FIC: If You Were the Last Man on Earth: Book One (3/4)
Title: If You Were the Last Man on Earth
Book One: Winter (3/4)
Author: seraphtrevs
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Word count: This part: 3,826
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made, etc.
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: Book One is COMPLETE - I will be posting parts every Wednesday and Saturday, to avoid spam and give me some time to put the finishing touches on Book Two and complete Book Three.
Once again, eternal love to my beta, marenpaisley, who is a fantastic editor of words and holder of hands. :)
Previous Parts:
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
That was the last good night of sleep he had for weeks. Rationally, he knew that he must be getting some rest, but he felt as if he were always awake. His whole body shook constantly, and his heart raced. At the hospital, he had felt deadened, cut off from all sensation. Now he felt alive - very horribly, intensely alive. His senses went into overdrive. Colors were brighter. Sounds were heavier. He saw things out of the corner of his eyes - dark, terrible things he couldn’t identify. Nothing seemed to be still; it all crawled around him, like the furniture was being carried by armies of insects marching in place.
And the wallpaper certainly wasn’t helping things. It was violently floral. Large pink roses vibrated on a washed-out blue background, and it seemed like there were thousands of them, shaking as if being knocked back and forth by some violent maelstrom. But Mohinder knew that was silly. The windows were all shut. No, it was the work of the cockroaches.
He had been suspicious at first. He knew that he was going through a terrible withdrawal, and that his senses were not reliable. But as time went on and his other hallucinations had subsided, the cockroaches stayed. As he had lectured to his students several lifetimes ago, cockroaches were resilient. In circumstances that were dark and desolate, cockroaches thrived, and circumstances couldn’t get darker or more desolate, so of course they were here. Part of him was aware that this wasn’t particularly good logic, but then again, how else could he explain it? The little bastards were everywhere. They usually kept hidden under the wallpaper, but every so often they would burst out from their hiding place and scuttle across the floor and into his bed, where they would tickle his skin with their legs and feelers until he screamed. Satisfied with their work, they would then retreat back under the wallpaper, where they quivered in joy and anticipation for the next time they could escape and continue their torment. That was why the roses wouldn’t stop shaking.
Sylar said he couldn’t see them, but then again, Sylar was a notorious liar and definitely not to be trusted. Mohinder knew he had to keep an eye on him. Fortunately, this was fairly easy to do, since he sat in the big white armchair next to Mohinder’s bed for most of the day, idly reading some book or another. At night, he slept beside Mohinder, ready to comfort him when he awoke from his frequent nightmares.
Sylar brought in a large grandfather clock, as well as a digital clock that he sat on the nightstand that broadcasted the time in large, friendly green numbers (although he still preferred the watch because he could hold it up closely to his face so he could hear the ticking of the second hand). It was this and the fact that Sylar moved his bed beside the window so he could always see outside that kept Mohinder’s panic in check. On milder days, Sylar would open the window and sit beside Mohinder in bed, using his ability to keep him warm as Mohinder breathed in the fresh air.
Sylar also set up a TV in Mohinder’s room and put on movies for him to watch. Mohinder was grateful for the distraction, although he had very different tastes in movies from Sylar - Sylar had an over-fondness of science fiction and action movies. He loved Star Trek especially. He also read to him sometimes, usually science fiction novels and books on evolution. When Mohinder was especially bad and couldn’t concentrate enough to follow the plots, Sylar counted out the time for him. He liked that the most; it made his heart beat more steadily and his breathing more regular.
Sylar hooked him up to a saline and vitamin IV; Mohinder balked at that initially, but even in his crazed state he recognized that it was probably a necessity. He fed Mohinder lukewarm soup, various fruit preserves, vegetables, nuts, and fresh milk and eggs from the livestock he kept down the road. Mohinder often vomited them up, but Sylar never seemed to take it personally. Mohinder alternated between feeling freezing cold and burning hot, and through it all, he would sweat ceaselessly; Sylar had to change the sheets two or three times a day. He got Mohinder up at least once a day and made him walk around the house. He seemed to have infinite patience.
He was definitely up to something.
Maybe Sylar was poisoning him. Maybe he was working with his former captors to - well, he wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t be anything good. It didn’t seem very likely, but it couldn’t hurt to be careful - constant vigilance and all that. He needed to escape as soon as possible.
One day, when Sylar left to do some chores, Mohinder unplugged the lamp, held it in his lap, and waited for him to return. As soon as Sylar opened the door, he threw it at his head. Right before it would have crashed into his skull, Sylar stopped it with his telekinesis. Rats.
“You’re getting much stronger!” Sylar said brightly.
Mohinder hid under the covers. Maybe he would go away if he was very quiet.
