Part 4/7 of my Silence of the Lambs Crossover
Title: Choices and Time Part 4/7
Author: Megmatthews20
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Nathan, mentions of others
Rating: NC-17-ish for creepy factor, and some vague non-con-ishness...
Word Count: 5555 (I may have added two words to get that exact number :p)
Spoilers: Nope! AU!
Warnings: Creepy serial killer, attack with a weapon, threats of death, this chapter has a creepy shower scene, and shaving with a straight-razor
Summary: Sylar laughs, a genuine laugh, and for a moment, a single moment, Mohinder feels a strange sort of levity, a hint of possibility that he might live, that if he can keep Sylar like this...content, then maybe...
A/N: Written cuz I <3 WS75, if it wasn't obvious...For the prompt "I Don't Deserve This" on piping_hot's challenge table...Chapter one is here Chapter two is here Chapter three is here....sooo many thanks for the awesome comments on the first three chapters! They have honestly made this one of my best writing experiences for me so far, and I'm incredibly thankful to all of you who've commented! Dedicated to Carmexgirl, who betas this, and pwns my soul! And to everyone who is enjoying it so far. I hope you continue to do so! Typos are mine. (Please point out errors)
Light enters the room, causing Mohinder to groan and attempt to cover his eyes. He feels something soft land on his stomach, a small paper bag.
He is suddenly aware of a tall figure walking toward him, setting a bottle and a small bucket down on the night-stand beside the bed. Blinking, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Mohinder stares at the bucket, his mind fighting to figure out what possible use it could have, when...
“You’ll be staying in bed today,” Sylar explains, “water, food, and toilet.” Sylar indicates the water bottle, the bag on Mohinder’s stomach, and the bucket.
Mohinder starts to reply, to protest, then he remembers the alternative, and his mouth snaps shut.
“I thought you’d be accommodating,” Sylar grins.
“This is by far the best alternative,” Mohinder nods.
“Right. I can’t think of anything else you’d need...”
“Care to unlock this chain?” Mohinder asks, vaguely moving his right arm so that the chain clanks against the bed. “It’s kind of hard to escape with all this metal attached to my arm...and I’m not really big on the idea of gnawing my wrist off.”
Sylar laughs, a genuine laugh, and for a moment, a single moment, Mohinder feels a strange sort of levity, a hint of possibility that he might live, that if he can keep Sylar like this...content, then maybe...
Then Sylar is sitting on the bed, and his right hand is moving through Mohinder’s hair, gentle, caressing. Mohinder clenches his jaw as he attempts not to pull away, remembering who it is he’s really dealing with.
“Drink all that water,” Sylar orders, “you lost some blood, you need to replenish.”
“That would imply I was going to live long enough to-”
“Drink,” Sylar growls, gripping a handful of Mohinder’s curls near the back of his head, leaning toward him. Sylar brings his lips to within millimeters of Mohinder’s, “and if every last drop of water isn’t gone from that bottle by the time I get home, then you’re going to need a lot more than one bottle of water to replenish what you’ve lost. Understand?”
“Yes,” Mohinder whispers, scarcely daring to breathe as the abrupt change in Sylar’s tone startles him.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Sylar says, his face breaking into a grin again as he lets Mohinder go.
Mohinder feels a headache coming on. He’s never going anywhere. He’s going to die here. In three days, he’ll lie bleeding out on this floor, like a gaping fish, caught, and hooked and gutted, and...no...
No!
There’s still time. There’s always time.
Sylar casts one more glance at Mohinder before he closes the door behind him, leaving the light on in the room.
At least there’s that.
Mohinder eyes the water bottle beside the bed. It does look rather inviting.
XXXX
“Hey Gabe...Gabe...Gabriel!”
Sylar blinks, startled from his thoughts as he looks up to see Nathan snapping his fingers in front of Sylar’s nose, “what? What do you want, Nathan?”
“I did some checking up on Mohinder. I’m afraid Maya might be right. I went to his house, with the key she gave me. There’s no sign of a struggle or anything, but he’s not there, and he left everything. I checked with the university. He didn’t show up yesterday or this morning, and he left no note about where he’d be.” Nathan’s brow is furrowed, his lips a thin and worried line.
“Could he have run off with a woman? Weekend fling that turned into a little something more?” Sylar asks casually.
“No...no I’ve known him for about twelve years. He would never do something like this. Teach his class with a severe hangover, yes...but this...”
Sylar finds himself seething, a flare of jealousy bunching his stomach, making him grip his hand tighter over the wrapped item hidden on his lap. Nathan’s known Mohinder for so long...
But not like Sylar’s known him. Not Mohinder’s true self. Nathan has known a shell of a man, but Sylar has uncovered Mohinder’s very core...the real human being beneath it all.
The one he’s going to destroy in three days time.
“So...thoughts?” Sylar asks.
Nathan is staring down at Sylar’s desk, tracing his hand in a seemingly random pattern over and over. Sylar stares at those fingers. Wonders if they ever ached to touch Mohinder, if they perhaps did on some occasion, some drunken frat night, barely remembered and never forgotten. Sylar catches himself frowning, a flare of jealousy jumping in his gut, which he quickly attempts to stifle. He knows Mohinder, knows him like Nathan never will. He can be content in that fact.
“I’m...I’m worried it’s something big. Shit, I’m actually thinking something crazy like what-I mean-what if it’s the Davis River Killer? What if he grabbed Mohinder off the street? Mohinder’s been known to take walks, sometimes...too late. I tell him it’s not safe, but he doesn’t listen. But if it is...I mean, how the hell do we track a killer?” Nathan asks, swallowing, crossing his arms anxiously.
“I’m sure he’s not in the hands of the Davis River Killer, Sylar says, leaning forward, giving Nathan his best, most sympathetic and calming smile. “Even if he is, we’re the best Nathan. We can find him.”
“Yeah, yeah I think you’re right. I’m going to do some inquiring around his neighborhood. See if anyone saw something strange, maybe Friday night, or Saturday...Maya said she tried calling Saturday morning...wanted to drag him out to the carnival or something...but he didn’t answer then. If he was...taken...I’m thinking it may have happened Friday evening or Saturday morning. He was teaching classes before that.”
“I can go with you,” Sylar says, “question around his neighborhood.”
“Okay. I’m gonna go check my messages, then I’ll be back. We can cover more area if we find a focal point and split off from there.”
“Exactly,” Sylar smiles, watching Nathan nod, watching him turn and leave Sylar’s office, his shoulders a little more hunched than usual, body language indicating his worry for his friend.
Sylar sits back in his chair, carefully unwrapping the tissue from around the small strand of hair he’d managed to pull from Mohinder’s head that morning. His fingers trail gently over the dark curl, his mind returning to that moment again and again, their faces so close. The change in Mohinder, calm, almost happy, then...fearful.
Sylar had enjoyed the happiness, the joking.
But he’d also enjoyed the way Mohinder tensed at the change, the way his whole body seemed to want to pull away from Sylar, the way his breathing sped up as Sylar leaned in close, so close...Mohinder’s warm breath against his mouth, against his lips. He could almost taste him still...
That kiss last night, that single delicious moment, made all too short in Mohinder’s panic.
And the fear, oh the fear in Mohinder’s eyes when Sylar sliced into his leg...when he touched that blade to those quivering lips.
Do you want to die.
Sylar knew the answer, which only made him enjoy the question all the more.
Mohinder doesn’t want to die.
