"Well, I meant with the music, but--" Really, he'd meant both, even if the latter might have seemed a bit presumptuous, but Zane's off to the bathroom before Mohinder can finish the sentence. Mohinder doesn't entirely blame him. He sighs, after a moment, and begins cleaning up some of the trash.
He thinks about tossing all of the chicken bones--right now, he feels like he doesn't want to see if Zane can melt them, like it might make him a bit queasy to see it--but after a bit of further contemplation, he sets one aside. It's too handy an experimental material to pass up. They can just...save it for tomorrow, or something. Mohinder can get over his squeamishness by then. A scientific man ought to have no wishes, no affections, and no heebie-jeebies about liquefied body parts.
"What are you going to do, take it on the road?" Mohinder doesn't mean to sound quite so arch at Zane's proclamation, and looks immediately a bit contrite, but it tends to be his default tone after a long day whether he means it to be or not. "I don't mean to discourage the sentiment; I understand it, but a purpose like this still requires a day job."
Though he notes the singular chicken wing remains set aside, Zane doesn’t even glance it’s way. “That’s exactly what I mean,” he says, his manner shifting the same way Mohinder’s does. “Haven’t we already started? We have to get to the all.” There’s nothing but passion in his eyes for this, a determination that is only ever there when he speaks about finding people like him.
It’s what a lonely man would fixate on, one who has never found connection before.
“I’ve always felt outside of myself. Even working regular jobs,” or repairing timepieces, “or writing and performing music, nothing has ever felt right. I’ve always been different, Mohinder. I’ve known it since I was a kid. I wasn’t right. I wasn’t like them, I didn’t fit in. I always thought it was because I was—“
He’ll let Mohinder fill in the “gay” or the “bisexual” if he so chooses, but he won’t say it himself.
“Well, you know. But when all of this started happening and I could feel the things I touch singing against my fingertips, waiting for me to…” Zane sighs, too full of thought and emotion. Too excited to put it into words. “Don’t worry about money. I can fund your entire research.”
Telekinesis makes stealing money pretty damned easy.
“Trust fund baby. What else am I using it for? Playing at being a musician?”
Mohinder only wishes he could say none of that sounded familiar to him. Or perhaps he wouldn't say so in so many words, if that were the case, because he's been insensitive enough to Zane's feelings already--but it is familiar, and it hits close to home.
"Nothing really felt right for me either," he ventures, because Zane's candor deserves something equivalent in return. "I was never much good at making friends, and--I don't know. I could never fathom the idea of a career outside academia, but it only ever felt like going through the motions. Even if I had been doing something more than teaching the lower-level classes in my father's department, it wouldn't have felt..."
Fulfilling? Is this fulfilling? By all rights, by the measure he's just set, it shouldn't be; this entire project is less inherited from his father than it is stolen. Chandra hadn't wanted this. Your father wanted you to have your own life, his mother had said. But had anything about Mohinder's career before this actually constituted having a life? And would Father really have wanted all of this promise to die with him?
He wouldn't have. It's impossible to believe that he could have formulated a list so complete, so bursting with potential, after sacrificing everything he had to pursue it, and that he wouldn't want Mohinder to carry it on if there was nobody else who could. And he would have wanted to do Zane this kind of good, too. He would have found this inspiring. Perhaps not the funding offer, because any academic knows that sort of thing comes with strings attached, but--everything else about it.
"I wish you could have known my father," he says, even if it sounds like a non-sequitur. "It would have meant a lot to him to hear you say all of that. And that means a lot to me."
Zane relents, hands slipping into the pockets of barely fitting sweatpants. At least the original Zane had been a little chunky to make up for this one’s height. He’ll need to find a way to get better fitting clothes without Mohinder noticing. Maybe tonight.
He barely sleeps. He barely needs to. One might thank his innate ability, whatever it is. It has to be more than just an ability to understand and to take. It’s more than curiosity. It’s already given him his sight back. His health. He’s better at everything now. It’s really too bad he can’t let Mohinder know. He would love to be fully tested in a way that only Mohinder can.
But then he’d have to die. And Zane is coming to very slow terms with the fact that he doesn’t want to kill Mohinder.
For the research, he tells himself.
