Fic: I Will Follow You Into The Dark (Heroes)
“Well?” asks Mohinder, as soon as Sylar closes the car door, his hands clenched on the wheel of the car.
Sylar heartbeat is a little too fast; he looks to Mohinder. “Virginia,” says Sylar. “He’s moved to Richmond.”
“You’re sure it’s him.”
“Three weeks ago,” says Sylar. “You tell me.”
Mohinder nods, once, and starts up the car.
“We’ll find him,” says Sylar, touching Mohinder’s arm. It’s the wrong thing to say, or at least the wrong way to say it - Mohinder stiffens, freezes for a moment.
“Get your hands off me,” he spits.
- - - -
Sylar wakes up to the soft touch of Mohinder’s thumb, tracing the edge of his mouth.
“Morning,” murmurs Mohinder.
“Morning,” and Sylar shifts up, meets Mohinder in a kiss. A bite, a sharp one, and the tang of Mohinder’s blood floods onto his tongue. He licks inside Mohinder’s mouth, to the tear in Mohinder’s flesh, the source of blood welling softer, slower now.
Mohinder pulls back, with a laugh. “Are you ready?” he asks.
“Always,” says Sylar, and Mohinder kisses him again.
- - - -
“We will pass Manhattan, on the way,” mentions Mohinder, as they near the border of Maine.
Sylar glances over.
“Do you think,” and Mohinder falters. “Do you think we could stop by, you know-”
Sylar nods. “Yes, of course.”
Mohinder flinches, at the soft tone, and he nods.
- - - -
The sheets are tangled, sweaty; Mohinder’s hands clench tighter on Sylar’s wrists, pinning him down. Maybe hard enough to bruise…
“I could make you beg, like this,” breathes Mohinder, nuzzling just under Sylar’s neck. “I know I could…”
“Only when I let you,” Sylar growls, and he pushes against Mohinder’s hands, fights just hard enough to let Mohinder know that he could win.
Mohinder laughs, and he brings Sylar’s hands up to the headboard. “Hold on,” he says. Sylar’s fingers clench tight - this is willing, the release of control is willing - and he makes a noise almost desperate enough to be a scream, as Mohinder thrusts inside him.
Mohinder’s nails trail lines of fire up his ribs, and the cock inside him is uncompromising, hard as stone, rough - Sylar revels in it, twists up to meet Mohinder’s relentless rhythm.
In reward, Mohinder draws blood, digging deep into Sylar’s skin. A drop trails down Sylar’s chest, ribs, and drips onto the hotel sheets, staining scarlet red.
- - - -
Mohinder stands awkwardly in front of the grave, looking past the simple words on the headstone.
Sylar moves up behind the headstone, watches, impassive. The grave means nothing to him, except for its impact on the man in front of him.
Mohinder falls to his knees, tangling his hand in the grass, and he bows his head. Sylar can hear the tears gathering behind his eyes, the desperate thrum of his heartbeat.
He needs reassurance.
Sylar moves to Mohinder’s side. “She was never meant to die that young,” says Sylar, low, hypnotic. “You know the police will never find him.”
“Yes, I know,” murmurs Mohinder.
“We’ll kill him,” says Sylar. “We’ll kill him, together.”
A pause, and then Mohinder nods, turning away.
- - - -
“No, please, please don’t hurt me -”
The bartender scrambles away, over the water-slick floor, and Mohinder follows, his steps slow, leisurely. “Samuel Beckett,” says Mohinder, rolling the syllables around his tongue. “Surely you’ve heard the name.”
The bartender flinches, hitting the wall. “Ah,” he says, “ah,” and his eyes flick to Sylar, arms crossed, leaned casually against the edge of the bar.
Mohinder follows the bartender’s gaze, and smiles. “Don’t mind him,” he says, turning back to the bartender. “He likes to watch.” Mohinder crouches, and Sylar can hear the man’s heart race, hear the frantic speed of his breathing, in harmony with the calm, unafraid, lethal rush of Mohinder’s pulse. Mohinder tilts his head. “Unless you’d rather he have a go,” and he shoots Sylar a heated glance.
“Don’t do this,” pleads the bartender. “Don’t ask me. He’ll kill me!”
Mohinder raises his eyebrows. “And you honestly think,” he says, “that I won’t do worse?”
- - - -
“This is for you.”
Mohinder, in the passenger seat, takes the gun with trembling hands. Sylar sees it slip, a little - his palms are sweating.
“I assume you know how to use it.”