And Sylar doesn’t want to think about just how much he’ll miss those wide, gorgeous eyes when he takes the blade to Mohinder’s throat on Friday night.
Carefully wrapping the strand of hair again, Sylar places it in his pocket, and gets up to follow Nathan.
XXXX
The moment is surreal, startling, and Mohinder actually shouts in surprise when he bumps the water bottle awkwardly while reaching for it with his left hand, and it falls off the night-stand, rolling away.
“No, no, shit,” he whimpers, watching it roll under the chair that Sylar usually sits in.
Mohinder slides down to the floor, soon feeling the tug of the chain, restricting his motion. The bottle is resting against the back leg of the chair, a little wicker chair with a single cushion in the seat. Mohinder reaches as far as he can, but his fingertips just barely brush the front of the seat.
Thinking fast, he moves his legs out from under him, and hooks his right foot behind the front leg of the chair, pulling carefully, nudging the bottle toward him. Slowly, slowly. It’s beginning to roll to the right, away from Mohinder, and he holds his breath, praying...
Finally it’s within reach, and he catches it under his bare foot, dragging it toward himself. Mohinder sighs in relief, and leans his head back against the bed. His mind is swimming, his headache still throbbing dully. He’s exhausted: tired, and hungry, and emotionally wiped. Five days ago his stresses had extended to what questions to put on the mid-term. But in four days, without exercise, without proper food...every moment spent with the fear of how Sylar will kill him, what frightening thing the killer will do next, the simple action of reaching his water bottle feels positively monumental.
And now...
Now to return the chair to its original spot.
Will Sylar notice? Will he care?
Mohinder doesn’t want to chance it, and setting the water bottle on the bed, he scoots down again to push at the chair, gently shoving it back until it touches the wall.
That’s when he spots it. The little flash of white. A tag, maybe? A piece of paper?
Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s hope at what he could discover about Sylar, what tidbits of information he might be able to put to use in a possible escape. Whatever it is, Mohinder makes the effort to drag the chair toward himself once more, hearing it scrape lightly across the floor. His hand digs in between the wicker and the cushion, pulling out a small card. Plain, white, simple; nothing special.
He flips it over, and his hearts feels as though it’s jumped into his throat.
Petrelli and Gray, Private Investigators.
Nathan. Oh god, Nathan.
Mohinder feels sick as he thinks of his friend. Why would Sylar have this? What did he do to Nathan? What is he planning on doing?
Did he follow Mohinder to Nathan’s office? Is that where he got the card?
Nathan and Gray...Nathan and...what was his name? Nathan had mentioned his partner. Mohinder hadn’t met him yet. Had never had the chance to meet...
Gabriel.
His name was Gabriel. Nathan had spoken about Gabriel, had seemed to like the man, found him amusing. His partner in the business.
Mohinder starts to shove the card into his jeans, thinks better of it, jams it back into the chair where he found it. Doesn’t want Sylar to search him and find that.
He isn’t sure why.
With an effort, his left leg now beginning to sting at the wound site, possibly bleeding again, Mohinder nudges the chair back into place, and climbs back onto the bed.
He opens the water bottle and takes several large drinks, before capping it and closing his eyes.
Nathan.
He really misses his friend.
He misses smiling, and laughing with him. Misses the boy’s nights out.
Things he will never have again...not when...not after...
Mohinder swallows, gripping the water bottle tighter as he forces himself to calm down, to think.
He’s cuffed now. Short of trying to drag the bed across the room, (and with a quick glance over the side, he realizes it’s bolted to the floor), there’s nothing he can do at the moment but wait.
As ever, the moment when striking back seems the right idea grows ever more elusive.
What if...will he just let Sylar kill him when the time comes? Will he lift his chin, and invite the slide of the knife over his vulnerable flesh?
Will he lay back, give in, give up?
He hopes not.
He really, really hopes not.
XXXX
Sylar smiles as he walks away from the house.
The lady living there had happened to look out her window on Friday night. Had seen the U-Haul, and a man standing beside it, waiting. But it had been too dark, too hard to give a description of the man.
Which is just fine with Sylar.
He doesn’t mind the thrill of almost being caught, but he knows full well that he wants none of this information to reach Nathan’s ears.
He can’t chance that.
“Any luck?” Nathan asks, scratching the back of his neck and glancing up and down the street of houses as they meet up.
“No. No one saw anything suspicious,” Sylar says, “I’m sorry, Nathan.”
“Maybe-maybe it’s a good thing,” Nathan points out, “I mean, maybe he really did just run away with some girl. I like to think that’s what happened. I mean, God Gabriel, what if-I don’t want to think about it, if...”
“Nathan, Nathan it’s okay,” Sylar says, placing a reassuring hand on Nathan’s shoulder, “it’s gonna be okay. We’ll find him. I promise.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” Nathan says, not looking reassured at all, “I’m going to do some more digging. If you want to...I won’t be upset or anything if you wanna go home.”
Sylar nods, “If you need me to stay, I’ll-”
“No, it’s okay. Really. Go ahead. We’ve had a long day already.”
Sylar is inclined to agree, his mind buzzing at the thought of getting back to his house, back to Mohinder. Tonight, they have a date with a straight edge razor.
“Just...relax, Nathan,” Sylar insists, patting him on the arm, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Nathan nods, “see you.”
Sylar leaves Nathan standing on the sidewalk, lost in his doubts and anxieties. He smiles, relishing in the power he has over Nathan, over Nathan’s best friend. Nathan’s grief, and fears are all Sylar’s doing, and the silly man has no idea.
He finds himself picking up the pace once he rounds the corner, excited to get home.
To get back...to Mohinder.
XXXX
Mohinder shakes the empty bottle, assuring himself that not a single drop of water remains.
He hears the sound of the door in the hall which leads off from the kitchen being unlocked, and his heart skips a beat.
Sylar is home.
“Good, you drank it all,” Sylar grins, walking forward through the kitchen doorway to take the bottle and hold it up to the light. “Very good.”
Mohinder glances from Sylar, to the bucket, and back, “Could-could I-would it be possible for me to use the bathroom now? I don’t want to use that.” He indicates the bucket, which remains empty even as Mohinder’s bladder feels like it’s going to explode.
“Yes,” Sylar states plainly, taking out his keys, and dropping the bottle into the bucket as he leans down to undo the chain on Mohinder’s wrist.
Mohinder doesn’t try to attack Sylar. At this moment, the idea isn’t very prudent. He rubs his wrist as he stands, Sylar guiding him to the bathroom, and closing the door behind him.
“Brush your teeth after you’ve finished,” Sylar orders through the door, “and then call for me.”
Mohinder breathes out a long sigh as he relieves himself. It’s so nice to be standing again. So normal. He washes his hands, then brushes his teeth, once again delighting in the simple action. At least Sylar has given him that.
“I’m done,” he calls, hand on the doorknob. He is startled when it turns under his grip, and Sylar slips inside the bathroom, carrying a bag of items. Mohinder steps backward until he hits the sink. “What are you-”
“Strip,” Sylar orders.
Mohinder frowns, “wh-do you-what-”
“Take off your clothes,” Sylar says slowly, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head down to emphasize the order.
Glancing down at his shirt, fingers brushing absently over the buttons, the cloth that makes him feel safe, covered...that acts as a barrier against searching eyes, and reaching hands. Once it’s removed, once he’s willingly exposed himself, Sylar could take advantage in a way...he could...
“No,” Mohinder states, shaking his head.
