FIC; POLICE & THIEVES
title; Police & Thieves
author; koala_motchi
pairings & characters; Sylar/Mohinder, (imagined) Adam/Mohinder, Matt/Mohinder, Sylar/Maya, mentions of Alejandro & Molly.
genre; Seriously Darkfic.
rating; R/Adult
summary; Sylar does a little breaking-and-entering, and then does a little breaking and entering.
word count; About 2875.
warnings; Graphic descritpions of fantasized character death (Sylar's imagination runs wild with Matt, Molly, Maya, Alejandro, and Adam), and the sex alluded to is both slash and het (as you probably gathered from the pairing list), and the consent is dubious at best. Possible spoilers up to but NOT including “Truth & Consequences”.
notes; This is a long-delayed companion piece to Lightning Strikes (Not Once But Twice). It had originally been set in plain old ordinary canon verse, but since it takes place before “Truth & Consequences” it is now firmly in the realm of an Alternate Timeline. Inside Sylar's head is a scary place to be. I kind of like it. Thanks to kleenexcow and ryuutchi for support. ;D
The thing that bothered Sylar most was that it was happening in the same apartment. He used the duplicate to unlock the door - the spare key he made early one morning when Mohinder was sleeping in tangled sheets that smelled like sex, back when he’d still moaned “Zane”. The apartment was as cluttered as it had always been, but in a new and unfamiliar way. It smelled different. The little green mug that poisoned him was sitting on the kitchen table, half full of coffee. It was ridiculous, Mohinder hated coffee. Even that one morning, after the first time they‘d fucked, Sylar couldn’t remember Mohinder having more than a sip of coffee. He’d made himself tea halfway through breakfast, as an excuse to pull his hand away.
This coffee had no cream in it. It was sugared to saturation, sticky and thick and disgusting. Even if it had been hot, Sylar was certain it would be undrinkable. Still, he drained the contents out of curiosity and a hunger for understanding, and carried the then-empty mug with him into Mohinder’s study. It was cramped and comfortable in there, all familiar sights and smells. Sylar leaned against the desk, drawing his fingers across one of the file folders, searching for his own name. There was a time his file had occupied a particular place on Mohinder’s desk - on the very top of whatever pile sat in the center, covered in post-it notes and little reminders. Mohinder had been carefully archiving his abilities, always aware of just how special Sylar was becoming.
The place that had been his (or his folder’s anyway), was occupied by a stranger’s name and a much thinner file. The taste of the stale, too-sweet coffee coupled with the twisting knot of jealousy in Sylar’s stomach to make his vision spin and his shoulders clench. Sylar felt sick and insignificant again, in a way he hadn’t since he’d tried to bend himself over backwards fulfilling every parental expectation. He felt mediocre as he drew his index finger across “Adam Monroe”.
He began the search for his own file casually at first, certain it would be just beneath this Adam person’s - probably moved from its place of supremacy for quick comparative review. It was not on the desk. It wasn’t in any of the stacks around Mohinder’s office chair, or tacked up in pieces on the map, or anywhere that he could find. The office, at first such a comforting sight, was suddenly all wrong.
A feeling of claustrophobia set in, as Sylar imagined Mohinder sweetly speaking with this new, faceless enemy. Making tea, gullible and conniving as always, being pressed up against a wall and pressed into by this new man who had usurped attentions meant for Sylar. It was simply not right, for some other ‘talented’ fool to be taking and using the same flesh that Sylar (disguised cleverly as sweet, awkward Zane) had taken and used and enjoyed. He abandoned the desk in anger, snarling to himself in frustration; he would not allow anyone to make the mistake of thinking him less important, less special than anyone - especially this “Adam Monroe”.
Sylar could breathe again in the hallway, his dark eyes focused as he began hunting for reminders of himself. The back room, once reserved for guests, bore all the signs of childish wear. The girl, Sylar knew, was one he had narrowly missed. She was the fish he had let go - never mind that he couldn’t find her. Her presence in Mohinder’s life pleased Sylar in an odd and roundabout way. Molly, he knew, was only special because he hadn’t hurt her - special only by association to Sylar himself. Her power would be more useful to him now that he had no lists or guides, now that Mohinder’s study was devoted to some unworthy and encroaching ability called “Adam”. Sylar smiled as he sat on the edge of the girl’s bed, envisioning her blood on his hands.
