Fic: (his choice) - Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Maya/Alejandro
Rating: hard R
Spoilers: through 2x06
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Notes: Spanish phrases translated by a friend of mine. Unbeta'ed; all mistakes are mine.
Summary: It's what Sylar has to do, to get control.
- - -
Sylar dies in agony.
It’s not as though he wasn’t expecting it, this time. At first, it was a shock - so unexpected, so intense that it immobilized him, a never-ending torture, as though the black sludge from Maya’s eyes was filling Sylar’s body, squeezing tight every vein, every nerve, every organ, until his bones were ready to snap under the pressure.
It feels the same, now. But this time, he’s prepared for it.
He gasps, emptily, into his lungs, the life, the breath slowly squeezing out of his body. His vision goes dark, and he feels the liquid flow sluggish and cold down his cheeks. His heart flutters once, twice -
- - - -
“Gabriel!” Maya calls, and he hears her dimly, as though she were too far to touch.
Sylar shudders; his hand tightens on hers. He never knew-
He sits up, against the seat, swallowing, breathing against the nauseous backlash from his body’s violation. Looks to Maya, looks to Alejandro, and tries to forget the strange, lingering impression that this is the last time he’ll cheat death.
- - - -
He is the one who plans their route - through Texas, up north, towards New York. They take a map, from the first rest area they can find - and Sylar spots the shortest way, the fastest way, immediately.
His hand lingers, though, over Odessa; there’s a sick fascination that draws him back.
He wonders if the paper company is still there. If the Bennets still live in the same house. If he could find his cell, where they kept him (like an animal) and destroy it-
“Gabriel?” asks Maya, cautiously.
“We’ll go through Dallas,” says Sylar.
- - - -
Is Maya the only twin with a power? Is Alejandro able to stop her by his natural empathy, with his twin, or because of a secondary power, one that could deflect (or possibly enhance) hers?
Sylar doesn’t know. His ignorance infuriates him.
- - - -
They travel until long past dark. Maya’s eyes are closing, the car unsteady on the road, when Sylar speaks up.
“We should stop at a hotel.”
Alejandro says something in Spanish; Maya responds. “Is it safe?” she asks Sylar.
Sylar blinks. “Of course,” he says, reflexively. Why wouldn’t it be?
“We have no American money,” says Maya.
Sylar looks away. “I’ll find some,” he tells her.
- - - -
He hates this. Living like rat, off of the scraps of the rest of the world.
In time, he won’t have to do this anymore.
- - - -
Sylar finds Maya’s naiveté very irritating. He thought his charade would have come to an end by now - Mohinder only took a few days to see through it, and he had no such high opinions of Mohinder’s shrewdness.
Sylar was disappointed when Mohinder found out. It took him by surprise - it was nasty, and it didn’t go at all the way he thought it would.
This time, he knows, he would delight in the discovery. It would be a triumph, not a defeat.
- - - -
Maya glances away, when Sylar shows up, the wallet in his hand.
Alejandro spits a few words - at Sylar, not at Maya.
“He wants to know how you have that,” translates Maya. And she wants to know too, he can see it in her - and, at the same time, she’s afraid to know. Afraid of his power.
She has to realize his deception, somewhere inside her. It must be that she doesn’t want to know.
Sylar clenches his jaw. “It doesn’t matter. Believe me, he won’t miss it.”
Maya probably takes that as a noble, Robin-Hood-eque denial - Sylar stole the wallet from someone rich, someone who could replace it in a second.
The truth is far more mundane, Sylar thinks, and he wonders if the blood from the body has made it to the sewer grate yet.
- - - -
Sylar doesn’t feel anything, from killing that man.
Should he? If he did, would that make it better?
- - - -
It’s almost as soon as Maya has closed the door - ready to take her turn in the shower - when Alejandro grabs him.
Sylar is taken off-guard - he wasn’t expecting any actual act of aggression, and Alejandro takes ruthless advantage. Wrenches Sylar’s arm behind his back, and moves with Sylar’s reflexive struggle, letting Sylar throw them to the bed, rolling, until they fall - until Sylar is on the floor, face down, Alejandro on top of him.