Mohinder glances up, nervously. “Passably,” he says.
“Good.” Sylar straightens up, glancing around the parking lot, over the roof of the car.
“I’m supposed to kill him, with this.”
Sylar looks to Mohinder. “How else were you planning to kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
Sylar touches Mohinder’s cheek, turns Mohinder’s eyes up to his own face. “When it comes time, you’re not going to hesitate,” he says. “You didn’t, when you tried to kill me.”
Mohinder flinches away, but Sylar grips him tighter.
“Think of her,” Sylar continues. “You found her dead, didn’t you? Her body?”
Mohinder’s mouth presses into a line.
“Remember that,” says Sylar, and he releases Mohinder.
- - - -
Sylar closes his eyes, savors the man’s screams, the way he begs for mercy.
“Tell me,” says Mohinder, calm and even. “Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know,” sobs the bartender, “I swear.”
Mohinder pauses, nods. “Fine,” he says, and he nods to Sylar.
Oh, good. Sylar moves to the other side of the bartender, and closes his hand into a fist. At Mohinder’s nod, he opens his mind, opens his hand, and floods radiation, bright and pure.
The bartender gasps, his eyes wide.
“You know what that is?” Mohinder asks. “Several hundred REMs of radiation, which my friend here can emit on demand. Do you know what would happen if that radiation were emitted directly into your body?”
At a terrified shake of the bartender’s head, Mohinder goes on. “Well, you would feel fine,” he says. “For a time.”
Sylar sits back.
“Then you’d start feeling nauseated,” continues Mohinder. “You might get a rash. You’ll start bleeding from your nose, or your gums. And then you’ll know that you’re dead. At that point, your DNA will literally have decayed in your cells. You’ll die slowly, painfully, over a matter of days, and there will be absolutely no way to prevent it.” He tilts his head. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Okay,” whimpers the bartender, “fine, fine. I’ll tell you.”
“Good,” and Mohinder steps back. “Let’s hear everything.”
- - - -
“What do we do now?” asks Mohinder.
“We find the address,” says Sylar, “and we kill him.”
Mohinder half-laughs, humorless and incredulous. “It’s that simple, is it? Just go in, and kill him.”
Sylar looks to Mohinder. “What are you afraid of?” he asks.
“The police?” Mohinder crosses his arms - not an antagonistic gesture, but a protective one. “I’m not the super powered one here, Sylar.”
“No, you’re not,” says Sylar. “And I’ll protect you.”
- - - -
“Do you want to kill him?” asks Mohinder. “Or shall I?”
“By all means,” says Sylar.
“But, wait,” says the bartender, “I told you everything-”
“Yes,” says Mohinder. “You were very helpful.” He aims the barrel of the gun carefully. “So, I’ll kill you quickly.”
- - - -
“This is it.” Sylar touches the lock with his fingertips, mentally feeling the mechanism inside. A click, and the door comes open under his fingertips.
The apartment beyond is empty, silent, but now Sylar can hear it, over the hum of traffic, the noises of the distant city. A heartbeat - just beyond the wall. Mohinder swallows, just behind him, and Sylar can hear that too.
The door to the occupied room doesn’t have a lock. Sylar throws it open, telekinetically, not bothering to reach for the man inside.
Greg Moore startles, tugging iPod headphones out of his ears. “Who the hell are you?” He sounds more angry than scared.
Sylar tosses a photo on the bed. “Remember her?”
Moore takes the photo. “The tracker.” He shrugs. “Screamed like a banshee, I remember that.”
“You son of a bitch.” Mohinder’s voice is the deadliest Sylar has ever heard it.
Moore looks to Mohinder, as though seeing him for the first time. “Oh, I see,” he says. “You’re here to avenge her. How cute.” He raises a hand -
Sylar slams him back against the wall, telekinetically, and it’s child’s play to suppress his power, bind him still.
“Mohinder,” he reminds, twisting to see.
The gun is loose in Mohinder’s hands, and as Sylar looks, Mohinder hesitates.
- - - -
“Should we talk to him first?”
“And give him a chance to fight?”
Mohinder shrugs. “Could be fun.”
Sylar shakes his head. “We kill him. First-off.”
Mohinder slides a clip into the gun. “Let’s go, then.”
- - - -
“You killed her,” states Mohinder.
“What?” Moore struggles against the invisible grip. “Who the hell are you people?”
“You killed her,” snaps Mohinder. “Tell me you killed her!”