Killing her would upset Mohinder only superficially, Sylar thought. It would be the frustration of losing a patient or lab rat. The ends - killing this mysterious Adam Monroe and taking whatever it was that made Mohinder think him so special - would surely justify the means. Sylar closed his eyes and imagined how warm her blood would be, flowing sluggishly out of a perfect little head wound and over his knuckles as he prodded her mind for answers. The shuddering and sickening tremors of her little body when she breathed her last, terrified breath would be too much for Mohinder to watch, Sylar decided. He would have to do it some other time, in some new and exciting way.
Sylar would want credit for the killing - the murders marked him as stronger and smarter and better - but he knew from experience that the helpless innocent would work his way into Mohinder’s heart with more ease. It would be so pleasant to have the professor unsuspecting again, watching him with concerned and intrigued eyes. Sylar caught himself longing for that focus as much as he longed for the scent of Molly Walker’s blood in his nose and the slick softness of her brain on his fingertips. Mohinder was the only one who ever really acknowledged Sylar in a way anything close to satisfying. His fear and curiosity were interwoven and sweet in a way that was infinitely drinkable, nothing at all like the cop’s coffee.
How would someone like Sylar, of all people, convince Mohinder of his newfound innocence? How, he asked himself, could he become something harmless and pitiable? There was nothing pitiful about him, he was the strongest and most talented, the most special. Rising from Molly’s neatly-made bed, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, Sylar thought of Maya. She could be his key - his duplicate to unlock the door and get back into Mohinder’s life. He moved on silent feet from Molly’s bedroom to the larger one he’d once shared with the scientist.
He could use the joke the world was playing on him to his advantage. Sylar knew that he was more special than all of them, than any of them could ever hope to be. This temporary impotence was going to help him, he determined - it was going to help him get Mohinder’s attention back. He could be Gabriel, Maya’s angel of fortune, for Mohinder. He could lie sweetly enough, claim that his powers had temporarily blinded him. He could repent all those delicious murders, and claim to be “back to his human senses”, helpless, useless things that they were. He could give Mohinder a taste of Maya and Alejandro, gifts of good will, both of them. He could bring the scientist to his knees by giving him something to study.
He knew that Mohinder wanted to believe that he could be a good person (he was, once, but special is more important than good), could read it in the way he was washing Matt’s clothes with Zane’s brand of detergent and fabric softener. They smelled the same, those heather-grey tee shirts and the old ‘Ramones’ tee he’d stolen off his victim’s back. As he rifled through the drawers, he was shocked and pleased to find it. It was hiding under Mohinder’s carefully folded jeans and khakis, a messy little ball of black cotton in the far back corner of the drawer. Sylar’s smile was broad and wicked, delighted to find another artifact of himself lurking in and among Mohinder’s private things. These remnants, they were clues of Mohinder’s greatest weakness: his trust in humanity.
Sylar could plead with Mohinder to hear him out, beg on hands and knees with wide terrified doe-eyes and a tremble in his voice. Mohinder would listen - probably with gun or taser trained on Sylar’s chest - while Maya’s angel “Gabriel” explained that he’d lost his powers somehow. He could explain that, when he realized what he’d done, he cried. Mohinder would like that. Sylar could just see Mohinder’s jaw clench as he pressed those I-wanna-suck-you-off lips together, considering how plausible the story might be. And Sylar would put on his best tortured face and say that he never wanted to hurt anyone, he just wanted to be special, and now….
“And now…” he repeated aloud, practicing a mournful tone and shaking his head. He could look down at his hands like they were blood-spattered -- the way the would be once the timing was right and he and Alejandro were alone. It would have to be soon, sooner than his plan would like, Sylar knew, because Alejandro was becoming difficult. But his skull would bash open easily enough, blunt trauma infinitely more appropriate for dealing with the tag-along brother than sweet, surgical-smooth telekinetic slices. There would be something unspeakably satisfying about bashing Alejandro’s face like some fragile thing, an egg, and his blood and brains like yolk would come out sticky and viscous. Sylar relished the pre-emptive ache in his knuckles, sore and bruised for days at least after the pummeling. He would explain to Maya that someone, some man attacked them (that poaching “Adam Monroe“, perhaps), and he was overpowered, but see -- he’ll show her his knuckles then, shaking and delicate little things -- he fought valiantly to save her brother.