“I don’t know a thing about your dad,” he says,” but I can say that I’m glad I met you, Mohinder. You’re not just some guy taking up your dad’s mantle to me.” Big lie there but Sylar is getting better at lying about more than just being fine to his mother. “You’re— You’re amazing. This whole thing you set up here— And you came to see me! And now we’re off on some great adventure looking for more people like me!” He can feel a sense of mania take him and Zane is swept up in it. Emotion turns to words and back to emotion. “Come on, Mohinder, this isn’t what a guy taking on the dregs of his dad’s work does. He never called me. You did. You. It means the world to me.”
He would have called you, if he'd lived long enough, Mohinder could say, but there are so many reasons not to say it.
Even if he wanted to talk about that right now--what good would it do? He's got a tall, gorgeous, earnest superhuman standing right in front of him, saying kinder things than Mohinder can remember hearing in ages and sounding for all the world like he truly means them, and Mohinder's mind still somehow wants to sabotage this with daddy issues?
No. He's tired of finding and forcing excuses to second-guess himself here, or to keep Zane at arm's length when he doesn't want to and hasn't wanted to since he realized it could be a turn-on to watch a man melt a fork onto a chair. What he wants right now, caught up in that eagerness and mania and the headiness of the praise and the light in Zane's eyes, is to reach up and slide his fingers into that disheveled hair and demonstrate exactly how wrong Zane had been to give up hope at the mention of Mira--
And then his phone rings.
Under any other circumstances, he would shut the damn thing off and toss it away onto the bed for good measure, but--the only calls he's expecting are from people on the List, whose voicemail he's left pleading messages on, and if this is one of them, he can't let that opportunity go. He fumbles in his pocket for the phone before it can stop ringing, breath caught with anticipation.
"Hello? This is Dr. Suresh."
"Oh--good--" The voice on the other end of the line is as trembling and terrified as Zane's had been, at first. "Please, I've been setting fires for days and I can't make them stop, I didn't even know half these things were flammable and I don't know what to do--"
There is a distinct moment of loss to be had and if Zane had ever ridden a rollercoaster, he would have equated it going up a hill only to flatten out. There’s a build up of excitement in the air between them that is completely rerouted into non existence by that phone. Zane isn’t sure what it had been, that electric feeling. He hadn’t had it since that girl…. And what a mess it had been. There’s no doubt he will ignore it. When he is alone, he doesn’t focus on other people, just himself. He will not dissect this moment to understand the feeling of loss and regret. It will dissolve into nothing.
In fact, it does the moment Sylar hears the voice on the other end of the phone. The ticking starts inside his head and he forgets how to be a human being. His eyes glaze over, the sound drowns out most of what Mohinder and the man say after.
Zane Taylor is less than two days a brand new part of him and Sylar has traditionally felt sated for some time afterward. The Hunger roars back into frame and he turns on his heels sharply while Mohinder is frantic to write down an address. Sylar struggles not to salivate. He struggles to keep his lip from twitching. There are tears forming in his eyes— God, God he wants that ability so badly—!
There’s someone distant calling a name that isn’t entirely his but Sylar turns and blinks at the moisture in his eyes. He sees Mohinder looking so earnestly at him through his tears and Zane touches his face with his sleeve.
“We have to get to him,” he says, emotion in his voice. It can easily be seen as a sensitive man’s reaction to an another person feeling as he had not too long ago. “We have to help him.” Zane begins to clean up their experiments, sweeping everything into plastic shopping bags. “Let me get dressed.”
It’s lucky that the other man is close, just a hour or so away.
It makes perfect sense to Mohinder that Zane would feel so strongly about helping someone in such familiar distress, after everything he's just said--but even so, Mohinder isn't quite prepared for the strength of his own pangs of emotion in response. The evident empathy on display tugs hard enough on his heartstrings to leave him momentarily lost for words, even as he knows time is of the essence and he's got to pack up whatever they'll need to help this poor man.
Before he does, and before Zane can leave the room, Mohinder reaches out just for a moment to cup Zane's cheek in his hand. He doesn't even know, really, what he means by the gesture--reassurance, admiration, tenderness, all of the above--except that he needs somehow to be touching him. With one last little brush of his thumb over Zane's cheekbone, Mohinder lets go and starts rummaging through his bag for a sweater to put back on.
Ten minutes later, they're on the road again, and Mohinder is paying only the barest of mind to the speed limit.
"Do you think you'll be able to help calm him down?" he asks, as they drive.
“I don’t know,” Zane swallows, hands clasped between his knees. He’s a ball of energy, shifting in his seat, looking through the window, focusing on the signs that whiz by. “I calmed down after you spoke to me. I spent the night meditating and reading… But I’ll try.”
