Part 5/7 of my Silence of the Lambs Crossover
Title: Choices and Time Part 5/7
Author: Megmatthews20
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Nathan, mentions of others
Rating: NC-17 Rape...
Word Count: 5308
Spoilers: Nope! AU!
Warnings: Rape...>.< threat with a weapon, masturbation, swearing, assault, biting, breath-play? (if I missed something, tell me) I am really sorry about the rape in this chapter...it was hard to write...and I promise there is no more after this!
Summary: The light is on. He’s not cuffed. And Sylar is gone.
A/N: And lo, WS75 said let there be Mylar of the Lambs...and there was born this fic, and it was...sadistic! For the prompt "Sylar is Necessary" on piping_hot's challenge table... Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four....MANY MANY thanks to my lovely beta, Carmexgirl, who betas this, and pwns my soul! And to everyone who is into it so far. I hope you continue to be so! Typos are mine. (Please point out errors)
“Shit,” Sylar whispers as the phone goes off in his pocket. He watches Mohinder stir a little, watches him frown and shift on the bed, eyes still closed as he sleeps.
Still heavily drugged.
Sylar pulls the phone out. It’s Nathan. Of all the times...
He presses the button on the side of the phone to end the call, dropping it back into his pocket before sitting down on the side of the bed. He feels a flush of warmth in his gut as he eyes Mohinder’s sleeping form, an urge to touch the man, to consume him. His fingers begin to trail up Mohinder’s jeans, seemingly of their own accord. He graces softly over Mohinder’s clothed dick, before his hand continues up beneath his shirt, just resting on Mohinder’s slender stomach, feeling it slowly rise and fall beneath his hand.
With a grin, Sylar carefully rolls up the hem of Mohinder’s shirt, exposing the soft brown flesh around his navel. He leans down, running his tongue slowly around Mohinder’s belly-button.
“Mmm,” Sylar groans. He feels Mohinder move beneath him.
A small whimper from Mohinder. He’s fighting the drug; his mind is wanting to wake.
Sylar pushes his shirt up further, now biting down firmly on the taut pectoral muscle beside Mohinder’s left nipple.
Mohinder does wake then, body jerking, attempting to shove Sylar away, to move out from under him.
Sylar is on Mohinder in a flash, gripping both his wrists, pinning them beside his head on the bed.
Those gorgeous eyes are so wide, so terrified and confused, as Sylar crushes Mohinder beneath his body.
Bringing his mouth close to Mohinder’s ear, just brushing his lips over the smooth earlobe, Sylar’s whispers, “Be a good boy.”
Then he’s up, heading out, heading to work, where he’ll probably need to try just a bit harder to keep Nathan from digging any deeper into Mohinder’s case.
He closes the door between the bedroom and the kitchen, locks it. Same motion with the one leading off from the kitchen hall.
Mohinder’s secure; he’s safely locked away, and not getting out...not ever.
Sylar opens his front door and steps outside.
XXXX
Mohinder covers his face with his hands and forces himself to calm his breathing for a moment. Sylar left. He didn’t try anything...not really.
As the fog from the drug continues to clear in his mind, as his breathing returns to normal, he looks down at his bunched up shirt, at the purple teeth marks from Sylar’s bite, skin and muscle stinging painfully, throbbing. It’s sickening, but he tries not to think about it as he shoves the shirt down to cover himself again.
The light is on.
He’s not cuffed.
And Sylar is gone.
Sylar has left a plate of sandwiches and another bottle of water.
Mohinder sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.
If Sylar’s really gone...
He stares at the sandwiches for a moment, not really seeing them.
Today is the day. Today he has to try, has to take a chance, otherwise, he might as well press the blade to his own damn neck, because Sylar won’t be giving him an out.
He’s up, moving across the room, pressing his ear to the door. There’s no sound.
And he has to wonder why...
Why would Sylar leave him behind, unchained, like this?
Mohinder checks the door. There is no deadbolt, only a knob, which is locked.
He could break it down, break it open...but if Sylar gets home before...
Mohinder tries in vain to turn the knob...it’s just a simple lock, but it’s still preventing him from entering the kitchen.
He slides down to his knees to examine the knob. If he had something sharp maybe, a pin, or...
Gaze trailing down to the floor beneath him, moving along the smooth hardwood, he doesn’t spot anything that could help.
“What...could it...” Random thoughts, random words, Mohinder’s mind is a million miles away, on Sylar, on the man who holds Mohinder’s life in his hands, who could return at any moment.
There’s nothing here. Nothing that can be used as a tool to get him into the other room. It’s bare, desolate, empty...it’s his hope, slowly disappearing, as...
Mohinder’s gaze comes to rest on the small closet in the corner of the room. The one Sylar had hung his shirt in.
Maybe...
He’s up, moving fast, opening the closet. Perhaps there’s something...has to be something...
It’s there. The metal hanger is still there, hanging from the bar. For one long moment, Mohinder stares at it. The lone hanger, so alien, alone; trapped in the darkness.
It’s been left behind, like Mohinder...for Mohinder. Divinity? God? A chance?
Mohinder’s fingers grip the hanger, and pull it off the bar with a small metallic scrape. He walks back over to the door, sits down on the floor, cross-legged, comfortable, and proceeds to untwist the wire of the hanger.
He’s doing something. He’s being proactive. A small smile works its way across his lips as he realizes that he’s not going down without a fight, that he can and will think his way out of this situation. It’s something.
A start.
XXXX
Sylar takes in a deep breath as he enters the office.
Nathan is sitting at his desk, eyes darting back and forth over the file in his hand. He chews on his bottom lip.
“Any progress?” Sylar asks.
Nathan shakes his head absently, setting the paper aside, and picking up another, scanning it just as quickly.
“Did you speak to Maya again?”
“No,” Nathan quips, picking up still another paper.
“I think he’s going to be alright,” Sylar says, startled to find his palms are sweating. Seeing Nathan this anxious over Mohinder is exhilarating...but frightening. Whenever the man gets this caught up in a case, he has a tendency to solve it.
Not this time. Not with Sylar here. There’s no way...
But still...
“Why didn’t you pick up when I called?” Nathan asks, setting the last file down and looking up at Sylar.
“I was in the shower,” Sylar lies.
“Why didn’t you call when you got out?”
“What’s the great emergency?” Sylar asks, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at Nathan.
“Only the disappearance of my best friend,” Nathan growls, standing, looking strangely imposing, even when he still has to look up at Sylar who is several inches taller than him.
“This is not the time to start a fight, Nathan, and you know it,” Sylar says, softening his features, playing on Nathan’s good nature. He watches the man shift, change, look somewhat embarrassed as he looks down at his desk. “What have we got?”
