Fic: The Hard Choices

[entangled_now]

Title: The Hard Choices
Author: Corona
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sylar/Audrey
Spoilers/Warnings (if any): Post-series future fic
Prompts: Established relationship, honesty, murder
Summary: How far had you fallen when you were dumping a serial killer's bodies for them
AN: Written for the
rare_heroes fic exchange and now not just secretly mine anymore.

It was only half seven in the morning and already too hot, even hotter leant against the car. Audrey had not long finished the coke she'd bought and the aftertaste in her mouth was too sweet, setting her teeth on edge and making her tongue feel sickly.

It was a crappy start to the morning

"Are you coming or not?" Her voice sounded impatient, unfriendly, it rarely sounded anything else these days. There were long, slow footsteps on gravel and Sylar stepped out from the shade squinting and unhappy.

"What if I choose not?" He sounded quietly petulant and god of all the people to remind her at sharp inappropriate moments of a frustrated, angry child.

"Get in the car," he raised an eyebrow at her tone of voice but grasped the handle and pulled the passenger door open.

They went through this every damn day.

The car was too hot and too dry, an airless metal coffin that she'd already spent far too much time in, and it didn't get any better, even with all the windows open. She really wanted to know what sort of idiot decided leather seats would be a good idea. Before the invention of air conditioning no less and her jacket was too hot and too tight but she just knew the sensation of a damp shirt against leather for god knew how many miles would just drive her insane, again.

She laid her hand on the steering wheel and instantly regretted it.

"I could drive if you like?" The steering wheel turned to the right under a gesture, Audrey caught it and twisted it back.

"I drive, no matter how many times I say that it never gets through to you." She didn't relax her hands until she was certain he wasn't going to screw with it anymore.

Which he was clearly aware of, she could tell by the soft, breathless, laugh.

"Seatbelt," she snapped and Sylar pointedly made no move to comply. "Fine don't wear your seatbelt, just don't expect me not to laugh my ass off when you go face first through the windshield." Even the damn keys were too hot, and she could already tell this morning was going to be all about finding things to complain about.

She was starting to think it was a form of self-defence.

The sun was too bright and Sylar was going to spend the whole morning squinting furiously in the passenger seat. When he finally started complaining too she'd probably rethink the whole 'seatbelt' thing.

She might even indulge in some hard breaking just for the fucking hell of it.

The manager was already wandering back and forth across the gravel, seeing how many people he could throw out before nine.

Sylar was watching him in a way that was just too intent to be curiosity.

"I didn't break you out so you could go on a killing spree in every fucking town." She reminded him, threw her sunglasses over her eyes.

"But you knew that I would," Sylar said quietly. "You knew I wouldn't be able to resist."

"Because you lack self-control, or a conscience." Audrey pointed out, but Sylar seemed to find this more amusing than threatening.

"You broke me out because Peter went mad and turned into-." He raised both eyebrows, mouth deciding if it wanted to shift into a smile. "Some bastard god of chaos, can he really control the weather now?"

Audrey clenched her teeth together, she didn't have to say anything because they both know damn well the list of things Peter couldn't do was growing shorter all the time.

"Interesting." He said simply, in exactly the same tone of voice he used for everything else.

But he wanted it, he always wanted it. More colours to add to his palette, every single curiosity was another vibrant shade.

"It's a mess of his own making, piling one ability on top of another with no control...no pressure valve-" Sylar paused slanted his head to look at her in a way that was intent and serious. "He knows what murder tastes like now, and you thought I was challenging."

"You wanna know what my gun tastes like?" His head rolled towards her on the headrest.

"Do you want me to?" There was an amused curiosity under the words. "What sort of people are they accepting into the police force now?"

She ignored him, which made his half grin slide into something harder, something more like a scowl.

"I'm not a trained dog on a leash," his voice was tighter now.

"No you're closer to a wild animal that should be put down." She kept her eyes on the road, unwilling to give him the satisfaction that her attention would bring.

