Fic: Four Times Sylar Saved Mohinder's Life - And One He Didn't (Heroes)
The explosion is deafening, in the confined space.
Mohinder is thrown against the catwalk, his ears ringing blank and empty. He tries to stir, but he can’t move, can’t think. His breathing is ragged in his chest, his heartbeat unsteady - that explosion, wait, no, it must have been the ship’s engines -
Then, he sees the water. The water, and the gaping, rough hole in the engine room. And there are no more vibrations - the engine isn’t just off, it’s gone.
Oh, god.
Mohinder struggles to his feet, slips on the catwalk, falls, the breath knocked out of him. His limbs aren’t responding properly, and he struggles, his nerves, arteries alight in a panic he’s never experienced before. Dimly, he hears it - the man, the diving instructor, is screaming.
It’s too much - Mohinder has failed to protect him, failed to warn him in time, and now Sylar has him. Mohinder collapses, and the water sweeps over him.
It’s so cold. The shock of it holds him fast, for long seconds, draining all the warmth from his flesh, draining the life from his body.
Water fills the room quickly, too quickly - there are pockets of air, near the ceiling - long, beautiful, silver bubbles. Mohinder kicks out towards them, swimming, but his limbs are still sluggish. His shoes, pants, shirt have all become waterlogged and they’re slowing him down.
Halfway through tugging his second shoe off, Mohinder’s lungs start to burn. He’s sunk, further from the ceiling than when he started, and it’s so far away. Maybe it would be better if he just - if he just -
Mohinder’s shoulders are abruptly, suddenly, yanked back and pressed against the wall. A pale figure maneuvers in front of him, and Mohinder realizes, with a jolt, that it’s Sylar, that Sylar is still alive, that he’s trailing blood from the diving instructor. That the diving instructor’s power is now, probably, in the possession of the man in front of him.
Mohinder pushes at Sylar, fights, but his movements are delayed, ineffective in the cocooning liquid. His breath rushes out of him, and his movements become abortive, slow.
Sylar takes Mohinder’s head in his hands, and Mohinder sees his eyes, clear and intent, for just a second before his own vision clouds, before he, finally, gives in.
The press of Sylar’s mouth against his is disturbing, clammy, too warm in the freezing water. Mohinder’s first instinct is to push him away, again, but he’s too weak, and his heart is beating so slow…
Sylar’s mouth opens against his, parting Mohinder’s lips, and Mohinder’s lungs expand, they have to expand, there’s no other choice.
The rush of air is hot, sticky, and it tastes of Sylar, of blood and murder and need. Mohinder recoils, reflexively, coughing, but before he can inhale water, Sylar’s mouth is on his again, and there’s another breath of air, the tingle of oxygen into Mohinder’s lungs.
Two breaths - it’s impossible -
A diving instructor. The man, the man Sylar just killed, he was a diving instructor, he must have been able to, to breathe underwater somehow.
The third inhale Mohinder accepts, his hand sliding up Sylar’s arm. He doesn’t understand it, Sylar has always wanted to kill him, they’ve hated each other for so long. And this is more than just a kiss, this is life, flowing from Sylar to Mohinder.
A slightly longer breath, and Sylar breaks away, taking Mohinder’s hand. The room is dark now, bare light flickering in from the hole in the side of the ship. Sylar tugs on Mohinder’s hand, pulling him (half by telekinesis, Mohinder would guess) to the edge, to the ocean outside.
The ship is gigantic, from here, a metal behemoth stretching into the distance above them. Mohinder coughs, a flutter of air escaping from his lungs, and he squeezes Sylar’s hand. Help me.
Sylar turns, sweeps Mohinder into his arms, and breathes for him, pushes air into his lungs, until the dizziness subsides and Mohinder can almost - almost - think.
The water tugs at Mohinder, harder and harder, and finally Mohinder realizes that they aren’t in a current, that they’re moving upwards, that they’re moving fast towards the surface. The light sparkles brighter, and Mohinder feels Sylar pull him closer - then Sylar is gone, vanished into the darkness below, and Mohinder breaks the surface.
