Title: Saving Grace

Summary: ‘I’m not asking for mercy,’ Sylar says, voice steady and hands shaking. Mohinder/Sylar.

Rating: PG-13

Warnings/Spoilers: None.

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The lock on Mohinder’s door is surprisingly easy to pick. Sylar makes a mental note to send a locksmith around to his apartment later to install a better lock. For now, he contents himself with making his presence known: a cup half-filled with cold tea placed carefully on the counter, blood smeared on the bathroom sink, a first-aid kit left lying out. Then he leaves.

Two days later, he gives the locksmith Mohinder’s address.

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Sylar plays with him, like a cat with a mouse. He won’t kill him, not yet, at least.

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Sylar comes to like he’s falling: a sickening sinking of the stomach, as in anticipation or terror, and a tensing of the body.

He opens his eyes and stares at Mohinder levelly. To his credit, he doesn’t look away.

‘Why did you come here?’ Mohinder asks, and Sylar stares at the wall behind him.

‘What do you want?’ he hisses, and when Sylar doesn’t answer, he repeats himself, voice breaking in the middle of the sentence.

Sylar finally raises his eyes to meet Mohinder’s and Mohinder automatically sucks in a breath.

‘No,’ he breathes, and Sylar still doesn’t say a word.

‘No,’ he whispers, but his resolve is already weakening, and he steps forward until his knees are touching Sylar’s. He leans forward slightly, gripping Sylar’s wrists with long fingers, a hot, sweaty bracelet.

When Sylar finally speaks, his voice is hoarse, from misuse and something else.

‘I’m not asking for mercy,’ Sylar says, voice steady and hands shaking.

Mohinder looks at him, mouth twisting in what might be a sneer, might be a snarl.

‘Good.’

He leans in farther, lips brushing Sylar’s as he hisses the word again. Sylar arches his back as Mohinder licks his throat, long and slow and wet, and thinks, ‘No one can save me now.’