“Patterns,” Nathan mumbles, “I’ve been studying the Davis River Killer. I know it’s him. He has Mohinder. And he’s going to...it’s only...” Nathan sits down at his desk, resting his head in his hands, “he’s going to kill Mohinder on Friday night...Saturday morning at the latest. It’s what he’s known for. He takes them, keeps them for a week, then dumps them in the river. We only have two days. Shit, Gabriel! If the police can’t find this killer, what chance do we have?”
“Did you inform the police of this investigation?” Sylar asks, “Of your suspicions?”
“Yeah.”
“And? What’d they say?”
“They said there are any number of people missing who could be in the hands of the Davis River Killer. They penciled Mohinder in as a possibility, but...they don’t...it’s not going to do him any good. There has to be something...goddammit why didn’t I listen to Maya sooner? When the information was fresh in people’s minds...when we could have done something with it!”
“Relax, Nathan, take a breath. Do you want some tea or something?” Sylar asks, easily slipping into the role of the caring co-worker.
“No, I don’t have time for tea,” Nathan snits, standing and shaking his head, “I’m going to go search Mohinder’s house again. See if I can find anything...any hint of a struggle. There has to be-just...can you stay here? In case anyone calls?”
“Why don’t you stay,” Sylar insists, putting a gentle hand on Nathan’s arm, “you can call Maya again. You’re better with people, Nathan. I can check out the crime scene, I know what to look for.”
Nathan’s eyes are wide, his look distant, concerned. He mutters something that Sylar can’t understand, then goes to sit down at his desk, stacking the pile of papers into a neat pile, taking the top one off and looking it over again.
Searching...
“I’ll...can I get the key?” Sylar asks.
Nathan shifts, pulling a key-chain from his pocket, and pulling a silver key off, holding it over to Sylar.
Taking the key with a nod, and a feigned smile, Sylar turns, heading out the door, away from Nathan’s manic actions.
It’s unsettling. But Nathan can’t touch him, can’t affect him.
Mohinder is his. Will be his until he destroys him on Friday night.
No one, not even Mohinder’s best friend, will take that away from Sylar.
XXXX
It’s been too long, an hour maybe? Two? Mohinder feels more and more desperate as he realizes he has no idea how to open a door with a hanger. Somewhere in his exhausted mind he’d only assumed he could.
Tossing the hanger away with an anguished shout, hearing it slide under the bed, ding against one of the metal legs on the other side of the room, Mohinder slams his fists against the door with a groan.
He’s trapped. If Sylar comes home and sees him with the door broken, he’ll...
He’ll what? Kill Mohinder? He’s already planning on doing that.
Time is short, and growing even shorter.
Mohinder suspects that Sylar is at work. He must have some place where he goes for several hours in the day. But Mohinder has no clock, no watch, no way to tell how long the man has been gone.
He stands, taking in several deep and steadying breaths. If this doesn’t work, he’s screwed anyway. And on the other side of that door, in that kitchen, there are weapons. A drawer full of knives. If he can reach one, if he can catch Sylar off-guard, he might have a small chance.
Which is much better than no chance at all.
Mohinder grips the doorknob, and slams into the door, immediately feeling a painful throb run up his arm. He feels his exhausted body twinge at the sudden shock.
But the sound of wood snapping is enough incentive for him to slam into the door a second time, harder, throwing everything he has into it. The door is almost clear of the jamb, and it takes barely another shove for Mohinder to snap it all the way open.
He’s through.
He can’t help but smile as he looks at the kitchen, at the vast potential of the room before him.
XXXX
Sylar smiles as he looks at Mohinder’s kitchen. It’s clean, but homely...he would be one to cook for friends. A small chuckle escapes Sylar at the thought of asking Mohinder to cook for him...demanding it.
He steps past the kitchen, walks into Mohinder’s bedroom. The comforter on the double bed is ruffled a bit, as though Mohinder had attempted to make the bed in a real hurry. His mind had probably been on classes, what he’d be teaching students that day about biology, and genetics, miles away from cleaning up after himself. He probably made the bed out of pure habit. A trait learned from his dear mother. One he continued even when he had no real use for it.
Sylar finds himself sliding onto the bed, lying on top of the comforter. He buries his face in a pillow, Mohinder’s pillow. He smells that familiar and intoxicating scent.
This is where Mohinder slept without terror. Where his thoughts were probably no more stressful than what subjects he would cover the following day, which fellow staff he should invite out to lunch. Perhaps he had fretted over a blind date once or twice, having no interest in relationships as his mind was always on his work, on his studies, and teaching, but being bullied into meeting a sweet woman by his mother, or co-workers.
Sylar’s fingers grip Mohinder’s pillow tightly at the thought of him fucking someone on this bed. A stranger maybe. Someone inexperienced, but downright pleased to be with a man as beautiful as Mohinder.
Had he grown bored of them, or they of him? Had his intelligence frightened them away? Did they masturbate to the thought of him as Sylar had done?
Sylar closes his eyes, and flips over onto his back, imagining Mohinder lying here, pleasuring himself.
Dark and sweat-slicked curls pressing back into his pillow, his mouth slightly agape, breaths fast and low. And his eyes, those dark gorgeous eyes, which had been so wide, so frightened when Sylar pinned Mohinder beneath him that morning...they would flutter as Mohinder jerked himself...as he fucked his own hand.
He’d looked so beautiful under Sylar, stunning as he struggled in terror. How much more gorgeous would he be when he was about to come?
What did he sound like when he moaned? When he orgasmed?
Sylar had watched his house at night, but Mohinder had always closed the blinds to his room. He was secretive...careful.
Sylar swallows as he unzips his pants and grips himself. Nathan is not here. No one can see him as he indulges in the image of Mohinder in his mind, as he immerses himself in the smell of Mohinder’s pillow, of his room. Clean, pleasant, but distinctly Mohinder.
A low moan escapes Sylar’s throat as he remembers Mohinder’s taste, remembers the look in his eyes that morning when Sylar had pinned him down.
In no time at all, Sylar comes all over his hand.
His breathing begins to slow to a steady pace as he lies there, staring up at the ceiling, imagining what it’d be like to be Mohinder.
To be with Mohinder.
Clearing his throat, Sylar rolls off the bed, and heads to the bathroom to clean up.
XXXX
Mohinder’s hand is trembling in anticipation as he grips the metal handle of the drawer, sliding it open, expecting the shining silver of knives, and silverware, and finding...
Nothing.
The drawer is completely empty.
Mohinder feels as though he’s plummeted into a great abyss.