"That's unkind."

"You don't deserve kind," she said flatly.

"No, I don't but you need me anyway."

"Now the world's gone all to shit," she pointed out, which she meant to make a point.

"Something I can't be blamed for," Sylar said, tipped his head back on the rest. "Much as you'd like to."

"I can blame you for Michael O'Brien," she said tightly. "What did you get off of him?"

"If you're nice to me I might show you," he told her.

"Well that'll be a nice party in a frozen hell," she said simply and Sylar laughed, rolled his head back to look out of the window.

Audrey remembered the crooked sprawl she'd found the restaurant owner in, head carved open in one ragged slice, carved open and empty.

She was the one who'd gotten him off the floor and into the trunk. She was the one who'd had blood under her nails for days, who'd had to make sure they didn't leave a trail of god damn corpses all the way across the country like gruesome breadcrumbs.

The sort that were easy to follow, she knew that much, she'd followed the same breadcrumbs more than once. Police instincts were like bloodstains, they didn't wash out and they didn't fade.

How far had you fallen when you were dumping a serial killer's bodies for them. Fuck the bigger picture that was too far, you didn't get to scrub clean after that.

Audrey was almost certain she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere and already ended up in hell. She had the company all sewn up after all.

"Of course it might prove interesting next time I meet Peter,"

"Are you still talking?" Audrey said quietly.

Sylar ignored her.

"Of course he knows what I'm thinking, It's an unfair advantage." Sylar's head tilted towards her.

"If I had Parkman-"

"Not gonna happen," Audrey said tightly. "And I'll put a bullet through your head if you even try."

"I don't like to see talent wasted," he sounded honest, and maybe in his screwed up little world he really thought these genetic quirks were being pissed away without his attention.

"I'd like to see you wasted," Audrey said. "Leave Parkman alone."

"You really are quite attached to nice officer Parkman aren't you?"

"You really weren't spanked enough as a child were you?" He scowled, and the corner of his mouth twitched into something less happy. She'd hit a nerve, a bright one, raw and vulnerable. But it was too hot to risk the flash of angry petulance that hid behind all that control.

That control that was half a lie anyway.

Still it shut him up, left him glaring out of the window, probably dreaming of murder.

They passed another sign, half obscured by dust and smears of crap. She didn't bother to even try and read it. She knew what it would say.

Welcome to 'Random Town in the middle of fucking nowhere, population 300' and all from the same damn family tree.

She stopped for gas at just gone noon and Sylar still wasn't talking to her. Didn't talk to her while she filled up the car and made a point of glaring out in the direction they'd come.

It was only when she dipped back inside to collect enough money to pay that Sylar spoke again.

"I want an ice cream," he said, petulant and angry and a flavour of random Audrey thought that maybe she was almost used to.

"I want a house in the suburbs, life is full of these little disappointments." She slammed the car door harder than necessary and everything looked hopelessly dry and dull through her sunglasses.

She would have been more comfortable leaving them on. Neither of them were exactly average, easy to spot, easy to identify.

But she left them in the car, left them dangling on the wheel.

A reminder that she'd be back.

She'd parked as far away as possible and she could feel Sylar watching her all the way out of sight.

When she got back to the car Sylar was wearing her sunglasses...and he looked stupid. She tugged them off the end of his nose pointedly and he made a long throaty noise of complaint.

It stopped when she dumped the ice cream in his lap, and he didn't say a word when she slid back in.

She drove a mile down the road before stopping and tugging open the map she'd bought.

He made ridiculously obscene noises round bastardised milk products while she glared at it, thumb and forefinger rubbing at the bridge of her nose.

She couldn't for the life of her remember the way to go. She could barely remember the way they'd come and every single road in this part of the country looked exactly the same.

To her anyway, probably not to Sylar, who remembered everything, every damn road sign, every map route, every stupid thing she'd ever said that she shouldn't have done.