“I killed her,” drawls Moore. “Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic,” says Mohinder, and he pulls the trigger.
Sylar lets Moore drop to the ground. Moore squirms, touches the wound in his chest with a disbelieving look on his face. “No,” he says. “No-”
And Sylar starts to drill his skull open.
The gun clatters from Mohinder’s hands, and Mohinder falls back, against the wall. His eyes are drawn to Sylar’s hands, and he doesn’t look away.
- - - -
Mohinder pulls the trigger twice, immediately.
Samuel Beckett twitches, in a grotesque spasm, with each bullet; the baseball bat falls from his fingers, and he topples lifelessly to the ground.
“Is he dead?” asks Mohinder.
“No heartbeat,” says Sylar.
Mohinder’s mouth curls. “That’s it, then,” he says.
“That’s it,” Sylar confirms.
“Molly’s killer is dead.”
“How does it feel?” asks Sylar, cautiously.
Mohinder inhales, exhales. “Good,” he says.
Sylar backs Mohinder into a window, inhaling the scent of blood and satisfaction. “How good?” he asks, low and dangerous.
“Very,” and then they’re kissing, Mohinder’s arm snaking around his back. Mohinder is getting hard, he can feel it - yes. This is what he wanted.
- - - -
Sylar has to pry the gun from Mohinder’s hands.
“Mohinder,” he says, and he cups Mohinder’s cheek. “Mohinder!”
“I killed him,” breathes Mohinder.
“You were perfect,” says Sylar. “Perfect,” and he means it.
“Sylar,” says Mohinder, softly, and Sylar won’t let him continue. He presses a kiss to Mohinder’s mouth, lips softer than he was expecting, and it’s a little clumsy, a little off-center -
But then Mohinder’s lips part and his tongue - oh god his tongue, licking into Sylar’s mouth, biting, and there are his hands, slipping away Sylar’s shirt, his fingers at the clasp of Sylar’s jeans.
Sylar could push Mohinder away, he could stop this - but the sensation is like a tsunami, and never, as Gabriel Grey or as Sylar, has he ever felt anything like this.
Mohinder is biting at the skin of Sylar’s neck when Sylar finally stops him, a hand on Mohinder’s collarbone.
“Wait,” he says, “I’m not really sure-”
Mohinder shushes him, kisses away his fears. “I need this,” Mohinder whispers, into his neck. “I need you.”
Mohinder fucks him, fast and raging, and Sylar can’t help but be carried forward by the momentum, the pure, raw sexual energy. He climaxes still in a kind of shock, that this has finally happened to him, that he finally has this, with Mohinder.
- - - -
Sylar hears sirens, approaching from the distance.
“I believe it’s time to take our leave,” says Mohinder, buttoning the last of his shirt. He steps carefully over the body, in the entranceway.
As they leave the building, Mohinder takes Sylar’s hand in his.
- - - -
“I have to leave.”
“What?” Sylar gets to his feet. “Why?”
“I’ve accomplished what I came to accomplish,” Mohinder tells him. “And this - I don’t know what it is, but I can’t.”
“You can’t.”
“You killed my father,” says Mohinder. “You’re a murderer.”
“So are you,” and Sylar realizes he’s begging. He doesn’t beg. He never begs.
“Don’t do this to me,” snaps Mohinder.
“Just,” says Sylar, “just sit down, for a second, okay?”
Mohinder looks wary, but he sits, and Sylar crouches in front of him. He reaches out, tentatively, and puts a hand on Mohinder’s forehead. “This won’t hurt,” he says.
“What are you-” Mohinder starts, but he never finishes.
- - - -
“You’ll never leave me, will you?” asks Mohinder, his fingers trailing in Sylar’s chest hair.
“Of course not,” says Sylar. “I love you.”
Mohinder smiles. “And I love you.”
- - - -
“Where are we?” asks Mohinder, shakily.
“You don’t remember?” Sylar bites his lip. “He must have hurt you worse than I thought.”
“He?” Mohinder tries to sit up. “Who?”
“The man,” says Sylar. “The man who killed Molly.”
“We found him?” Mohinder’s eyes are intent. “We killed him?”
“Not yet,” says Sylar, “but we will.”
“We should be pursuing him,” and Mohinder tries to pull the blankets away, tries to stand. “We can’t just let him go.”
Sylar presses Mohinder back down. “We have all the time in the world,” he says. “Promise me that you’ll stay with me, that you’ll let me protect you, until we find him. Promise me, Mohinder.”
