FIC: If You Were the Last Man on Earth: Book 3 - Summer (4/4)
Title: If You Were the Last Man on Earth
Book Three: Summer (4/4)
Author: seraphtrevs
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Word count: this part: ~5,400
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made, etc.
WARNING: Violence
Spoiler alert: up through the end of season 2
Summary: AU - It's been a year and a half since the Shanti virus dropped and devastated the planet. After refusing to conduct inhumane experiments in the search for a cure, Mohinder is made into an unwilling test subject by his former colleagues. When Mohinder thinks that things can't get any worse, he is unexpectedly rescued by Sylar, who has plans that include world domination, ultimate power, and domestic bliss. Mohinder isn't sure he's better off.
A/N: So! IT IS FINALLY FINISHED. And for the final time (for this fic at least), I want to thank my patient, meticulous, tireless, beautiful beta, marenpaisley. (You know, it's really amazing - she's been my best friend since we were both wee little fangirls, and by sheer luck she turned out to be the most incredible beta an author could ask for. What are the odds?)
Previous parts:
Book One: Winter
Chapter One: A Dubious Rescue, an Improbable Savior, and the Subtle Pleasures of Accurate Time-Keeping
Chapter Two: Clockwork Comfort and Terrifying Tenderness at the Rest and Service Station
Chapter Three: The Trouble with Cockroaches, or Domestic Bliss in Piedmont, Missouri
Chapter Four: How to Keep Your Man: And Keep Him for Good
Book Two: Spring
Chapter One: Better Homes and Gardens and a Happy New Year
Chapter Two: The Morning After, Or a Prophecy Fulfilled
Chapter Three: Lies and Stormy Skies
Book Three: Summer
Chapter One: Familiarity Breeds Consent
Chapter Two: The Capital of the World
Chapter Three: A Monster Then, A Dream
Mohinder woke up in Sylar's arms. He hadn't planned to - in fact, he'd wanted to spend the whole night awake so he could be sure that Sylar didn't slip away without him noticing. But at some point, he must have drifted off and fallen into their usual position - Mohinder's back flush against Sylar's chest, their legs entwined, and Sylar's arms wrapped around him, holding him close. In spite of everything, he felt a strange reluctance to move away.
While they were lying together like this, Mohinder could almost forget what had happened yesterday. Part of him wanted to. It was like he'd spent the past few weeks in a dream, and the lightening crash had violently awoken him. There was still a part of him that desperately wanted to go back to sleep and return to that dream. His life had become, against all expectations, easy in a way that he hadn't thought would be possible after the virus started spreading.
But that easiness was an illusion. Sylar, for all of the sweetness and charm he'd shown him, was still dangerous. As much as he wanted to believe things had changed between them, yesterday had shown him that they obviously hadn't. He’d had a vague notion of somehow influencing the shape of the future that Sylar was planning for the world, but he realized now that he would have very little say in Sylar’s machinations. He couldn’t believe he’d ever thought otherwise, and that would never change. He knew that.
Having that knowledge, however, didn't make what he had to do any less difficult.
He was going to run. It was not a particularly well-thought out plan; he didn't know exactly where he would run to, or what he would do once he got there. He had only short-term plans on how he was going to manage to survive; he didn't have time to work it out more thoroughly because he might not get an opportunity like this again.
He was hoping that Sylar would be too distracted with his plans for world domination to waste much time looking for him. He wasn't entirely sure of the scope of Sylar's abilities, but if he managed to put several hundred miles between himself and Piedmont, he might make it difficult enough even for someone with God-like abilities to track him down. And if people began showing up the way Sylar was hoping, maybe he'd decide that it wasn't worth the effort. Mohinder would keep moving, as long as he could.
Sylar began to stir. Mohinder felt a kiss on the back of his neck. ″Good morning.″
Mohinder turned over to face Sylar. ″When are you leaving?″ he asked quietly.
″After breakfast.″
″Will you at least tell me where you're going?″
″The base,″ Sylar said after a moment.
″And you won't tell me why.″
Sylar kissed him. ″No,″ he said. He got up and went to the dresser to fish out a shirt and jeans.
Mohinder unexpectedly felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, as if he were falling. This was it. He would leave, and whatever happened afterwards, nothing would ever be the same again.
″Don't go,″ he said impulsively.
″Don't worry,″ Sylar said, smiling back at him. ″I'll be back before you know it.″ He pulled his shirt over his head.
Mohinder shook his head. ″That isn't what I mean. Turn off the radio signal. Don't go through with this. Please.″
Sylar stopped smiling and started to look annoyed. ″You know I can't do that,″ he said.
″Why not?″
″Because this is the way it happens. I've explained this to you already.″ He finished getting dressed.
″Why? Just because you painted it that way?″
″It's my destiny,″ Sylar said. ″Yours, too.″
″If it's my destiny, too, then why won't you share it with me? You keep saying that things are going to turn out for the best - if that's true, then why won't you show me your paintings?″
″Because there are things that you aren't ready to understand. And there are things that you don't need to know. That's going to have to be good enough for you.″ He left the room.
Mohinder sat there alone for a long while. He finally went to take a shower. He took his time getting dressed, delaying as much as possible, but finally, he made himself go downstairs. Sylar was outside, packing a few things into the hummer.
″Just in time,″ Sylar said. ″I was about to hit the road.″
″You said you'd be gone a week?″
″Maybe. Or it could just be a day or two. I'm not exactly sure of the timing - I might have to go and come back again, but I wouldn't leave you longer than that.″
″I'm better now,″ Mohinder said. ″I can take care of myself.″
Sylar looked away. "Yes, I know," he said quietly. He opened the door and was about to step in when Mohinder stopped him. ″Wait,″ he said. Sylar stopped and looked at him expectantly.
Mohinder took a deep breath. He knew it was fruitless, but a part of him felt like he had to make one last plea, for the sake of what had been good between them. ″Whatever it is that you're going to do now - I know it has to be something that you know I wouldn't approve of, which means you know it's wrong. No matter what you think, our destinies aren't outlined in those paintings - you have a choice. And I'm begging you to make the right one.″
″I already have,″ Sylar said. Sylar put a hand on Mohinder's cheek. ″Poor Mohinder - always so tortured. Make life easy on yourself for once. Have a little faith.″ He pulled Mohinder in close. ″Aren't you going to say good-bye?″
Mohinder made himself lean in for a kiss. ″Good-bye,″ he said.