She wondered which one of his victims he got that from, who had to die so he could have a head full of useless crap that he'd never forget. She didn't have the energy to work out how the map folded, she made her own creases and tossed it over into the passenger side. Sylar picked it up with two fingers, threw it on the dashboard.

He didn't make a sound at her sudden, loud, expression of frustration. Even though it was a perfect excuse to bait her into tight, restless fury. Because god he never got tired of that. She should be used to it by now anyway, she thought she was already used to everything else. Resigned to everything else. Sylar was the only one who could still leave her seething and murderous.

She'd had her mind read, she'd seen a woman punch through a wall, she'd seen a man turned into glass and shattered. Audrey wasn't sure she was capable of being surprised anymore, it had all just been burned out of her.

She sighed, dragged the map back off of the dashboard and threw it at Sylar, it opened like a concertina in his lap, all twice folded creases and torn corners.

"Ok, I give in, which way?"

"Turn right," Sylar said without looking, he made the map fold on its own in a series of twisting movements.

"Could you at least pretend to look, like a normal person."

"I'm not a normal person," he said quietly. Put the neatly folded map back where it came from.

***

It was another crappy motel in a long line of crappy motels, and as usual Sylar managed to express his distaste with a few pointed glances and a shift of his eyebrows.

Audrey was less contained, she described the room's lack of taste in hideous detail, then sat on the bed anyway because if, at this point, bad hygiene killed her it would be a beautifully fucked up irony.

She pulled her jacket off, tossed it behind her before pulling hands through her hair. It fell back limp and disarranged and she glared while Sylar investigated the bathroom, the floor, the view out of the window.

His personal little ritual that she just didn't have the energy to poke at.

Instead she got up and drew the curtains, blocking out the light and heat, blocking out the world. Only then did she step into touching distance, glaring up at Sylar like everything was his fault, all accusation and frustration.

"Do I disgust you less in the dark?" he asked curiously. "Does it help?"

"Shut up," Audrey said tightly, undoing her holster and pulling it off. Not that the possession of a gun would make any difference at all to how dangerous Sylar was, to how much of a threat he posed, to her, to everyone.

He was laughing again, a curl of white teeth and amusement in the new darkness.

"Or is it so you can pretend I'm someone else?"

"Shut up, god, shut up," she said harshly, threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him down, and he let her, between smile and laughter.

She pulled him low enough to kiss, hand gone tight where it was buried, and his mouth was warm and heavy, and it didn't hesitate at all. He pushed before she did, but she pushed back harder. It was both theft and punishment, though whether Sylar knew or cared she couldn't say.

When he pulled away she didn't stop him.

"You like to be in charge don't you," Sylar's thumb shifted back and forth over the edge of her jaw, but his other hand wasn't half as chaste, dragging the button of her slacks open, tugging material out of the way and sliding inside.

He didn't ask permission just pushed all the way down hot and awkward, and something was going to rip. She wrapped her hand round his wrist and pushed anyway, watched his eyes drop half closed.

"You like to profess distance but you're just as greedy as everyone else, just as easy to push," he said softly. She dug her nails into the back of his hand hard enough to draw blood. It made him rougher, made him careless. Left her glaring through her teeth and pretending she didn't like it. Pretending even when Sylar could hear her heart slamming against the inside of her ribcage, could hear every rough desperate inhale.

"Tell me you want it," he said, voice soft and still far too amused.

"Fuck you," she managed.

He breathed laughter into her hair and his hand shifted deeper, she was expecting it but still wasn't ready for the quick push of fingers into her.

She made a noise, hard and breathless that was nothing less than startled angry encouragement, pushed down on his wrist again.

He swallowed her next curse, took a step forward, thigh crushed against the back of his own arm.

Until she was pressed back against the wall, he held her there and she braced herself against him, thighs parting under every push and his other hand was sliding into the waist of her pants, pulling gently.

"No," she said tightly against his mouth, but his hands never stopped pushing the material. When it rounded the curve of her hips there was nothing left to cling to and it shifted down her thighs, fell away.