“Let me go,” he snarls - this isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. He’s the one in control. He has the power here, not Alejandro, not some stupid second-rate -
“Cállate!” spits Alejandro, and Sylar’s should twists painfully in its socket.
If he had his powers, he would tear Alejandro limb from limb -
Alejandro speaks, low and lethal, into Sylar’s ear, and he doesn’t even have to speak Spanish to know the context. It’s a threat. A clear threat.
Sylar tugs, uselessly, at the hands holding him down. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Once Alejandro gets up, Sylar will still be the powerful one. He’ll still be in charge.
“Comprendes?”
Sylar grits his teeth.
“Comprendes?”
“Yes,” Sylar hisses - he’s not giving in, he’s not surrendering - and he wrenches his arm, pushes against Alejandro’s hold. Alejandro isn’t letting go.
Sylar realizes, with a crash of clarity, that Alejandro’s breath isn’t coming short just because of anger. And pressing against Sylar’s back -
Sylar inhales, in a kind of shock, and he experiences a sudden, disorienting moment of uncertainty.
No.
No.
Sylar is never uncertain. He has intuition, it guides him, everything always ends up okay - but now, right here, he’s crippled by it. Doesn’t know how to manipulate it, twist it to his will. And Alejandro is getting off on this, on keeping Sylar powerless, and that’s unacceptable.
“Let me go,” and it’s a repeat from before, another sign of weakness. Breathed, this time. Almost begged.
Finally, Alejandro lets him go, moves back, leaving Sylar to stand on his own, work the circulation back into his arm, wonder if there will be bruises on his back.
Sylar resolves, now, that Alejandro will die, whether Sylar retrieves his powers or not.
- - - -
Maybe Sylar doesn’t understand what makes a person protect someone else. Maybe he doesn’t get what makes a life more important than his. After all, in evolution, your own life is the most important of all, isn’t it?
- - - -
Sylar wonders what it would have been like if Alejandro hadn’t let him go.
- - - -
“Gabriel?” Maya asks, settling on the bed next to him. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” and he smiles at her, and maybe - maybe it doesn’t all have to be forced. He moves over, on impulse, and kisses her - too fast, of course, and it’s clumsy. It’s not like he had much experience with this, as Gabriel. And he’s never regretted that so much, before now.
Maya smiles, blindingly bright and shy, and Sylar wishes -
Nothing. He just wishes, that’s all.
He’ll forget about it, once he breaks them.
- - - -
Sylar slips out early, in the morning, leaving a note on the hotel room’s desk. He just can’t breathe, all of the sudden. Can’t sleep.
His hands shake when he orders breakfast at a doughnut place across the street.
- - - -
The atmosphere, when he brings the breakfast back, is too tense for comfort.
Sylar can’t quite meet Alejandro’s eyes.
- - - -
The confrontation comes when they’re stopped, at the first rest area.
Alejandro shoves Sylar against the brick, pinning him - and Sylar could struggle, now. He has a better position. He could probably hurt Alejandro, even if Alejandro could hurt him more.
“No la toque!” yells Alejandro, and he goes into a stream of Spanish - cursing, probably, and threatening. And this time it’s not cold, it’s angry, it’s emotion, pushing them out of control.
Alejandro pauses, for a moment, the only noises in the brick alcove the hum of distant traffic on the highway, the harsh breathing - and then he moves in, smashes his mouth to Sylar’s.
Sylar freezes, for just a second, and then it’s too late to resist. Alejandro’s hand travels up his leg, Alejandro’s tongue slipping past Sylar’s lips, so invasive he can’t get together the strength to resist, and there’s something inside Sylar, something hot, something vivid and bright and so utterly uncontrollable it scares him.