He needs to find a way to separate Mohinder from his prey. The doctor will have no tolerance for what Sylar needs to do. He won’t understand that it’s his destiny. And that he can always tell other people with abilities are misusing them.
They’re not like him. They don’t know their full potential. They are vessels holding the rest of who he himself is.
Maybe he can come back? It’s not too far. If he leaves the moment he knows Mohinder is asleep, he can go and come back, deed done, new power in hand.
He’s nervous.
Zane continues to be nervous with snippets of unimportant conversation, often on repeat, until they pull up to a house. It’s dark out but the smell of a bonfire is one that lingers long after the fire is out. There are strange singed marks on the porch and unlike the trees and bushes on either side, the foliage is ash.
Sylar’s eyes narrow. These people are so weak willed. So impossibly pathetic. Their lack of control angers him.
“Maybe I should go alone. Just to see if he’s all right.”
"What? You can't be serious. Of course I'm not letting you go in there alone." Mohinder can't even begin to fathom why Zane would suggest such a thing, and given time, he still wouldn't be able to come up with an explanation that makes sense to him. But he isn't given time.
The police report, when all is said and done, will conclude that this was the fault of a gas leak. The news reports will express grim relief that only one life was lost, and only one house destroyed. And nobody, really, will remember the name of poor Thomas Irwin for very long after Mohinder highlights it in red on the List. Right now, everything is the red glow of sunset even though it's eleven at night, muted but for the ringing in Mohinder's ears, and it begins only gradually to occur to him that he's bleeding. Really, profusely bleeding.
The cheap metal siding on the house is every bit as effective as a well-crafted bomb, sending shrapnel whipping past him to slice at his torso like flying knives. Reflex has brought his arms unconsciously up to cover his face at the first sound of the explosion, but that leaves them peppered with metal shards and seared red from the heat. Something strikes his side, something heavy--god, is it the mailbox?--and knocks him to the ground, where it is at least a degree or two cooler, and every bit of that counts right now.
Nothing could have warned Sylar of the explosion. He had been fully and intensely focused on finding a way to gather the new ability without Mohinder finding out that he hadn’t done anything at all to protect himself. To protect either of them. And this had happened before, hadn’t it? He’d gotten too hungry, gone in without a plan, and gotten himself injured or captured. Stupid!
Luckily, Sylar’s aptitude is geared up, ready to go, making way for a new fraction of himself to join the collective, when the explosion occurs. His telekinesis, the one ability that has wormed its way into fitting snuggly against the his aptitude like a favorite lap cat, is ready to go, deflecting the largest and heaviest items thrown in their direction. Had he been ready for it, Sylar could have likely contained much of the blast. A few pieces of wood and metal and glass slice his skin or ruin his shirt by drilling through it into his chest and arms, but he isn’t too badly injured.
Instead, while the remains of the house glows, he screams in terror and rage for what may be the loss of something bigger than himself. “No!” Sylar charges into the wreckage as a secondary explosion ripples heat across his skin.
That is when he hears Mohinder’s low moan in the darkness. He isn’t sure how he gets back to the Indian. He hadn’t meant to go in that direction, but his legs had taken him there anyway. He can feel Mohinder’s warmth as he drags him into his arms, squirming and whining from the pain. He feels himself set large hands on Mohinder’s skin, willing the bleeding to stop.
“Mohinder, Mohinder, please,” Sylar says, afraid of losing his only tether and the one pseudo friend he had known in the last ten plus years of his life. Anger and shock are about to take over him when the solution clears away the start of grief. Zane Taylor can melt things. . Zane could excite the molecules of objects in a way to disrupt their stability and turn them to liquids. Surely that also meant that his ability could also stabilize liquids too. Sylar had never tried to use the power that way and Zane certainly hadn’t, but with Mohinder bleeding out in his arms, what did they have to lose?
Before the fire engines arrive on scene, Sylar is already a block away, driving the thankfully unharmed car with Mohinder laid out in the back seat. He’d done what might have always been impossible for the original Zane Taylor. He’d used his destructive ability to solidify Mohinder’s ruptured blood vessels at the site of the worst of the damage. It’s just enough to stabilize him but that’s all he needs right now to ensure the geneticist’s continued life and to prove that he himself, truly, is the pinnacle of human evolution.