“No,” he moans, opening another drawer, and another, slamming, and banging, and searching.
There is nothing. Not one fork, or knife, or even a random toothpick. Sylar had cleaned it all out.
Glancing around the rest of the kitchen, Mohinder realizes that even the toaster is gone.
The killer has been thorough.
“No!” he cries, looking in all the cupboards, in the fridge, frantic in his motions. Not only is the fridge bare, but even the metal shelves have been removed. It’s frightening how thorough Sylar has been.
Heart hammering in his chest, breath coming in shaky gasps, Mohinder turns to the door in the hall leading off from the kitchen. It looms so strong, so sturdy. He approaches it, gripping the knob, and throwing his weight into the door. Again, and again, and again. A sharp pain spasms throughout his arm, flashing through his body, a reminder of his exertions from breaking into the kitchen. Another door. Another painful barrier.
There’s nothing. Not the sound of wood splintering, nor the give of the dead-bolt. It’s too secure.
Mohinder’s whole body aches as he pounds at the door, kicks, and throws himself at it as fully as he can.
Nothing.
A sickening thought enters his mind.
Sylar is necessary.
For Mohinder to get out of here, Sylar has to be home. Mohinder needs the keys. Needs to be able to unlock the door.
Needs...
A weapon.
Mohinder turns back to the kitchen, looking at all the half open drawers.
No good. No weapons there. Nothing he can reasonably use from the kitchen.
He wracks his brain, trying to think.
Pacing. Pacing. Feet moving of their own accord, back into his room. His room?
Into the room Sylar chose for him...
Mohinder screams, long, startling, primal, pounding his fists against the wall of the room, of his prison, in anguish.
Anything. If there was anything he could use...
He holds back a sob. He’s too tired, too weary to feel sorry for himself anymore. For the second time that day, his mind goes to the closet.
Perhaps there’s something he missed. And if not in the closet, maybe the bathroom. The shower-head? It’s small, but it’s metal. Could be used as a weapon.
Mohinder crosses the room to the closet, throwing it open, looking in, up...
The bar. The metal bar for hanging clothes.
He smiles. It feels strange, but good to do so, and as he pulls the metal bar off the wall with a grunt, the smile never leaves his face.
It’s a weapon. It’s a start. And he’s prepared to fight.
XXXX
Sylar can’t go back to the office. He phones Nathan from Mohinder’s house, as he runs his fingers gently over Mohinder’s coffee table, over the several books and articles sitting there.
“Anything?” Nathan asks, sounding nervous, anxious.
“No,” Sylar states, “no sign of a break-in.”
“Then it had to be when he was walking,” Nathan says.
“Probably,” Sylar says, trying to sound indifferent.
“We should question the neighbors again,” Nathan insists.
“Yeah. I could do that now, or...”
“Sure. Yeah. Get back to me with what you’ve got,” Nathan urges, sounding rushed, distracted.
“I will,” Sylar says, trying his best to sound sympathetic, but finding himself losing patience with Nathan. He’s becoming far too desperate over this.
Then the call is disconnected. Sylar glances at his phone, blinking once in mild surprise at Nathan’s lack of a goodbye. He snaps the cell phone shut, and drops it in his coat pocket.
It’s time to go home. To get back to Mohinder.
To get away from the nagging doubt that Nathan is digging too deep..
XXXX
Mohinder swallows, closing his eyes, listening. He grips the bar until his fingers begin to shake in pain, but his grip doesn’t falter.
He hears it. In the distance, a door closing.
Mohinder jumps up to a standing position, heart thrumming in his chest. No way to tell time, but he thinks Sylar is home earlier than usual.
He stands to the left of the doorway, struggling to steady his breathing as he waits.
The kitchen drawers are closed. The light is off.
He needs the element of surprise. Needs an advantage over Sylar.
The click of the door’s deadbolt makes Mohinder’s breath hitch in his throat. The door opens, Sylar steps in, and Mohinder swings, as hard as he can.
He manages to land a blow, but Sylar is fast, twisting away, and the blow is caught by his right shoulder. Mohinder swings again, hearing the dull thunk of metal on Sylar’s arm, hearing Sylar’s growl of pain in response.
Something clatters across the floor as Mohinder tries to swing again, and Sylar catches the bar this time, pulling it from Mohinder’s hand, and tossing it away behind him with a dull clank. Sylar slams the door shut behind him, and flicks on the light in the hall, before he spins around toward Mohinder, the angry glare on his face causing Mohinder to take several quick steps back into the kitchen, mind flitting through the contents of the room. Maybe if he could grab a drawer...a large blunt weapon...
Before Mohinder can do anything, Sylar crosses the room in several long strides, his left hand darting out to grip Mohinder by the throat, shoving him around and into the fridge with incredible strength. Mohinder struggles, choking, fingers scrabbling to grip the hand closing his airway, to pull Sylar off.
“That was a mistake,” Sylar growls, squeezing just a little tighter, making Mohinder squirm a little harder in his struggle to breathe.
Just when he’s starting to see stars, when the world is becoming foggy and distant around him, Mohinder feels the grip on his throat loosen, and he is swung around and slammed into the counter stomach first. He gasps, sucking in a shuddery breath...several shuddery breaths.
“I bet they all wanted you,” Sylar hisses, causing Mohinder to frown in confusion, and attempt to turn around. Sylar’s hand is immediately in the middle of his back, shoving him into the counter.
“What...” Mohinder mutters, hands bracing against the counter to keep himself from being crushed painfully between the hard surface and Sylar.
“But they don’t know the real you,” Sylar continues, and Mohinder is startled to feel Sylar’s hand snake around to the front of his jeans, unbuttoning them, tugging down the zipper.
“Stop!” Mohinder urges, trying to twist away, out from under Sylar’s grip, but Sylar grabs a handful of Mohinder’s hair in his right hand, twisting his neck back painfully as he drags down Mohinder’s pants, exposing him...
Mohinder’s heart thunders in his chest, and he can feel sweat dripping down his sides, a hot flush running through his body as he whimpers. He’s going to...Sylar’s going to...
It’s surreal. Terrifying. He can’t move away from...
“You want this,” Sylar leans forward to hiss the words into Mohinder’s ear, “you want me.”
Mohinder closes his eyes, tensing and struggling to pull away from Sylar, but it’s physically impossible. He grunts at the exertion, at the panic building within him.
He hears the zipper being undone on Sylar’s pants, and the sound is magnified tenfold in his frightened state.
“Stop,” Mohinder repeats, swallowing back the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat, “stop this, Sylar...”