No such luck. Sylar replaced the lamp on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the bed. He threw back the covers. “How are you feeling?”
Mohinder mumbled something and tried to hide under the blankets again, but Sylar wouldn’t let him.
“I think you’ve been cooped up in here too long,” Sylar said. “And I think you’re well enough to be up and around. What do you say we go for a walk?”
Mohinder bit his lip. On the one hand, he might be able to make an escape attempt if he were outside. On the other hand, he wondered if it would be okay to leave the cockroaches to their own devices. Without him to keep watch, there could be thousands of them running around the room when he returned (that is, if the escape attempt wasn’t successful).
Sylar stood up and held out his hand. “Come on. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in this room?”
Well, when he put it that way… Mohinder reached up and grabbed his hand. Sylar held him steady while he gained his footing. They walked together out of the room, then slowly down the stairs. When they reached the front door, Sylar took a coat and a pair of socks and shoes out of the closet and helped Mohinder into them. “Ready?” Mohinder nodded. Sylar crooked his arm around Mohinder’s to support him, and they walked through the doorway.
It was cold outside, but the fresh air felt wonderful. It was one of those crystal-sharp winter days; the sky was intensely blue and it felt like he could see for miles and miles. There was about an inch of snow on the ground, which crunched pleasantly under their feet. Mohinder didn’t have much experience with snow growing up, and whenever he encountered it, the thing that surprised him most was how crunchy it was. When he was a child, he had assumed it would be like walking on cotton.
Sylar looked over at him and smiled. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” he said. He looked around, trying to determine what his best plan of action would be. Maybe he could make a distraction and then run for it. Of course, he might be running directly into their hands. Mohinder was a little unclear on who “they” were, but he was sure they were dangerous. He decided to try to pump Sylar for information.
“I know what you’re up to,” he said with what he hoped sounded like authority. “I’m not stupid - you can’t fool me.”
Sylar raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what would that be?”
Damn. Plan A it was, then. “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!” he screamed while pointing behind Sylar.
“What?” Sylar said, and while he was looking, Mohinder broke away from him and started towards the woods.
He got about ten feet before he tripped and fell over. He’d underestimated how much Sylar had been supporting him. Considering how long he’d spent in bed, he was kind of surprised he could walk on his own at all. He couldn’t quite stand up, but he did manage to bring himself to a sitting position.
Sylar walked over and looked down at him. “Did you just try to make a run for it?” He sounded completely baffled, as if it was a terrible idea.
Mohinder stayed stoically silent. Name, rank and serial number was all Sylar was getting if he pressed him. He’d seen that in a movie once.
Sylar knelt down in the snow in front of Mohinder. “The drug should be out of your system by now. I don’t understand why - I don’t know how - ” He made a frustrated noise. He reached out again and cupped Mohinder’s cheek in his hand. “Christ, what did they do to you?”
Mohinder pulled away. “What did you do to me,” he retorted.
Sylar looked puzzled. “What do you mean? I rescued you.”
“You kidnapped me; I didn’t ask you to bring me here!”
Sylar’s expression darkened, and there was a very dangerous edge to his voice. “So you would rather be back at that hospital, being tested on, than be here with me.”
“I would rather be home.” The longing he felt was so intense he thought it would choke him. “I miss my family.”
He registered the pain first before he understood that Sylar had just slapped him. “Snap out of it, Mohinder. They’re dead - they’re all dead, and this is your home now. I am your home now. I’m the one that saved you; I’m the one who’s taking care of you.”
Mohinder held a hand to his cheek. That had really hurt.
Sylar sighed and sat down next to Mohinder in the snow, leaning his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. “This isn’t going the way I planned it.”
“You’re telling me,” Mohinder said. His ass was very wet and cold.
Sylar stood up, then boosted Mohinder to his feet with telekinesis. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
They made their way back to the house. Mohinder felt nervous as they walked up the stairs to his room. He hadn’t been gone very long, but the cockroaches could be quick little buggers when they wanted to. When they got there, though, the room was empty, and, Mohinder noticed, the flowers on the wallpaper had stopped moving.
Mohinder broke out of Sylar’s grasp and crept over to the wall. He found a seam in the wallpaper and started to pick at it.
“What are you doing?” Sylar asked.
“Would you help me peel this back?”
“Why?”
“I want to check something.”
Sylar shrugged and made a slicing motion with his finger. A section of the wallpaper fell away from the wall.
Mohinder stared in amazement - the wall underneath was completely empty. He lay his hands against the wall and walked around the room; the wallpaper had no bumps in it at all. “They’re gone!”
“Who’s gone?” Sylar asked.
“The cockroaches!” He felt giddy with relief. “You didn’t see them downstairs, did you?”