Picking up the poison-teacup and the souvenir tee-shirt, Sylar moved to the bed. It would be in this room that the cop would die. The telepath would have to die quickly - before Alejandro, but after the little girl - for he would sniff out Gabriel’s lies and ruin everything. After the little girl, Sylar thought, would be best. He would return home from some errand and smell the blood, tinny and fresh, and would call for his newly-acquired daughter. Matt would move to her room with a policeman’s urgency, only to see her head emptied of its treasures, little body limp and meaningless.
Then, Sylar would make his presence known. The cop was an idiot; he would remember taking bullets in the chest and would not think to get his gun. He was big, but Sylar was practiced, highly skilled in the sweet art of murder, and Sylar was confident that he could overpower the telepath. He would use Mohinder’s favorite of the kitchen knives, which were always kept keen and sharp. He would hit the big man on the back of the head, knock him out swiftly and haul him into the bedroom. Spread out on the mattress, Sylar would tie him down (there were sheets enough) and slice him open at the belly first.
If the cop woke up with his insides out, it would be more amusing, but always more dangerous. Sylar imagined him awake though, whining and squealing like some oversized child, squirming as Sylar examined his inner workings. Anatomy had always been a strong point, and organs (like clockwork) each served their own unique purposes. It would be the blood, though, or lack of it, that killed the cop, not seeing his skin peeled back from his chest and belly, exposing the slick and meticulous gears of humanity inside.
Sylar’s shoulders shook with unvoiced laughter at the thought, fixing people like watches. He would open up the policeman’s head and scavenge for gears worth keeping (telepathy could come in handy, when Mohinder cured him, as Sylar knew that Mohinder would). He did not understand why Mohinder might be drawn to the telepath, doubted their situation was anything more than one of convenience. Imagining Mohinder trembling beneath the cop made Sylar’s stomach clench as it had in the office. The telepath was encroaching on Sylar’s space, taking Mohinder as Sylar had no doubt he was. He had claimed the scientist long before this new, disgusting little “family” came into being, and he was not willing to relinquish his claim. Mohinder would understand, when he found Matt’s body, that it was his fault the killing needed to be so brutal.
If Mohinder had not allowed the cop into their bed, Sylar would not have found it so satisfying to kill him on it. It was with hard and angry eyes that he surveyed the room, full of traces of the inhabitants. That cop had no business drinking out of Zane’s teacup, or sleeping on his side of the bed, or pushing his dick into Mohinder’s mouth the way that Sylar had done. With new resolve, Sylar pulled open the night-stand drawer, and continued his investigation. Mohinder had hidden at the bottom a slim file, labeled Zane Taylor in crisp red letters. Not only the telepath, but “Adam”, Sylar thought with delight, was no match for him after all.
He would kill “Adam” as well, would strike him down, whatever his power (over Mohinder or otherwise) was, and would consume his abilities. Sylar imagined some faceless enemy, some pretender, whose flesh would be as soft and whose bones as breakable as any other. They were both a mess of clockwork in his mind, advanced and complex, but Sylar was ever-superior, clicky-ticky-tock-ing at a faster, louder pace. The fight, he imagined, would be an epic one, that would wound him (winning the good Doctor’s sympathy), though he would be triumphant. The most special, the most interesting, the most capable of killers and men would emerge victorious, and Sylar was quick to enjoy the thought of his rival’s blood on his hands, taste lingering from the splatter of hard blows.
Mohinder would be in awe of him then, resentful of and enamored with Sylar’s killing skill. He would consider it a favor, the removal of that lesser enemy called “Adam”, Sylar was certain, and Mohinder would praise and fear his strength. And, curiously, he would watch and record Sylar’s use of Adam’s ability, whatever it might be. Mohinder’s ever-questioning nature, though it was not gentle, was Sylar’s prize. He would claim it along with Mohinder’s tender flesh, brown and smooth and salty.
It was the sound of heavy footsteps on the hall stairs that pulled Sylar from his fantasies. He shut the drawer, gathered the cup and the shirt (his prizes), and immediately went to the bedroom window. His memories proved true, as he was sure they always would, and without hesitation Sylar opened the window and climbed out onto the iron platform.
Matt could swear he heard ticking, even before he got his keys out of his pocket. He frowned, listening closely, but his neighbours’ thoughts were nothing out of the ordinary. He did not hear the lock click when he turned his key - it had been open. Matt kept one hand on his gun when he opened the door. Once inside the apartment, he knew something was different but couldn’t place it. His coffee cup (a favorite of Mohinder’s) was gone from the table. Mohinder’s office door was open wide, as was Molly’s, which was not uncommon but somehow made Matt feel completely vulnerable.