Sylar steps forward, closing the distance between them, pressing his torso to Mohinder’s, crushing him almost painfully into the sink.
“Strip,” Sylar repeats, and his tone is dangerous.
Mohinder can’t seem to meet Sylar’s gaze as his heart feels like it’s crawled up into his throat, beating painfully just behind his adam’s apple.
“Whatever you’re...don’t do it...don’t,” Mohinder pleads quietly, trying desperately to keep the tremble from his voice.
“Mohinder,” Sylar leans forward to mutter into his ear, “if you don’t strip, I will happily cut your clothes away, and I can’t promise I’ll be too careful.”
Shaky breathes, in, and out, and in. Mohinder’s fingers fumble with the first button on his shirt, then the next, his gaze cast down, watching as more and more of his dark skin is exposed, a stark contrast to the white shirt. He struggles to continue, seeing himself flush with goose-bumps, even with Sylar’s warm body standing so close. A low moan emanates from Sylar’s throat, and Mohinder’s fingers actually slip on the next button. He closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to continue. He has to. He doesn’t want Sylar to cut him.
Two more to go, and it’s all he can do to slip the small smooth button through the little hole. When he finally manages the last one, he is struck by a mixture of relief and terror. It’s done, and he can’t take it back now.
He opens his eyes, looking at Sylar.
“Good,” Sylar says with a small smile as he steps back.
Once he’s finished unbuttoning the shirt, Mohinder looks down again as he pulls it off of himself, letting it fall to the floor, crossing his arms over his chest as though that will protect him, will keep Sylar from leering at him.
“Pants and underwear too,” Sylar says, pointing at Mohinder’s jeans.
Eyes wide, Mohinder starts to protest, to beg again, but he knows it’s no good.
Feeling ill, he unbuttons his pants, and hooks his thumbs into the waist of his clothing, removing both jeans and boxers in one motion. His hands immediately move to cover his groin, and he shivers as he watches Sylar’s gaze trail up and down his body.
Sylar moves fast, causing Mohinder to jump as he reaches over and flips on the water in the shower. Mohinder breathes out slowly as he watches Sylar close the plastic curtain most of the way to prevent water from spilling over the floor.
Then, to Mohinder’s horror, Sylar actually begins to remove his own clothing, jacket, shirt, shoes, socks, pants and boxers are all shoved aside into a pile. Sylar stands before him, buck naked, a small grin on his lips.
“Get in,” Sylar orders, leaning down to rummage in the bag he’s brought in.
For one fleeting moment, Mohinder tenses to attack. Sylar is vulnerable, naked, without his blade...but then the killer straightens, and Mohinder backs into the sink again, forgetting about modesty for a moment as his hands fly up, held out defensively before him at the sight of the straight edge razor.
“Go on,” Sylar nods to the shower.
“What are you going to do?” Mohinder asks, taking a careful step sideways toward the shower, eyes never leaving Sylar.
“I’m going to clean you up,” Sylar says, bending over to rummage through the bag once more, dragging out two small bottles, shampoo and conditioner. He tosses them to Mohinder, one at a time, and Mohinder awkwardly catches them, looking down at the small bottles with a mixture of disbelief, and mild relief. “Now, if you please,” Sylar gestures toward the already running water, and Mohinder forces himself to slowly pull the curtain back, and step inside of the bathtub.
The water is a bit too cool, and he chances a small adjustment to the temperature, making it just warm enough to be comfortable. He eases himself under the spray of liquid, entirely aware of how see-through the curtain is as he wets down his curls.
Mohinder closes his eyes. As the water washes over him, he allows his mind to drift, allows himself to imagine he’s home, safe, in his own shower.
Imagines it, that is, until he hears the snick of metal on metal, until he feels a warm body join him in the bath, pressing against his back, running fingers gently down his hair.
He tenses, hands slapping against the tile when Sylar takes the shampoo and conditioner from him, and pushes him forward, just shy of the trajectory of water.
He hears the click of a bottle, hears it fall to the floor of the bath. Then long fingers are massaging the shampoo into his hair, rubbing along his scalp, causing him to shudder with a mixture of revulsion, nerves, and...and...
Sylar is so gentle. His actions are thorough, and soft, and Mohinder waits for him to change, to smash him against the wall, to hurt him in some way. But Sylar’s not hurting him, he’s cleaning Mohinder in an almost intimate fashion, and it’s startling...
Mohinder breathes in sharply through his nose, fingers scraping hard against the tile.
This isn’t right. It isn’t right.
Sylar pulls him back, into the water, washing the suds from his curls. Mohinder feels it all running down his body. He struggles to concentrate on that, and not on Sylar’s chest pressing to his back, not on Sylar’s thighs rubbing against his own legs.
Once again, Sylar is shoving him forward, and Mohinder’s hands are resting against cold tile, trembling like the rest of him. Conditioner is smoothed into his curls, and those hands are dragging him back under the water once more, deftly rinsing out Mohinder’s hair, smoothing through it, untangling it.
It’s then that Mohinder realizes Sylar is using both of his hands with ease, which means he can’t be holding the razor. Mohinder starts to turn around, but Sylar grips his arms tightly, holding him in place. One hand leaves his body, then returns to hover before his face, showing him the razor.
“Yes, I still have it, so don’t try anything,” Sylar warns, and Mohinder realizes he must have been holding it, closed, in his mouth.
Then Sylar is stepping back, stepping out of the shower, leaving Mohinder standing alone, shivering even under the warm water. There is the sound of Sylar going through the bag again, then he is standing behind Mohinder once more, and Mohinder can feel the slick sensation of a bar of soap being rubbed over his back, over his shoulders, down his arms.
Sylar leans closer into Mohinder, who has to swallow back his terror at feeling Sylar’s erection pressed against him as the man slides the soap over Mohinder’s chest, down his stomach, and back up again, moving Mohinder’s arms up to reach his arm-pits.
Mohinder bites back a whimper when the soap is dragged further down his back, over both buttocks...down, and in, between his thighs. Sylar nudges his leg gently, and Mohinder is forced into a wider stance.
Down his legs, over his feet, and then back up, Sylar rising as the soap does, moving along Mohinder’s thigh, to the edge of his pelvis.
Mohinder jerks forward when Sylar’s fingers brush against his dick, tries to pull away, but there’s no room, nowhere to go.
“Stop,” Mohinder hisses.
But Sylar doesn’t stop. Doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word, as he reaches his free hand around to grip Mohinder. Mohinder fights back the tears that threaten to overwhelm him as Sylar lifts his dick, and gently slicks his whole groin with soap.
Mohinder doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve this humiliation, this blatant disregard for his personal space, especially from a sadistic madman.
Mohinder feels the bile rising in the back of his throat, feels the tickle, his body’s insistence that he can’t handle this anymore...that he’s done, that it’s now or never, when...
Sylar’s hands move off of him.
Mohinder somehow manages to hold back a sob, the tears streaming from his eyes blending with the water running from his hair. Sylar can’t see anyway.
“Rinse yourself,” Sylar orders.
Mohinder runs his hands over his body, tracing over every place that Sylar has touched, washing it all away with the soap and suds. When he reaches his dick, he’s relieved to find himself still flaccid, soft, unaffected by Sylar’s touch. His fingers smooth away the insulting touch, his mind working to imagine it never happened.
Then he hears a sound behind him that makes his throat clench. Mohinder screws his eyes shut, biting back the nausea again as he listens to the slick sounds of skin on skin, as he hears the low moans emanating from Sylar.