But that’s not right, he can gain control, he can take it this way - he doesn’t even have to be the dominant one -
Sylar moans, softly, calculated, and Alejandro redoubles his efforts, stealing Sylar’s breath, his other hand creeping under Sylar’s shirt. Sylar clutches at Alejandro (like he’s helpless, but he isn’t, he isn’t, really) and he pants, raggedly, every moment Alejandro gives him to draw in air.
“Stop,” whispers Sylar, then “stop,” stronger, shoving Alejandro away. He looks up, into Alejandro’s eyes - and now, now is the moment of his greatest performance. If Alejandro believes this, this one, torn moment, then he won’t have just seduced Maya, he’ll have seduced Alejandro too, and it’ll be an accomplishment so many times bigger than the few days with Mohinder -
Alejandro presses one last kiss to Sylar’s mouth, softer, aching with a feeling Sylar doesn’t quite understand.
But he understands this - Alejandro thinks that he’s done the seduction. He thinks that Sylar, now, will be under his control. And Sylar has communicated this through a barrier that language can’t break.
Sylar nuzzles Alejandro’s neck, for a moment, like he can’t steel himself enough to break away.
- - - -
They whisper about him, in soft Spanish, when they think he’s asleep.
Sylar can’t bring himself to care.
- - - -
They corner him. Both of them, at once, in the next hotel room. And it feels wrong - it should be wrong, it should be disgusting, but then Maya kisses him, and Alejandro’s hands stroke his waist, and he gives in.
It’s just too easy -
He wants to fight it, he does, but he wants to control them (of course) and he can’t do that if he pushes them away, can only do it if he binds them tighter (and what happens if he binds himself to them, at the same time?) so he has to let them.
He finds himself, later, on his knees, on the bed, with Alejandro so deep inside him, murmuring into his ear. He gasps, emptily, and Maya takes his hands, untangling his fingers from the bed sheets.
“Gabriel,” she murmurs, and Sylar closes his throat tight, a tension whispering through his muscles, shivering him apart.
- - - -
Maya should be the angel. Not Gabriel.
- - - -
“Will we get to New York today?” asks Maya.
“Yes,” says Sylar. “We will.”
Rating: hard R
Spoilers: through 2x06
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Notes: Spanish phrases translated by a friend of mine. Unbeta'ed; all mistakes are mine.
Summary: It's what Sylar has to do, to get control.
- - -
Sylar dies in agony.
It’s not as though he wasn’t expecting it, this time. At first, it was a shock - so unexpected, so intense that it immobilized him, a never-ending torture, as though the black sludge from Maya’s eyes was filling Sylar’s body, squeezing tight every vein, every nerve, every organ, until his bones were ready to snap under the pressure.
It feels the same, now. But this time, he’s prepared for it.
He gasps, emptily, into his lungs, the life, the breath slowly squeezing out of his body. His vision goes dark, and he feels the liquid flow sluggish and cold down his cheeks. His heart flutters once, twice -
- - - -
“Gabriel!” Maya calls, and he hears her dimly, as though she were too far to touch.
Sylar shudders; his hand tightens on hers. He never knew-
He sits up, against the seat, swallowing, breathing against the nauseous backlash from his body’s violation. Looks to Maya, looks to Alejandro, and tries to forget the strange, lingering impression that this is the last time he’ll cheat death.
- - - -
He is the one who plans their route - through Texas, up north, towards New York. They take a map, from the first rest area they can find - and Sylar spots the shortest way, the fastest way, immediately.
His hand lingers, though, over Odessa; there’s a sick fascination that draws him back.
He wonders if the paper company is still there. If the Bennets still live in the same house. If he could find his cell, where they kept him (like an animal) and destroy it-
“Gabriel?” asks Maya, cautiously.
“We’ll go through Dallas,” says Sylar.
- - - -
Is Maya the only twin with a power? Is Alejandro able to stop her by his natural empathy, with his twin, or because of a secondary power, one that could deflect (or possibly enhance) hers?
Sylar doesn’t know. His ignorance infuriates him.
- - - -
They travel until long past dark. Maya’s eyes are closing, the car unsteady on the road, when Sylar speaks up.