“Hey! There’s one!”
Mohinder gasps in pure air, and he flounders, once, before recovering his balance. He catches the life buoy, and a life boat pulls him in, hands hauling him over the side, letting him sprawl on the ground, coughing.
As night falls, Mohinder fancies that he sees a dark shape in the water below.
- Torture -
The place is dank and disgusting.
White-washed walls don’t bother disguise the blood, urine, sweat of the inhabitants of the prison; where there’s bare wood, there’s rot, decay.
A wave of heat sweeps over the hallway. Sylar ignores it, ignores the flames consuming the guard structure behind him. Ignores the screams, ignores the cracking, ignores the thunderous collapse of drywall.
He can only hear one thing - one heartbeat.
Mohinder is in the back cell, filthy and bloody. His eyes are half-closed, and his skin shows the marks of amateur torture. Sylar swallows his bile, and contains his fury.
“What did you tell them?” he asks, in a tight, calm voice.
Mohinder twists away from his touch, a hurt flinch that tells more than an answer ever could. “I never told them anything,” Mohinder snarls, “and I won’t tell you, either. You won’t break me.”
Mohinder, broken. He can imagine it, now - a defeated man, lifeless, empty, obedient.
Sylar is almost sick, on the ground, right there.
His hatred for the men in this prison melts the chains holding Mohinder to the wall. He pulls Mohinder, shaky and hurt, into his arms, and starts towards the door.
Out in the street, he can hear Peter Petrelli approaching. He can feel it, in the ground and the air. Mohinder will be safe.
He sets Mohinder down, against an alley wall. “I love you,” he whispers, and he presses an empty kiss to Mohinder’s forehead. Mohinder’s eyes slide shut, with a bird’s-feather whisper of sound, and he leans into the touch.
Sylar’s heart breaks, and he runs.
- Murder -
Mohinder backs against the wall, his heart racing. “Listen,” he says, “just put the gun down, we can work this out.”
The man’s eyes are tearstained, and he holds the gun with a trembling hand. “You have to understand,” he begs, “this is for my son, for my baby boy. He can’t be on the list. He can’t be.”
“I’m so sorry,” says Mohinder. “I can work with you. I can help you.”
“No,” says the man. “I can’t.” He raises the gun, and his finger tightens on the trigger.
Mohinder flinches, his eyes closed tight, prepared for the pain, prepared for the weight of a bullet tearing through his flesh.
The man yelps, and there’s a metallic clatter, against the floor.
A footstep, then another, and Mohinder opens his eyes.
Sylar crooks a finger, bringing Mohinder to his feet, shaky as he is. The man, the man with the gun, is unconscious, sprawled over Mohinder’s floor.
“Oh, god,” Mohinder whispers, turning away. This day has brought too much.
Sylar draws a touch, so light it’s barely there, over the line of Mohinder’s jaw. Mohinder shivers, and Sylar kisses him. His mouth is hot as blood, but sweet, and Mohinder moans against it, opens up to it, without thinking. His heart is still pounding, and he’s alive - god, he’s alive, Sylar saved his life -
Sylar brings him to the ground, and Mohinder arches up against the touch.
“You want this,” Sylar breathes, holding too tight to Mohinder’s arm.
“Yes,” surrenders Mohinder.
- Hypothermia -
Mohinder slams against the door, his shoulder already throbbing, aching, sore. It still doesn’t give way, but he hits it, pounds. He can’t yell anymore; his voice is hoarse from it. And no one came.
The tips of his fingers are already numb - so are his ears, his nose. The meat locker is below freezing, and gruesome besides. He can still hear the ring of the door slamming shut, the man turning back just before -
“Maybe I’ll get the girl, now. She’d be a good one to have around.”
Molly.
Mohinder hits the door again, slides bonelessly to the ground. His shoulders shake, in a helpless sob. No one will find him here. Molly is in danger, and maybe Niki won’t be able to protect her, he should be warning them -
But he can’t.
The thin cotton of his t-shirt isn’t protecting against the cold. He pulls his arms inside, but that only seems to make it colder. Chilled flesh against chilled flesh, and his body temperature lowering more every minute.