“Mmm-mm-Mohinder,” Sylar whimpers, and Mohinder feels a sudden warmth by his foot, which washes away down the drain with the water as Sylar gasps behind him.
Mohinder can’t take it. He throws the curtain open from his side, steps out of the bath, moving toward the door, but Sylar is too fast, seeming to come out of nowhere, to block Mohinder’s exit back to the bedroom.
“Where are you going?” Sylar asks.
Mohinder quickly puts distance between Sylar and himself, feet sliding a bit on the linoleum floor as he looks anywhere but at the killer.
“Calm down,” Sylar says, tilting his head down, catching Mohinder’s gaze. For a moment they simply stare at one another.
Mohinder forces himself to take several steadying breaths.
“Here,” Sylar tosses Mohinder a towel, which he catches, and promptly wraps around his waist as Sylar moves to shut off the shower. Out of the corner of his eyes, Mohinder sees Sylar dip into the bag, and pull out two more towels. One of which he wraps around his own waist. The other he carries with him, closing the distance between Mohinder and himself. “Turn around.”
Mohinder does. He’s too shocked, too disgusted, to fight with Sylar. He turns around, facing the sink, and allowing Sylar to dry his hair with the towel. Mohinder continues to grip the edges of the porcelain basin as Sylar leaves and returns with something, a pick, which he proceeds to run carefully through Mohinder’s mess of curls. Then he sets the pick down on the counter beside Mohinder, disappearing once more, and returning again.
Mohinder tenses when Sylar leans into him, pinning him against the sink again. He watches Sylar set down a small towel and a container, opening the container, dipping a brush into it.
Cold shaving cream is smoothed across his right cheek by the brush in Sylar’s left hand. The killer guides Mohinder’s chin back, twists around so he can watch as he continues to apply the cream to the rest of Mohinder’s face.
“W-wait,” Mohinder gasps when reality hits him, when he realizes the danger of what Sylar’s about to do as the killer sets down the brush, “I don’t think you need to...” Mohinder trails off when Sylar holds out the razor before him, flicking it open smoothly, pressing a thumb against the sharpest point of the blade. Mohinder jerks, tries to pull away, but Sylar’s left hand reaches around to grip him gently at the base of his throat, below the line of shaving cream, a firm hold, but not quite choking him.
“Hold still,” Sylar murmurs quietly into Mohinder’s ear.
Frozen; terror causing his fingers to press into the sink until his knuckles sting, Mohinder tries like hell to relax his face. He can’t help his startled breathing though as the blade makes one smooth slide up his left cheek.
There is no mirror in this bathroom, no way for Mohinder to see what Sylar is doing, and this thought makes him all the more nervous.
“Please,” Mohinder breathes once Sylar has finished the second swipe, and leaned forward to wipe the blade off on the small towel, “please stop...”
“Shh,” Sylar soothes, tilting Mohinder’s chin up again, and sliding the blade several times up the left side of his face, before wiping it on the towel. Then he does the same on the right side of Mohinder’s face, switching hands with the blade, shifting around to get a better view. The strokes are practiced, smooth, and not a single one cuts Mohinder’s skin.
Stroke. Stroke. Clean. Stroke.
Mohinder doesn’t dare to breathe as Sylar shaves the skin between his lip and his nose.
When that is done, when Sylar is wiping the blade off once more, Mohinder tries to wriggle from his grasp.
“Ah-ah, not done yet,” Sylar warns, catching Mohinder’s chin in his hand once more, tilting his head far back, exposing his unshaven neck.
Mohinder swallows, feels his adam’s apple bob as he stares up at Sylar. His heart is pounding, like a tribal drum in his chest, as Sylar makes the first stroke to the right side of his throat. Smooth.
So smooth.
And another stroke, and another.
Wipe, stroke, stroke.
A delicate graze over Mohinder’s adam’s apple. Then the blade is on the left side of his throat, is in Sylar’s right hand again.
Mohinder feels stretched, naked, vulnerable as the blade flicks up his neck, so close, so very close to delicate veins.
He tries not to swallow, but he can’t help it. Sylar is careful though, and the razor slides again without incident.
And again.
And again.
Then, just when Mohinder’s about ready to breathe a sigh of relief, he feels the nick, the intended pressure on Sylar’s part. He breathes in sharply through his nose as he feels warm blood begin to trickle down his throat.
“Whoops,” Sylar chuckles, and Mohinder is startled to feel the slide of a wet tongue over his throat. He flinches, then twists himself out of Sylar’s grip, hand immediately going to the wound on his neck. Sylar stands there grinning, the razor still held firm in his hand.
“You sick-”
“Careful, Mohinder,” Sylar tilts his head in warning, “I was playing nice just now. You don’t want to see me when I’m not.”
There is an odd feeling on Mohinder’s leg, and he looks down just in time to see the tape over his bandage fall off and land on the floor with a dull thud.
Perfect.
Luckily the wound site isn’t bleeding.
Sylar chuckles, walks over to the towel to wipe the blade off once more before closing it.
“There are clothes in the bag,” Sylar says, “get dressed.”
Mohinder is fed up with Sylar’s orders, with his sadistic games, but he’s not about to fight with the man when he has a ridiculously sharp blade in his hand.
So he walks over to the bag, pulls out a clean pair of jeans which actually appear to be his size, a pair of green boxers which serve again to make it look like Sylar went out of his way to shop for Mohinder, and a dark purple dress shirt.
Mohinder quickly pulls on the boxers, feeling immediately better about being able to cover himself. Then he carefully tugs on the jeans, wary of the wound site on his thigh as he does so.
He buttons up the purple shirt, then turns his gaze back to Sylar.
“There’s Old Spice in there too,” Sylar says, grabbing his own clothes into a pile, “finish getting ready, then go sit on the bed.”
Sylar leaves with his clothes. Mohinder watches him go, watches the door click shut behind him.
He picks up the bag and carries it over to the sink.
Rinsing his face in cool water feels good. Putting on deodorant again feels good.
All these little things make him feel somehow normal. A gift from Sylar, perhaps...or another game.
Mohinder doesn’t care as he limps out of the bathroom, and heads for the bed.
There is another glass of cloudy water. Drugged water. For one wild moment, he considers dumping it out in the bathroom, lying, pretending to sleep...
But then Sylar enters the bedroom again, buttoning his pants and smiling, motioning to the bed. “Have a seat.”
There’s no choice really, and Mohinder walks around, taking a seat at the end of the bed. To his horror, Sylar sits down beside him, tilting Mohinder’s head up with long fingers, eyeing the newest wound.
“Do you like the clothes?” Sylar asks as he stares at the cut.
“They’re fine,” Mohinder mutters.
“Good,” Sylar levels his gaze on Mohinder’s eyes. He seems almost about to lean in, just on the edge of bringing his lips to Mohinder’s, causing Mohinder to clench his right fist in the fabric of the mattress’s single sheet...but he doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches back and grabs the glass of water, holding it out to Mohinder, “drink.”
“Please don’t put me downstairs again,” Mohinder begs, remembering what happened the last time he drank willingly.
“I won’t,” Sylar insists calmly, “Now drink.”
Mohinder takes the glass, drains it quickly. Head already swimming, he hands it back to Sylar, who stands to allow Mohinder to slide along the bed, lying down on his side, eyes fluttering closed as he rests on the pillow.
Fingers gently work through his curls as he drifts off.
“Just a little while longer,” Sylar murmurs.