Mohinder nods, hesitantly. “I promise.”
“All right,” says Sylar. “All right.”
Sylar heartbeat is a little too fast; he looks to Mohinder. “Virginia,” says Sylar. “He’s moved to Richmond.”
“You’re sure it’s him.”
“Three weeks ago,” says Sylar. “You tell me.”
Mohinder nods, once, and starts up the car.
“We’ll find him,” says Sylar, touching Mohinder’s arm. It’s the wrong thing to say, or at least the wrong way to say it - Mohinder stiffens, freezes for a moment.
“Get your hands off me,” he spits.
- - - -
Sylar wakes up to the soft touch of Mohinder’s thumb, tracing the edge of his mouth.
“Morning,” murmurs Mohinder.
“Morning,” and Sylar shifts up, meets Mohinder in a kiss. A bite, a sharp one, and the tang of Mohinder’s blood floods onto his tongue. He licks inside Mohinder’s mouth, to the tear in Mohinder’s flesh, the source of blood welling softer, slower now.
Mohinder pulls back, with a laugh. “Are you ready?” he asks.
“Always,” says Sylar, and Mohinder kisses him again.
- - - -
“We will pass Manhattan, on the way,” mentions Mohinder, as they near the border of Maine.
Sylar glances over.
“Do you think,” and Mohinder falters. “Do you think we could stop by, you know-”
Sylar nods. “Yes, of course.”
Mohinder flinches, at the soft tone, and he nods.
- - - -
The sheets are tangled, sweaty; Mohinder’s hands clench tighter on Sylar’s wrists, pinning him down. Maybe hard enough to bruise…
“I could make you beg, like this,” breathes Mohinder, nuzzling just under Sylar’s neck. “I know I could…”
“Only when I let you,” Sylar growls, and he pushes against Mohinder’s hands, fights just hard enough to let Mohinder know that he could win.
Mohinder laughs, and he brings Sylar’s hands up to the headboard. “Hold on,” he says. Sylar’s fingers clench tight - this is willing, the release of control is willing - and he makes a noise almost desperate enough to be a scream, as Mohinder thrusts inside him.
Mohinder’s nails trail lines of fire up his ribs, and the cock inside him is uncompromising, hard as stone, rough - Sylar revels in it, twists up to meet Mohinder’s relentless rhythm.
In reward, Mohinder draws blood, digging deep into Sylar’s skin. A drop trails down Sylar’s chest, ribs, and drips onto the hotel sheets, staining scarlet red.
- - - -
Mohinder stands awkwardly in front of the grave, looking past the simple words on the headstone.
Sylar moves up behind the headstone, watches, impassive. The grave means nothing to him, except for its impact on the man in front of him.
Mohinder falls to his knees, tangling his hand in the grass, and he bows his head. Sylar can hear the tears gathering behind his eyes, the desperate thrum of his heartbeat.
He needs reassurance.
Sylar moves to Mohinder’s side. “She was never meant to die that young,” says Sylar, low, hypnotic. “You know the police will never find him.”
“Yes, I know,” murmurs Mohinder.
“We’ll kill him,” says Sylar. “We’ll kill him, together.”
A pause, and then Mohinder nods, turning away.
- - - -
“No, please, please don’t hurt me -”
The bartender scrambles away, over the water-slick floor, and Mohinder follows, his steps slow, leisurely. “Samuel Beckett,” says Mohinder, rolling the syllables around his tongue. “Surely you’ve heard the name.”
The bartender flinches, hitting the wall. “Ah,” he says, “ah,” and his eyes flick to Sylar, arms crossed, leaned casually against the edge of the bar.
Mohinder follows the bartender’s gaze, and smiles. “Don’t mind him,” he says, turning back to the bartender. “He likes to watch.” Mohinder crouches, and Sylar can hear the man’s heart race, hear the frantic speed of his breathing, in harmony with the calm, unafraid, lethal rush of Mohinder’s pulse. Mohinder tilts his head. “Unless you’d rather he have a go,” and he shoots Sylar a heated glance.
“Don’t do this,” pleads the bartender. “Don’t ask me. He’ll kill me!”
Mohinder raises his eyebrows. “And you honestly think,” he says, “that I won’t do worse?”
- - - -
“This is for you.”
Mohinder, in the passenger seat, takes the gun with trembling hands. Sylar sees it slip, a little - his palms are sweating.
“I assume you know how to use it.”
Mohinder glances up, nervously. “Passably,” he says.