Sylar got in the hummer and backed out of the driveway. Mohinder stood in the yard, watching until the hummer disappeared over the horizon. Good-bye, good-bye.
***
He decided to wait an hour after Sylar left to start implementing his plan, just in case Sylar forgot something and had to turn around. If Sylar caught him packing, his escape would be over before it even started. The wait made him twitchy; he kept checking his watch, watching the second hand tick, tick, tick almost unbearably slow.
When the hour was up, he took the keys to the truck that he'd kept in the dresser drawer and put them in his pocket. He went out to the back of the house where the generator was. Since it ran on gasoline, they'd stock-piled quite a lot of it, leaving more than enough for Mohinder to to get where he needed to go. He siphoned out a gallon into a gasoline can; he'd pick up some more once he got the truck running. He headed towards the woods.
Fall had just begun, and the leaves of the trees were starting to change from green to yellows and reds and browns. The days were getting colder and more windy; as he walked through the woods, the wind knocked loose leaves from many of the trees, which flew helplessly through the air before they fell and went skittering along the ground. It took him a little while to find the truck. For a moment, he was worried that Sylar had gotten rid of it somehow, but no, there it was, just where he'd left it. He emptied the gasoline can into the tank and climbed in. He put the key in the ignition, took a deep breath, and turned it. The truck made some discouraging noises, and soon he began to smell fuel. He hit the wheel in frustration. The carburetor must be bad.
This wasn't a surprise; he had known that there was probably something wrong with the truck. It looked old, after all, and it had been sitting unused for at least a year. He did know a bit about car repair, and there was a garage in town. He'd just have to get what he needed from the shop and fix it. He didn't need the truck to run forever; if he got close enough to an area that was previously more populated (and that Sylar hadn't had a chance to clear out), he was sure he'd find hundreds of abandoned vehicles in better condition.
He walked to the garage and fortunately found what he needed. However, he'd have to make several trips to get the parts and the tools to the woods, and although his health was much better, he still wasn't anywhere near as strong as he used to be. He forced himself to take breaks to rest and eat. The sun had set by the time he'd gotten everything to the truck, and he was exhausted. He'd have to wait until daybreak to start work again.
It took him the entire next day to repair the carburetor, and he unfortunately found a few more things that needed attention. He decided to risk taking the time to fix them rather than leaving prematurely - it would be worse to break down.
He returned to the house and started to pack things - nothing too heavy, but he needed food to last at least a week and a few items of clothing. He figured he could probably scavenge a lot of what he needed after he got far enough away.
He considered taking a flashlight and continuing the work on the truck as best he could, but then again, if he made himself too exhausted, he could set himself back even further. If only he knew what Sylar was up to, and how long it was going to take. If only he could have a look at those paintings...
He knew that they had to be in the library. Unfortunately, he'd been over it dozens of times and could never find where Sylar had hidden them. Did he dare waste any more time and energy looking for them again? After some deliberation, he decided that he would. He'd only allow himself an hour, though, and then he'd decide whether to continue the repairs or rest for the night, regardless whether or not he found them.
Mohinder went over every inch of the floor, investigated every crook in the wall, and still found nothing. In frustration, he pounded on one of the bookcases with his fist. He stopped. The pounding of his fist had made almost a hollow noise. He did it again. Yes, it was definitely a hollow sound. He had spent so much time looking for a hidden panel in the walls and the floor that he'd never even thought about the bookcases.
He cleared out all the books, and sure enough, there was a latch in the back. It was locked with a small padlock. He rushed inside the house for a hammer. He pounded on the padlock several times and finally knocked it out. The back of the bookcase swung open and revealed a hidden closet, filled with canvases of various sizes.
He took a deep breath before taking one out. He saw himself lying in a hospital bed, looking pale and wasted. He recognized the room - it was the base. This must have been the painting that led Sylar to him in the first place.
There was also one of the two of them on their picnic at the lake; Sylar was offering Mohinder the watch, and Mohinder was smiling.
He took out another - it was a painting of the houses at Clearwater Lake. There were people standing outside each of the door, all in identical outfits, standing at attention as if waiting for inspection.
Another one - Mohinder and a woman with long, dark hair, both of them frowning over some test tubes. Sylar was there, too, standing with his hands crossed over his chest, looking thoughtful.
The next one showed hundreds of people, down on their knees in front of a stage. Sylar stood in front of them on the stage; there was a woman kneeling before him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Mohinder saw himself standing in the shadows behind Sylar; his face was covered in darkness, so he couldn't see his expression.
And the next one - Mohinder took a look at it and dropped it in shock. It clattered to the floor, landing face-down. With his heart racing, he forced himself to bend down and turn the picture over to look at it again.
It showed a scene in front of the army base - obviously after it had been abandoned. The trees in the background had just started to turn to their autumn colors. And in the foreground - Peter Petrelli. Or what was left of Peter Petrelli. He looked like he'd been torn limb from limb. His decapitated head was split open at the top. And Sylar was standing there, blood spattered all over his hands, his shirt, his face...
He sat down on the ground beside the picture. It shouldn't have been so surprising. What was surprising was that he had come to a point in his life when the idea of Sylar brutally murdering someone was somehow shocking to him.
He supposed that some part of him had thought that, since there were hardly any people left alive, he would never have to confront Sylar's murderous nature again. Of course Sylar would continue to kill - he was, at heart, a killer, like any other predator still crawling the earth. And he'd been eating and sleeping and laughing and living with him, for weeks now. It was a violent realization; he felt he'd been ripped limb from limb, just like Peter, and was now lying in bleeding pieces on the floor.
He remembered suddenly the time in his apartment in New York when Sylar had batted him around the room as if he were nothing, laughing all the while, and how he'd sliced into Peter while Mohinder watched helplessly. How could a few months of kindness wipe those memories from his mind? How had he ever forgotten what Sylar was capable of?
It was then that Mohinder heard the engine of an approaching vehicle. Headlights flashed through the window. There was no use in trying to run, so he stayed there, holding the picture of Peter's demise in his lap.
He wasn't sure how long it took, but eventually, he heard Sylar's footsteps, and the door opened. Mohinder had expected Sylar to fly into a rage when he saw him there with all of the canvases spread out around him on the floor, but he didn't. He just stood there for a long while, saying nothing.
″You killed Peter,″ Mohinder finally said.
″You shouldn't have looked,″ Sylar said. He strode across the room and took the painting from him. He must have changed clothing since the murder, but Mohinder could see the blood caked on his boots. He was struck with an overwhelming jolt of panic, as if he were feeling all of the fear he should have been feeling for the past few months all at once.
