Title: And Punishment
Author: papierparachute
Pairing(s), Character(s): Zane!Sylar/Mohinder, past Gabriel/OMC
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Spoilers for 'Unexpected.' Spoilers for Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. General knowledge of what the book is about/that the main character's name is Raskolnikov is helpful. Sylar-centric. Unbeta'd. Also, this is my first fic ever.
Summary: Of the crimes committed by Gabriel Sylar, impersonating a dead musician was not one of the most impressive or substantial.
Disclaimer: It's Tim Kring's dollhouse; I'm just putting the action figures in compromising positions. I don't own Heroes (or Crime and Punishment, for that matter).
Word Count: 4652
The fluorescent light outside Sylar's motel room buzzed persistently and he itched to know how it would sound in the morning when Dale was dead and he had a new power. It would sound like a tempest, he thought. Like a hundred wailing sailors crashing against the deck of a sinking ship in the middle of a sea storm.
It would be lovely.
But that would wait at least a few hours. For now he lay on top of the grungy floral motel comforter, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the splotchy ceiling as he had been for the past forty-five minutes. The only word to describe his current state was, unfortunately, pondering. Sylar didn't ponder often. A man of action, he felt himself above simple rational thought. His actions, he believed, played themselves out so logically upon execution that premeditation was almost always unnecessary. He was beyond it. He didn't need to think; he understood.
Now, however, he found himself incapable of not thinking. In his frustration over this he had telekinetically torn apart the motel room: the chair back hung from the ceiling fan, the night stand drawers were now splinters pegged into the wall and the mirror was a pile of glass dust in the corner.
Over-thinking was bad enough, but the topic his mind had chosen to linger over was more confusing and enraging than anything.
Dr. Suresh was impossibly good-looking, yes, but it was the way he looked at Sylar when he had first melted the toaster back at Zane Taylor's apartment that was occupying Sylar's mind at the present. He had looked relieved, impressed, amused -- like a child witnessing a flower 'magically' pulled out of someone's sleeve. Immediately Sylar had wanted to impress the man even more, had to stop himself from telekinetically slamming him against the wall and freezing the tear of shock that might slide down his cheek just to see what his face would look like then.
But no, he was shy, unassuming Zane Taylor, and if he played the part well enough he might just end up with dozens more abilities to impress the doctor with later. It was thanks to his instant understanding, his acting without having to think that he had weaseled his way into Mohinder's quest, into his life, into his rental car.
And now he lay confined to his own obnoxious thoughts, thinking about Mohinder. But what about him, even? The doctor was a puzzle -- so morally rigid (narrow, Sylar thought dismissively) and yet there was a glint of something in his eyes, like the glare of sunlight through a window that obscures part of the television screen. He saw potential in Zane and for this (and the promise of the list) Sylar clung to him. But it was the glare -- of what Sylar didn't know -- that kept him at the front of Sylar's mind.
When he caught himself starting to fantasize about the curve of Mohinder's wrist as it disappeared under his coat sleeve, Sylar decided it was time to stop thinking. He jumped up and over the mess on the floor, opened the door and left his room. Outside it was completely still and again he wondered how different the world would sound once he had his enhanced hearing. Dry snow clung to the hoods of the cars in the lot. The dull flickering glow of a television blurred between the blinds of a window three doors down.
Sylar steadied himself and shrugged Zane back on.
As Zane he felt clammy and itchy and anxious, his skin a too-tight wool sweater bought at a thrift store that hadn't yet been washed. He supposed this awkwardness only added to Zane's bumbling demeanor and made him, Sylar presumed, more endearing and worthy of trust. But when Sylar spoke and he heard Zane's timid, wavering voice come out, he wanted to kill the pathetic musician all over again.
He turned to the door next to his and knocked.
After a minute the door opened to reveal Mohinder wearing a dull pink shirt, orange paisley boxers and the tightly wild-eyed half-dead look of someone who had been abruptly awoken from a deep sleep.