Sylar suddenly grabbed Mohinder and enveloped him in a fierce embrace. “No, I didn’t,” he said. He sounded almost as relieved as Mohinder.
********
Mohinder began to slowly but steadily recover. Every day, his mind became a little clearer and his thoughts less muddled. Although Sylar didn’t allow him to walk around outdoors on his own, he was strong enough to get around the house by himself. He often left his bedroom to curl up in the little sitting room on the third floor and read books Sylar would bring to him. He also liked to putter around in the kitchen; he had always found cooking relaxing. Sylar seemed indifferent to how food tasted - he ate for sustenance only, so Mohinder was glad for the opportunity to make what he liked, although Sylar didn’t have the right spices to make proper food.
He hoped that since his health was improving, Sylar would let him sleep on his own. He brought it up once, pointing out that there were three other bedrooms. Sylar got very tight-lipped and insisted that Mohinder was still very weak and might need his help in the middle of the night. Mohinder responded by reminding Sylar that he had enhanced hearing, telekinesis, and numerous other powers, so he wouldn’t have trouble getting to Mohinder if he should need assistance. The day after their discussion, all the other beds disappeared from the house, and that was the end of that.
About a month after their disastrous attempt at a walk, Mohinder asked Sylar to take him out again. Sylar agreed, but would only walk him up the street and back again. He got a good look at the house for the first time. It was a large, three-story Victorian-style home, colored pale yellow, with the exception of a few turrets off the second floor, which were bright turquoise. There was a stone wraparound porch which was connected to the second story by white columns. Some care had been taken with its upkeep, but it still had obviously seen better days. There was also what looked like a carriage house off to the right. A sign on the front lawn read: “THE MORGAN HOUSE & KAYLA’S KOTTAGE: BED WITH BREAKFAST”
Sylar explained that the house was set up with its own septic system and running water from a private well. And since it was an old house, it was heated with a wood-burning stove. “It’s really nice, huh?” Sylar had said. “I spent a long time looking for the perfect place.”
Actually, Mohinder thought it was a bit tacky, although it did have a sort of ominous air about it, like one of those “haunted houses” that were featured in sensationalist books and movies. Maybe there were ghosts lurking around the hallways; stranger things had happened. Mohinder wondered what they thought of the new inhabitants of their home.
Sylar took Mohinder around back to show him the “Kottage,” which he had converted into a library. He had gathered a very impressive amount of books on a wide variety of subjects. There were lots of books on biology, evolution, and neuroscience, as well as a number of science fiction novels, but most of the books were how-to manuals. Sylar explained that his eidetic memory allowed him to learn how to expertly do almost anything with one read-through of a book or manual. He startled Mohinder rather badly by telling him this in flawless Tamil. Mohinder couldn’t pinpoint exactly why it disturbed him - maybe it was because it made Sylar seem nearly omniscient. At any rate, it distressed him so much that Sylar never did it again.
A few days later, Sylar drove Mohinder down the road and showed him the barn he’d constructed, where he kept a few chickens, a dairy cow and a bull. A little ways down from the barn, there was a large greenhouse Sylar had also built, which housed an impressive vegetable garden. It was evident that Sylar had spent a great deal of time setting all of this up. He guessed that Sylar had been in this town for many months - maybe even as long as a year. Had this town been empty when Sylar found it? A year ago, there could have been survivors still living there, especially since the town was so isolated. Had they evacuated? Or had Sylar “helped” them along?
The whole situation was disturbingly domestic. Mohinder actively tried to avoid thinking about it; he had just regained his sanity and wasn’t anxious to lose it again. He told himself that the more docile he appeared, the easier it would be to escape later. But at the same time, he felt that playing along was dangerous in a different way. He was having an increasingly difficult time reconciling Sylar the killer with the man who treated him so gently. He saw himself a year from now, complacent as a cow, with only the faintest memory that the man he lived with had killed his father and God knew how many others. Every time he felt touched by some small gesture of Sylar’s, he forced himself to remember his father’s crushed skull, or Dale Smither’s bloody body, or Molly’s shrieks of terror in the night when she dreamed of the brutal murder of her parents. Even so, his hate was rapidly becoming less visceral and more abstract. It frightened him.
The whole situation came to a head one evening when Sylar came into the kitchen while Mohinder was cooking and gave him a kiss on the cheek before asking him what was for dinner. Something in him snapped. Mohinder took hold of the skillet he was using, turned around, and bashed Sylar square in the face.
Sylar fell to the floor with a satisfying thud. Mohinder ran to the foyer and sprinted out the door and to the driveway.