“You want this,” Sylar repeats, tightening his grip on Mohinder’s hair when Mohinder attempts to move his legs, to kick out, fight back. Sylar’s stance goes wider to compensate for Mohinder’s movements, and Mohinder whimpers again as the counter bites painfully into his stomach, as he feels the startling warm flesh of Sylar’s dick pressed against him.
“No,” Mohinder says quickly, “I don’t...”
It happens so fast. He hears Sylar spit, then a moment later there is a blunt and tearing sensation searing through him.
Mohinder gives a strangled cry, fingers clenching on the counter.
This isn’t happening. It isn’t happening...it couldn’t be.
Mohinder wants to throw up as Sylar thrusts into him. But it gets worse as Sylar’s free hand reaches around, gripping Mohinder’s flaccid dick, stroking him. Using what limited movement he can, Mohinder grinds his pelvis forward, feeling a painful sting in his groin as he crushes himself and Sylar’s hand into the counter.
“Don’t do that,” Sylar scolds, dragging Mohinder back a little, continuing to thrust as he jerks him off. Mohinder feels the hand on his dick. Feels it stroking him, but he won’t be turned on. Can’t be. As Sylar sickeningly uses his body, Mohinder forces his thoughts away. He won’t be here. He won’t let Sylar control his mind, his fear, his body, in this moment.
He’s safe. Lying on the cool grass of a park on a warm autumn day. His eyes are closed. People are screaming with happiness around him, running, and playing. A slight breeze tickles across his face, bringing with it the sweet scent of decaying leaves, of Fall. The grass is soft to his touch, the earth beneath it slightly damp, and...
“You want this,” Sylar growls desperately, trying harder still to work Mohinder’s limp dick into an erection...
But he won’t. Mohinder won’t.
He’s standing before his class. Lecturing. Talking. Smiling. It’s okay. They want to hear him. Want to learn. There are a few faces he recognizes from other classes. They certainly want to be here. He can smell the marker from the whiteboard. There is a light murmur throughout the class, students talking, conferring with one another. Chatting about their weekends, who drank what, who slept with whom. The lights are just a bit too bright as usual. There is a small clatter, a dropped pencil...
“Mohinder...” Sylar sounds on the verge of tears.
He’s eating dinner with his mother, and his father, before Chandra died. They’re discussing their move to America. It’ll be an adventure. A change, frightening, but exciting...
Mohinder winces, grunting again as Sylar thrusts into him with a particularly violent motion, and then comes. As the warm liquid fills him, as Sylar’s semen spreads within him, Mohinder feels an almost overwhelming flush of horror. He fights back the nausea that boils to the surface. He battles to maintain his calm despite his utter disgust.
Sylar’s breathing is ragged, he’s panting as he pulls out of Mohinder, letting him go as he backs away.
Mohinder doesn’t waste a moment, dipping down to quickly drag up his pants, buttoning them, not daring to look at Sylar as his own body trembles with the overwhelming threat of a breakdown.
He hears Sylar’s zipper being pulled up. Hears the man leave, the hall door opening and slamming. Mohinder presses shaking fingers to his temple as he glances at the door.
Did the lock cli-
The sound of the deadbolt snapping into place can be heard, and Mohinder closes his eyes.
They fly open a moment later and he glances back at the floor near the door. Even in the shadows he can see something dark, small, and familiar in the hall.
A mobile phone.
Mohinder rushes over, snatching up the phone, and flipping it open.
It’s not turned on, and his finger quickly finds the power button, pressing down.
Let this work. Let it work.
God, please let it work...
XXXX
Sylar’s fingers clench in his hair as he paces around his room.
He didn’t come. Mohinder didn’t come. He resisted. He didn’t want...
Fuck.
Of course he wants...
They all wanted Mohinder. Sylar wanted him.
Wants him. Had him.
But Mohinder didn’t come.
He should have. The others did. The other victims. They cried, and begged, pleaded, and fought, but they always came...
Sylar’s hands fall down to his hips as his body shivers, a mixture of arousal and frustration. Then he realizes something is off. Something is wrong.
His hands pat at his pockets.
His phone is gone.
Sylar’s eyes go wide as he hurries back toward the kitchen.
XXXX
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency...”
“Please,” Mohinder’s mind is a mad jumble of thoughts, an excited rush as the call goes through. He has the phone, has a signal, and help may very soon be on the way. “I need help, please. I’m being held by the Davis River Killer. A man who calls himself Sylar. I don’t...can you trace a mobile phone?”
“You’re being held by the Davis River Killer?” the woman repeats, sounding both suspicious and concerned.
“Yes,” Mohinder mutters, “I don’t know where I am, but-”
That all too familiar cool blade is being pressed to his throat, and Mohinder tenses as he hears Sylar chuckle beside him.
“Oh my god, Aaron, are you actually trying to pull that one,” Sylar says with a rather convincing laugh. Mohinder feels the killer’s lips brush over his right ear, the one not pressed to the phone, and Sylar threateningly whispers, “laugh, now...”
Mohinder does, forcing a chuckle, listening to the bitter voice of the emergency operator, “sir, is this a prank?”
“Sorry about my friend here, he’s a little tipsy,” Sylar says, pulling the phone from Mohinder’s hand, “I’m really really sorry. I won’t let him near the phone again.”
“No,” Mohinder whimpers, but Sylar is already snapping the mobile shut, and dropping it into his pocket.
Mohinder stares at Sylar, taking a step back toward the wall, keeping distance between them. He expects Sylar to cut him, or hit him, to grab him by his hair, and throw him into the wall. The killer stands there, staring back at Mohinder.
Finally he speaks, and the words only serve to make Mohinder more ill at ease in their kindness, “you haven’t eaten today, have you?”
Mohinder shakes his head slowly.
“Go and clean up. I’ll make some dinner,” Sylar says.
“I don’t have...”
“I’ll bring you soap and towels in a moment,” Sylar says, voice quiet, distant.
“I’m not hungry,” Mohinder says, his voice sounding alien and useless to his own ears.
“You’re going to eat anyway,” Sylar states.
Mohinder stares down at the floor, feeling numb and lost.
There is a tense silent moment which makes the air almost stifling between them. Then Sylar leaves without a word, returning a few minutes later, handing Mohinder a bag with showering supplies.
“What do you want for dinner?” Sylar asks.
Mohinder shrugs, mind at a loss for a single thing that sounds appetizing. He hears a small sigh from Sylar.
“Go shower,” Sylar orders gently, “there’s fresh clothes in there.”
Mohinder slides around the doorway, through the bedroom, into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him, body working without thought, autonomic, barely there.