He pushed himself up onto his feet and retreated across the room. ″Why?″ he asked, as if that question had any sort of reasonable answer.
Sylar put the painting back in the bookcase. ″He was a threat." He picked up the painting of the people in the cabins at Clearwater Lake and ran his fingers over the canvas. ″He would have ruined everything,″ he said. ″He didn't belong here. He couldn't be a part of this.″
″And so you murdered him.″
″No,″ Sylar said, barely keeping his voice under control. ″I didn't murder him. Hurricanes don't murder. Earthquakes don't murder. Plagues don't murder. They kill. And so do I, when I have to.″
″And that's what you'll continue to do, isn't it?″ Mohinder said, almost to himself. ″You'll kill whoever happens to get in your way. It will never stop.″
Sylar didn't answer him. He began to pick up the other paintings. ″Go back to the house while I clean this up,″ he said. ″We'll forget this ever happened.″
Mohinder almost obeyed him. His fear animated his limbs and sent him two steps towards the door, but he made himself stop. The rational part of him screamed at him to get out of immediate danger and plan his escape for another day, but a deeper part of him felt that even one more compromise and his entire self would crumble, and then he would be as good as dead. He turned and faced Sylar. ″No,″ he said.
Sylar looked annoyed. ″What, you're just going to stand there all night? Stop being ridiculous and go inside.″
″No,″ Mohinder said again.
Something in his tone must have alerted Sylar to the fact that this wasn't going to be just another argument. ″What do you mean, 'no?'″
″I won't do this,″ he said. ″Any of it.″
Sylar let out a half-laugh, as if he couldn't believe what Mohinder was saying. ″But you will." He picked up the painting of Mohinder with the test tubes. ″See? Here you are. And here you are again - and here you are again - ″ He punctuated each statement by throwing a painting at Mohinder's feet, his anger growing with every word. Mohinder backed up further, but Sylar reached out and grabbed the back of his neck, forcing him onto his knees. Mohinder tried to turn his head away, but Sylar wouldn't let him. ″You were so eager to find them, so look. Look.″
Mohinder shut his eyes. ″No.″
Sylar released Mohinder with a shove. ″Then don't. Fine. You'll come around eventually. You'll have to.″
″No,″ Mohinder said.
″Stop saying that!″ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, causing the paintings to fly through the library and crash on the opposite wall. ″Get inside. Now.″
Mohinder didn’t move. The wind outside began to blow harder, causing the windows to shake.
“You agreed to this,” Sylar shouted. “When I took you to the lake, you said that you would do this.”
“Because you lied to me!” Mohinder shouted back.
“Never,” Sylar said vehemently. “I never lied to you.”
Mohinder realized he was right. He’d kept things from him, but he’d never lied. The only lies that had been told were the ones he’d been telling himself. “ I didn’t realize it would be like this,” he said. “You can do what you like to me, but you can’t force me to consent to this.”
Sylar laughed bitterly. “Of course I can,” he said. “I could have forced you from the beginning. But I decided to show you compassion, and patience, and love - ″ The wind grew stronger, shaking the walls of the library and causing books to fall from their shelves; Mohinder put his hands over his head to shield himself.
Sylar became very still for a moment. He took a few deep breaths; the wind died down for a moment. He walked over to Mohinder with slow, deliberate steps, then crouched down in front of him. ″One last time,″ he said. ″Get up, and go inside.″
Mohinder couldn't find his voice, so he simply shook his head.
Sylar snarled and grabbed Mohinder by the arm, yanking him to his feet. He hauled him outside; Mohinder tried to fight him, but he felt like a kite blowing helplessly in the howling wind as Sylar dragged him to the house. They clattered through the front door, up the stairs, and then to the bedroom, where Sylar finally released him. The door slammed shut behind them.
Mohinder stumbled and fell to the floor, cradling his bruised arm to his chest. He felt a numb sort of calm come over him, like he was watching all of this happening. “What are you going to do to me?”
Sylar seemed dangerously calm now. He crossed over to the window and pulled the shutters shut. ″When a bone breaks, you've got to set it properly or it won't heal right.″ He closed the window and grabbed some silverware that was lying on the nightstand. ″And if it hasn't healed right, you've got to break it again.″ He lay the silverware on the window sill and held his hand over it, causing it to melt.
He was welding the window shut.
“Oh no,” Mohinder said, his voice barely above a whisper as the numbness he had felt slowly began to turn into panic. “No no no no…” He pushed himself to his feet. “Don’t, please -” He flung himself at Sylar, who caught him by the wrists.
“You said you wouldn’t!” Mohinder said, feeling like a child but unable to stop himself. “You promised!”
“You’ve given me no other choice. And you’ll stay in here until - ”
“Bastard!” Mohinder screamed, fury overriding his panic. “You fucking bastard! You evil,
lying piece of shit -”
“ - until you see reason,” Sylar said over him.
“Liar - monster!”
Sylar winced, but his grip didn’t falter. “I’ll let you keep the clocks.”
Mohinder spat in his face.
Sylar let go of Mohinder in surprise. Mohinder used the opportunity to make a break for the door, but Sylar caught his arm and jerked him back. He ripped the watch off of Mohinder’s wrist and threw him against the wall. He grabbed the alarm clock from the nightstand and then turned to the grandfather clock and made a motion with his hand; the face shattered, sending glass flying in every direction.
Mohinder got to his feet again and scrambled towards the door, only to reach it just as Sylar slammed it shut behind him. He watched in horror as the doorknob melted into a quivering mess of liquid and then hardened again, leaving the doorknob replaced with a smooth slab of metal. “Let me out!” he screamed. “Let me out!”
***
When Mohinder was about eight years old, he had disobeyed his father and gone to play by himself at an old house that was under construction. He'd climbed up on to the roof. When he'd reached the top, he'd felt like a god, so tall and powerful as he surveyed the land around him. Without realizing it, he'd moved closer and closer to the edge, until he found himself falling over it. The roof was fortunately not as high as it had felt; he fell about ten feet and broken his leg.
His father told him that the fall only took a second, but for many years, Mohinder was convinced it had taken much longer. It had felt like an eternity. For years, he was convinced that he could have somehow stopped that fall. He'd had so much time on his way down; he could have grabbed onto something or broken his fall somehow, but he'd been too clumsy and frightened to save himself.