"You always say no," Sylar said quietly. "And then you let me fuck you anyway."

She twisted sharply away from the hand smoothing through her hair.

"You like the fight, you like it because it's as honest as we get." His thumb ran a path down the curve of her cheek, down her throat, over the chain of her necklace.

"Say yes for a change." The buttons of her shirt were dragged open one by one, until it fell open and hung loose against her own arms.

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction," she said roughly and he was laughing again, free hand sliding up her thigh, tight and smooth and indulgently slow.

"Oh you're so very wrong." She wanted to smack him, wanted to leave him bleeding through his teeth, wanted to break that smugly certain little smile.

But she was already dragging the button and zip on his pants open in reluctant jerky movements, knuckles sliding against the hard weight of him.

She was less careful dragging material down, less careful when she pulled his shirt up out of the way.

The moment she lifted her head he kissed her again, hand in her hair, pulling her mouth up to meet his.

When she was caught, when she was in far too deep to stop, it dropped back down, both hands wrapped round her thighs and he lifted her. No telekinesis just brute force and the back of her shirt was suddenly crushed against the wall, flat and damp against the cold, hard plaster.

When he pressed in again he was bare against the damp material between her thighs. Pressed in hard, all push and intent that she wasn't going to refuse, for all her morals- for all her promises.

One hand wrapped round the side of her underwear.

"Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare," she told him through her teeth.

It tore in one sharp, loud movement.

"You fucking-" and then there were hard laughing teeth under her own mouth, large hands tilting her hips, dragging her down the wall

He pushed in, all the way in one long slide, slow enough to turn all her angry curses into one long helpless noise, too thick to hold back, and she sounded fucking needy.

"You bastard," she had her hands buried in his hair, on clutched hard round the back of his neck, and she pulled him in close without a second thought. Nails in bare skin and it was more demand than she wanted. It made him groan in his throat and shift back, then push in harder than before.

He was always just as rough as she wanted, never any more, and she fucking hated him for it.

"You can do better," she snarled into the hot shift of his cheek.

"I could," the push that followed the word was rough, and it broke her exhale into pieces. "But you wouldn't like it."

"Maybe I would," she said fiercely, and she pulled on his hair until she could look at him, mouth open and shiny wet, eyes dark and huge. "Maybe I would."

He laughed, rough and breathless and it was both amusement and dare.

They had no choice but to kiss that close, messy and wet and every thrust jarred their mouth apart again.

Sylar was using both hands to brace her against the wall and he shouldn't have been able to touch her, shouldn't but fucking was. She was caught at waist and back, dragged down into him, and every long slide of his hips nudged her thighs open just a little wider.

Just enough, god just enough that the next touch was lower, deeper, both too real and not real at all, and she couldn't help the way she tightened round him. He was rough then, rough and greedy and she didn't care because she was too busy groaning, too busy tugging on his hair in sharp reckless pulls while the world and every screwed up thing in it ceased to matter.

She pulled him with her, pulled hard and there was a short broken moment where he was as close to having no control as he ever was, groaned into her mouth, and he always sounded so damn surprised.

His head fell out of her hold and his face tipped into her neck, teeth and breath both heavy and hard against her throat.

She was breathing into his hair, unsteady and dizzy with after-shivers of fading pleasure and so fucking angry with herself. She'd have bruises tomorrow, not all from real hands.

Sylar's fingers were now trailing through her hair.

"Let me go," she said flatly, once she was sure she could talk without panting, and there was a laugh against the plane of her cheek, scrape of rough skin, and Sylar's hands relaxed on her thighs, let her slide back to her feet.

She stood in the ruin on her clothes, tired and aching and every inch of skin smelling like him.

"I hate you," she said simply.

Sylar moved when she shoved him with a hand, then swayed back to lean against the wall in a way that was lazy and far too smug.

"Of course you do."

She slammed the bathroom door behind her.