He’s standing in the shower, warm water running over him, cleansing him.
His fingers trail down, to his legs, between his legs. He hurts. His body aches, and throbs, and he can see blood on his fingers when he holds his hand up.
And it’s then that Mohinder’s strained calm shatters, and he collapses forward to his knees in the bath, bracing his hands on the smooth surface of the tub as he throws up...not for the first time in Sylar’s house. When he’s able to catch his breath, he only finds himself throwing up again, watching the former contents of his stomach swirl and wash down the drain.
Mohinder closes his eyes, just sitting there, trembling, not wanting to move, to go back out and face Sylar.
How long can he stay? What can he do?
It only he could just wash away with the water swirling down the drain...disappear.
If only he didn’t have to feel, and worry, and hurt like this.
If only he didn’t have the fear of what more Sylar could do if given the chance. And it’s with that thought in mind that Mohinder stands, and uses shaky hands to continue cleaning himself. Scrubbing desperately. Until his skin is raw. Until it burns.
Cleansing.
Cleansing.
It’s not enough.
It’ll never be enough.
XXXX
Sylar closes his eyes as he presses his ear to the door, listening as Mohinder throws up.
His fingers brush over the fine wood of the door, imagining the naked and vulnerable body on the other side.
Sylar’s control has been faltering, his desire overwhelming him. Mohinder...something about the man has thrown Sylar off his game.
And it frightens him...
But not nearly as much as it excites him.
Sylar winces a bit as his shoulder throbs where the bar made contact. It hurts like hell, but his thoughts are so preoccupied with the man who inflicted it, that he barely notices the aching.
He listens to the change in the water signaling Mohinder is washing himself again.
Sylar presses his forehead to the door, eyes closed, so tempted to rush in there, and claim the man again, to hurt him, make him cower, and bleed, and cry out for mercy.
But he doesn’t.
He holds himself back, and he’s not entirely sure why.
“God I’m going to miss you when you’re gone,” Sylar mutters into the door, content that Mohinder can’t hear him.
When he hears the shower shut off, he turns and walks away.
Time to make dinner. Time to take back control.
Time to enjoy Mohinder Suresh in the few days they have left.
Author: Megmatthews20
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Nathan, mentions of others
Rating: NC-17 Rape...
Word Count: 5308
Spoilers: Nope! AU!
Warnings: Rape...>.< threat with a weapon, masturbation, swearing, assault, biting, breath-play? (if I missed something, tell me) I am really sorry about the rape in this chapter...it was hard to write...and I promise there is no more after this!
Summary: The light is on. He’s not cuffed. And Sylar is gone.
A/N: And lo, WS75 said let there be Mylar of the Lambs...and there was born this fic, and it was...sadistic! For the prompt "Sylar is Necessary" on piping_hot's challenge table... Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four....MANY MANY thanks to my lovely beta, Carmexgirl, who betas this, and pwns my soul! And to everyone who is into it so far. I hope you continue to be so! Typos are mine. (Please point out errors)
“Shit,” Sylar whispers as the phone goes off in his pocket. He watches Mohinder stir a little, watches him frown and shift on the bed, eyes still closed as he sleeps.
Still heavily drugged.
Sylar pulls the phone out. It’s Nathan. Of all the times...
He presses the button on the side of the phone to end the call, dropping it back into his pocket before sitting down on the side of the bed. He feels a flush of warmth in his gut as he eyes Mohinder’s sleeping form, an urge to touch the man, to consume him. His fingers begin to trail up Mohinder’s jeans, seemingly of their own accord. He graces softly over Mohinder’s clothed dick, before his hand continues up beneath his shirt, just resting on Mohinder’s slender stomach, feeling it slowly rise and fall beneath his hand.
With a grin, Sylar carefully rolls up the hem of Mohinder’s shirt, exposing the soft brown flesh around his navel. He leans down, running his tongue slowly around Mohinder’s belly-button.
“Mmm,” Sylar groans. He feels Mohinder move beneath him.
A small whimper from Mohinder. He’s fighting the drug; his mind is wanting to wake.
Sylar pushes his shirt up further, now biting down firmly on the taut pectoral muscle beside Mohinder’s left nipple.
Mohinder does wake then, body jerking, attempting to shove Sylar away, to move out from under him.
Sylar is on Mohinder in a flash, gripping both his wrists, pinning them beside his head on the bed.
Those gorgeous eyes are so wide, so terrified and confused, as Sylar crushes Mohinder beneath his body.
Bringing his mouth close to Mohinder’s ear, just brushing his lips over the smooth earlobe, Sylar’s whispers, “Be a good boy.”
Then he’s up, heading out, heading to work, where he’ll probably need to try just a bit harder to keep Nathan from digging any deeper into Mohinder’s case.
He closes the door between the bedroom and the kitchen, locks it. Same motion with the one leading off from the kitchen hall.
Mohinder’s secure; he’s safely locked away, and not getting out...not ever.
Sylar opens his front door and steps outside.
XXXX
Mohinder covers his face with his hands and forces himself to calm his breathing for a moment. Sylar left. He didn’t try anything...not really.
As the fog from the drug continues to clear in his mind, as his breathing returns to normal, he looks down at his bunched up shirt, at the purple teeth marks from Sylar’s bite, skin and muscle stinging painfully, throbbing. It’s sickening, but he tries not to think about it as he shoves the shirt down to cover himself again.
The light is on.
He’s not cuffed.
And Sylar is gone.
Sylar has left a plate of sandwiches and another bottle of water.
Mohinder sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.
If Sylar’s really gone...
He stares at the sandwiches for a moment, not really seeing them.
Today is the day. Today he has to try, has to take a chance, otherwise, he might as well press the blade to his own damn neck, because Sylar won’t be giving him an out.
He’s up, moving across the room, pressing his ear to the door. There’s no sound.
And he has to wonder why...
Why would Sylar leave him behind, unchained, like this?
Mohinder checks the door. There is no deadbolt, only a knob, which is locked.
He could break it down, break it open...but if Sylar gets home before...
Mohinder tries in vain to turn the knob...it’s just a simple lock, but it’s still preventing him from entering the kitchen.
He slides down to his knees to examine the knob. If he had something sharp maybe, a pin, or...
Gaze trailing down to the floor beneath him, moving along the smooth hardwood, he doesn’t spot anything that could help.
“What...could it...” Random thoughts, random words, Mohinder’s mind is a million miles away, on Sylar, on the man who holds Mohinder’s life in his hands, who could return at any moment.
There’s nothing here. Nothing that can be used as a tool to get him into the other room. It’s bare, desolate, empty...it’s his hope, slowly disappearing, as...