That was how he felt now - like he was in a never-ending free-fall that he couldn't stop. His stomach lurched, his heart raced, he could barely breathe. Even when he lay himself on the floor, he still felt that horrible pull downward. He waited for the inevitable crash, but it seemed never to come.
He lost track of time fairly quickly (or maybe it happened slowly - he had no way of knowing). There was a storm raging outside, so no light came in through the shutters; he couldn't even tell day from night. Sometimes the arms of the grandfather clock would move if he stared at them long enough, but then they would start spinning so fast that he would get nauseated and have to look away. Or the digital clock would start flashing, but not in numbers - it would show strange, unreadable symbols that he couldn't make any sense of.
He would scream until he couldn't. He would make attempts to break out, but his fear made him clumsy and disorganized. He managed to smash the glass of the window, but he couldn't break through the shutter; he ended up with sliced skin on his hands and arms. He banged at the door, but it was unrelentingly sturdy. He tore the floor boards up and found bodies there - his father, Peter, Matt and Molly. Or maybe he didn't - he'd look back and the floor would still be intact somehow, even though his fingers were scraped raw.
He'd try to stay awake, but he would always eventually drop from exhaustion for at least a little while. When he woke up, he'd be strapped to the bed and the doctors from the base would be hovering over him with needles. He'd scream and they'd melt away, and he would jump off the bed and huddle in the corner.
Sometimes he'd find himself held to the floor by an invisible force. The door would open; he'd struggle to get to it but he could never break free. Once he was released, he'd find food on his nightstand. He didn't eat it - or at least, he thought he didn't, but sometime later he'd find the plate empty.
He knew Sylar must be listening to him, so he lied and told him he'd do whatever he wanted. Later, that became the truth, and he begged for Sylar to let him out. But the door still stayed shut, and Sylar didn't come. Eventually, he became too exhausted to do much of anything. He curled up in front of the door, shut his eyes, and gave up.
Some time much later, the door cracked open. He fell into the hallway. It took him a little while to realize what had happened. He was free. He made his way down the hallway, crawling at first, then standing and running when he got the momentum. He flew down the stairs and out the back door. The storm had ended, and it was a crisp, brightly sunny day. He ran to the middle of his garden and collapsed in a flowerbed, his breath coming in heaving gasps. The falling sensation was gone. He'd landed.
The fresh air and sunlight lulled him into a peaceful daze. The sun moved slowly through the sky, and Mohinder watched with awe and gratitude as the day moved forward. The desperation of his time in the room drained away slowly, and when it was gone, he felt completely empty. There was nothing left to him; he was a hollow, hardened shell of a person. He shut his eyes, but he could still sense the warm glow of the sunlight through his closed lids. He breathed.
Then the light dimmed, as if a dark cloud had drifted over the sun. He opened his eyes. It took a moment for his sight to adjust itself. It wasn’t a cloud - it was Sylar, standing over him. He should have felt afraid, but he didn’t. He didn’t know if he could feel much of anything at the moment. He supposed that was what being broken meant.
“Aren’t you afraid?” Sylar said.
Mohinder shrugged. What else could he possibly do to him? He certainly wasn't going to kill him, and he doubted he'd lock him up again. He’d made his point.
Sylar sat down on the dirt beside Mohinder. Mohinder didn’t look at him; instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the open, blue sky.
“You shouldn’t look directly at the sun,” Sylar said after a while. “It’ll burn your retinas.” Mohinder shrugged again.
More silence. Finally, Mohinder gathered enough energy to speak. “Why won’t you let me go?” he said, with an air of academic detachment.
“Because you’re there, in the paintings. You have to be there. Change one thing, and it might change everything. It could all come crashing down.” He looked down at the ground. “And you made me happy,” he said. “We were both happy. Weren’t we?”
Mohinder shut his eyes again. "Yes," he said very quietly. "For a little while.”
Sylar took the wristwatch - the original one - out of his pocket and pressed it into Mohinder’s limp hand. He stood up. ″I'm going up to the lake; I should be back by dinner time.″ He walked away, and a few minutes later, Mohinder heard the hummer start up.
His hand curled around the watch. He waited until the sound of the hummer's motor faded into the distance before slowly sitting up. He couldn't believe it - was Sylar really going to leave him alone so soon? Was it some sort of test? He decided to not waste time guessing at Sylar's motives. He'd thought that the fight had completely drained out of him, but he had a sudden, desperate burst of energy. Sylar said he'd only be gone for a couple of hours, but he didn't care. He had to try.
Before he left, he took the watch and placed it on the driveway, then bashed it with a rock until it fell apart. That gave him an immense sense of satisfaction. Perhaps he wasn’t as hollow as he’d thought.
He didn't bother packing, heading straight for the woods instead. The truck was still there. He got in and turned the key in the ignition. Thankfully, it started - he just prayed that it would run long enough to get him at least as far as the next town. He drove through the woods and hit the main road, not sure what direction he was heading in other than away.
When he was only a few miles out, the sky suddenly darkened and it began to rain. Shortly after, the engine on the car sputtered and died. The truck drifted to a stop. Mohinder desperately turned the ignition several times, but it refused to start again.
It was then that he noticed that there was something sitting in the passenger's seat. It was an umbrella. And next to it - the watch Sylar had given him at the lake.
He spent a few stunned seconds staring at them. Then he started to laugh, so hard that his body shook with it. The laughs soon turned to sobs, and he collapsed against the steering wheel and cried until he had nothing left. He watched the rain fall against the windows of the truck, the drops streaking downwards and merging together before dripping down and out of sight.
And then he suddenly had a vision of the rest of his life. He would go back to the house; Sylar would be there, waiting for him. Mohinder wouldn't forgive him - at least not at first, but life would continue on as if he had. People would come to their town and fill up all the cabins at the lake, and Mohinder would do his best to help them. And through it all, he and Sylar would fight, and fuck, and forgive each other, because they had no other choice. It wasn’t destiny. It was inevitability.
He took the umbrella and the watch, got out of the truck, and began the long walk home. The hummer was in the driveway, as he knew it would be. When he reached the front door, it opened before he touched the doorknob. Sylar was standing in the doorway.
″Welcome back,″ he said.
“So what happens now?” Mohinder asked.
“We move forward. You and me, together. And we’ll bring the rest with us.”
Mohinder nodded absently in acknowledgment, if not agreement. ″You know I’ll never love you,″ Mohinder said.
″I know.″ Sylar looked tired. ″I tried - I really did. You know that, don't you?″
″Yes, I know.″
Sylar stood aside. ″Come on in - I've made dinner.″
Mohinder stepped in out of the rain.