He should be up and moving around, he knows. Keep warm. Keep the blood moving. But, it’s so appealing just to stay here, let the cold creep up on him. Relaxing, anyhow. He could just give up.
It’s the shivering. He wishes he could stop shivering. It’s so jarring, so abrupt, and his teeth hurt from all the chattering -
The door practically explodes inwards, and Mohinder flinches away, trying to move towards the edge of the room. Away from the new threat. But there’s something resisting the pull of his muscles, something hauling him to his feet, something dragging him out to oh god it’s hot out here. It feels like afternoon summer sun, like ovens and fires and it makes Mohinder shake all the worse.
“Sssh,” says the voice of his rescuer, “ssh, you’re safe,” and Mohinder sobs his fear and into a dark-clothed shoulder, arms clasping him warm and tight.
“Why?” manages Mohinder, through the trembling of his muscles.
Sylar pauses, before he answers. “I couldn’t let you die,” he admits, finally.
- Love -
“Please, just tell me, Mohinder,” pleads Sylar. “Please tell me.”
“No.” Mohinder tugs, hard and abrupt, against the handcuffs holding his wrists together. “Let me go.”
“Tell me.”
“I hate you!” snarls Mohinder.
“It’s too easy to hate,” counters Sylar. “You’re above that,” and he wishes, wishes so hard, that it could be true.
“You killed my father,” Mohinder says, through gritted teeth. “No one is above that.”
“I could hate you!” Sylar rounds on Mohinder. “You tried to kill me, you drugged me -”
“You have no right!”
“Everyone has a right to hate.”
Mohinder sets his jaw, looks away.
Sylar kneels next to the bed. “Mohinder,” he starts, softly.
“Don’t ask me to do this,” says Mohinder, tight and small. “I can’t.”
“You can,” insists Sylar.
“No, I can’t.” Mohinder’s eyes are red, stained. “I can’t forgive you.”
Sylar falls back, against the wall.
“Why?” he breathes.
“Because I can’t let you win.”
Sylar moves to his feet, paces the tiny hotel room. He wonders if anyone else has heard their argument, if there’s going to be a call to the front desk.
“Let me go,” says Mohinder.
“I can’t,” whispers Sylar. “I can’t.” He sits back on the bed, next to Mohinder.
“Sylar.”
Sylar shakes his head. “There’s no way this can end, is there? I can’t beat you, you won’t let me win.” He look to Mohinder. “The only thing left is to give you what you want.”
Mohinder’s heartbeat leaps; he can hear it. Not hope, but fear.
“Freedom,” says Sylar, softly. “You want to free of me, forever.”
“No -” Mohinder’s voice chokes, and Sylar strokes fingers down the planes of Mohinder’s face.
“It won’t hurt for long,” Sylar promises.
Mohinder trembles, and he reaches out, for Sylar’s hand, shifts so he can rest his head in the seam of neck and shoulder. Letting Sylar touch him, if only now.
Sylar marvels at the living, breathing body against him. So easy to break -
He feels a damp stain, under Mohinder’s eye.
“Do you forgive me, Mohinder?” he asks, one last time.
Mohinder pauses, for a hideous, war-torn second, and shakes his head, slowly, closing his eyes.
The cut is quick, sharp, with telekinesis. Blood blooms bright from Mohinder’s veins, flooding onto Sylar’s hands, his shirt, the hotel bedspread. There’s so much of it, gallons and gallons, more than anyone Sylar has ever killed, because this is Mohinder, and Sylar savors his death, savors his blood, because Mohinder’s life is finally, finally his.
Mohinder sobs once, against Sylar’s neck, weakening. Sylar shifts, and Mohinder kisses him, with his very last chance at life.
And Sylar sees it - sees the light fade from Mohinder’s eyes, sees the last of that soul ebb from its body.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, into stiff, curled hair, “you’re mine forever.”
In the morning, he walks into a police station, soaked in Mohinder’s blood. “I’d like to make a confession,” he says. “To murder.”