“Good.” Sylar straightens up, glancing around the parking lot, over the roof of the car.
“I’m supposed to kill him, with this.”
Sylar looks to Mohinder. “How else were you planning to kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
Sylar touches Mohinder’s cheek, turns Mohinder’s eyes up to his own face. “When it comes time, you’re not going to hesitate,” he says. “You didn’t, when you tried to kill me.”
Mohinder flinches away, but Sylar grips him tighter.
“Think of her,” Sylar continues. “You found her dead, didn’t you? Her body?”
Mohinder’s mouth presses into a line.
“Remember that,” says Sylar, and he releases Mohinder.
- - - -
Sylar closes his eyes, savors the man’s screams, the way he begs for mercy.
“Tell me,” says Mohinder, calm and even. “Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know,” sobs the bartender, “I swear.”
Mohinder pauses, nods. “Fine,” he says, and he nods to Sylar.
Oh, good. Sylar moves to the other side of the bartender, and closes his hand into a fist. At Mohinder’s nod, he opens his mind, opens his hand, and floods radiation, bright and pure.
The bartender gasps, his eyes wide.
“You know what that is?” Mohinder asks. “Several hundred REMs of radiation, which my friend here can emit on demand. Do you know what would happen if that radiation were emitted directly into your body?”
At a terrified shake of the bartender’s head, Mohinder goes on. “Well, you would feel fine,” he says. “For a time.”
Sylar sits back.
“Then you’d start feeling nauseated,” continues Mohinder. “You might get a rash. You’ll start bleeding from your nose, or your gums. And then you’ll know that you’re dead. At that point, your DNA will literally have decayed in your cells. You’ll die slowly, painfully, over a matter of days, and there will be absolutely no way to prevent it.” He tilts his head. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Okay,” whimpers the bartender, “fine, fine. I’ll tell you.”
“Good,” and Mohinder steps back. “Let’s hear everything.”
- - - -
“What do we do now?” asks Mohinder.
“We find the address,” says Sylar, “and we kill him.”
Mohinder half-laughs, humorless and incredulous. “It’s that simple, is it? Just go in, and kill him.”
Sylar looks to Mohinder. “What are you afraid of?” he asks.
“The police?” Mohinder crosses his arms - not an antagonistic gesture, but a protective one. “I’m not the super powered one here, Sylar.”
“No, you’re not,” says Sylar. “And I’ll protect you.”
- - - -
“Do you want to kill him?” asks Mohinder. “Or shall I?”
“By all means,” says Sylar.
“But, wait,” says the bartender, “I told you everything-”
“Yes,” says Mohinder. “You were very helpful.” He aims the barrel of the gun carefully. “So, I’ll kill you quickly.”
- - - -
“This is it.” Sylar touches the lock with his fingertips, mentally feeling the mechanism inside. A click, and the door comes open under his fingertips.
The apartment beyond is empty, silent, but now Sylar can hear it, over the hum of traffic, the noises of the distant city. A heartbeat - just beyond the wall. Mohinder swallows, just behind him, and Sylar can hear that too.
The door to the occupied room doesn’t have a lock. Sylar throws it open, telekinetically, not bothering to reach for the man inside.
Greg Moore startles, tugging iPod headphones out of his ears. “Who the hell are you?” He sounds more angry than scared.
Sylar tosses a photo on the bed. “Remember her?”
Moore takes the photo. “The tracker.” He shrugs. “Screamed like a banshee, I remember that.”
“You son of a bitch.” Mohinder’s voice is the deadliest Sylar has ever heard it.
Moore looks to Mohinder, as though seeing him for the first time. “Oh, I see,” he says. “You’re here to avenge her. How cute.” He raises a hand -
Sylar slams him back against the wall, telekinetically, and it’s child’s play to suppress his power, bind him still.
“Mohinder,” he reminds, twisting to see.
The gun is loose in Mohinder’s hands, and as Sylar looks, Mohinder hesitates.
- - - -
“Should we talk to him first?”
“And give him a chance to fight?”
Mohinder shrugs. “Could be fun.”
Sylar shakes his head. “We kill him. First-off.”
Mohinder slides a clip into the gun. “Let’s go, then.”
- - - -
“You killed her,” states Mohinder.
“What?” Moore struggles against the invisible grip. “Who the hell are you people?”
“You killed her,” snaps Mohinder. “Tell me you killed her!”
“I killed her,” drawls Moore. “Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic,” says Mohinder, and he pulls the trigger.