THE END
Book Three: Summer (4/4)
Author: seraphtrevs
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Word count: this part: ~5,400
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made, etc.
WARNING: Violence
Spoiler alert: up through the end of season 2
Summary: AU - It's been a year and a half since the Shanti virus dropped and devastated the planet. After refusing to conduct inhumane experiments in the search for a cure, Mohinder is made into an unwilling test subject by his former colleagues. When Mohinder thinks that things can't get any worse, he is unexpectedly rescued by Sylar, who has plans that include world domination, ultimate power, and domestic bliss. Mohinder isn't sure he's better off.
A/N: So! IT IS FINALLY FINISHED. And for the final time (for this fic at least), I want to thank my patient, meticulous, tireless, beautiful beta, marenpaisley. (You know, it's really amazing - she's been my best friend since we were both wee little fangirls, and by sheer luck she turned out to be the most incredible beta an author could ask for. What are the odds?)
Previous parts:
Book One: Winter
Chapter One: A Dubious Rescue, an Improbable Savior, and the Subtle Pleasures of Accurate Time-Keeping
Chapter Two: Clockwork Comfort and Terrifying Tenderness at the Rest and Service Station
Chapter Three: The Trouble with Cockroaches, or Domestic Bliss in Piedmont, Missouri
Chapter Four: How to Keep Your Man: And Keep Him for Good
Book Two: Spring
Chapter One: Better Homes and Gardens and a Happy New Year
Chapter Two: The Morning After, Or a Prophecy Fulfilled
Chapter Three: Lies and Stormy Skies
Book Three: Summer
Chapter One: Familiarity Breeds Consent
Chapter Two: The Capital of the World
Chapter Three: A Monster Then, A Dream
Mohinder woke up in Sylar's arms. He hadn't planned to - in fact, he'd wanted to spend the whole night awake so he could be sure that Sylar didn't slip away without him noticing. But at some point, he must have drifted off and fallen into their usual position - Mohinder's back flush against Sylar's chest, their legs entwined, and Sylar's arms wrapped around him, holding him close. In spite of everything, he felt a strange reluctance to move away.
While they were lying together like this, Mohinder could almost forget what had happened yesterday. Part of him wanted to. It was like he'd spent the past few weeks in a dream, and the lightening crash had violently awoken him. There was still a part of him that desperately wanted to go back to sleep and return to that dream. His life had become, against all expectations, easy in a way that he hadn't thought would be possible after the virus started spreading.
But that easiness was an illusion. Sylar, for all of the sweetness and charm he'd shown him, was still dangerous. As much as he wanted to believe things had changed between them, yesterday had shown him that they obviously hadn't. He’d had a vague notion of somehow influencing the shape of the future that Sylar was planning for the world, but he realized now that he would have very little say in Sylar’s machinations. He couldn’t believe he’d ever thought otherwise, and that would never change. He knew that.
Having that knowledge, however, didn't make what he had to do any less difficult.
He was going to run. It was not a particularly well-thought out plan; he didn't know exactly where he would run to, or what he would do once he got there. He had only short-term plans on how he was going to manage to survive; he didn't have time to work it out more thoroughly because he might not get an opportunity like this again.
He was hoping that Sylar would be too distracted with his plans for world domination to waste much time looking for him. He wasn't entirely sure of the scope of Sylar's abilities, but if he managed to put several hundred miles between himself and Piedmont, he might make it difficult enough even for someone with God-like abilities to track him down. And if people began showing up the way Sylar was hoping, maybe he'd decide that it wasn't worth the effort. Mohinder would keep moving, as long as he could.
Sylar began to stir. Mohinder felt a kiss on the back of his neck. ″Good morning.″
Mohinder turned over to face Sylar. ″When are you leaving?″ he asked quietly.
″After breakfast.″
″Will you at least tell me where you're going?″
″The base,″ Sylar said after a moment.
″And you won't tell me why.″
Sylar kissed him. ″No,″ he said. He got up and went to the dresser to fish out a shirt and jeans.
Mohinder unexpectedly felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, as if he were falling. This was it. He would leave, and whatever happened afterwards, nothing would ever be the same again.
″Don't go,″ he said impulsively.
″Don't worry,″ Sylar said, smiling back at him. ″I'll be back before you know it.″ He pulled his shirt over his head.
Mohinder shook his head. ″That isn't what I mean. Turn off the radio signal. Don't go through with this. Please.″
Sylar stopped smiling and started to look annoyed. ″You know I can't do that,″ he said.
″Why not?″
″Because this is the way it happens. I've explained this to you already.″ He finished getting dressed.
″Why? Just because you painted it that way?″
″It's my destiny,″ Sylar said. ″Yours, too.″
″If it's my destiny, too, then why won't you share it with me? You keep saying that things are going to turn out for the best - if that's true, then why won't you show me your paintings?″
″Because there are things that you aren't ready to understand. And there are things that you don't need to know. That's going to have to be good enough for you.″ He left the room.
Mohinder sat there alone for a long while. He finally went to take a shower. He took his time getting dressed, delaying as much as possible, but finally, he made himself go downstairs. Sylar was outside, packing a few things into the hummer.
″Just in time,″ Sylar said. ″I was about to hit the road.″
″You said you'd be gone a week?″
″Maybe. Or it could just be a day or two. I'm not exactly sure of the timing - I might have to go and come back again, but I wouldn't leave you longer than that.″
″I'm better now,″ Mohinder said. ″I can take care of myself.″
Sylar looked away. "Yes, I know," he said quietly. He opened the door and was about to step in when Mohinder stopped him. ″Wait,″ he said. Sylar stopped and looked at him expectantly.
Mohinder took a deep breath. He knew it was fruitless, but a part of him felt like he had to make one last plea, for the sake of what had been good between them. ″Whatever it is that you're going to do now - I know it has to be something that you know I wouldn't approve of, which means you know it's wrong. No matter what you think, our destinies aren't outlined in those paintings - you have a choice. And I'm begging you to make the right one.″
″I already have,″ Sylar said. Sylar put a hand on Mohinder's cheek. ″Poor Mohinder - always so tortured. Make life easy on yourself for once. Have a little faith.″ He pulled Mohinder in close. ″Aren't you going to say good-bye?″
Mohinder made himself lean in for a kiss. ″Good-bye,″ he said.
Sylar got in the hummer and backed out of the driveway. Mohinder stood in the yard, watching until the hummer disappeared over the horizon. Good-bye, good-bye.