The hour-long drive back to the hotel seems to take simultaneously minutes and years, in Mohinder's state of concussed semi-consciousness. As Sylar is flooring it away from the scene, Mohinder is too out-of-it to realize where he is or who he's with or why. Of course, he thinks dimly, as his brain settles from its sloshing, have to hurry, this guy's got a flight to catch, and he wonders idly why he's in the backseat and not the one driving. That's not going to get them to JFK on time. He's probably not going to get much of a tip.
Gradually, sense begins to return. The pain, at least initially, is emotional--they were too late; they were supposed to do something, something important, and they failed, and now someone is dead--but the dull guilty ache of that understanding is soon dwarfed by the physical agony that comes flaring to life as the adrenaline fades and makes him gasp with the severity of it. Sylar's done a good job of stopping the life-threatening blood flow, but there's nothing anyone can do for the bruising or the lacerations or the second-degree burns.
Mohinder is not ordinarily a man for vulgarity, but under circumstances like these, perhaps he can be forgiven for one rare, heartfelt, breathless-with-pain "Fuck."
The silence had been worrisome for the last twenty minutes or so, and then had started to become annoying. Sylar had gone from afraid to angry and back again. He’s not angry at Mohinder exactly, but angry that all of this hard work will have amounted to nothing if he dies. He liked having his own cheering section. He wanted to see how far he could get with the man, how far they could get together.
It was always going to end in Suresh’s death but he didn’t want it to happen so soon!
Looking at the cursing man in the back of the car, Sylar doesn’t need to force his eyes to return to worry. “Mohinder— Hey, are you back with me?”
The sudden, powerful feeling he’d felt when he had stopped the bleeding returns. He adjusted his fingers on the steering wheel and takes the ramp off the highway near the motel.
“We’re almost there. I’ll get you into bed in just a few minutes and we’ll have a look, okay?”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He thinks about tossing all of the chicken bones--right now, he feels like he doesn't want to see if Zane can melt them, like it might make him a bit queasy to see it--but after a bit of further contemplation, he sets one aside. It's too handy an experimental material to pass up. They can just...save it for tomorrow, or something. Mohinder can get over his squeamishness by then. A scientific man ought to have no wishes, no affections, and no heebie-jeebies about liquefied body parts.
"What are you going to do, take it on the road?" Mohinder doesn't mean to sound quite so arch at Zane's proclamation, and looks immediately a bit contrite, but it tends to be his default tone after a long day whether he means it to be or not. "I don't mean to discourage the sentiment; I understand it, but a purpose like this still requires a day job."
no subject
It’s what a lonely man would fixate on, one who has never found connection before.
“I’ve always felt outside of myself. Even working regular jobs,” or repairing timepieces, “or writing and performing music, nothing has ever felt right. I’ve always been different, Mohinder. I’ve known it since I was a kid. I wasn’t right. I wasn’t like them, I didn’t fit in. I always thought it was because I was—“
He’ll let Mohinder fill in the “gay” or the “bisexual” if he so chooses, but he won’t say it himself.
“Well, you know. But when all of this started happening and I could feel the things I touch singing against my fingertips, waiting for me to…” Zane sighs, too full of thought and emotion. Too excited to put it into words. “Don’t worry about money. I can fund your entire research.”
Telekinesis makes stealing money pretty damned easy.
“Trust fund baby. What else am I using it for? Playing at being a musician?”
no subject
"Nothing really felt right for me either," he ventures, because Zane's candor deserves something equivalent in return. "I was never much good at making friends, and--I don't know. I could never fathom the idea of a career outside academia, but it only ever felt like going through the motions. Even if I had been doing something more than teaching the lower-level classes in my father's department, it wouldn't have felt..."
Fulfilling? Is this fulfilling? By all rights, by the measure he's just set, it shouldn't be; this entire project is less inherited from his father than it is stolen. Chandra hadn't wanted this. Your father wanted you to have your own life, his mother had said. But had anything about Mohinder's career before this actually constituted having a life? And would Father really have wanted all of this promise to die with him?
He wouldn't have. It's impossible to believe that he could have formulated a list so complete, so bursting with potential, after sacrificing everything he had to pursue it, and that he wouldn't want Mohinder to carry it on if there was nobody else who could. And he would have wanted to do Zane this kind of good, too. He would have found this inspiring. Perhaps not the funding offer, because any academic knows that sort of thing comes with strings attached, but--everything else about it.