Just a little while.
However long that may be...
Author: Megmatthews20
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Nathan, mentions of others
Rating: NC-17-ish for creepy factor, and some vague non-con-ishness...
Word Count: 5555 (I may have added two words to get that exact number :p)
Spoilers: Nope! AU!
Warnings: Creepy serial killer, attack with a weapon, threats of death, this chapter has a creepy shower scene, and shaving with a straight-razor
Summary: Sylar laughs, a genuine laugh, and for a moment, a single moment, Mohinder feels a strange sort of levity, a hint of possibility that he might live, that if he can keep Sylar like this...content, then maybe...
A/N: Written cuz I <3 WS75, if it wasn't obvious...For the prompt "I Don't Deserve This" on piping_hot's challenge table...Chapter one is here Chapter two is here Chapter three is here....sooo many thanks for the awesome comments on the first three chapters! They have honestly made this one of my best writing experiences for me so far, and I'm incredibly thankful to all of you who've commented! Dedicated to Carmexgirl, who betas this, and pwns my soul! And to everyone who is enjoying it so far. I hope you continue to do so! Typos are mine. (Please point out errors)
Light enters the room, causing Mohinder to groan and attempt to cover his eyes. He feels something soft land on his stomach, a small paper bag.
He is suddenly aware of a tall figure walking toward him, setting a bottle and a small bucket down on the night-stand beside the bed. Blinking, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Mohinder stares at the bucket, his mind fighting to figure out what possible use it could have, when...
“You’ll be staying in bed today,” Sylar explains, “water, food, and toilet.” Sylar indicates the water bottle, the bag on Mohinder’s stomach, and the bucket.
Mohinder starts to reply, to protest, then he remembers the alternative, and his mouth snaps shut.
“I thought you’d be accommodating,” Sylar grins.
“This is by far the best alternative,” Mohinder nods.
“Right. I can’t think of anything else you’d need...”
“Care to unlock this chain?” Mohinder asks, vaguely moving his right arm so that the chain clanks against the bed. “It’s kind of hard to escape with all this metal attached to my arm...and I’m not really big on the idea of gnawing my wrist off.”
Sylar laughs, a genuine laugh, and for a moment, a single moment, Mohinder feels a strange sort of levity, a hint of possibility that he might live, that if he can keep Sylar like this...content, then maybe...
Then Sylar is sitting on the bed, and his right hand is moving through Mohinder’s hair, gentle, caressing. Mohinder clenches his jaw as he attempts not to pull away, remembering who it is he’s really dealing with.
“Drink all that water,” Sylar orders, “you lost some blood, you need to replenish.”
“That would imply I was going to live long enough to-”
“Drink,” Sylar growls, gripping a handful of Mohinder’s curls near the back of his head, leaning toward him. Sylar brings his lips to within millimeters of Mohinder’s, “and if every last drop of water isn’t gone from that bottle by the time I get home, then you’re going to need a lot more than one bottle of water to replenish what you’ve lost. Understand?”
“Yes,” Mohinder whispers, scarcely daring to breathe as the abrupt change in Sylar’s tone startles him.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Sylar says, his face breaking into a grin again as he lets Mohinder go.
Mohinder feels a headache coming on. He’s never going anywhere. He’s going to die here. In three days, he’ll lie bleeding out on this floor, like a gaping fish, caught, and hooked and gutted, and...no...
No!
There’s still time. There’s always time.
Sylar casts one more glance at Mohinder before he closes the door behind him, leaving the light on in the room.
At least there’s that.
Mohinder eyes the water bottle beside the bed. It does look rather inviting.
XXXX
“Hey Gabe...Gabe...Gabriel!”
Sylar blinks, startled from his thoughts as he looks up to see Nathan snapping his fingers in front of Sylar’s nose, “what? What do you want, Nathan?”
“I did some checking up on Mohinder. I’m afraid Maya might be right. I went to his house, with the key she gave me. There’s no sign of a struggle or anything, but he’s not there, and he left everything. I checked with the university. He didn’t show up yesterday or this morning, and he left no note about where he’d be.” Nathan’s brow is furrowed, his lips a thin and worried line.
“Could he have run off with a woman? Weekend fling that turned into a little something more?” Sylar asks casually.
“No...no I’ve known him for about twelve years. He would never do something like this. Teach his class with a severe hangover, yes...but this...”
Sylar finds himself seething, a flare of jealousy bunching his stomach, making him grip his hand tighter over the wrapped item hidden on his lap. Nathan’s known Mohinder for so long...
But not like Sylar’s known him. Not Mohinder’s true self. Nathan has known a shell of a man, but Sylar has uncovered Mohinder’s very core...the real human being beneath it all.
The one he’s going to destroy in three days time.
“So...thoughts?” Sylar asks.
Nathan is staring down at Sylar’s desk, tracing his hand in a seemingly random pattern over and over. Sylar stares at those fingers. Wonders if they ever ached to touch Mohinder, if they perhaps did on some occasion, some drunken frat night, barely remembered and never forgotten. Sylar catches himself frowning, a flare of jealousy jumping in his gut, which he quickly attempts to stifle. He knows Mohinder, knows him like Nathan never will. He can be content in that fact.
“I’m...I’m worried it’s something big. Shit, I’m actually thinking something crazy like what-I mean-what if it’s the Davis River Killer? What if he grabbed Mohinder off the street? Mohinder’s been known to take walks, sometimes...too late. I tell him it’s not safe, but he doesn’t listen. But if it is...I mean, how the hell do we track a killer?” Nathan asks, swallowing, crossing his arms anxiously.
“I’m sure he’s not in the hands of the Davis River Killer, Sylar says, leaning forward, giving Nathan his best, most sympathetic and calming smile. “Even if he is, we’re the best Nathan. We can find him.”
“Yeah, yeah I think you’re right. I’m going to do some inquiring around his neighborhood. See if anyone saw something strange, maybe Friday night, or Saturday...Maya said she tried calling Saturday morning...wanted to drag him out to the carnival or something...but he didn’t answer then. If he was...taken...I’m thinking it may have happened Friday evening or Saturday morning. He was teaching classes before that.”
“I can go with you,” Sylar says, “question around his neighborhood.”
“Okay. I’m gonna go check my messages, then I’ll be back. We can cover more area if we find a focal point and split off from there.”
“Exactly,” Sylar smiles, watching Nathan nod, watching him turn and leave Sylar’s office, his shoulders a little more hunched than usual, body language indicating his worry for his friend.
Sylar sits back in his chair, carefully unwrapping the tissue from around the small strand of hair he’d managed to pull from Mohinder’s head that morning. His fingers trail gently over the dark curl, his mind returning to that moment again and again, their faces so close. The change in Mohinder, calm, almost happy, then...fearful.
Sylar had enjoyed the happiness, the joking.
But he’d also enjoyed the way Mohinder tensed at the change, the way his whole body seemed to want to pull away from Sylar, the way his breathing sped up as Sylar leaned in close, so close...Mohinder’s warm breath against his mouth, against his lips. He could almost taste him still...
That kiss last night, that single delicious moment, made all too short in Mohinder’s panic.
And the fear, oh the fear in Mohinder’s eyes when Sylar sliced into his leg...when he touched that blade to those quivering lips.
Do you want to die.
Sylar knew the answer, which only made him enjoy the question all the more.
Mohinder doesn’t want to die.
And Sylar doesn’t want to think about just how much he’ll miss those wide, gorgeous eyes when he takes the blade to Mohinder’s throat on Friday night.