He moved to the bedroom first, the sounds of the street rising louder than they ought, and immediately rushed to the window, but there was no one ticking or clicking like watch-gears on the fire escape or the street below. Sylar was no longer there to see the cop shiver.
Home, or the hotel that passed for it, smelled wrong after Sylar’s visit to Mohinder’s apartment. Its cleanliness was offensive, its indistinctive scents agitating and dull. Maya, sweet, vulnerable thing that she was, had her back to him. It would be so easy to move in behind her, stand too close (just barely not touching) as he always had with his scientist, and snap her little neck. She would not have time to get upset, to make her eyes black, or to raise alarm. She would simply stop living, her head twisted round at some impossible angle, her eyes wide and her lips parted from the hitch in her breath caused by the surprise.
Painless, Maya’s death would be, because Sylar was a generous murderer and did not need his every kill to be vicious and impractical. He would sift through her skull after, and practice turning off and on her toxic tears, leaving their hotel an inky, tear-stained wasteland. He relished the thought, ticking away as he pressed himself against her back.
Sylar would kill them all, he decided while kissing the place where Maya’s neck met her shoulder. When they were all dead, and he had their abilities, Mohinder’s attention would belong entirely to him. There would be no one else to study, to analyze, or to compare. There would be nothing in the world but Sylar and his scientist. No matter how much Mohinder might grow to hate him for killing the weak and the powerful alike, Sylar trusted the hunger for knowledge that drove them both to keep Mohinder fascinated - snared on the only truly extraordinary person left. Later, when Maya shuddered and clenched around him, squeezing and breathless, Sylar thought of when he would be the Only One, and remembered Mohinder’s gasping sighs and trembling kisses. He tightened his grip on Maya’s hips, recalled the exact sensation of Mohinder’s lips on his jaw, and came.
He would have what belonged to him.
Crossposted to koala_motchi, heroes_slash, heroes_sylar, mylar_fic, and heroes_fic. Comments are always welcome and appreciated!
author; koala_motchi
pairings & characters; Sylar/Mohinder, (imagined) Adam/Mohinder, Matt/Mohinder, Sylar/Maya, mentions of Alejandro & Molly.
genre; Seriously Darkfic.
rating; R/Adult
summary; Sylar does a little breaking-and-entering, and then does a little breaking and entering.
word count; About 2875.
warnings; Graphic descritpions of fantasized character death (Sylar's imagination runs wild with Matt, Molly, Maya, Alejandro, and Adam), and the sex alluded to is both slash and het (as you probably gathered from the pairing list), and the consent is dubious at best. Possible spoilers up to but NOT including “Truth & Consequences”.
notes; This is a long-delayed companion piece to Lightning Strikes (Not Once But Twice). It had originally been set in plain old ordinary canon verse, but since it takes place before “Truth & Consequences” it is now firmly in the realm of an Alternate Timeline. Inside Sylar's head is a scary place to be. I kind of like it. Thanks to kleenexcow and ryuutchi for support. ;D
The thing that bothered Sylar most was that it was happening in the same apartment. He used the duplicate to unlock the door - the spare key he made early one morning when Mohinder was sleeping in tangled sheets that smelled like sex, back when he’d still moaned “Zane”. The apartment was as cluttered as it had always been, but in a new and unfamiliar way. It smelled different. The little green mug that poisoned him was sitting on the kitchen table, half full of coffee. It was ridiculous, Mohinder hated coffee. Even that one morning, after the first time they‘d fucked, Sylar couldn’t remember Mohinder having more than a sip of coffee. He’d made himself tea halfway through breakfast, as an excuse to pull his hand away.
This coffee had no cream in it. It was sugared to saturation, sticky and thick and disgusting. Even if it had been hot, Sylar was certain it would be undrinkable. Still, he drained the contents out of curiosity and a hunger for understanding, and carried the then-empty mug with him into Mohinder’s study. It was cramped and comfortable in there, all familiar sights and smells. Sylar leaned against the desk, drawing his fingers across one of the file folders, searching for his own name. There was a time his file had occupied a particular place on Mohinder’s desk - on the very top of whatever pile sat in the center, covered in post-it notes and little reminders. Mohinder had been carefully archiving his abilities, always aware of just how special Sylar was becoming.