"I wish you could have known my father," he says, even if it sounds like a non-sequitur. "It would have meant a lot to him to hear you say all of that. And that means a lot to me."
no subject
He barely sleeps. He barely needs to. One might thank his innate ability, whatever it is. It has to be more than just an ability to understand and to take. It’s more than curiosity. It’s already given him his sight back. His health. He’s better at everything now. It’s really too bad he can’t let Mohinder know. He would love to be fully tested in a way that only Mohinder can.
But then he’d have to die. And Zane is coming to very slow terms with the fact that he doesn’t want to kill Mohinder.
For the research, he tells himself.
“I don’t know a thing about your dad,” he says,” but I can say that I’m glad I met you, Mohinder. You’re not just some guy taking up your dad’s mantle to me.” Big lie there but Sylar is getting better at lying about more than just being fine to his mother. “You’re— You’re amazing. This whole thing you set up here— And you came to see me! And now we’re off on some great adventure looking for more people like me!” He can feel a sense of mania take him and Zane is swept up in it. Emotion turns to words and back to emotion. “Come on, Mohinder, this isn’t what a guy taking on the dregs of his dad’s work does. He never called me. You did. You. It means the world to me.”
no subject
Even if he wanted to talk about that right now--what good would it do? He's got a tall, gorgeous, earnest superhuman standing right in front of him, saying kinder things than Mohinder can remember hearing in ages and sounding for all the world like he truly means them, and Mohinder's mind still somehow wants to sabotage this with daddy issues?
No. He's tired of finding and forcing excuses to second-guess himself here, or to keep Zane at arm's length when he doesn't want to and hasn't wanted to since he realized it could be a turn-on to watch a man melt a fork onto a chair. What he wants right now, caught up in that eagerness and mania and the headiness of the praise and the light in Zane's eyes, is to reach up and slide his fingers into that disheveled hair and demonstrate exactly how wrong Zane had been to give up hope at the mention of Mira--
And then his phone rings.
Under any other circumstances, he would shut the damn thing off and toss it away onto the bed for good measure, but--the only calls he's expecting are from people on the List, whose voicemail he's left pleading messages on, and if this is one of them, he can't let that opportunity go. He fumbles in his pocket for the phone before it can stop ringing, breath caught with anticipation.
"Hello? This is Dr. Suresh."
"Oh--good--" The voice on the other end of the line is as trembling and terrified as Zane's had been, at first. "Please, I've been setting fires for days and I can't make them stop, I didn't even know half these things were flammable and I don't know what to do--"
no subject
In fact, it does the moment Sylar hears the voice on the other end of the phone. The ticking starts inside his head and he forgets how to be a human being. His eyes glaze over, the sound drowns out most of what Mohinder and the man say after.
Zane Taylor is less than two days a brand new part of him and Sylar has traditionally felt sated for some time afterward. The Hunger roars back into frame and he turns on his heels sharply while Mohinder is frantic to write down an address. Sylar struggles not to salivate. He struggles to keep his lip from twitching. There are tears forming in his eyes— God, God he wants that ability so badly—!
There’s someone distant calling a name that isn’t entirely his but Sylar turns and blinks at the moisture in his eyes. He sees Mohinder looking so earnestly at him through his tears and Zane touches his face with his sleeve.
“We have to get to him,” he says, emotion in his voice. It can easily be seen as a sensitive man’s reaction to an another person feeling as he had not too long ago. “We have to help him.” Zane begins to clean up their experiments, sweeping everything into plastic shopping bags. “Let me get dressed.”
It’s lucky that the other man is close, just a hour or so away.
no subject
Before he does, and before Zane can leave the room, Mohinder reaches out just for a moment to cup Zane's cheek in his hand. He doesn't even know, really, what he means by the gesture--reassurance, admiration, tenderness, all of the above--except that he needs somehow to be touching him. With one last little brush of his thumb over Zane's cheekbone, Mohinder lets go and starts rummaging through his bag for a sweater to put back on.
Ten minutes later, they're on the road again, and Mohinder is paying only the barest of mind to the speed limit.
"Do you think you'll be able to help calm him down?" he asks, as they drive.
no subject
He needs to find a way to separate Mohinder from his prey. The doctor will have no tolerance for what Sylar needs to do. He won’t understand that it’s his destiny. And that he can always tell other people with abilities are misusing them.
They’re not like him. They don’t know their full potential. They are vessels holding the rest of who he himself is.
Maybe he can come back? It’s not too far. If he leaves the moment he knows Mohinder is asleep, he can go and come back, deed done, new power in hand.
He’s nervous.