Mohinder’s gaze comes to rest on the small closet in the corner of the room. The one Sylar had hung his shirt in.
Maybe...
He’s up, moving fast, opening the closet. Perhaps there’s something...has to be something...
It’s there. The metal hanger is still there, hanging from the bar. For one long moment, Mohinder stares at it. The lone hanger, so alien, alone; trapped in the darkness.
It’s been left behind, like Mohinder...for Mohinder. Divinity? God? A chance?
Mohinder’s fingers grip the hanger, and pull it off the bar with a small metallic scrape. He walks back over to the door, sits down on the floor, cross-legged, comfortable, and proceeds to untwist the wire of the hanger.
He’s doing something. He’s being proactive. A small smile works its way across his lips as he realizes that he’s not going down without a fight, that he can and will think his way out of this situation. It’s something.
A start.
XXXX
Sylar takes in a deep breath as he enters the office.
Nathan is sitting at his desk, eyes darting back and forth over the file in his hand. He chews on his bottom lip.
“Any progress?” Sylar asks.
Nathan shakes his head absently, setting the paper aside, and picking up another, scanning it just as quickly.
“Did you speak to Maya again?”
“No,” Nathan quips, picking up still another paper.
“I think he’s going to be alright,” Sylar says, startled to find his palms are sweating. Seeing Nathan this anxious over Mohinder is exhilarating...but frightening. Whenever the man gets this caught up in a case, he has a tendency to solve it.
Not this time. Not with Sylar here. There’s no way...
But still...
“Why didn’t you pick up when I called?” Nathan asks, setting the last file down and looking up at Sylar.
“I was in the shower,” Sylar lies.
“Why didn’t you call when you got out?”
“What’s the great emergency?” Sylar asks, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at Nathan.
“Only the disappearance of my best friend,” Nathan growls, standing, looking strangely imposing, even when he still has to look up at Sylar who is several inches taller than him.
“This is not the time to start a fight, Nathan, and you know it,” Sylar says, softening his features, playing on Nathan’s good nature. He watches the man shift, change, look somewhat embarrassed as he looks down at his desk. “What have we got?”
“Patterns,” Nathan mumbles, “I’ve been studying the Davis River Killer. I know it’s him. He has Mohinder. And he’s going to...it’s only...” Nathan sits down at his desk, resting his head in his hands, “he’s going to kill Mohinder on Friday night...Saturday morning at the latest. It’s what he’s known for. He takes them, keeps them for a week, then dumps them in the river. We only have two days. Shit, Gabriel! If the police can’t find this killer, what chance do we have?”
“Did you inform the police of this investigation?” Sylar asks, “Of your suspicions?”
“Yeah.”
“And? What’d they say?”
“They said there are any number of people missing who could be in the hands of the Davis River Killer. They penciled Mohinder in as a possibility, but...they don’t...it’s not going to do him any good. There has to be something...goddammit why didn’t I listen to Maya sooner? When the information was fresh in people’s minds...when we could have done something with it!”
“Relax, Nathan, take a breath. Do you want some tea or something?” Sylar asks, easily slipping into the role of the caring co-worker.
“No, I don’t have time for tea,” Nathan snits, standing and shaking his head, “I’m going to go search Mohinder’s house again. See if I can find anything...any hint of a struggle. There has to be-just...can you stay here? In case anyone calls?”
“Why don’t you stay,” Sylar insists, putting a gentle hand on Nathan’s arm, “you can call Maya again. You’re better with people, Nathan. I can check out the crime scene, I know what to look for.”
Nathan’s eyes are wide, his look distant, concerned. He mutters something that Sylar can’t understand, then goes to sit down at his desk, stacking the pile of papers into a neat pile, taking the top one off and looking it over again.
Searching...
“I’ll...can I get the key?” Sylar asks.
Nathan shifts, pulling a key-chain from his pocket, and pulling a silver key off, holding it over to Sylar.
Taking the key with a nod, and a feigned smile, Sylar turns, heading out the door, away from Nathan’s manic actions.
It’s unsettling. But Nathan can’t touch him, can’t affect him.
Mohinder is his. Will be his until he destroys him on Friday night.
No one, not even Mohinder’s best friend, will take that away from Sylar.
XXXX
It’s been too long, an hour maybe? Two? Mohinder feels more and more desperate as he realizes he has no idea how to open a door with a hanger. Somewhere in his exhausted mind he’d only assumed he could.
Tossing the hanger away with an anguished shout, hearing it slide under the bed, ding against one of the metal legs on the other side of the room, Mohinder slams his fists against the door with a groan.
He’s trapped. If Sylar comes home and sees him with the door broken, he’ll...
He’ll what? Kill Mohinder? He’s already planning on doing that.
Time is short, and growing even shorter.
Mohinder suspects that Sylar is at work. He must have some place where he goes for several hours in the day. But Mohinder has no clock, no watch, no way to tell how long the man has been gone.
He stands, taking in several deep and steadying breaths. If this doesn’t work, he’s screwed anyway. And on the other side of that door, in that kitchen, there are weapons. A drawer full of knives. If he can reach one, if he can catch Sylar off-guard, he might have a small chance.
Which is much better than no chance at all.
Mohinder grips the doorknob, and slams into the door, immediately feeling a painful throb run up his arm. He feels his exhausted body twinge at the sudden shock.
But the sound of wood snapping is enough incentive for him to slam into the door a second time, harder, throwing everything he has into it. The door is almost clear of the jamb, and it takes barely another shove for Mohinder to snap it all the way open.
He’s through.
He can’t help but smile as he looks at the kitchen, at the vast potential of the room before him.
XXXX
Sylar smiles as he looks at Mohinder’s kitchen. It’s clean, but homely...he would be one to cook for friends. A small chuckle escapes Sylar at the thought of asking Mohinder to cook for him...demanding it.
He steps past the kitchen, walks into Mohinder’s bedroom. The comforter on the double bed is ruffled a bit, as though Mohinder had attempted to make the bed in a real hurry. His mind had probably been on classes, what he’d be teaching students that day about biology, and genetics, miles away from cleaning up after himself. He probably made the bed out of pure habit. A trait learned from his dear mother. One he continued even when he had no real use for it.
Sylar finds himself sliding onto the bed, lying on top of the comforter. He buries his face in a pillow, Mohinder’s pillow. He smells that familiar and intoxicating scent.
This is where Mohinder slept without terror. Where his thoughts were probably no more stressful than what subjects he would cover the following day, which fellow staff he should invite out to lunch. Perhaps he had fretted over a blind date once or twice, having no interest in relationships as his mind was always on his work, on his studies, and teaching, but being bullied into meeting a sweet woman by his mother, or co-workers.