“We should stop at a hotel.”
Alejandro says something in Spanish; Maya responds. “Is it safe?” she asks Sylar.
Sylar blinks. “Of course,” he says, reflexively. Why wouldn’t it be?
“We have no American money,” says Maya.
Sylar looks away. “I’ll find some,” he tells her.
- - - -
He hates this. Living like rat, off of the scraps of the rest of the world.
In time, he won’t have to do this anymore.
- - - -
Sylar finds Maya’s naiveté very irritating. He thought his charade would have come to an end by now - Mohinder only took a few days to see through it, and he had no such high opinions of Mohinder’s shrewdness.
Sylar was disappointed when Mohinder found out. It took him by surprise - it was nasty, and it didn’t go at all the way he thought it would.
This time, he knows, he would delight in the discovery. It would be a triumph, not a defeat.
- - - -
Maya glances away, when Sylar shows up, the wallet in his hand.
Alejandro spits a few words - at Sylar, not at Maya.
“He wants to know how you have that,” translates Maya. And she wants to know too, he can see it in her - and, at the same time, she’s afraid to know. Afraid of his power.
She has to realize his deception, somewhere inside her. It must be that she doesn’t want to know.
Sylar clenches his jaw. “It doesn’t matter. Believe me, he won’t miss it.”
Maya probably takes that as a noble, Robin-Hood-eque denial - Sylar stole the wallet from someone rich, someone who could replace it in a second.
The truth is far more mundane, Sylar thinks, and he wonders if the blood from the body has made it to the sewer grate yet.
- - - -
Sylar doesn’t feel anything, from killing that man.
Should he? If he did, would that make it better?
- - - -
It’s almost as soon as Maya has closed the door - ready to take her turn in the shower - when Alejandro grabs him.
Sylar is taken off-guard - he wasn’t expecting any actual act of aggression, and Alejandro takes ruthless advantage. Wrenches Sylar’s arm behind his back, and moves with Sylar’s reflexive struggle, letting Sylar throw them to the bed, rolling, until they fall - until Sylar is on the floor, face down, Alejandro on top of him.
“Let me go,” he snarls - this isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. He’s the one in control. He has the power here, not Alejandro, not some stupid second-rate -
“Cállate!” spits Alejandro, and Sylar’s should twists painfully in its socket.
If he had his powers, he would tear Alejandro limb from limb -
Alejandro speaks, low and lethal, into Sylar’s ear, and he doesn’t even have to speak Spanish to know the context. It’s a threat. A clear threat.
Sylar tugs, uselessly, at the hands holding him down. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Once Alejandro gets up, Sylar will still be the powerful one. He’ll still be in charge.
“Comprendes?”
Sylar grits his teeth.
“Comprendes?”
“Yes,” Sylar hisses - he’s not giving in, he’s not surrendering - and he wrenches his arm, pushes against Alejandro’s hold. Alejandro isn’t letting go.
Sylar realizes, with a crash of clarity, that Alejandro’s breath isn’t coming short just because of anger. And pressing against Sylar’s back -
Sylar inhales, in a kind of shock, and he experiences a sudden, disorienting moment of uncertainty.
No.
No.
Sylar is never uncertain. He has intuition, it guides him, everything always ends up okay - but now, right here, he’s crippled by it. Doesn’t know how to manipulate it, twist it to his will. And Alejandro is getting off on this, on keeping Sylar powerless, and that’s unacceptable.
“Let me go,” and it’s a repeat from before, another sign of weakness. Breathed, this time. Almost begged.
Finally, Alejandro lets him go, moves back, leaving Sylar to stand on his own, work the circulation back into his arm, wonder if there will be bruises on his back.
Sylar resolves, now, that Alejandro will die, whether Sylar retrieves his powers or not.
- - - -
Maybe Sylar doesn’t understand what makes a person protect someone else. Maybe he doesn’t get what makes a life more important than his. After all, in evolution, your own life is the most important of all, isn’t it?