Carefully wrapping the strand of hair again, Sylar places it in his pocket, and gets up to follow Nathan.
XXXX
The moment is surreal, startling, and Mohinder actually shouts in surprise when he bumps the water bottle awkwardly while reaching for it with his left hand, and it falls off the night-stand, rolling away.
“No, no, shit,” he whimpers, watching it roll under the chair that Sylar usually sits in.
Mohinder slides down to the floor, soon feeling the tug of the chain, restricting his motion. The bottle is resting against the back leg of the chair, a little wicker chair with a single cushion in the seat. Mohinder reaches as far as he can, but his fingertips just barely brush the front of the seat.
Thinking fast, he moves his legs out from under him, and hooks his right foot behind the front leg of the chair, pulling carefully, nudging the bottle toward him. Slowly, slowly. It’s beginning to roll to the right, away from Mohinder, and he holds his breath, praying...
Finally it’s within reach, and he catches it under his bare foot, dragging it toward himself. Mohinder sighs in relief, and leans his head back against the bed. His mind is swimming, his headache still throbbing dully. He’s exhausted: tired, and hungry, and emotionally wiped. Five days ago his stresses had extended to what questions to put on the mid-term. But in four days, without exercise, without proper food...every moment spent with the fear of how Sylar will kill him, what frightening thing the killer will do next, the simple action of reaching his water bottle feels positively monumental.
And now...
Now to return the chair to its original spot.
Will Sylar notice? Will he care?
Mohinder doesn’t want to chance it, and setting the water bottle on the bed, he scoots down again to push at the chair, gently shoving it back until it touches the wall.
That’s when he spots it. The little flash of white. A tag, maybe? A piece of paper?
Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s hope at what he could discover about Sylar, what tidbits of information he might be able to put to use in a possible escape. Whatever it is, Mohinder makes the effort to drag the chair toward himself once more, hearing it scrape lightly across the floor. His hand digs in between the wicker and the cushion, pulling out a small card. Plain, white, simple; nothing special.
He flips it over, and his hearts feels as though it’s jumped into his throat.
Petrelli and Gray, Private Investigators.
Nathan. Oh god, Nathan.
Mohinder feels sick as he thinks of his friend. Why would Sylar have this? What did he do to Nathan? What is he planning on doing?
Did he follow Mohinder to Nathan’s office? Is that where he got the card?
Nathan and Gray...Nathan and...what was his name? Nathan had mentioned his partner. Mohinder hadn’t met him yet. Had never had the chance to meet...
Gabriel.
His name was Gabriel. Nathan had spoken about Gabriel, had seemed to like the man, found him amusing. His partner in the business.
Mohinder starts to shove the card into his jeans, thinks better of it, jams it back into the chair where he found it. Doesn’t want Sylar to search him and find that.
He isn’t sure why.
With an effort, his left leg now beginning to sting at the wound site, possibly bleeding again, Mohinder nudges the chair back into place, and climbs back onto the bed.
He opens the water bottle and takes several large drinks, before capping it and closing his eyes.
Nathan.
He really misses his friend.
He misses smiling, and laughing with him. Misses the boy’s nights out.
Things he will never have again...not when...not after...
Mohinder swallows, gripping the water bottle tighter as he forces himself to calm down, to think.
He’s cuffed now. Short of trying to drag the bed across the room, (and with a quick glance over the side, he realizes it’s bolted to the floor), there’s nothing he can do at the moment but wait.
As ever, the moment when striking back seems the right idea grows ever more elusive.
What if...will he just let Sylar kill him when the time comes? Will he lift his chin, and invite the slide of the knife over his vulnerable flesh?
Will he lay back, give in, give up?
He hopes not.
He really, really hopes not.
XXXX
Sylar smiles as he walks away from the house.
The lady living there had happened to look out her window on Friday night. Had seen the U-Haul, and a man standing beside it, waiting. But it had been too dark, too hard to give a description of the man.
Which is just fine with Sylar.
He doesn’t mind the thrill of almost being caught, but he knows full well that he wants none of this information to reach Nathan’s ears.
He can’t chance that.
“Any luck?” Nathan asks, scratching the back of his neck and glancing up and down the street of houses as they meet up.
“No. No one saw anything suspicious,” Sylar says, “I’m sorry, Nathan.”
“Maybe-maybe it’s a good thing,” Nathan points out, “I mean, maybe he really did just run away with some girl. I like to think that’s what happened. I mean, God Gabriel, what if-I don’t want to think about it, if...”
“Nathan, Nathan it’s okay,” Sylar says, placing a reassuring hand on Nathan’s shoulder, “it’s gonna be okay. We’ll find him. I promise.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” Nathan says, not looking reassured at all, “I’m going to do some more digging. If you want to...I won’t be upset or anything if you wanna go home.”
Sylar nods, “If you need me to stay, I’ll-”
“No, it’s okay. Really. Go ahead. We’ve had a long day already.”
Sylar is inclined to agree, his mind buzzing at the thought of getting back to his house, back to Mohinder. Tonight, they have a date with a straight edge razor.
“Just...relax, Nathan,” Sylar insists, patting him on the arm, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Nathan nods, “see you.”
Sylar leaves Nathan standing on the sidewalk, lost in his doubts and anxieties. He smiles, relishing in the power he has over Nathan, over Nathan’s best friend. Nathan’s grief, and fears are all Sylar’s doing, and the silly man has no idea.
He finds himself picking up the pace once he rounds the corner, excited to get home.
To get back...to Mohinder.
XXXX
Mohinder shakes the empty bottle, assuring himself that not a single drop of water remains.
He hears the sound of the door in the hall which leads off from the kitchen being unlocked, and his heart skips a beat.
Sylar is home.
“Good, you drank it all,” Sylar grins, walking forward through the kitchen doorway to take the bottle and hold it up to the light. “Very good.”
Mohinder glances from Sylar, to the bucket, and back, “Could-could I-would it be possible for me to use the bathroom now? I don’t want to use that.” He indicates the bucket, which remains empty even as Mohinder’s bladder feels like it’s going to explode.
“Yes,” Sylar states plainly, taking out his keys, and dropping the bottle into the bucket as he leans down to undo the chain on Mohinder’s wrist.
Mohinder doesn’t try to attack Sylar. At this moment, the idea isn’t very prudent. He rubs his wrist as he stands, Sylar guiding him to the bathroom, and closing the door behind him.
“Brush your teeth after you’ve finished,” Sylar orders through the door, “and then call for me.”
Mohinder breathes out a long sigh as he relieves himself. It’s so nice to be standing again. So normal. He washes his hands, then brushes his teeth, once again delighting in the simple action. At least Sylar has given him that.
“I’m done,” he calls, hand on the doorknob. He is startled when it turns under his grip, and Sylar slips inside the bathroom, carrying a bag of items. Mohinder steps backward until he hits the sink. “What are you-”
“Strip,” Sylar orders.
Mohinder frowns, “wh-do you-what-”
“Take off your clothes,” Sylar says slowly, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head down to emphasize the order.
Glancing down at his shirt, fingers brushing absently over the buttons, the cloth that makes him feel safe, covered...that acts as a barrier against searching eyes, and reaching hands. Once it’s removed, once he’s willingly exposed himself, Sylar could take advantage in a way...he could...
“No,” Mohinder states, shaking his head.
Sylar steps forward, closing the distance between them, pressing his torso to Mohinder’s, crushing him almost painfully into the sink.