Sylar’s fingers grip Mohinder’s pillow tightly at the thought of him fucking someone on this bed. A stranger maybe. Someone inexperienced, but downright pleased to be with a man as beautiful as Mohinder.
Had he grown bored of them, or they of him? Had his intelligence frightened them away? Did they masturbate to the thought of him as Sylar had done?
Sylar closes his eyes, and flips over onto his back, imagining Mohinder lying here, pleasuring himself.
Dark and sweat-slicked curls pressing back into his pillow, his mouth slightly agape, breaths fast and low. And his eyes, those dark gorgeous eyes, which had been so wide, so frightened when Sylar pinned Mohinder beneath him that morning...they would flutter as Mohinder jerked himself...as he fucked his own hand.
He’d looked so beautiful under Sylar, stunning as he struggled in terror. How much more gorgeous would he be when he was about to come?
What did he sound like when he moaned? When he orgasmed?
Sylar had watched his house at night, but Mohinder had always closed the blinds to his room. He was secretive...careful.
Sylar swallows as he unzips his pants and grips himself. Nathan is not here. No one can see him as he indulges in the image of Mohinder in his mind, as he immerses himself in the smell of Mohinder’s pillow, of his room. Clean, pleasant, but distinctly Mohinder.
A low moan escapes Sylar’s throat as he remembers Mohinder’s taste, remembers the look in his eyes that morning when Sylar had pinned him down.
In no time at all, Sylar comes all over his hand.
His breathing begins to slow to a steady pace as he lies there, staring up at the ceiling, imagining what it’d be like to be Mohinder.
To be with Mohinder.
Clearing his throat, Sylar rolls off the bed, and heads to the bathroom to clean up.
XXXX
Mohinder’s hand is trembling in anticipation as he grips the metal handle of the drawer, sliding it open, expecting the shining silver of knives, and silverware, and finding...
Nothing.
The drawer is completely empty.
Mohinder feels as though he’s plummeted into a great abyss.
“No,” he moans, opening another drawer, and another, slamming, and banging, and searching.
There is nothing. Not one fork, or knife, or even a random toothpick. Sylar had cleaned it all out.
Glancing around the rest of the kitchen, Mohinder realizes that even the toaster is gone.
The killer has been thorough.
“No!” he cries, looking in all the cupboards, in the fridge, frantic in his motions. Not only is the fridge bare, but even the metal shelves have been removed. It’s frightening how thorough Sylar has been.
Heart hammering in his chest, breath coming in shaky gasps, Mohinder turns to the door in the hall leading off from the kitchen. It looms so strong, so sturdy. He approaches it, gripping the knob, and throwing his weight into the door. Again, and again, and again. A sharp pain spasms throughout his arm, flashing through his body, a reminder of his exertions from breaking into the kitchen. Another door. Another painful barrier.
There’s nothing. Not the sound of wood splintering, nor the give of the dead-bolt. It’s too secure.
Mohinder’s whole body aches as he pounds at the door, kicks, and throws himself at it as fully as he can.
Nothing.
A sickening thought enters his mind.
Sylar is necessary.
For Mohinder to get out of here, Sylar has to be home. Mohinder needs the keys. Needs to be able to unlock the door.
Needs...
A weapon.
Mohinder turns back to the kitchen, looking at all the half open drawers.
No good. No weapons there. Nothing he can reasonably use from the kitchen.
He wracks his brain, trying to think.
Pacing. Pacing. Feet moving of their own accord, back into his room. His room?
Into the room Sylar chose for him...
Mohinder screams, long, startling, primal, pounding his fists against the wall of the room, of his prison, in anguish.
Anything. If there was anything he could use...
He holds back a sob. He’s too tired, too weary to feel sorry for himself anymore. For the second time that day, his mind goes to the closet.
Perhaps there’s something he missed. And if not in the closet, maybe the bathroom. The shower-head? It’s small, but it’s metal. Could be used as a weapon.
Mohinder crosses the room to the closet, throwing it open, looking in, up...
The bar. The metal bar for hanging clothes.
He smiles. It feels strange, but good to do so, and as he pulls the metal bar off the wall with a grunt, the smile never leaves his face.
It’s a weapon. It’s a start. And he’s prepared to fight.
XXXX
Sylar can’t go back to the office. He phones Nathan from Mohinder’s house, as he runs his fingers gently over Mohinder’s coffee table, over the several books and articles sitting there.
“Anything?” Nathan asks, sounding nervous, anxious.
“No,” Sylar states, “no sign of a break-in.”
“Then it had to be when he was walking,” Nathan says.
“Probably,” Sylar says, trying to sound indifferent.
“We should question the neighbors again,” Nathan insists.
“Yeah. I could do that now, or...”
“Sure. Yeah. Get back to me with what you’ve got,” Nathan urges, sounding rushed, distracted.
“I will,” Sylar says, trying his best to sound sympathetic, but finding himself losing patience with Nathan. He’s becoming far too desperate over this.
Then the call is disconnected. Sylar glances at his phone, blinking once in mild surprise at Nathan’s lack of a goodbye. He snaps the cell phone shut, and drops it in his coat pocket.
It’s time to go home. To get back to Mohinder.
To get away from the nagging doubt that Nathan is digging too deep..
XXXX
Mohinder swallows, closing his eyes, listening. He grips the bar until his fingers begin to shake in pain, but his grip doesn’t falter.
He hears it. In the distance, a door closing.
Mohinder jumps up to a standing position, heart thrumming in his chest. No way to tell time, but he thinks Sylar is home earlier than usual.
He stands to the left of the doorway, struggling to steady his breathing as he waits.
The kitchen drawers are closed. The light is off.
He needs the element of surprise. Needs an advantage over Sylar.
The click of the door’s deadbolt makes Mohinder’s breath hitch in his throat. The door opens, Sylar steps in, and Mohinder swings, as hard as he can.
He manages to land a blow, but Sylar is fast, twisting away, and the blow is caught by his right shoulder. Mohinder swings again, hearing the dull thunk of metal on Sylar’s arm, hearing Sylar’s growl of pain in response.
Something clatters across the floor as Mohinder tries to swing again, and Sylar catches the bar this time, pulling it from Mohinder’s hand, and tossing it away behind him with a dull clank. Sylar slams the door shut behind him, and flicks on the light in the hall, before he spins around toward Mohinder, the angry glare on his face causing Mohinder to take several quick steps back into the kitchen, mind flitting through the contents of the room. Maybe if he could grab a drawer...a large blunt weapon...