"Zane?" he said sleepily, then inhaled deeply through his nose and straightened. "What is it? Is it Sylar?"
Sylar felt the breath leak out of him though he hadn't exhaled. He propped himself up against the door frame and took in Mohinder's panicked, rumpled form.
I could keep you like that forever, Sylar thought.
"No, no, not Sylar," he smiled.
I could keep you like a pet and you would depend on me for everything until I was the only thing in your world.
"Just -- can I come in?"
Mohinder's face crumpled but he looked relieved.
"Of course, Zane. Come in."
Sylar looked around the room. Mohinder's laptop sat flashing its dizzying spiral screensaver on top of the wrinkled sheets.
"Fall asleep doing research?" Sylar asked.
Mohinder sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Must have. I was having the most bizarre dream -- "
"Mohinder," Sylar interrupted.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Mohinder gestured to the bed. Sylar sat. "What is it?"
Sylar didn't really know why he had knocked on Mohinder's door in the first place, except that he craved action as opposed to the torture of extended thought. He decided the default discussion of other special people would suffice as an excuse.
"I couldn't sleep. I was thinking -- what about the people who don't...appreciate their abilities? The people who don't want them?"
Mohinder sat down next to Sylar, now fully awake.
"Well, I suppose that's understandable to a point. You mentioned how scary it can be. I'm sure it can be isolating at times, can't it?"
Sylar stilled.
"You have no idea."
Mohinder put a hand on Sylar's shoulder and gave him an understanding smile. "Well, then that's part of the reason we have to reach them, to help them appreciate their abilities and use them for good, right?"
"No, you're right," Sylar bit his lip. "And we will; we'll find them."
"I hope you're right."
Then a thought occurred to Sylar, something from his past that had been plaguing him lately.
Sylar felt no guilt about the things he had done. He knew that it was simply the current politically correct mindset to think that everyone deserved to live and deserved the good things that came to them. But since he had met Mohinder he wondered about his stance on the topic, and if he shared any philosophies with Sylar or if he would spew out the same boring, acceptable lines that everyone else would.
"Do you believe that guilt is sufficient punishment for people who've done...wrong?" Sylar asked.
Mohinder didn't seem phased by the turn of topic.
"Wrong?" Mohinder frowned. "Well, I suppose that depends on how wrong the action is. If you, say, broke your mother's favorite glass, I think feeling bad about it might be enough to make you more careful. But if we're talking murder or something," Mohinder breathed, "well, then you should have thought of guilt beforehand."
Sylar was silent.
"Not you, of course, Zane," Mohinder laughed. "I mean, well -- you know what I mean."
Sylar forced a laugh.
"Why? Have you done something bad, Zane?" Mohinder asked playfully.
Sylar smiled. "Oh, no. Not by my standards."
Mohinder looked slightly perplexed. "But, I suppose..."
"What?" Sylar asked, anxious.
"Nothing, never mind," Mohinder smiled.
Then Sylar saw that impossible glare in Mohinder's eyes.
Without thinking he grabbed Mohinder's sleeve and pulled him close to crash their lips together.
Sylar didn't know why he was kissing the man except that he wanted to push his buttons, experiment with him as much as possible, and since he couldn't use all but one (probably the least helpful in this case) of his abilities, he had to resort to more conventional methods of interaction. But once he pressed his lips to Mohinder's, a hot rope of want tautened in his stomach and he hastily pushed his tongue past Mohinder's lips.
When Mohinder didn't respond, Sylar let out a shuddery breath into Mohinder's mouth. Mohinder gently pulled his face back.
"Zane," he said softly, "I really appreciate you coming out here with me, and I like you very much but -- "
Sylar felt his mind bubble. His skin was suddenly too thin, like paper. His limbs felt disjointed; the sheath of Zane was suffocating him. He was unraveling. He had read Mohinder wrong. He should stick to watches -- people were not predictable enough to interpret. He itched to throw Mohinder to the floor, to telekinetically dig into his chest, piercing just above the heart, until he couldn't say no.