***
He decided to wait an hour after Sylar left to start implementing his plan, just in case Sylar forgot something and had to turn around. If Sylar caught him packing, his escape would be over before it even started. The wait made him twitchy; he kept checking his watch, watching the second hand tick, tick, tick almost unbearably slow.
When the hour was up, he took the keys to the truck that he'd kept in the dresser drawer and put them in his pocket. He went out to the back of the house where the generator was. Since it ran on gasoline, they'd stock-piled quite a lot of it, leaving more than enough for Mohinder to to get where he needed to go. He siphoned out a gallon into a gasoline can; he'd pick up some more once he got the truck running. He headed towards the woods.
Fall had just begun, and the leaves of the trees were starting to change from green to yellows and reds and browns. The days were getting colder and more windy; as he walked through the woods, the wind knocked loose leaves from many of the trees, which flew helplessly through the air before they fell and went skittering along the ground. It took him a little while to find the truck. For a moment, he was worried that Sylar had gotten rid of it somehow, but no, there it was, just where he'd left it. He emptied the gasoline can into the tank and climbed in. He put the key in the ignition, took a deep breath, and turned it. The truck made some discouraging noises, and soon he began to smell fuel. He hit the wheel in frustration. The carburetor must be bad.
This wasn't a surprise; he had known that there was probably something wrong with the truck. It looked old, after all, and it had been sitting unused for at least a year. He did know a bit about car repair, and there was a garage in town. He'd just have to get what he needed from the shop and fix it. He didn't need the truck to run forever; if he got close enough to an area that was previously more populated (and that Sylar hadn't had a chance to clear out), he was sure he'd find hundreds of abandoned vehicles in better condition.
He walked to the garage and fortunately found what he needed. However, he'd have to make several trips to get the parts and the tools to the woods, and although his health was much better, he still wasn't anywhere near as strong as he used to be. He forced himself to take breaks to rest and eat. The sun had set by the time he'd gotten everything to the truck, and he was exhausted. He'd have to wait until daybreak to start work again.
It took him the entire next day to repair the carburetor, and he unfortunately found a few more things that needed attention. He decided to risk taking the time to fix them rather than leaving prematurely - it would be worse to break down.
He returned to the house and started to pack things - nothing too heavy, but he needed food to last at least a week and a few items of clothing. He figured he could probably scavenge a lot of what he needed after he got far enough away.
He considered taking a flashlight and continuing the work on the truck as best he could, but then again, if he made himself too exhausted, he could set himself back even further. If only he knew what Sylar was up to, and how long it was going to take. If only he could have a look at those paintings...
He knew that they had to be in the library. Unfortunately, he'd been over it dozens of times and could never find where Sylar had hidden them. Did he dare waste any more time and energy looking for them again? After some deliberation, he decided that he would. He'd only allow himself an hour, though, and then he'd decide whether to continue the repairs or rest for the night, regardless whether or not he found them.
Mohinder went over every inch of the floor, investigated every crook in the wall, and still found nothing. In frustration, he pounded on one of the bookcases with his fist. He stopped. The pounding of his fist had made almost a hollow noise. He did it again. Yes, it was definitely a hollow sound. He had spent so much time looking for a hidden panel in the walls and the floor that he'd never even thought about the bookcases.
He cleared out all the books, and sure enough, there was a latch in the back. It was locked with a small padlock. He rushed inside the house for a hammer. He pounded on the padlock several times and finally knocked it out. The back of the bookcase swung open and revealed a hidden closet, filled with canvases of various sizes.
He took a deep breath before taking one out. He saw himself lying in a hospital bed, looking pale and wasted. He recognized the room - it was the base. This must have been the painting that led Sylar to him in the first place.
There was also one of the two of them on their picnic at the lake; Sylar was offering Mohinder the watch, and Mohinder was smiling.
He took out another - it was a painting of the houses at Clearwater Lake. There were people standing outside each of the door, all in identical outfits, standing at attention as if waiting for inspection.
Another one - Mohinder and a woman with long, dark hair, both of them frowning over some test tubes. Sylar was there, too, standing with his hands crossed over his chest, looking thoughtful.
The next one showed hundreds of people, down on their knees in front of a stage. Sylar stood in front of them on the stage; there was a woman kneeling before him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Mohinder saw himself standing in the shadows behind Sylar; his face was covered in darkness, so he couldn't see his expression.
And the next one - Mohinder took a look at it and dropped it in shock. It clattered to the floor, landing face-down. With his heart racing, he forced himself to bend down and turn the picture over to look at it again.
It showed a scene in front of the army base - obviously after it had been abandoned. The trees in the background had just started to turn to their autumn colors. And in the foreground - Peter Petrelli. Or what was left of Peter Petrelli. He looked like he'd been torn limb from limb. His decapitated head was split open at the top. And Sylar was standing there, blood spattered all over his hands, his shirt, his face...
He sat down on the ground beside the picture. It shouldn't have been so surprising. What was surprising was that he had come to a point in his life when the idea of Sylar brutally murdering someone was somehow shocking to him.
He supposed that some part of him had thought that, since there were hardly any people left alive, he would never have to confront Sylar's murderous nature again. Of course Sylar would continue to kill - he was, at heart, a killer, like any other predator still crawling the earth. And he'd been eating and sleeping and laughing and living with him, for weeks now. It was a violent realization; he felt he'd been ripped limb from limb, just like Peter, and was now lying in bleeding pieces on the floor.
He remembered suddenly the time in his apartment in New York when Sylar had batted him around the room as if he were nothing, laughing all the while, and how he'd sliced into Peter while Mohinder watched helplessly. How could a few months of kindness wipe those memories from his mind? How had he ever forgotten what Sylar was capable of?
It was then that Mohinder heard the engine of an approaching vehicle. Headlights flashed through the window. There was no use in trying to run, so he stayed there, holding the picture of Peter's demise in his lap.
He wasn't sure how long it took, but eventually, he heard Sylar's footsteps, and the door opened. Mohinder had expected Sylar to fly into a rage when he saw him there with all of the canvases spread out around him on the floor, but he didn't. He just stood there for a long while, saying nothing.
″You killed Peter,″ Mohinder finally said.
″You shouldn't have looked,″ Sylar said. He strode across the room and took the painting from him. He must have changed clothing since the murder, but Mohinder could see the blood caked on his boots. He was struck with an overwhelming jolt of panic, as if he were feeling all of the fear he should have been feeling for the past few months all at once.