The place that had been his (or his folder’s anyway), was occupied by a stranger’s name and a much thinner file. The taste of the stale, too-sweet coffee coupled with the twisting knot of jealousy in Sylar’s stomach to make his vision spin and his shoulders clench. Sylar felt sick and insignificant again, in a way he hadn’t since he’d tried to bend himself over backwards fulfilling every parental expectation. He felt mediocre as he drew his index finger across “Adam Monroe”.
He began the search for his own file casually at first, certain it would be just beneath this Adam person’s - probably moved from its place of supremacy for quick comparative review. It was not on the desk. It wasn’t in any of the stacks around Mohinder’s office chair, or tacked up in pieces on the map, or anywhere that he could find. The office, at first such a comforting sight, was suddenly all wrong.
A feeling of claustrophobia set in, as Sylar imagined Mohinder sweetly speaking with this new, faceless enemy. Making tea, gullible and conniving as always, being pressed up against a wall and pressed into by this new man who had usurped attentions meant for Sylar. It was simply not right, for some other ‘talented’ fool to be taking and using the same flesh that Sylar (disguised cleverly as sweet, awkward Zane) had taken and used and enjoyed. He abandoned the desk in anger, snarling to himself in frustration; he would not allow anyone to make the mistake of thinking him less important, less special than anyone - especially this “Adam Monroe”.
Sylar could breathe again in the hallway, his dark eyes focused as he began hunting for reminders of himself. The back room, once reserved for guests, bore all the signs of childish wear. The girl, Sylar knew, was one he had narrowly missed. She was the fish he had let go - never mind that he couldn’t find her. Her presence in Mohinder’s life pleased Sylar in an odd and roundabout way. Molly, he knew, was only special because he hadn’t hurt her - special only by association to Sylar himself. Her power would be more useful to him now that he had no lists or guides, now that Mohinder’s study was devoted to some unworthy and encroaching ability called “Adam”. Sylar smiled as he sat on the edge of the girl’s bed, envisioning her blood on his hands.
Killing her would upset Mohinder only superficially, Sylar thought. It would be the frustration of losing a patient or lab rat. The ends - killing this mysterious Adam Monroe and taking whatever it was that made Mohinder think him so special - would surely justify the means. Sylar closed his eyes and imagined how warm her blood would be, flowing sluggishly out of a perfect little head wound and over his knuckles as he prodded her mind for answers. The shuddering and sickening tremors of her little body when she breathed her last, terrified breath would be too much for Mohinder to watch, Sylar decided. He would have to do it some other time, in some new and exciting way.
Sylar would want credit for the killing - the murders marked him as stronger and smarter and better - but he knew from experience that the helpless innocent would work his way into Mohinder’s heart with more ease. It would be so pleasant to have the professor unsuspecting again, watching him with concerned and intrigued eyes. Sylar caught himself longing for that focus as much as he longed for the scent of Molly Walker’s blood in his nose and the slick softness of her brain on his fingertips. Mohinder was the only one who ever really acknowledged Sylar in a way anything close to satisfying. His fear and curiosity were interwoven and sweet in a way that was infinitely drinkable, nothing at all like the cop’s coffee.
How would someone like Sylar, of all people, convince Mohinder of his newfound innocence? How, he asked himself, could he become something harmless and pitiable? There was nothing pitiful about him, he was the strongest and most talented, the most special. Rising from Molly’s neatly-made bed, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, Sylar thought of Maya. She could be his key - his duplicate to unlock the door and get back into Mohinder’s life. He moved on silent feet from Molly’s bedroom to the larger one he’d once shared with the scientist.
He could use the joke the world was playing on him to his advantage. Sylar knew that he was more special than all of them, than any of them could ever hope to be. This temporary impotence was going to help him, he determined - it was going to help him get Mohinder’s attention back. He could be Gabriel, Maya’s angel of fortune, for Mohinder. He could lie sweetly enough, claim that his powers had temporarily blinded him. He could repent all those delicious murders, and claim to be “back to his human senses”, helpless, useless things that they were. He could give Mohinder a taste of Maya and Alejandro, gifts of good will, both of them. He could bring the scientist to his knees by giving him something to study.