He jumped into the hummer. Army-issued hummers didn’t use keys, and Sylar hadn’t bothered to chain the steering wheel, so he had no trouble starting it and was soon speeding down the street. He didn’t know where he was going, and he knew he most likely wouldn’t get very far, but every fiber of his being screamed at him to run away, as fast and far as he could.
He made it about three blocks before the hummer jerked violently to a stop and then began to move in reverse. Mohinder opened the door and threw himself out; he hit the ground hard and didn’t even have time to get to his feet before he was yanked up and back until he was floating in the air in front of Sylar.
“What the hell has gotten into you?!” Sylar said. Mohinder noticed that his face had no marks on it, which meant that he had the ability to heal. Great.
“Fuck you,” Mohinder snarled. He tried to twist out of Sylar’s telekinetic grip, but it was, of course, useless.
Sylar grabbed his shirt and dragged him through the air back into the house, then threw him to the floor. “Would you care to explain what that was all about?” he asked.
Mohinder glared up at him. “Did you really think that I’d resigned myself to being your fucking housewife?” he said. “That I’d completely forgotten what a monster you are?” He laughed bitterly. “What did you think was going to happen? That once you nursed me back to health, I would launch myself into your arms out of gratitude, and we’d live happily ever after?”
Mohinder flew up through the air again and was jerked backward until his back hit the wall. His feet dangled helplessly a few inches from the ground.
Mohinder was beyond feeling fear at this point; he only felt fury. “Are you really so delusional that you think I could ever accept any of this willingly?”
Sylar wrapped a hand around Mohinder’s throat. He leaned in until their lips almost touched. “Do you want me to force you, Mohinder?” he said softly. “Would that make it easier for you?”
Mohinder didn’t respond. He closed his eyes and braced himself for whatever came next.
But Sylar simply released his grip and set Mohinder gently back on his feet. Mohinder let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and opened his eyes.
Sylar sighed, his anger apparently forgotten. He brushed a damp curl away from Mohinder’s face. “You are infuriatingly stubborn sometimes.” His tone was almost…fond. Why wasn’t he angry? Mohinder supposed that he should be grateful that he wasn’t getting the shit kicked out of him (or worse), but Sylar’s reaction infuriated him. He’d tried to bash his head in! Why wasn’t he taking that seriously?
The answer came to him as soon as his mind formed the question. Sylar was invulnerable. He had God knew how many superhuman abilities at his disposal. Mohinder attacking him was like an ant trying to bring down a lion.
Sylar looked at him thoughtfully. He took Mohinder’s hand in his own. Mohinder was too tired to protest. “Come with me,” he said. “I have something to show you.”
They walked out the back door and to the cottage. Mohinder sat down in one of the armchairs while Sylar pulled out a canvas from behind one of the book shelves. He held it up for Mohinder to see.
It was a painting of Mohinder either taking blood or giving an injection to a young girl. There was a woman (maybe the girl’s mother?) standing beside her. The girl’s face was twisted in discomfort, but the woman was looking at Mohinder with gratitude. And behind Mohinder stood Sylar - his hand was resting on Mohinder’s shoulder, and Mohinder appeared to be leaning into it. They looked comfortable, familiar. Mohinder’s expression was serene. Sylar was smiling.
“I painted this a year ago,” Sylar said. “I told you we had a destiny.”
Mohinder stared at the picture. He could feel himself grow pale. “This - this doesn’t prove anything. How do I know that this is prophetic and not some sort of fantasy you concocted?”
Sylar raised an eyebrow. “A fantasy involving you giving a shot to a little girl? I’m not that kinky.”
“All right, so what if at some point in the future we work together to help people. That doesn’t mean that we’re…” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say ‘in love.’ “…what you obviously want us to be.”
Sylar smirked. “There are other paintings.”
Mohinder’s heart sank. “Well - are you going to show them to me?”
Sylar regarded him carefully. “No, I don’t think so. This is obviously upsetting you - I don’t want you to have a relapse.”
“What?!” Mohinder jumped to his feet. “You can’t reveal something like this to me and not -” He suddenly felt dizzy; he had stood up too quickly. The surge of adrenalin that had allowed him to try and get away had passed, and he was reminded of how weak he still was. It was like even his own body was conspiring to keep him here.
Sylar was beside him in an instant. “Easy now.” He put a hand on Mohinder’s elbow to steady him.
Mohinder took a deep breath and pulled away. “Get your hands off of me. Now.”
Sylar let go. “Sure, Mohinder. Whatever you want.”
Mohinder left the cottage and returned to the house. He went upstairs to the bedroom and shut the door, locking it behind him. He knew that it wouldn’t keep Sylar out, but he was hoping he would take the hint and sleep elsewhere tonight.
Miraculously, he did.
