Barred from Eden
A 'Heroes' Fanfic
Pairing: Eden/Mohinder
Angst/Romance
Rated PG-13 for mature themes
Spoilers up to the beginning of Season 2
Her face still haunts him. Large, doe eyes staring out of that beautiful, round face perfectly framed by the short cut of her dark hair. Her image floats behind his eyes, as if permanently imprinted on his retinas. She was almost fey-like in her fragility, pale, slim and bird-like, so breakable. Her lips, full and moist, slightly parted. Her gaze intense, looking right though him, penetrating him to his core. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut, to force her from his mind. But it only makes the image stronger. She had seemed a picture of innocence. He now knew that she had been anything but.
The scent of her still fills his nostrils, even though he knows it 's impossible for it to have lingered in his apartment after so long. Lavender, with a hint of gardenias. That marvelous scent had driven him to distraction, the many times she had leaned over his shoulder to see his work. At times he catches a whiff, and he still turns, expecting to see her standing there. Of course, she never is.
He has barely slept in weeks, and it's starting to show. His unshaven jaw is covered in stubble, the tangled mess of curly hair even more disarrayed then usual, his shirt crinkled and unwashed. When he does manage to fall asleep, he tosses fitfully, consumed in shadowy visions of her last moments. Sylar's hand around her throat, the gun in her hand, her blood on the floor.
Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, the dreams are pleasant. He'd hear her musical laugh, see her eyes dancing with mischief. He'd see with perfect clarity the expression of nervous excitement on her face the first time they kissed, the way she had licked her lips before leaning in. He'd feel the small, soft fingers slide over his neck, to grasp the thick curls at the back of his head. He'd feel her breath, soft as rose petals, caressing his lips as she pulls him in. He'd feel her small body pressed against his, her hands tugging at his clothing as they tumbled into bed. He'd taste the salt of her sweat as he kissed his way down her neck, hear her whisper his name. And it was all so real, it so achingly authentic, he truly believed that she had returned to him, that it was all somehow a mistake. Those dreams are so much worse than the nightmares, however violent. When he awakens and finds her gone, remembers reality, he is left empty, bereft. Guilty.
His guilt consumes him. If he had not returned to India, things would've been different. She would have stayed in New York, she never would have been called back to the company. If he had not gone home, Sylar would never had a chance to kill her. He came back to America, to New York, to her, but by then it was too late.
When he had returned to New York, he found that she had disappeared. At first, he thought that she was upset by his abrupt departure, and was merely avoiding him. He knocked at her apartment door, called her phone number, slipped notes under the door. But to no avail. He even dropped by the antique book store where she had told him she worked, only to find out that she never had. He had nearly given up hope when, out of the blue, she called him.
Part of him wants to hate her, to be angry that she had lied to him. Part of him wonders if she was ever really his. He now knows that she was not his Eden, that her real name is Sarah Ellis. He now knows that she had been a spy planted by the Company to pose as his neighbor and become his friend, to gain access to his father's work. He wants to be bitter. He wants to deny his feelings, to shut out the pain of his love for her. Love which may have never been returned.
But he knows in his heart that she did care about him, perhaps even love him back. Her orders had been to keep Sylar in a cell on Level 5. Her superiors wanted to keep him alive, study him and figure out how he stole the powers of others. Eden knew he was much to dangerous to be kept alive. She went to Level 5, armed and ready to put down the mass murderer who had taken his father's life. But first she called.
"Mohinder, It's me. Look, I'm not who you think I am. I lied to you and I'm really sorry and I'm going to explain it all to you soon–"
He had cut her off, frantic to know her whereabouts. "Where are you? What's going on?"
"First I need to make things right. Starting with killing the man who murdered your father."
And that was it. She hung up, and he never heard from her again. He now knew, of course, that she had failed in her attempt to kill Sylar, and it had been her who perished. They had never had the chance to make things right, to meet again on equal terms. But she had to have cared. He clung to the fact that she had called, that she had promised – intended – to come clean and tell him everything. Whatever she had been before, if in the beginning he had been only a means to an end, somewhere something had changed. She was willing to betray the Company, a dangerous proposition in itself, and leave behind her old life. For him. She had to have cared. She died because she cared so much.
Mohinder Suresh wipes unshed tears from his eyes, tears he had not realized were there. He hunches over his desk and stares down his computer screen with new intensity. He would make them pay for what they did to him, to her. By God, he would begin the entire Company down, no matter what it took.
"I love you, Eden..." He whispers into night.
Silence is his only response.