Sylar lets Moore drop to the ground. Moore squirms, touches the wound in his chest with a disbelieving look on his face. “No,” he says. “No-”
And Sylar starts to drill his skull open.
The gun clatters from Mohinder’s hands, and Mohinder falls back, against the wall. His eyes are drawn to Sylar’s hands, and he doesn’t look away.
- - - -
Mohinder pulls the trigger twice, immediately.
Samuel Beckett twitches, in a grotesque spasm, with each bullet; the baseball bat falls from his fingers, and he topples lifelessly to the ground.
“Is he dead?” asks Mohinder.
“No heartbeat,” says Sylar.
Mohinder’s mouth curls. “That’s it, then,” he says.
“That’s it,” Sylar confirms.
“Molly’s killer is dead.”
“How does it feel?” asks Sylar, cautiously.
Mohinder inhales, exhales. “Good,” he says.
Sylar backs Mohinder into a window, inhaling the scent of blood and satisfaction. “How good?” he asks, low and dangerous.
“Very,” and then they’re kissing, Mohinder’s arm snaking around his back. Mohinder is getting hard, he can feel it - yes. This is what he wanted.
- - - -
Sylar has to pry the gun from Mohinder’s hands.
“Mohinder,” he says, and he cups Mohinder’s cheek. “Mohinder!”
“I killed him,” breathes Mohinder.
“You were perfect,” says Sylar. “Perfect,” and he means it.
“Sylar,” says Mohinder, softly, and Sylar won’t let him continue. He presses a kiss to Mohinder’s mouth, lips softer than he was expecting, and it’s a little clumsy, a little off-center -
But then Mohinder’s lips part and his tongue - oh god his tongue, licking into Sylar’s mouth, biting, and there are his hands, slipping away Sylar’s shirt, his fingers at the clasp of Sylar’s jeans.
Sylar could push Mohinder away, he could stop this - but the sensation is like a tsunami, and never, as Gabriel Grey or as Sylar, has he ever felt anything like this.
Mohinder is biting at the skin of Sylar’s neck when Sylar finally stops him, a hand on Mohinder’s collarbone.
“Wait,” he says, “I’m not really sure-”
Mohinder shushes him, kisses away his fears. “I need this,” Mohinder whispers, into his neck. “I need you.”
Mohinder fucks him, fast and raging, and Sylar can’t help but be carried forward by the momentum, the pure, raw sexual energy. He climaxes still in a kind of shock, that this has finally happened to him, that he finally has this, with Mohinder.
- - - -
Sylar hears sirens, approaching from the distance.
“I believe it’s time to take our leave,” says Mohinder, buttoning the last of his shirt. He steps carefully over the body, in the entranceway.
As they leave the building, Mohinder takes Sylar’s hand in his.
- - - -
“I have to leave.”
“What?” Sylar gets to his feet. “Why?”
“I’ve accomplished what I came to accomplish,” Mohinder tells him. “And this - I don’t know what it is, but I can’t.”
“You can’t.”
“You killed my father,” says Mohinder. “You’re a murderer.”
“So are you,” and Sylar realizes he’s begging. He doesn’t beg. He never begs.
“Don’t do this to me,” snaps Mohinder.
“Just,” says Sylar, “just sit down, for a second, okay?”
Mohinder looks wary, but he sits, and Sylar crouches in front of him. He reaches out, tentatively, and puts a hand on Mohinder’s forehead. “This won’t hurt,” he says.
“What are you-” Mohinder starts, but he never finishes.
- - - -
“You’ll never leave me, will you?” asks Mohinder, his fingers trailing in Sylar’s chest hair.
“Of course not,” says Sylar. “I love you.”
Mohinder smiles. “And I love you.”
- - - -
“Where are we?” asks Mohinder, shakily.
“You don’t remember?” Sylar bites his lip. “He must have hurt you worse than I thought.”
“He?” Mohinder tries to sit up. “Who?”
“The man,” says Sylar. “The man who killed Molly.”
“We found him?” Mohinder’s eyes are intent. “We killed him?”
“Not yet,” says Sylar, “but we will.”
“We should be pursuing him,” and Mohinder tries to pull the blankets away, tries to stand. “We can’t just let him go.”
Sylar presses Mohinder back down. “We have all the time in the world,” he says. “Promise me that you’ll stay with me, that you’ll let me protect you, until we find him. Promise me, Mohinder.”
Mohinder nods, hesitantly. “I promise.”
“All right,” says Sylar. “All right.”