A/N 2: The Morgan House actually exists. Take a look at the blue room and you'll see what Mohinder means about the wallpaper. :P
Chapter Four
Book One: Winter (3/4)
Author: seraphtrevs
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Word count: This part: 3,826
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made, etc.
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: Book One is COMPLETE - I will be posting parts every Wednesday and Saturday, to avoid spam and give me some time to put the finishing touches on Book Two and complete Book Three.
Once again, eternal love to my beta, marenpaisley, who is a fantastic editor of words and holder of hands. :)
Previous Parts:
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
That was the last good night of sleep he had for weeks. Rationally, he knew that he must be getting some rest, but he felt as if he were always awake. His whole body shook constantly, and his heart raced. At the hospital, he had felt deadened, cut off from all sensation. Now he felt alive - very horribly, intensely alive. His senses went into overdrive. Colors were brighter. Sounds were heavier. He saw things out of the corner of his eyes - dark, terrible things he couldn’t identify. Nothing seemed to be still; it all crawled around him, like the furniture was being carried by armies of insects marching in place.
And the wallpaper certainly wasn’t helping things. It was violently floral. Large pink roses vibrated on a washed-out blue background, and it seemed like there were thousands of them, shaking as if being knocked back and forth by some violent maelstrom. But Mohinder knew that was silly. The windows were all shut. No, it was the work of the cockroaches.
He had been suspicious at first. He knew that he was going through a terrible withdrawal, and that his senses were not reliable. But as time went on and his other hallucinations had subsided, the cockroaches stayed. As he had lectured to his students several lifetimes ago, cockroaches were resilient. In circumstances that were dark and desolate, cockroaches thrived, and circumstances couldn’t get darker or more desolate, so of course they were here. Part of him was aware that this wasn’t particularly good logic, but then again, how else could he explain it? The little bastards were everywhere. They usually kept hidden under the wallpaper, but every so often they would burst out from their hiding place and scuttle across the floor and into his bed, where they would tickle his skin with their legs and feelers until he screamed. Satisfied with their work, they would then retreat back under the wallpaper, where they quivered in joy and anticipation for the next time they could escape and continue their torment. That was why the roses wouldn’t stop shaking.
Sylar said he couldn’t see them, but then again, Sylar was a notorious liar and definitely not to be trusted. Mohinder knew he had to keep an eye on him. Fortunately, this was fairly easy to do, since he sat in the big white armchair next to Mohinder’s bed for most of the day, idly reading some book or another. At night, he slept beside Mohinder, ready to comfort him when he awoke from his frequent nightmares.
Sylar brought in a large grandfather clock, as well as a digital clock that he sat on the nightstand that broadcasted the time in large, friendly green numbers (although he still preferred the watch because he could hold it up closely to his face so he could hear the ticking of the second hand). It was this and the fact that Sylar moved his bed beside the window so he could always see outside that kept Mohinder’s panic in check. On milder days, Sylar would open the window and sit beside Mohinder in bed, using his ability to keep him warm as Mohinder breathed in the fresh air.
Sylar also set up a TV in Mohinder’s room and put on movies for him to watch. Mohinder was grateful for the distraction, although he had very different tastes in movies from Sylar - Sylar had an over-fondness of science fiction and action movies. He loved Star Trek especially. He also read to him sometimes, usually science fiction novels and books on evolution. When Mohinder was especially bad and couldn’t concentrate enough to follow the plots, Sylar counted out the time for him. He liked that the most; it made his heart beat more steadily and his breathing more regular.
Sylar hooked him up to a saline and vitamin IV; Mohinder balked at that initially, but even in his crazed state he recognized that it was probably a necessity. He fed Mohinder lukewarm soup, various fruit preserves, vegetables, nuts, and fresh milk and eggs from the livestock he kept down the road. Mohinder often vomited them up, but Sylar never seemed to take it personally. Mohinder alternated between feeling freezing cold and burning hot, and through it all, he would sweat ceaselessly; Sylar had to change the sheets two or three times a day. He got Mohinder up at least once a day and made him walk around the house. He seemed to have infinite patience.
He was definitely up to something.
Maybe Sylar was poisoning him. Maybe he was working with his former captors to - well, he wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t be anything good. It didn’t seem very likely, but it couldn’t hurt to be careful - constant vigilance and all that. He needed to escape as soon as possible.
One day, when Sylar left to do some chores, Mohinder unplugged the lamp, held it in his lap, and waited for him to return. As soon as Sylar opened the door, he threw it at his head. Right before it would have crashed into his skull, Sylar stopped it with his telekinesis. Rats.
“You’re getting much stronger!” Sylar said brightly.
Mohinder hid under the covers. Maybe he would go away if he was very quiet.
No such luck. Sylar replaced the lamp on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the bed. He threw back the covers. “How are you feeling?”