He knew that Mohinder wanted to believe that he could be a good person (he was, once, but special is more important than good), could read it in the way he was washing Matt’s clothes with Zane’s brand of detergent and fabric softener. They smelled the same, those heather-grey tee shirts and the old ‘Ramones’ tee he’d stolen off his victim’s back. As he rifled through the drawers, he was shocked and pleased to find it. It was hiding under Mohinder’s carefully folded jeans and khakis, a messy little ball of black cotton in the far back corner of the drawer. Sylar’s smile was broad and wicked, delighted to find another artifact of himself lurking in and among Mohinder’s private things. These remnants, they were clues of Mohinder’s greatest weakness: his trust in humanity.
Sylar could plead with Mohinder to hear him out, beg on hands and knees with wide terrified doe-eyes and a tremble in his voice. Mohinder would listen - probably with gun or taser trained on Sylar’s chest - while Maya’s angel “Gabriel” explained that he’d lost his powers somehow. He could explain that, when he realized what he’d done, he cried. Mohinder would like that. Sylar could just see Mohinder’s jaw clench as he pressed those I-wanna-suck-you-off lips together, considering how plausible the story might be. And Sylar would put on his best tortured face and say that he never wanted to hurt anyone, he just wanted to be special, and now….
“And now…” he repeated aloud, practicing a mournful tone and shaking his head. He could look down at his hands like they were blood-spattered -- the way the would be once the timing was right and he and Alejandro were alone. It would have to be soon, sooner than his plan would like, Sylar knew, because Alejandro was becoming difficult. But his skull would bash open easily enough, blunt trauma infinitely more appropriate for dealing with the tag-along brother than sweet, surgical-smooth telekinetic slices. There would be something unspeakably satisfying about bashing Alejandro’s face like some fragile thing, an egg, and his blood and brains like yolk would come out sticky and viscous. Sylar relished the pre-emptive ache in his knuckles, sore and bruised for days at least after the pummeling. He would explain to Maya that someone, some man attacked them (that poaching “Adam Monroe“, perhaps), and he was overpowered, but see -- he’ll show her his knuckles then, shaking and delicate little things -- he fought valiantly to save her brother.
Picking up the poison-teacup and the souvenir tee-shirt, Sylar moved to the bed. It would be in this room that the cop would die. The telepath would have to die quickly - before Alejandro, but after the little girl - for he would sniff out Gabriel’s lies and ruin everything. After the little girl, Sylar thought, would be best. He would return home from some errand and smell the blood, tinny and fresh, and would call for his newly-acquired daughter. Matt would move to her room with a policeman’s urgency, only to see her head emptied of its treasures, little body limp and meaningless.
Then, Sylar would make his presence known. The cop was an idiot; he would remember taking bullets in the chest and would not think to get his gun. He was big, but Sylar was practiced, highly skilled in the sweet art of murder, and Sylar was confident that he could overpower the telepath. He would use Mohinder’s favorite of the kitchen knives, which were always kept keen and sharp. He would hit the big man on the back of the head, knock him out swiftly and haul him into the bedroom. Spread out on the mattress, Sylar would tie him down (there were sheets enough) and slice him open at the belly first.
If the cop woke up with his insides out, it would be more amusing, but always more dangerous. Sylar imagined him awake though, whining and squealing like some oversized child, squirming as Sylar examined his inner workings. Anatomy had always been a strong point, and organs (like clockwork) each served their own unique purposes. It would be the blood, though, or lack of it, that killed the cop, not seeing his skin peeled back from his chest and belly, exposing the slick and meticulous gears of humanity inside.
Sylar’s shoulders shook with unvoiced laughter at the thought, fixing people like watches. He would open up the policeman’s head and scavenge for gears worth keeping (telepathy could come in handy, when Mohinder cured him, as Sylar knew that Mohinder would). He did not understand why Mohinder might be drawn to the telepath, doubted their situation was anything more than one of convenience. Imagining Mohinder trembling beneath the cop made Sylar’s stomach clench as it had in the office. The telepath was encroaching on Sylar’s space, taking Mohinder as Sylar had no doubt he was. He had claimed the scientist long before this new, disgusting little “family” came into being, and he was not willing to relinquish his claim. Mohinder would understand, when he found Matt’s body, that it was his fault the killing needed to be so brutal.