He pushed himself up onto his feet and retreated across the room. ″Why?″ he asked, as if that question had any sort of reasonable answer.
Sylar put the painting back in the bookcase. ″He was a threat." He picked up the painting of the people in the cabins at Clearwater Lake and ran his fingers over the canvas. ″He would have ruined everything,″ he said. ″He didn't belong here. He couldn't be a part of this.″
″And so you murdered him.″
″No,″ Sylar said, barely keeping his voice under control. ″I didn't murder him. Hurricanes don't murder. Earthquakes don't murder. Plagues don't murder. They kill. And so do I, when I have to.″
″And that's what you'll continue to do, isn't it?″ Mohinder said, almost to himself. ″You'll kill whoever happens to get in your way. It will never stop.″
Sylar didn't answer him. He began to pick up the other paintings. ″Go back to the house while I clean this up,″ he said. ″We'll forget this ever happened.″
Mohinder almost obeyed him. His fear animated his limbs and sent him two steps towards the door, but he made himself stop. The rational part of him screamed at him to get out of immediate danger and plan his escape for another day, but a deeper part of him felt that even one more compromise and his entire self would crumble, and then he would be as good as dead. He turned and faced Sylar. ″No,″ he said.
Sylar looked annoyed. ″What, you're just going to stand there all night? Stop being ridiculous and go inside.″
″No,″ Mohinder said again.
Something in his tone must have alerted Sylar to the fact that this wasn't going to be just another argument. ″What do you mean, 'no?'″
″I won't do this,″ he said. ″Any of it.″
Sylar let out a half-laugh, as if he couldn't believe what Mohinder was saying. ″But you will." He picked up the painting of Mohinder with the test tubes. ″See? Here you are. And here you are again - and here you are again - ″ He punctuated each statement by throwing a painting at Mohinder's feet, his anger growing with every word. Mohinder backed up further, but Sylar reached out and grabbed the back of his neck, forcing him onto his knees. Mohinder tried to turn his head away, but Sylar wouldn't let him. ″You were so eager to find them, so look. Look.″
Mohinder shut his eyes. ″No.″
Sylar released Mohinder with a shove. ″Then don't. Fine. You'll come around eventually. You'll have to.″
″No,″ Mohinder said.
″Stop saying that!″ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, causing the paintings to fly through the library and crash on the opposite wall. ″Get inside. Now.″
Mohinder didn’t move. The wind outside began to blow harder, causing the windows to shake.
“You agreed to this,” Sylar shouted. “When I took you to the lake, you said that you would do this.”
“Because you lied to me!” Mohinder shouted back.
“Never,” Sylar said vehemently. “I never lied to you.”
Mohinder realized he was right. He’d kept things from him, but he’d never lied. The only lies that had been told were the ones he’d been telling himself. “ I didn’t realize it would be like this,” he said. “You can do what you like to me, but you can’t force me to consent to this.”
Sylar laughed bitterly. “Of course I can,” he said. “I could have forced you from the beginning. But I decided to show you compassion, and patience, and love - ″ The wind grew stronger, shaking the walls of the library and causing books to fall from their shelves; Mohinder put his hands over his head to shield himself.
Sylar became very still for a moment. He took a few deep breaths; the wind died down for a moment. He walked over to Mohinder with slow, deliberate steps, then crouched down in front of him. ″One last time,″ he said. ″Get up, and go inside.″
Mohinder couldn't find his voice, so he simply shook his head.
Sylar snarled and grabbed Mohinder by the arm, yanking him to his feet. He hauled him outside; Mohinder tried to fight him, but he felt like a kite blowing helplessly in the howling wind as Sylar dragged him to the house. They clattered through the front door, up the stairs, and then to the bedroom, where Sylar finally released him. The door slammed shut behind them.
Mohinder stumbled and fell to the floor, cradling his bruised arm to his chest. He felt a numb sort of calm come over him, like he was watching all of this happening. “What are you going to do to me?”
Sylar seemed dangerously calm now. He crossed over to the window and pulled the shutters shut. ″When a bone breaks, you've got to set it properly or it won't heal right.″ He closed the window and grabbed some silverware that was lying on the nightstand. ″And if it hasn't healed right, you've got to break it again.″ He lay the silverware on the window sill and held his hand over it, causing it to melt.
He was welding the window shut.
“Oh no,” Mohinder said, his voice barely above a whisper as the numbness he had felt slowly began to turn into panic. “No no no no…” He pushed himself to his feet. “Don’t, please -” He flung himself at Sylar, who caught him by the wrists.
“You said you wouldn’t!” Mohinder said, feeling like a child but unable to stop himself. “You promised!”
“You’ve given me no other choice. And you’ll stay in here until - ”
“Bastard!” Mohinder screamed, fury overriding his panic. “You fucking bastard! You evil,
lying piece of shit -”
“ - until you see reason,” Sylar said over him.
“Liar - monster!”
Sylar winced, but his grip didn’t falter. “I’ll let you keep the clocks.”
Mohinder spat in his face.
Sylar let go of Mohinder in surprise. Mohinder used the opportunity to make a break for the door, but Sylar caught his arm and jerked him back. He ripped the watch off of Mohinder’s wrist and threw him against the wall. He grabbed the alarm clock from the nightstand and then turned to the grandfather clock and made a motion with his hand; the face shattered, sending glass flying in every direction.
Mohinder got to his feet again and scrambled towards the door, only to reach it just as Sylar slammed it shut behind him. He watched in horror as the doorknob melted into a quivering mess of liquid and then hardened again, leaving the doorknob replaced with a smooth slab of metal. “Let me out!” he screamed. “Let me out!”
***
When Mohinder was about eight years old, he had disobeyed his father and gone to play by himself at an old house that was under construction. He'd climbed up on to the roof. When he'd reached the top, he'd felt like a god, so tall and powerful as he surveyed the land around him. Without realizing it, he'd moved closer and closer to the edge, until he found himself falling over it. The roof was fortunately not as high as it had felt; he fell about ten feet and broken his leg.
His father told him that the fall only took a second, but for many years, Mohinder was convinced it had taken much longer. It had felt like an eternity. For years, he was convinced that he could have somehow stopped that fall. He'd had so much time on his way down; he could have grabbed onto something or broken his fall somehow, but he'd been too clumsy and frightened to save himself.
That was how he felt now - like he was in a never-ending free-fall that he couldn't stop. His stomach lurched, his heart raced, he could barely breathe. Even when he lay himself on the floor, he still felt that horrible pull downward. He waited for the inevitable crash, but it seemed never to come.