Sylar lifted his chin.
He still had the upper hand, he assured himself. Mohinder was just toying with him, trying to play innocent. The good doctor must be in serious denial to be talking like this.
Just give in.
Sylar would have him either way, and while the game probably made Mohinder feel more noble or less of a slut or whatever it was that was so important to him, Sylar's pants were becoming uncomfortably tight and his lack of control over his body was extremely irritating and he had to do something.
Sylar was not unfamiliar with overwhelming feelings.
For so much of his life he had restricted his feelings to base, to carefully designated columns that could be defined outside of emotion: sad was cold, happy was warm, angry was hot, numb was beyond freezing. And now he felt hot all over, but he wasn't angry -- was he angry? He couldn't tell. The way Mohinder held his gaze, heavy and lingering and completely contrasting his previous statement, dark hooded eyelids on which sin was undoubtedly written in some sort of invisible ink that made Sylar's limbs feel useless and his head feel filled with lead, filled with want.
This was not new.
Sylar would wake up some nights feeling this way, this want, half awake, with no particular face in mind, and he would pull at himself, as hard and as quickly as he could. He would wake the next morning buzzing and full, and would tell himself these were the distant, distinctly human dreams of a would-be god who did not indulge in such surface concerns.
He would tell himself this until the next night, when he might wake again in the same situation only more present, his mind more in tune with the molten weight in the pit of his stomach, his thoughts entwined again with some faceless body, intangible as smoke in his mind, and the heat in his stomach would lengthen until it filled his cock and could no longer be ignored.
It was purely biological, he would tell himself at those times, and the only way to rid himself of the thoughts was to rid his body of the physical manifestation of them. And so again he would pull at himself, thinking of no one, of nothing but his own skin and his own mind and the impenetrable power his skin and mind would some day house.
Once, though, long ago, lust had taken on a face: James Fisher, a one-time customer of his father's.
James had come in to the shop to have his watch fixed and decided to stay and talk to Gabriel, who was doing his English homework at the table in the back room, while he waited. James was a Comparative Literature student at NYU, he told Gabriel as he picked up Gabriel's copy of Crime and Punishment.
"This is my favorite book," James said.
Gabriel had watched his blue eyes light up as he ran his thumb across the edges of the pages, then bent back the binding.
"Actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions -- it's like a dream," James read aloud, looking up at Gabriel and smiling.
"I'm not really that into it," Gabriel replied, returning his attention to his essay.
In reality he had read the book twice before it was assigned in class. He had copied the very line James had read aloud and others in the margins of his notebooks, inked them onto his forearms before he covered them with his sweater sleeves, scrawled them on the underside of his night table.
When his classmates discussed Raskolnikov's character with disgust and tossed out the possibility of any true redemption, Gabriel kept quiet. Not that he expected his peers to feel the way he did -- that maybe Raskolnikov had it right, maybe the elimination of the undeserving by the superior was simply evolution. In Gabriel's eyes, Raskolnikov was neither good nor evil; he simply processed things differently - perhaps more logically, Gabriel thought.
James had leaned toward Gabriel, resting his elbows on the table. He grinned slyly, conspiratorially, and raised his eyebrows playfully.
"Between you and me, I always thought Raskolnikov was kind of a genius. Sometimes I think the world would be a better place if we just whacked off all the idiots, the ungrateful, the nobodies," James winked.
Gabriel stared.
That night as Gabriel hastily jerked his pajama pants down to his knees beneath his sheets, preparing his mind to be a blank expanse as he spat into his palm, James' face appeared behind his eyelids. Gabriel opened his eyes and stared at his bedroom wall, trying to empty his mind, to push James' dark curls and bright blue eyes out of his thoughts, but they hovered there as clear as if James lay next to him.