Mohinder mumbled something and tried to hide under the blankets again, but Sylar wouldn’t let him.
“I think you’ve been cooped up in here too long,” Sylar said. “And I think you’re well enough to be up and around. What do you say we go for a walk?”
Mohinder bit his lip. On the one hand, he might be able to make an escape attempt if he were outside. On the other hand, he wondered if it would be okay to leave the cockroaches to their own devices. Without him to keep watch, there could be thousands of them running around the room when he returned (that is, if the escape attempt wasn’t successful).
Sylar stood up and held out his hand. “Come on. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in this room?”
Well, when he put it that way… Mohinder reached up and grabbed his hand. Sylar held him steady while he gained his footing. They walked together out of the room, then slowly down the stairs. When they reached the front door, Sylar took a coat and a pair of socks and shoes out of the closet and helped Mohinder into them. “Ready?” Mohinder nodded. Sylar crooked his arm around Mohinder’s to support him, and they walked through the doorway.
It was cold outside, but the fresh air felt wonderful. It was one of those crystal-sharp winter days; the sky was intensely blue and it felt like he could see for miles and miles. There was about an inch of snow on the ground, which crunched pleasantly under their feet. Mohinder didn’t have much experience with snow growing up, and whenever he encountered it, the thing that surprised him most was how crunchy it was. When he was a child, he had assumed it would be like walking on cotton.
Sylar looked over at him and smiled. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” he said. He looked around, trying to determine what his best plan of action would be. Maybe he could make a distraction and then run for it. Of course, he might be running directly into their hands. Mohinder was a little unclear on who “they” were, but he was sure they were dangerous. He decided to try to pump Sylar for information.
“I know what you’re up to,” he said with what he hoped sounded like authority. “I’m not stupid - you can’t fool me.”
Sylar raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what would that be?”
Damn. Plan A it was, then. “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!” he screamed while pointing behind Sylar.
“What?” Sylar said, and while he was looking, Mohinder broke away from him and started towards the woods.
He got about ten feet before he tripped and fell over. He’d underestimated how much Sylar had been supporting him. Considering how long he’d spent in bed, he was kind of surprised he could walk on his own at all. He couldn’t quite stand up, but he did manage to bring himself to a sitting position.
Sylar walked over and looked down at him. “Did you just try to make a run for it?” He sounded completely baffled, as if it was a terrible idea.
Mohinder stayed stoically silent. Name, rank and serial number was all Sylar was getting if he pressed him. He’d seen that in a movie once.
Sylar knelt down in the snow in front of Mohinder. “The drug should be out of your system by now. I don’t understand why - I don’t know how - ” He made a frustrated noise. He reached out again and cupped Mohinder’s cheek in his hand. “Christ, what did they do to you?”
Mohinder pulled away. “What did you do to me,” he retorted.
Sylar looked puzzled. “What do you mean? I rescued you.”
“You kidnapped me; I didn’t ask you to bring me here!”
Sylar’s expression darkened, and there was a very dangerous edge to his voice. “So you would rather be back at that hospital, being tested on, than be here with me.”
“I would rather be home.” The longing he felt was so intense he thought it would choke him. “I miss my family.”
He registered the pain first before he understood that Sylar had just slapped him. “Snap out of it, Mohinder. They’re dead - they’re all dead, and this is your home now. I am your home now. I’m the one that saved you; I’m the one who’s taking care of you.”
Mohinder held a hand to his cheek. That had really hurt.
Sylar sighed and sat down next to Mohinder in the snow, leaning his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. “This isn’t going the way I planned it.”
“You’re telling me,” Mohinder said. His ass was very wet and cold.
Sylar stood up, then boosted Mohinder to his feet with telekinesis. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
They made their way back to the house. Mohinder felt nervous as they walked up the stairs to his room. He hadn’t been gone very long, but the cockroaches could be quick little buggers when they wanted to. When they got there, though, the room was empty, and, Mohinder noticed, the flowers on the wallpaper had stopped moving.
Mohinder broke out of Sylar’s grasp and crept over to the wall. He found a seam in the wallpaper and started to pick at it.
“What are you doing?” Sylar asked.
“Would you help me peel this back?”
“Why?”
“I want to check something.”
Sylar shrugged and made a slicing motion with his finger. A section of the wallpaper fell away from the wall.
Mohinder stared in amazement - the wall underneath was completely empty. He lay his hands against the wall and walked around the room; the wallpaper had no bumps in it at all. “They’re gone!”
“Who’s gone?” Sylar asked.
“The cockroaches!” He felt giddy with relief. “You didn’t see them downstairs, did you?”