If Mohinder had not allowed the cop into their bed, Sylar would not have found it so satisfying to kill him on it. It was with hard and angry eyes that he surveyed the room, full of traces of the inhabitants. That cop had no business drinking out of Zane’s teacup, or sleeping on his side of the bed, or pushing his dick into Mohinder’s mouth the way that Sylar had done. With new resolve, Sylar pulled open the night-stand drawer, and continued his investigation. Mohinder had hidden at the bottom a slim file, labeled Zane Taylor in crisp red letters. Not only the telepath, but “Adam”, Sylar thought with delight, was no match for him after all.
He would kill “Adam” as well, would strike him down, whatever his power (over Mohinder or otherwise) was, and would consume his abilities. Sylar imagined some faceless enemy, some pretender, whose flesh would be as soft and whose bones as breakable as any other. They were both a mess of clockwork in his mind, advanced and complex, but Sylar was ever-superior, clicky-ticky-tock-ing at a faster, louder pace. The fight, he imagined, would be an epic one, that would wound him (winning the good Doctor’s sympathy), though he would be triumphant. The most special, the most interesting, the most capable of killers and men would emerge victorious, and Sylar was quick to enjoy the thought of his rival’s blood on his hands, taste lingering from the splatter of hard blows.
Mohinder would be in awe of him then, resentful of and enamored with Sylar’s killing skill. He would consider it a favor, the removal of that lesser enemy called “Adam”, Sylar was certain, and Mohinder would praise and fear his strength. And, curiously, he would watch and record Sylar’s use of Adam’s ability, whatever it might be. Mohinder’s ever-questioning nature, though it was not gentle, was Sylar’s prize. He would claim it along with Mohinder’s tender flesh, brown and smooth and salty.
It was the sound of heavy footsteps on the hall stairs that pulled Sylar from his fantasies. He shut the drawer, gathered the cup and the shirt (his prizes), and immediately went to the bedroom window. His memories proved true, as he was sure they always would, and without hesitation Sylar opened the window and climbed out onto the iron platform.
Matt could swear he heard ticking, even before he got his keys out of his pocket. He frowned, listening closely, but his neighbours’ thoughts were nothing out of the ordinary. He did not hear the lock click when he turned his key - it had been open. Matt kept one hand on his gun when he opened the door. Once inside the apartment, he knew something was different but couldn’t place it. His coffee cup (a favorite of Mohinder’s) was gone from the table. Mohinder’s office door was open wide, as was Molly’s, which was not uncommon but somehow made Matt feel completely vulnerable.
He moved to the bedroom first, the sounds of the street rising louder than they ought, and immediately rushed to the window, but there was no one ticking or clicking like watch-gears on the fire escape or the street below. Sylar was no longer there to see the cop shiver.
Home, or the hotel that passed for it, smelled wrong after Sylar’s visit to Mohinder’s apartment. Its cleanliness was offensive, its indistinctive scents agitating and dull. Maya, sweet, vulnerable thing that she was, had her back to him. It would be so easy to move in behind her, stand too close (just barely not touching) as he always had with his scientist, and snap her little neck. She would not have time to get upset, to make her eyes black, or to raise alarm. She would simply stop living, her head twisted round at some impossible angle, her eyes wide and her lips parted from the hitch in her breath caused by the surprise.
Painless, Maya’s death would be, because Sylar was a generous murderer and did not need his every kill to be vicious and impractical. He would sift through her skull after, and practice turning off and on her toxic tears, leaving their hotel an inky, tear-stained wasteland. He relished the thought, ticking away as he pressed himself against her back.
Sylar would kill them all, he decided while kissing the place where Maya’s neck met her shoulder. When they were all dead, and he had their abilities, Mohinder’s attention would belong entirely to him. There would be no one else to study, to analyze, or to compare. There would be nothing in the world but Sylar and his scientist. No matter how much Mohinder might grow to hate him for killing the weak and the powerful alike, Sylar trusted the hunger for knowledge that drove them both to keep Mohinder fascinated - snared on the only truly extraordinary person left. Later, when Maya shuddered and clenched around him, squeezing and breathless, Sylar thought of when he would be the Only One, and remembered Mohinder’s gasping sighs and trembling kisses. He tightened his grip on Maya’s hips, recalled the exact sensation of Mohinder’s lips on his jaw, and came.
He would have what belonged to him.
Crossposted to koala_motchi, heroes_slash, heroes_sylar, mylar_fic, and heroes_fic. Comments are always welcome and appreciated!