Gabriel closed his eyes and realized he was powerless against the image of James, running a hand over Gabriel's chest, raking his nails over Gabriel's thigh. Gabriel never touched himself when he masturbated, not any more than was necessary to get the desire out of his mind, but it was as if his hands were acting of their own accord.
"Raskolnikov," Gabriel whispered to himself, and he heard James' voice say it in his ear, deep and rough like a secret.
"Raskolnikov, you're beautiful."
When James came back the next day to pick up his watch, Gabriel found him at the front of the store and sat next to him, too close.
"Do you really think that?" Gabriel asked hurriedly, picking up where their conversation had left the day before, "Do you really think Raskolnikov had it right? Because that's what I think, too. When we talk about it in class people call him a monster and dismiss him as insane, but I don't think he's insane, James. I think there are some people whose minds and bodies just work...better, I guess."
James stared at him. "Absolutely," he said slowly, "That's simple evolution."
"Is that what it is? Do you think so? That some people's minds just know things others don't? Because sometimes I -- "
"What, Gabriel?"
Gabriel looked away. Could he tell James? Would he understand that Gabriel could look at something -- a watch, a machine -- and know how it worked? That he could do it with people too, sometimes, and that right now he knew -- just knew -- that James was thinking he was possibly crazy but also possibly right, and there was something else there too -- Gabriel swallowed -- attraction?
"Do you think I'm -- I could be -- like that?" Gabriel asked tentatively.
"Like what, Gabriel? Evolved? Superior? Special?"
Gabriel could read James' expression and knew his answer.
"I think -- "
But before James could finish, Gabriel grabbed the back of James' neck and pushed his lips hard into James', awkwardly licking James' lower lip and grunting.
James quickly put his hands on Gabriel's shoulders and pushed him back.
"Whoa, Gabriel," James breathed, "I like you, but -- not like -- that."
"What? You're lying." Gabriel said, slightly hysterical. Hadn't he read it in James' face?
James scoffed. His face was bright pink and he wouldn't meet Gabriel's eyes. "I'm not lying. Dude, I'm not gay."
Gabriel felt a flush creep up his neck and wash over his face. He wanted to kill James. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die. He looked down.
"Your watch should be ready," he mumbled.
"Gabriel, come on -- "
"Get your watch."
"Fine. See you," James tossed Crime and Punishment on to the desk and threw up his hands.
Maybe Gabriel had read him wrong. Maybe he didn't have the intuition or the ability to read things or whatever it was that he thought made him special. Maybe he just wasn't.
&&&
Now, staring at Mohinder, that undeniable heat swelled up again inside Sylar. This time, though, the first time since James, there was a face attached to it. This time he couldn't simply slide his palm against himself and try to keep his mind blank. His mind was anything but blank: it was brimming with low accented tones he imagined speaking filth in his ear and a russet sheen on a dark collarbone that curved beneath a pink t-shirt. He inhaled the sweet scent of sweat and tea and fabric softener as he imagined feeling throbbing veins waver beneath dark skin. The colors and scents assaulted him suddenly and he turned his head to keep his face from betraying any sense of desire.
This combined with the full, sensual glare Mohinder was currently giving him was blurring over his mind. It was extremely unnerving, and yet he had to admit that his claim on Mohinder would probably be more pleasant for all involved parties if Mohinder wasn't opposed to it, yelling or trying to bite him.
Sylar was a sadist, no doubt: he enjoyed watching the eyebrows that twisted in horror as they were separated from their forehead, the thick dark trickles that slid easily down the faces of the undeserving and the high, terrorized screams that rang sickly sweet like the smell of garbage.
But he had a feeling that sex wasn't quite the same as murder.
As much as he would like to make Mohinder scream, watch him writhe in agony for being such a teasing prick, he would, unfortunately, rather experiment with this lowly human desire, this lust that had so recently found in Mohinder a human vessel to occupy. Surely the gods sporadically indulged in mortal pleasures as well, Sylar thought distantly as he watched a bead of sweat swell and roll down the side of Mohinder's face. Quite suddenly the urge to tongue that flesh, to taste salt on skin battled his desire to ram the man up against a wall and make him bleed.