Zane continues to be nervous with snippets of unimportant conversation, often on repeat, until they pull up to a house. It’s dark out but the smell of a bonfire is one that lingers long after the fire is out. There are strange singed marks on the porch and unlike the trees and bushes on either side, the foliage is ash.
Sylar’s eyes narrow. These people are so weak willed. So impossibly pathetic. Their lack of control angers him.
“Maybe I should go alone. Just to see if he’s all right.”
no subject
The police report, when all is said and done, will conclude that this was the fault of a gas leak. The news reports will express grim relief that only one life was lost, and only one house destroyed. And nobody, really, will remember the name of poor Thomas Irwin for very long after Mohinder highlights it in red on the List. Right now, everything is the red glow of sunset even though it's eleven at night, muted but for the ringing in Mohinder's ears, and it begins only gradually to occur to him that he's bleeding. Really, profusely bleeding.
The cheap metal siding on the house is every bit as effective as a well-crafted bomb, sending shrapnel whipping past him to slice at his torso like flying knives. Reflex has brought his arms unconsciously up to cover his face at the first sound of the explosion, but that leaves them peppered with metal shards and seared red from the heat. Something strikes his side, something heavy--god, is it the mailbox?--and knocks him to the ground, where it is at least a degree or two cooler, and every bit of that counts right now.
In the distance, he hears sirens.
no subject
Luckily, Sylar’s aptitude is geared up, ready to go, making way for a new fraction of himself to join the collective, when the explosion occurs. His telekinesis, the one ability that has wormed its way into fitting snuggly against the his aptitude like a favorite lap cat, is ready to go, deflecting the largest and heaviest items thrown in their direction. Had he been ready for it, Sylar could have likely contained much of the blast. A few pieces of wood and metal and glass slice his skin or ruin his shirt by drilling through it into his chest and arms, but he isn’t too badly injured.
Instead, while the remains of the house glows, he screams in terror and rage for what may be the loss of something bigger than himself. “No!” Sylar charges into the wreckage as a secondary explosion ripples heat across his skin.
That is when he hears Mohinder’s low moan in the darkness. He isn’t sure how he gets back to the Indian. He hadn’t meant to go in that direction, but his legs had taken him there anyway. He can feel Mohinder’s warmth as he drags him into his arms, squirming and whining from the pain. He feels himself set large hands on Mohinder’s skin, willing the bleeding to stop.
“Mohinder, Mohinder, please,” Sylar says, afraid of losing his only tether and the one pseudo friend he had known in the last ten plus years of his life. Anger and shock are about to take over him when the solution clears away the start of grief. Zane Taylor can melt things. . Zane could excite the molecules of objects in a way to disrupt their stability and turn them to liquids. Surely that also meant that his ability could also stabilize liquids too. Sylar had never tried to use the power that way and Zane certainly hadn’t, but with Mohinder bleeding out in his arms, what did they have to lose?
Before the fire engines arrive on scene, Sylar is already a block away, driving the thankfully unharmed car with Mohinder laid out in the back seat. He’d done what might have always been impossible for the original Zane Taylor. He’d used his destructive ability to solidify Mohinder’s ruptured blood vessels at the site of the worst of the damage. It’s just enough to stabilize him but that’s all he needs right now to ensure the geneticist’s continued life and to prove that he himself, truly, is the pinnacle of human evolution.
no subject
Gradually, sense begins to return. The pain, at least initially, is emotional--they were too late; they were supposed to do something, something important, and they failed, and now someone is dead--but the dull guilty ache of that understanding is soon dwarfed by the physical agony that comes flaring to life as the adrenaline fades and makes him gasp with the severity of it. Sylar's done a good job of stopping the life-threatening blood flow, but there's nothing anyone can do for the bruising or the lacerations or the second-degree burns.
Mohinder is not ordinarily a man for vulgarity, but under circumstances like these, perhaps he can be forgiven for one rare, heartfelt, breathless-with-pain "Fuck."
no subject
It was always going to end in Suresh’s death but he didn’t want it to happen so soon!
Looking at the cursing man in the back of the car, Sylar doesn’t need to force his eyes to return to worry. “Mohinder— Hey, are you back with me?”
The sudden, powerful feeling he’d felt when he had stopped the bleeding returns. He adjusted his fingers on the steering wheel and takes the ramp off the highway near the motel.
“We’re almost there. I’ll get you into bed in just a few minutes and we’ll have a look, okay?”