He lost track of time fairly quickly (or maybe it happened slowly - he had no way of knowing). There was a storm raging outside, so no light came in through the shutters; he couldn't even tell day from night. Sometimes the arms of the grandfather clock would move if he stared at them long enough, but then they would start spinning so fast that he would get nauseated and have to look away. Or the digital clock would start flashing, but not in numbers - it would show strange, unreadable symbols that he couldn't make any sense of.
He would scream until he couldn't. He would make attempts to break out, but his fear made him clumsy and disorganized. He managed to smash the glass of the window, but he couldn't break through the shutter; he ended up with sliced skin on his hands and arms. He banged at the door, but it was unrelentingly sturdy. He tore the floor boards up and found bodies there - his father, Peter, Matt and Molly. Or maybe he didn't - he'd look back and the floor would still be intact somehow, even though his fingers were scraped raw.
He'd try to stay awake, but he would always eventually drop from exhaustion for at least a little while. When he woke up, he'd be strapped to the bed and the doctors from the base would be hovering over him with needles. He'd scream and they'd melt away, and he would jump off the bed and huddle in the corner.
Sometimes he'd find himself held to the floor by an invisible force. The door would open; he'd struggle to get to it but he could never break free. Once he was released, he'd find food on his nightstand. He didn't eat it - or at least, he thought he didn't, but sometime later he'd find the plate empty.
He knew Sylar must be listening to him, so he lied and told him he'd do whatever he wanted. Later, that became the truth, and he begged for Sylar to let him out. But the door still stayed shut, and Sylar didn't come. Eventually, he became too exhausted to do much of anything. He curled up in front of the door, shut his eyes, and gave up.
Some time much later, the door cracked open. He fell into the hallway. It took him a little while to realize what had happened. He was free. He made his way down the hallway, crawling at first, then standing and running when he got the momentum. He flew down the stairs and out the back door. The storm had ended, and it was a crisp, brightly sunny day. He ran to the middle of his garden and collapsed in a flowerbed, his breath coming in heaving gasps. The falling sensation was gone. He'd landed.
The fresh air and sunlight lulled him into a peaceful daze. The sun moved slowly through the sky, and Mohinder watched with awe and gratitude as the day moved forward. The desperation of his time in the room drained away slowly, and when it was gone, he felt completely empty. There was nothing left to him; he was a hollow, hardened shell of a person. He shut his eyes, but he could still sense the warm glow of the sunlight through his closed lids. He breathed.
Then the light dimmed, as if a dark cloud had drifted over the sun. He opened his eyes. It took a moment for his sight to adjust itself. It wasn’t a cloud - it was Sylar, standing over him. He should have felt afraid, but he didn’t. He didn’t know if he could feel much of anything at the moment. He supposed that was what being broken meant.
“Aren’t you afraid?” Sylar said.
Mohinder shrugged. What else could he possibly do to him? He certainly wasn't going to kill him, and he doubted he'd lock him up again. He’d made his point.
Sylar sat down on the dirt beside Mohinder. Mohinder didn’t look at him; instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the open, blue sky.
“You shouldn’t look directly at the sun,” Sylar said after a while. “It’ll burn your retinas.” Mohinder shrugged again.
More silence. Finally, Mohinder gathered enough energy to speak. “Why won’t you let me go?” he said, with an air of academic detachment.
“Because you’re there, in the paintings. You have to be there. Change one thing, and it might change everything. It could all come crashing down.” He looked down at the ground. “And you made me happy,” he said. “We were both happy. Weren’t we?”
Mohinder shut his eyes again. "Yes," he said very quietly. "For a little while.”
Sylar took the wristwatch - the original one - out of his pocket and pressed it into Mohinder’s limp hand. He stood up. ″I'm going up to the lake; I should be back by dinner time.″ He walked away, and a few minutes later, Mohinder heard the hummer start up.
His hand curled around the watch. He waited until the sound of the hummer's motor faded into the distance before slowly sitting up. He couldn't believe it - was Sylar really going to leave him alone so soon? Was it some sort of test? He decided to not waste time guessing at Sylar's motives. He'd thought that the fight had completely drained out of him, but he had a sudden, desperate burst of energy. Sylar said he'd only be gone for a couple of hours, but he didn't care. He had to try.
Before he left, he took the watch and placed it on the driveway, then bashed it with a rock until it fell apart. That gave him an immense sense of satisfaction. Perhaps he wasn’t as hollow as he’d thought.
He didn't bother packing, heading straight for the woods instead. The truck was still there. He got in and turned the key in the ignition. Thankfully, it started - he just prayed that it would run long enough to get him at least as far as the next town. He drove through the woods and hit the main road, not sure what direction he was heading in other than away.
When he was only a few miles out, the sky suddenly darkened and it began to rain. Shortly after, the engine on the car sputtered and died. The truck drifted to a stop. Mohinder desperately turned the ignition several times, but it refused to start again.
It was then that he noticed that there was something sitting in the passenger's seat. It was an umbrella. And next to it - the watch Sylar had given him at the lake.
He spent a few stunned seconds staring at them. Then he started to laugh, so hard that his body shook with it. The laughs soon turned to sobs, and he collapsed against the steering wheel and cried until he had nothing left. He watched the rain fall against the windows of the truck, the drops streaking downwards and merging together before dripping down and out of sight.
And then he suddenly had a vision of the rest of his life. He would go back to the house; Sylar would be there, waiting for him. Mohinder wouldn't forgive him - at least not at first, but life would continue on as if he had. People would come to their town and fill up all the cabins at the lake, and Mohinder would do his best to help them. And through it all, he and Sylar would fight, and fuck, and forgive each other, because they had no other choice. It wasn’t destiny. It was inevitability.
He took the umbrella and the watch, got out of the truck, and began the long walk home. The hummer was in the driveway, as he knew it would be. When he reached the front door, it opened before he touched the doorknob. Sylar was standing in the doorway.
″Welcome back,″ he said.
“So what happens now?” Mohinder asked.
“We move forward. You and me, together. And we’ll bring the rest with us.”
Mohinder nodded absently in acknowledgment, if not agreement. ″You know I’ll never love you,″ Mohinder said.
″I know.″ Sylar looked tired. ″I tried - I really did. You know that, don't you?″
″Yes, I know.″
Sylar stood aside. ″Come on in - I've made dinner.″
Mohinder stepped in out of the rain.
THE END