Today he would try something new.
Mohinder's eyes flicked back to Sylar. There it was again: the glint, the shine, the hint of something beyond his surface denial of interest, his surface portrayal of the moral doctor with only the best intentions. All his life Sylar had only known people who were normal or worse. Petty, insignificant people with only surface concerns and no thoughts past what was plainly in front of them. James hadn't thought in the obvious linear way most people did, and as far as he could tell, neither did Mohinder.
Sylar's breathing calmed. He wasn't wrong. He was positive Mohinder wanted him.
I could take you with me, he thought.
"I see myself in you, Mohinder," Sylar said, and as he spoke he realized it was true. There was potential there, Sylar thought. A strong, stubborn mind, a desire for acknowledgment, a hunger for appreciation. "We're not so different."
"I didn't say we were, Zane."
"Then -- "
"Zane," Mohinder breathed, less annoyed than apologetic, "I don't want anything to interfere with my work. This has the potential to be extremely important and I just feel -- " he bit his lip, "I just feel like we should be as professional as possible."
Sylar leaned closer.
"Also," Mohinder said sheepishly, bringing two fingers to his bottom lip, "we just met." He sighed, pressing a fist to his forehead.
Sylar smiled. He ached to break Mohinder, to tear him out of the well-constructed packaging that Sylar was sure was only a small part of him. What was Mohinder's breaking point? What did Sylar have to say to tip him over the edge?
"I'm sorry," Sylar sighed, letting Zane's shyness work for him, "I just feel...a connection with you. You're amazing. I can just tell, you're going to save the world, Mohi -- "
Then Mohinder was on him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and leaning him back to pin him to the bed, Mohinder's mouth hot and wet against his neck.
Sylar let Mohinder kiss him, smiling into his mouth.
He wasn't wrong.
Another flood of desire roared through Sylar, cluttering his brain. He tore at Mohinder's back with his fingernails, throwing his head back against the pillow to let Mohinder bite at his clavicle.
"D-do you have a condom?" Sylar stuttered.
Mohinder pulled back, looking surprised. "Um, no."
"Okay," he said, slightly disappointed but also silently thankful that neither of them had been presumptuous enough to plan ahead. This way he didn't have to pretend to know what he was doing.
Relieved of the pressure of divvying up positions and the possibly awkward necessities of lubrication and preparation, Sylar felt more confident and so grabbed Mohinder by the hips and flipped him over so he straddled his legs. Sylar pulled back and sat up, running his hands down Mohinder's chest. Surveying the sight before him, Sylar was pleased: Mohinder's heaving chest and pleading look were flattering and the way his neck curved exposing the soft pulsing of his throat made him look so vulnerable, so innocent, so trusting.
Sylar knew he could change all that with the bend of a finger.
This rush of power gave him a fresh wind of desire, and he thumbed the waistband of Mohinder's boxers as he sucked his earlobe between his teeth. Keeping his eyes locked on Mohinder's, Sylar unceremoniously pulled off Mohinder's boxers and grabbed him, stroking roughly. Mohinder's mouth opened, lips trembling, and Sylar watched, transfixed, as he let out a shuddery moan. Sylar observed intently, still stroking him evenly as Mohinder's fingertips dug into the sheets, as his left knee tensed and bent, as his chest rose and his breath hitched. Every movement was more revealing than a thousand conversations, Sylar thought. Each moan, each tiny pinprick of sweat that rolled down Mohinder's face past his swollen lips Sylar longed to taste, hoping an answer lived inside.
Then Mohinder was reaching for Sylar's own zipper and Sylar almost pushed him away, wanting to keep his focus on the other man, but when Mohinder's fingers brushed his clothed erection his mind changed of its own accord. His eyes felt aflame beneath their lids, his hands shaking but powerful as they touched Mohinder over and over. Once again his skin felt too hot, too tight, but it wasn't the same as feeling trapped within the façade of Zane. It was more like being trapped inside his own skin, but with Mohinder there with him.