“Strip,” Sylar repeats, and his tone is dangerous.
Mohinder can’t seem to meet Sylar’s gaze as his heart feels like it’s crawled up into his throat, beating painfully just behind his adam’s apple.
“Whatever you’re...don’t do it...don’t,” Mohinder pleads quietly, trying desperately to keep the tremble from his voice.
“Mohinder,” Sylar leans forward to mutter into his ear, “if you don’t strip, I will happily cut your clothes away, and I can’t promise I’ll be too careful.”
Shaky breathes, in, and out, and in. Mohinder’s fingers fumble with the first button on his shirt, then the next, his gaze cast down, watching as more and more of his dark skin is exposed, a stark contrast to the white shirt. He struggles to continue, seeing himself flush with goose-bumps, even with Sylar’s warm body standing so close. A low moan emanates from Sylar’s throat, and Mohinder’s fingers actually slip on the next button. He closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to continue. He has to. He doesn’t want Sylar to cut him.
Two more to go, and it’s all he can do to slip the small smooth button through the little hole. When he finally manages the last one, he is struck by a mixture of relief and terror. It’s done, and he can’t take it back now.
He opens his eyes, looking at Sylar.
“Good,” Sylar says with a small smile as he steps back.
Once he’s finished unbuttoning the shirt, Mohinder looks down again as he pulls it off of himself, letting it fall to the floor, crossing his arms over his chest as though that will protect him, will keep Sylar from leering at him.
“Pants and underwear too,” Sylar says, pointing at Mohinder’s jeans.
Eyes wide, Mohinder starts to protest, to beg again, but he knows it’s no good.
Feeling ill, he unbuttons his pants, and hooks his thumbs into the waist of his clothing, removing both jeans and boxers in one motion. His hands immediately move to cover his groin, and he shivers as he watches Sylar’s gaze trail up and down his body.
Sylar moves fast, causing Mohinder to jump as he reaches over and flips on the water in the shower. Mohinder breathes out slowly as he watches Sylar close the plastic curtain most of the way to prevent water from spilling over the floor.
Then, to Mohinder’s horror, Sylar actually begins to remove his own clothing, jacket, shirt, shoes, socks, pants and boxers are all shoved aside into a pile. Sylar stands before him, buck naked, a small grin on his lips.
“Get in,” Sylar orders, leaning down to rummage in the bag he’s brought in.
For one fleeting moment, Mohinder tenses to attack. Sylar is vulnerable, naked, without his blade...but then the killer straightens, and Mohinder backs into the sink again, forgetting about modesty for a moment as his hands fly up, held out defensively before him at the sight of the straight edge razor.
“Go on,” Sylar nods to the shower.
“What are you going to do?” Mohinder asks, taking a careful step sideways toward the shower, eyes never leaving Sylar.
“I’m going to clean you up,” Sylar says, bending over to rummage through the bag once more, dragging out two small bottles, shampoo and conditioner. He tosses them to Mohinder, one at a time, and Mohinder awkwardly catches them, looking down at the small bottles with a mixture of disbelief, and mild relief. “Now, if you please,” Sylar gestures toward the already running water, and Mohinder forces himself to slowly pull the curtain back, and step inside of the bathtub.
The water is a bit too cool, and he chances a small adjustment to the temperature, making it just warm enough to be comfortable. He eases himself under the spray of liquid, entirely aware of how see-through the curtain is as he wets down his curls.
Mohinder closes his eyes. As the water washes over him, he allows his mind to drift, allows himself to imagine he’s home, safe, in his own shower.
Imagines it, that is, until he hears the snick of metal on metal, until he feels a warm body join him in the bath, pressing against his back, running fingers gently down his hair.
He tenses, hands slapping against the tile when Sylar takes the shampoo and conditioner from him, and pushes him forward, just shy of the trajectory of water.
He hears the click of a bottle, hears it fall to the floor of the bath. Then long fingers are massaging the shampoo into his hair, rubbing along his scalp, causing him to shudder with a mixture of revulsion, nerves, and...and...
Sylar is so gentle. His actions are thorough, and soft, and Mohinder waits for him to change, to smash him against the wall, to hurt him in some way. But Sylar’s not hurting him, he’s cleaning Mohinder in an almost intimate fashion, and it’s startling...
Mohinder breathes in sharply through his nose, fingers scraping hard against the tile.
This isn’t right. It isn’t right.
Sylar pulls him back, into the water, washing the suds from his curls. Mohinder feels it all running down his body. He struggles to concentrate on that, and not on Sylar’s chest pressing to his back, not on Sylar’s thighs rubbing against his own legs.
Once again, Sylar is shoving him forward, and Mohinder’s hands are resting against cold tile, trembling like the rest of him. Conditioner is smoothed into his curls, and those hands are dragging him back under the water once more, deftly rinsing out Mohinder’s hair, smoothing through it, untangling it.
It’s then that Mohinder realizes Sylar is using both of his hands with ease, which means he can’t be holding the razor. Mohinder starts to turn around, but Sylar grips his arms tightly, holding him in place. One hand leaves his body, then returns to hover before his face, showing him the razor.
“Yes, I still have it, so don’t try anything,” Sylar warns, and Mohinder realizes he must have been holding it, closed, in his mouth.
Then Sylar is stepping back, stepping out of the shower, leaving Mohinder standing alone, shivering even under the warm water. There is the sound of Sylar going through the bag again, then he is standing behind Mohinder once more, and Mohinder can feel the slick sensation of a bar of soap being rubbed over his back, over his shoulders, down his arms.
Sylar leans closer into Mohinder, who has to swallow back his terror at feeling Sylar’s erection pressed against him as the man slides the soap over Mohinder’s chest, down his stomach, and back up again, moving Mohinder’s arms up to reach his arm-pits.
Mohinder bites back a whimper when the soap is dragged further down his back, over both buttocks...down, and in, between his thighs. Sylar nudges his leg gently, and Mohinder is forced into a wider stance.
Down his legs, over his feet, and then back up, Sylar rising as the soap does, moving along Mohinder’s thigh, to the edge of his pelvis.
Mohinder jerks forward when Sylar’s fingers brush against his dick, tries to pull away, but there’s no room, nowhere to go.
“Stop,” Mohinder hisses.
But Sylar doesn’t stop. Doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word, as he reaches his free hand around to grip Mohinder. Mohinder fights back the tears that threaten to overwhelm him as Sylar lifts his dick, and gently slicks his whole groin with soap.
Mohinder doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve this humiliation, this blatant disregard for his personal space, especially from a sadistic madman.
Mohinder feels the bile rising in the back of his throat, feels the tickle, his body’s insistence that he can’t handle this anymore...that he’s done, that it’s now or never, when...
Sylar’s hands move off of him.
Mohinder somehow manages to hold back a sob, the tears streaming from his eyes blending with the water running from his hair. Sylar can’t see anyway.
“Rinse yourself,” Sylar orders.
Mohinder runs his hands over his body, tracing over every place that Sylar has touched, washing it all away with the soap and suds. When he reaches his dick, he’s relieved to find himself still flaccid, soft, unaffected by Sylar’s touch. His fingers smooth away the insulting touch, his mind working to imagine it never happened.
Then he hears a sound behind him that makes his throat clench. Mohinder screws his eyes shut, biting back the nausea again as he listens to the slick sounds of skin on skin, as he hears the low moans emanating from Sylar.