Sylar suddenly grabbed Mohinder and enveloped him in a fierce embrace. “No, I didn’t,” he said. He sounded almost as relieved as Mohinder.
********
Mohinder began to slowly but steadily recover. Every day, his mind became a little clearer and his thoughts less muddled. Although Sylar didn’t allow him to walk around outdoors on his own, he was strong enough to get around the house by himself. He often left his bedroom to curl up in the little sitting room on the third floor and read books Sylar would bring to him. He also liked to putter around in the kitchen; he had always found cooking relaxing. Sylar seemed indifferent to how food tasted - he ate for sustenance only, so Mohinder was glad for the opportunity to make what he liked, although Sylar didn’t have the right spices to make proper food.
He hoped that since his health was improving, Sylar would let him sleep on his own. He brought it up once, pointing out that there were three other bedrooms. Sylar got very tight-lipped and insisted that Mohinder was still very weak and might need his help in the middle of the night. Mohinder responded by reminding Sylar that he had enhanced hearing, telekinesis, and numerous other powers, so he wouldn’t have trouble getting to Mohinder if he should need assistance. The day after their discussion, all the other beds disappeared from the house, and that was the end of that.
About a month after their disastrous attempt at a walk, Mohinder asked Sylar to take him out again. Sylar agreed, but would only walk him up the street and back again. He got a good look at the house for the first time. It was a large, three-story Victorian-style home, colored pale yellow, with the exception of a few turrets off the second floor, which were bright turquoise. There was a stone wraparound porch which was connected to the second story by white columns. Some care had been taken with its upkeep, but it still had obviously seen better days. There was also what looked like a carriage house off to the right. A sign on the front lawn read: “THE MORGAN HOUSE & KAYLA’S KOTTAGE: BED WITH BREAKFAST”
Sylar explained that the house was set up with its own septic system and running water from a private well. And since it was an old house, it was heated with a wood-burning stove. “It’s really nice, huh?” Sylar had said. “I spent a long time looking for the perfect place.”
Actually, Mohinder thought it was a bit tacky, although it did have a sort of ominous air about it, like one of those “haunted houses” that were featured in sensationalist books and movies. Maybe there were ghosts lurking around the hallways; stranger things had happened. Mohinder wondered what they thought of the new inhabitants of their home.
Sylar took Mohinder around back to show him the “Kottage,” which he had converted into a library. He had gathered a very impressive amount of books on a wide variety of subjects. There were lots of books on biology, evolution, and neuroscience, as well as a number of science fiction novels, but most of the books were how-to manuals. Sylar explained that his eidetic memory allowed him to learn how to expertly do almost anything with one read-through of a book or manual. He startled Mohinder rather badly by telling him this in flawless Tamil. Mohinder couldn’t pinpoint exactly why it disturbed him - maybe it was because it made Sylar seem nearly omniscient. At any rate, it distressed him so much that Sylar never did it again.
A few days later, Sylar drove Mohinder down the road and showed him the barn he’d constructed, where he kept a few chickens, a dairy cow and a bull. A little ways down from the barn, there was a large greenhouse Sylar had also built, which housed an impressive vegetable garden. It was evident that Sylar had spent a great deal of time setting all of this up. He guessed that Sylar had been in this town for many months - maybe even as long as a year. Had this town been empty when Sylar found it? A year ago, there could have been survivors still living there, especially since the town was so isolated. Had they evacuated? Or had Sylar “helped” them along?
The whole situation was disturbingly domestic. Mohinder actively tried to avoid thinking about it; he had just regained his sanity and wasn’t anxious to lose it again. He told himself that the more docile he appeared, the easier it would be to escape later. But at the same time, he felt that playing along was dangerous in a different way. He was having an increasingly difficult time reconciling Sylar the killer with the man who treated him so gently. He saw himself a year from now, complacent as a cow, with only the faintest memory that the man he lived with had killed his father and God knew how many others. Every time he felt touched by some small gesture of Sylar’s, he forced himself to remember his father’s crushed skull, or Dale Smither’s bloody body, or Molly’s shrieks of terror in the night when she dreamed of the brutal murder of her parents. Even so, his hate was rapidly becoming less visceral and more abstract. It frightened him.
The whole situation came to a head one evening when Sylar came into the kitchen while Mohinder was cooking and gave him a kiss on the cheek before asking him what was for dinner. Something in him snapped. Mohinder took hold of the skillet he was using, turned around, and bashed Sylar square in the face.
Sylar fell to the floor with a satisfying thud. Mohinder ran to the foyer and sprinted out the door and to the driveway.
He jumped into the hummer. Army-issued hummers didn’t use keys, and Sylar hadn’t bothered to chain the steering wheel, so he had no trouble starting it and was soon speeding down the street. He didn’t know where he was going, and he knew he most likely wouldn’t get very far, but every fiber of his being screamed at him to run away, as fast and far as he could.