Then Mohinder's whole body tensed and Sylar leaned closer, holding his breath in anticipation of what movements, what sounds the man would make next. Mohinder inhaled sharply, then groaned as he came and Sylar groaned with him, entranced by the way everything from Mohinder's elbows to his cheekbones seemed to glow with intensity.
As his breathing slowed, Mohinder resumed touching the other man. Sylar hardly noticed the buildup of his own orgasm, he was so intently focused on Mohinder's face, the way his lip curled and his tongue darted out to wet his lips in concentration. Sylar forced himself to keep his eyes open as he came, calling out to Mohinder loudly and watching his eyes flicker proudly at the effect he had on Sylar.
Sylar collapsed next to Mohinder, pulling the sheet up over his waist, suddenly feeling modest. Mohinder rested his hand on Sylar's chest, and they lay quiet as their breathing calmed.
"I meant it, Mohinder," Sylar said after a few minutes, tracing circles on Mohinder's forearm, imagining the look on Mohinder's face if he were to add a touch of telekinetic slicing to the movements. "We're so similar. I see myself in you."
"I'm beginning to think you only mean that literally, Zane," Mohinder laughed, bringing one of Sylar's fingertips to his lips.
You'll see.
"You'll see," Sylar whispered, and out of Mohinder's eye line his mouth curled and his eyes darkened in a way that would have knocked the giggle right out of Mohinder.
&&&
He waited until Mohinder's eyelids stopped fluttering and his breathing steadied in the slow rhythm of sleep before pulling the sheet up to Mohinder's chin, opening the door quietly and stepping outside into the stiff air to find the mechanic.
Sylar had watched Mohinder sleep, had seen him naked, had witnessed his orgasm. He thought that would have solved the mystery that was Mohinder enough to get him out of his mind, out of his system. But it had only made him need more, made his skin crawl with want for the man, and not just physical or sexual. He wanted to see inside Mohinder's head, crack it open if need be. He had never been so inexplicably drawn to another person and he knew that when Mohinder finally discovered who he was, that still wouldn't change.
This might cause them some problems in the future, he thought, smiling.
I could break you open and figure you out, Sylar thought.
But he knew it probably wasn't true.
&&&
The next morning, after Mohinder had emptied his stomach outside Dale's garage and Sylar had almost sliced his throat right there for being so unnecessarily loud, they steadied their jittery limbs long enough to climb into the car and head back home.
Sylar knew it would only be a number of days -- if he was lucky -- until Mohinder discovered that Zane Taylor was nothing more than a corpse rotting away in an apartment covered in pools of metal. He would probably have to kill Mohinder then, depending on the circumstances.
Or maybe he would finally find out what the glare in Mohinder's eyes was. Maybe it would be something...useful. Maybe he and Mohinder would continue their hunt, open-eyed and purposeful. Maybe he would let Sylar fix him.
He knew it was wishful thinking. He knew that because of his choices, Mohinder could never see Sylar the way Sylar wished he could. This was his punishment.
Sylar looked out the passenger's seat window as they drove off, his head throbbing, his mind humming with new sounds. The sounds had a feel to them now. As he watched Mohinder drive he could feel Mohinder's heart thrumming wildly, so fearful. The pulsing veins in his neck, branching down his arms and under his palms shook the air around them, vibrating in a way that was at once upsetting and reassuring to Sylar: Mohinder was not, after all, in the same game as him. He was still shaken by these sorts of things.
Death, destruction, competition; perhaps he could never understand them the way Sylar did. Perhaps that was how it should be.
Sylar felt the sounds of the road as they drove, of the trees and cars and people in gas stations as they passed. Everything so alive, so temporary. Out the window, the mountains stood brazen against the sky, clear except for two twin gray clouds that formed a mask over the fuzzy white sun, obscuring it for a moment, then sliding away with the wind.