“Mmm-mm-Mohinder,” Sylar whimpers, and Mohinder feels a sudden warmth by his foot, which washes away down the drain with the water as Sylar gasps behind him.
Mohinder can’t take it. He throws the curtain open from his side, steps out of the bath, moving toward the door, but Sylar is too fast, seeming to come out of nowhere, to block Mohinder’s exit back to the bedroom.
“Where are you going?” Sylar asks.
Mohinder quickly puts distance between Sylar and himself, feet sliding a bit on the linoleum floor as he looks anywhere but at the killer.
“Calm down,” Sylar says, tilting his head down, catching Mohinder’s gaze. For a moment they simply stare at one another.
Mohinder forces himself to take several steadying breaths.
“Here,” Sylar tosses Mohinder a towel, which he catches, and promptly wraps around his waist as Sylar moves to shut off the shower. Out of the corner of his eyes, Mohinder sees Sylar dip into the bag, and pull out two more towels. One of which he wraps around his own waist. The other he carries with him, closing the distance between Mohinder and himself. “Turn around.”
Mohinder does. He’s too shocked, too disgusted, to fight with Sylar. He turns around, facing the sink, and allowing Sylar to dry his hair with the towel. Mohinder continues to grip the edges of the porcelain basin as Sylar leaves and returns with something, a pick, which he proceeds to run carefully through Mohinder’s mess of curls. Then he sets the pick down on the counter beside Mohinder, disappearing once more, and returning again.
Mohinder tenses when Sylar leans into him, pinning him against the sink again. He watches Sylar set down a small towel and a container, opening the container, dipping a brush into it.
Cold shaving cream is smoothed across his right cheek by the brush in Sylar’s left hand. The killer guides Mohinder’s chin back, twists around so he can watch as he continues to apply the cream to the rest of Mohinder’s face.
“W-wait,” Mohinder gasps when reality hits him, when he realizes the danger of what Sylar’s about to do as the killer sets down the brush, “I don’t think you need to...” Mohinder trails off when Sylar holds out the razor before him, flicking it open smoothly, pressing a thumb against the sharpest point of the blade. Mohinder jerks, tries to pull away, but Sylar’s left hand reaches around to grip him gently at the base of his throat, below the line of shaving cream, a firm hold, but not quite choking him.
“Hold still,” Sylar murmurs quietly into Mohinder’s ear.
Frozen; terror causing his fingers to press into the sink until his knuckles sting, Mohinder tries like hell to relax his face. He can’t help his startled breathing though as the blade makes one smooth slide up his left cheek.
There is no mirror in this bathroom, no way for Mohinder to see what Sylar is doing, and this thought makes him all the more nervous.
“Please,” Mohinder breathes once Sylar has finished the second swipe, and leaned forward to wipe the blade off on the small towel, “please stop...”
“Shh,” Sylar soothes, tilting Mohinder’s chin up again, and sliding the blade several times up the left side of his face, before wiping it on the towel. Then he does the same on the right side of Mohinder’s face, switching hands with the blade, shifting around to get a better view. The strokes are practiced, smooth, and not a single one cuts Mohinder’s skin.
Stroke. Stroke. Clean. Stroke.
Mohinder doesn’t dare to breathe as Sylar shaves the skin between his lip and his nose.
When that is done, when Sylar is wiping the blade off once more, Mohinder tries to wriggle from his grasp.
“Ah-ah, not done yet,” Sylar warns, catching Mohinder’s chin in his hand once more, tilting his head far back, exposing his unshaven neck.
Mohinder swallows, feels his adam’s apple bob as he stares up at Sylar. His heart is pounding, like a tribal drum in his chest, as Sylar makes the first stroke to the right side of his throat. Smooth.
So smooth.
And another stroke, and another.
Wipe, stroke, stroke.
A delicate graze over Mohinder’s adam’s apple. Then the blade is on the left side of his throat, is in Sylar’s right hand again.
Mohinder feels stretched, naked, vulnerable as the blade flicks up his neck, so close, so very close to delicate veins.
He tries not to swallow, but he can’t help it. Sylar is careful though, and the razor slides again without incident.
And again.
And again.
Then, just when Mohinder’s about ready to breathe a sigh of relief, he feels the nick, the intended pressure on Sylar’s part. He breathes in sharply through his nose as he feels warm blood begin to trickle down his throat.
“Whoops,” Sylar chuckles, and Mohinder is startled to feel the slide of a wet tongue over his throat. He flinches, then twists himself out of Sylar’s grip, hand immediately going to the wound on his neck. Sylar stands there grinning, the razor still held firm in his hand.
“You sick-”
“Careful, Mohinder,” Sylar tilts his head in warning, “I was playing nice just now. You don’t want to see me when I’m not.”
There is an odd feeling on Mohinder’s leg, and he looks down just in time to see the tape over his bandage fall off and land on the floor with a dull thud.
Perfect.
Luckily the wound site isn’t bleeding.
Sylar chuckles, walks over to the towel to wipe the blade off once more before closing it.
“There are clothes in the bag,” Sylar says, “get dressed.”
Mohinder is fed up with Sylar’s orders, with his sadistic games, but he’s not about to fight with the man when he has a ridiculously sharp blade in his hand.
So he walks over to the bag, pulls out a clean pair of jeans which actually appear to be his size, a pair of green boxers which serve again to make it look like Sylar went out of his way to shop for Mohinder, and a dark purple dress shirt.
Mohinder quickly pulls on the boxers, feeling immediately better about being able to cover himself. Then he carefully tugs on the jeans, wary of the wound site on his thigh as he does so.
He buttons up the purple shirt, then turns his gaze back to Sylar.
“There’s Old Spice in there too,” Sylar says, grabbing his own clothes into a pile, “finish getting ready, then go sit on the bed.”
Sylar leaves with his clothes. Mohinder watches him go, watches the door click shut behind him.
He picks up the bag and carries it over to the sink.
Rinsing his face in cool water feels good. Putting on deodorant again feels good.
All these little things make him feel somehow normal. A gift from Sylar, perhaps...or another game.
Mohinder doesn’t care as he limps out of the bathroom, and heads for the bed.
There is another glass of cloudy water. Drugged water. For one wild moment, he considers dumping it out in the bathroom, lying, pretending to sleep...
But then Sylar enters the bedroom again, buttoning his pants and smiling, motioning to the bed. “Have a seat.”
There’s no choice really, and Mohinder walks around, taking a seat at the end of the bed. To his horror, Sylar sits down beside him, tilting Mohinder’s head up with long fingers, eyeing the newest wound.
“Do you like the clothes?” Sylar asks as he stares at the cut.
“They’re fine,” Mohinder mutters.
“Good,” Sylar levels his gaze on Mohinder’s eyes. He seems almost about to lean in, just on the edge of bringing his lips to Mohinder’s, causing Mohinder to clench his right fist in the fabric of the mattress’s single sheet...but he doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches back and grabs the glass of water, holding it out to Mohinder, “drink.”
“Please don’t put me downstairs again,” Mohinder begs, remembering what happened the last time he drank willingly.
“I won’t,” Sylar insists calmly, “Now drink.”
Mohinder takes the glass, drains it quickly. Head already swimming, he hands it back to Sylar, who stands to allow Mohinder to slide along the bed, lying down on his side, eyes fluttering closed as he rests on the pillow.
Fingers gently work through his curls as he drifts off.
“Just a little while longer,” Sylar murmurs.
Just a little while.
However long that may be...