He made it about three blocks before the hummer jerked violently to a stop and then began to move in reverse. Mohinder opened the door and threw himself out; he hit the ground hard and didn’t even have time to get to his feet before he was yanked up and back until he was floating in the air in front of Sylar.
“What the hell has gotten into you?!” Sylar said. Mohinder noticed that his face had no marks on it, which meant that he had the ability to heal. Great.
“Fuck you,” Mohinder snarled. He tried to twist out of Sylar’s telekinetic grip, but it was, of course, useless.
Sylar grabbed his shirt and dragged him through the air back into the house, then threw him to the floor. “Would you care to explain what that was all about?” he asked.
Mohinder glared up at him. “Did you really think that I’d resigned myself to being your fucking housewife?” he said. “That I’d completely forgotten what a monster you are?” He laughed bitterly. “What did you think was going to happen? That once you nursed me back to health, I would launch myself into your arms out of gratitude, and we’d live happily ever after?”
Mohinder flew up through the air again and was jerked backward until his back hit the wall. His feet dangled helplessly a few inches from the ground.
Mohinder was beyond feeling fear at this point; he only felt fury. “Are you really so delusional that you think I could ever accept any of this willingly?”
Sylar wrapped a hand around Mohinder’s throat. He leaned in until their lips almost touched. “Do you want me to force you, Mohinder?” he said softly. “Would that make it easier for you?”
Mohinder didn’t respond. He closed his eyes and braced himself for whatever came next.
But Sylar simply released his grip and set Mohinder gently back on his feet. Mohinder let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and opened his eyes.
Sylar sighed, his anger apparently forgotten. He brushed a damp curl away from Mohinder’s face. “You are infuriatingly stubborn sometimes.” His tone was almost…fond. Why wasn’t he angry? Mohinder supposed that he should be grateful that he wasn’t getting the shit kicked out of him (or worse), but Sylar’s reaction infuriated him. He’d tried to bash his head in! Why wasn’t he taking that seriously?
The answer came to him as soon as his mind formed the question. Sylar was invulnerable. He had God knew how many superhuman abilities at his disposal. Mohinder attacking him was like an ant trying to bring down a lion.
Sylar looked at him thoughtfully. He took Mohinder’s hand in his own. Mohinder was too tired to protest. “Come with me,” he said. “I have something to show you.”
They walked out the back door and to the cottage. Mohinder sat down in one of the armchairs while Sylar pulled out a canvas from behind one of the book shelves. He held it up for Mohinder to see.
It was a painting of Mohinder either taking blood or giving an injection to a young girl. There was a woman (maybe the girl’s mother?) standing beside her. The girl’s face was twisted in discomfort, but the woman was looking at Mohinder with gratitude. And behind Mohinder stood Sylar - his hand was resting on Mohinder’s shoulder, and Mohinder appeared to be leaning into it. They looked comfortable, familiar. Mohinder’s expression was serene. Sylar was smiling.
“I painted this a year ago,” Sylar said. “I told you we had a destiny.”
Mohinder stared at the picture. He could feel himself grow pale. “This - this doesn’t prove anything. How do I know that this is prophetic and not some sort of fantasy you concocted?”
Sylar raised an eyebrow. “A fantasy involving you giving a shot to a little girl? I’m not that kinky.”
“All right, so what if at some point in the future we work together to help people. That doesn’t mean that we’re…” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say ‘in love.’ “…what you obviously want us to be.”
Sylar smirked. “There are other paintings.”
Mohinder’s heart sank. “Well - are you going to show them to me?”
Sylar regarded him carefully. “No, I don’t think so. This is obviously upsetting you - I don’t want you to have a relapse.”
“What?!” Mohinder jumped to his feet. “You can’t reveal something like this to me and not -” He suddenly felt dizzy; he had stood up too quickly. The surge of adrenalin that had allowed him to try and get away had passed, and he was reminded of how weak he still was. It was like even his own body was conspiring to keep him here.
Sylar was beside him in an instant. “Easy now.” He put a hand on Mohinder’s elbow to steady him.
Mohinder took a deep breath and pulled away. “Get your hands off of me. Now.”
Sylar let go. “Sure, Mohinder. Whatever you want.”
Mohinder left the cottage and returned to the house. He went upstairs to the bedroom and shut the door, locking it behind him. He knew that it wouldn’t keep Sylar out, but he was hoping he would take the hint and sleep elsewhere tonight.
Miraculously, he did.
A/N 2: The Morgan House actually exists. Take a look at the blue room and you'll see what Mohinder means about the wallpaper. :P
Chapter Four