and words are unnecessary. Sylar watches as Mohinder silently breaks apart, something he never thought he’d live to see. Something he never wanted to see.
He moves to step toward Mohinder, but a groan from the other room stops him. He hopes Mohinder didn’t hear, but another, louder groan follows the first, and Mohinder looks into the back room, confused.
“Who’s there?” he asks, looking back at Sylar, “Who did you harm this time?”
He steps toward the entryway, but Sylar blocks his path.
“It’s Noah, and he’s fine. I wouldn’t recommend going in there if I were you, Doctor. He’ll be awake soon, and would like nothing better than to kill you as soon as he is able.”
Mohinder’s mouth falls open and he shakes his head with puzzlement.
“Noah? Noah Bennet?”
“Yes.” Sylar nods, not looking forward to explaining the circumstances surrounding their visit to the lab. The word partner doesn’t quite roll off his tongue all that smoothly, even after several weeks of having one.
“Why on Earth is he here? Why are you here?”
Sylar can sense Mohinder starting to panic again, and holds up his hands once more, signaling for him to calm down.
“We’re-I’m-the Company sent us. They’re concerned.”
Mohinder doesn’t respond immediately, he seems entirely unable to do so. He folds one arm across his chest, lifting the other up to hold his chin as the shock of what Sylar has just said settles in.
“You are working for the Company?”
Sylar winces.
“I am not working for anyone.”
“This is absolutely wonderful,” Mohinder scoffs, holding both hands over his eyes and shaking his head violently, as if to get the very idea out of his head, “I mean, really. It is absolutely beautiful. And I’m guessing that Bennet is here as well because he is your partner? Because that would just be the icing on the proverbial cake.”
“Mohinder-”
“Why did they send you, Sylar? Or did you lie: is this just a personal visit? I know that you and Mr. Bennet must have a common reason for being here; I’m sure he’s told you about our little mishap?”
“They sent us here to stop you from killing yourself.”
“Killing myself? I’m not killing anyone, let alone myself.”
Sylar closes the space between them, snatching Mohinder’s wrist and ripping his sleeve back up, exposing the swollen, bloody wound on his arm.
“If you keep this shit up, you’ll be dead soon. Count on it.”
“What the hell do you care?” Mohinder pulls away, scrambling to hide the marks once more.
Sylar snarls at this, his lip curling to expose sharp white teeth.
“It was just an observation.”
“I don’t care to hear your observations,” Mohinder retorts, turning and heading back to the counter, stopping in front of a particularly unreadable chalkboard.
“You can tell your partner that I have absolutely no interest in what the Company thinks is best for me anymore. You can tell them that I’m done with them and their games. It’s over and you need to leave; now. Take him and go.”
Sylar barely hears this, however, because he is too distracted by his thoughts, his unease. Mohinder is falling apart right in front of him; physically, emotionally, mentally. Every way a person can fall apart.
Above all else, Mohinder Suresh had always been strong. When his father had died, he’d done everything in his power to find out why, to find Sylar and stop him. When he’d learned the truth, that someone he had allowed himself to trust, Zane Taylor, was really the man for whom he had been searching, he didn’t let it break him. No, as much as Sylar had hated it, he’d used it. He’d become stronger, more determined.
Every time Sylar had tried to weaken him, to intimidate him, Mohinder had refused to back down. He’d always stood his ground, something Sylar long ago came to admire about him. Love about him.
But now, Mohinder can’t even keep him emotions in check. He backed down, gave in. And this throws Sylar off more than anything ever has in his entire life.
Without thinking, Sylar steps forward, brushing his fingers gingerly across the back of Mohinder’s shoulders, feeling lesions beneath the light fabric of his shirt.
“What’s happening to you?” he whispers, feeling his breath become shallow.
Mohinder turns back to face him, pulling away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Mohinder, you have to stop,” Sylar struggles to hold Mohinder still, eventually moving his hands up to hold Mohinder’s face in place, directing the man’s eyes to look into his, “Why did you do this to yourself?”
Mohinder stops trying to pull away, swallowing hard as his eyes begin to shimmer with tears.
“I did this so I could finally do my duty as a son. I told myself it was for science, then that it was for the good of humanity… but it was always about you. I want to kill you, but I can’t. Even if you could die… I still couldn’t do it. Many times I’ve had the chance, but I never went through with it,” he pauses, closing his eyes tight for a moment before opening them once more to continue, “I want to blame you, but I can’t. If you had any idea what I’ve done, who I’ve hurt…Why am I like this, Sylar? When did I become this? When did I become worse than the monster I was trying to defeat?”
Sylar simply stares back at him, not sure how to respond.
But it was always about you.
He shakes his head, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead to Mohinder’s, still holding his face in his hands. He runs his thumbs over smooth, damp skin as he finally begins to understand.
“You’re not me, Mohinder,” he breathes, “you’re a good person, a better person than I ever was… you’re not me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m worse.”
Again, Sylar shakes his head, his eyes still closed as he holds Mohinder’s face delicately, feeling their noses brush.
“No, you’re not.”
Mohinder moves his own hands up to and holds Sylar’s; his fingers are cold, clammy.
“Let me help you,” Sylar whispers, his lips ghosting across Mohinder’s as he does, “let me help you.”
“Why would you want to do that? I don’t deserve saving.”
Sylar wraps his arms around Mohinder’s shoulders, taking care not to hurt him, and pulls his smaller frame flush with his own. He rests his face against the man’s dark, unruly curls and feels Mohinder press his damp face into his shirt.
“Because I have to.”
* *
On the other side of the loft, Noah sits leaning against a cold concrete wall, listening, watching. From where he is, he can see every move the other men make, and he is sure they are completely unaware that he has been eavesdropping.
He takes careful note of the way Sylar handles Mohinder’s erratic mood swings: gentle, patient. Nothing like the way he handles everyone else.
As he watches Sylar kiss Mohinder’s hair in a way that can only be described as loving, Noah knows he has the answer he has been searching for since the moment Angela announced Sylar was to be his new partner.
He has found Sylar’s weakness.
PART 3