- - - -
Sylar wonders what it would have been like if Alejandro hadn’t let him go.
- - - -
“Gabriel?” Maya asks, settling on the bed next to him. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” and he smiles at her, and maybe - maybe it doesn’t all have to be forced. He moves over, on impulse, and kisses her - too fast, of course, and it’s clumsy. It’s not like he had much experience with this, as Gabriel. And he’s never regretted that so much, before now.
Maya smiles, blindingly bright and shy, and Sylar wishes -
Nothing. He just wishes, that’s all.
He’ll forget about it, once he breaks them.
- - - -
Sylar slips out early, in the morning, leaving a note on the hotel room’s desk. He just can’t breathe, all of the sudden. Can’t sleep.
His hands shake when he orders breakfast at a doughnut place across the street.
- - - -
The atmosphere, when he brings the breakfast back, is too tense for comfort.
Sylar can’t quite meet Alejandro’s eyes.
- - - -
The confrontation comes when they’re stopped, at the first rest area.
Alejandro shoves Sylar against the brick, pinning him - and Sylar could struggle, now. He has a better position. He could probably hurt Alejandro, even if Alejandro could hurt him more.
“No la toque!” yells Alejandro, and he goes into a stream of Spanish - cursing, probably, and threatening. And this time it’s not cold, it’s angry, it’s emotion, pushing them out of control.
Alejandro pauses, for a moment, the only noises in the brick alcove the hum of distant traffic on the highway, the harsh breathing - and then he moves in, smashes his mouth to Sylar’s.
Sylar freezes, for just a second, and then it’s too late to resist. Alejandro’s hand travels up his leg, Alejandro’s tongue slipping past Sylar’s lips, so invasive he can’t get together the strength to resist, and there’s something inside Sylar, something hot, something vivid and bright and so utterly uncontrollable it scares him.
But that’s not right, he can gain control, he can take it this way - he doesn’t even have to be the dominant one -
Sylar moans, softly, calculated, and Alejandro redoubles his efforts, stealing Sylar’s breath, his other hand creeping under Sylar’s shirt. Sylar clutches at Alejandro (like he’s helpless, but he isn’t, he isn’t, really) and he pants, raggedly, every moment Alejandro gives him to draw in air.
“Stop,” whispers Sylar, then “stop,” stronger, shoving Alejandro away. He looks up, into Alejandro’s eyes - and now, now is the moment of his greatest performance. If Alejandro believes this, this one, torn moment, then he won’t have just seduced Maya, he’ll have seduced Alejandro too, and it’ll be an accomplishment so many times bigger than the few days with Mohinder -
Alejandro presses one last kiss to Sylar’s mouth, softer, aching with a feeling Sylar doesn’t quite understand.
But he understands this - Alejandro thinks that he’s done the seduction. He thinks that Sylar, now, will be under his control. And Sylar has communicated this through a barrier that language can’t break.
Sylar nuzzles Alejandro’s neck, for a moment, like he can’t steel himself enough to break away.
- - - -
They whisper about him, in soft Spanish, when they think he’s asleep.
Sylar can’t bring himself to care.
- - - -
They corner him. Both of them, at once, in the next hotel room. And it feels wrong - it should be wrong, it should be disgusting, but then Maya kisses him, and Alejandro’s hands stroke his waist, and he gives in.
It’s just too easy -
He wants to fight it, he does, but he wants to control them (of course) and he can’t do that if he pushes them away, can only do it if he binds them tighter (and what happens if he binds himself to them, at the same time?) so he has to let them.
He finds himself, later, on his knees, on the bed, with Alejandro so deep inside him, murmuring into his ear. He gasps, emptily, and Maya takes his hands, untangling his fingers from the bed sheets.
“Gabriel,” she murmurs, and Sylar closes his throat tight, a tension whispering through his muscles, shivering him apart.
- - - -
Maya should be the angel. Not Gabriel.
- - - -
“Will we get to New York today?” asks Maya.
“Yes,” says Sylar. “We will.”