Before Mohinder can do anything, Sylar crosses the room in several long strides, his left hand darting out to grip Mohinder by the throat, shoving him around and into the fridge with incredible strength. Mohinder struggles, choking, fingers scrabbling to grip the hand closing his airway, to pull Sylar off.
“That was a mistake,” Sylar growls, squeezing just a little tighter, making Mohinder squirm a little harder in his struggle to breathe.
Just when he’s starting to see stars, when the world is becoming foggy and distant around him, Mohinder feels the grip on his throat loosen, and he is swung around and slammed into the counter stomach first. He gasps, sucking in a shuddery breath...several shuddery breaths.
“I bet they all wanted you,” Sylar hisses, causing Mohinder to frown in confusion, and attempt to turn around. Sylar’s hand is immediately in the middle of his back, shoving him into the counter.
“What...” Mohinder mutters, hands bracing against the counter to keep himself from being crushed painfully between the hard surface and Sylar.
“But they don’t know the real you,” Sylar continues, and Mohinder is startled to feel Sylar’s hand snake around to the front of his jeans, unbuttoning them, tugging down the zipper.
“Stop!” Mohinder urges, trying to twist away, out from under Sylar’s grip, but Sylar grabs a handful of Mohinder’s hair in his right hand, twisting his neck back painfully as he drags down Mohinder’s pants, exposing him...
Mohinder’s heart thunders in his chest, and he can feel sweat dripping down his sides, a hot flush running through his body as he whimpers. He’s going to...Sylar’s going to...
It’s surreal. Terrifying. He can’t move away from...
“You want this,” Sylar leans forward to hiss the words into Mohinder’s ear, “you want me.”
Mohinder closes his eyes, tensing and struggling to pull away from Sylar, but it’s physically impossible. He grunts at the exertion, at the panic building within him.
He hears the zipper being undone on Sylar’s pants, and the sound is magnified tenfold in his frightened state.
“Stop,” Mohinder repeats, swallowing back the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat, “stop this, Sylar...”
“You want this,” Sylar repeats, tightening his grip on Mohinder’s hair when Mohinder attempts to move his legs, to kick out, fight back. Sylar’s stance goes wider to compensate for Mohinder’s movements, and Mohinder whimpers again as the counter bites painfully into his stomach, as he feels the startling warm flesh of Sylar’s dick pressed against him.
“No,” Mohinder says quickly, “I don’t...”
It happens so fast. He hears Sylar spit, then a moment later there is a blunt and tearing sensation searing through him.
Mohinder gives a strangled cry, fingers clenching on the counter.
This isn’t happening. It isn’t happening...it couldn’t be.
Mohinder wants to throw up as Sylar thrusts into him. But it gets worse as Sylar’s free hand reaches around, gripping Mohinder’s flaccid dick, stroking him. Using what limited movement he can, Mohinder grinds his pelvis forward, feeling a painful sting in his groin as he crushes himself and Sylar’s hand into the counter.
“Don’t do that,” Sylar scolds, dragging Mohinder back a little, continuing to thrust as he jerks him off. Mohinder feels the hand on his dick. Feels it stroking him, but he won’t be turned on. Can’t be. As Sylar sickeningly uses his body, Mohinder forces his thoughts away. He won’t be here. He won’t let Sylar control his mind, his fear, his body, in this moment.
He’s safe. Lying on the cool grass of a park on a warm autumn day. His eyes are closed. People are screaming with happiness around him, running, and playing. A slight breeze tickles across his face, bringing with it the sweet scent of decaying leaves, of Fall. The grass is soft to his touch, the earth beneath it slightly damp, and...
“You want this,” Sylar growls desperately, trying harder still to work Mohinder’s limp dick into an erection...
But he won’t. Mohinder won’t.
He’s standing before his class. Lecturing. Talking. Smiling. It’s okay. They want to hear him. Want to learn. There are a few faces he recognizes from other classes. They certainly want to be here. He can smell the marker from the whiteboard. There is a light murmur throughout the class, students talking, conferring with one another. Chatting about their weekends, who drank what, who slept with whom. The lights are just a bit too bright as usual. There is a small clatter, a dropped pencil...
“Mohinder...” Sylar sounds on the verge of tears.
He’s eating dinner with his mother, and his father, before Chandra died. They’re discussing their move to America. It’ll be an adventure. A change, frightening, but exciting...
Mohinder winces, grunting again as Sylar thrusts into him with a particularly violent motion, and then comes. As the warm liquid fills him, as Sylar’s semen spreads within him, Mohinder feels an almost overwhelming flush of horror. He fights back the nausea that boils to the surface. He battles to maintain his calm despite his utter disgust.
Sylar’s breathing is ragged, he’s panting as he pulls out of Mohinder, letting him go as he backs away.
Mohinder doesn’t waste a moment, dipping down to quickly drag up his pants, buttoning them, not daring to look at Sylar as his own body trembles with the overwhelming threat of a breakdown.
He hears Sylar’s zipper being pulled up. Hears the man leave, the hall door opening and slamming. Mohinder presses shaking fingers to his temple as he glances at the door.
Did the lock cli-
The sound of the deadbolt snapping into place can be heard, and Mohinder closes his eyes.
They fly open a moment later and he glances back at the floor near the door. Even in the shadows he can see something dark, small, and familiar in the hall.
A mobile phone.
Mohinder rushes over, snatching up the phone, and flipping it open.
It’s not turned on, and his finger quickly finds the power button, pressing down.
Let this work. Let it work.
God, please let it work...
XXXX
Sylar’s fingers clench in his hair as he paces around his room.
He didn’t come. Mohinder didn’t come. He resisted. He didn’t want...
Fuck.
Of course he wants...
They all wanted Mohinder. Sylar wanted him.
Wants him. Had him.
But Mohinder didn’t come.
He should have. The others did. The other victims. They cried, and begged, pleaded, and fought, but they always came...
Sylar’s hands fall down to his hips as his body shivers, a mixture of arousal and frustration. Then he realizes something is off. Something is wrong.
His hands pat at his pockets.
His phone is gone.
Sylar’s eyes go wide as he hurries back toward the kitchen.
XXXX
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency...”
“Please,” Mohinder’s mind is a mad jumble of thoughts, an excited rush as the call goes through. He has the phone, has a signal, and help may very soon be on the way. “I need help, please. I’m being held by the Davis River Killer. A man who calls himself Sylar. I don’t...can you trace a mobile phone?”
“You’re being held by the Davis River Killer?” the woman repeats, sounding both suspicious and concerned.
“Yes,” Mohinder mutters, “I don’t know where I am, but-”
That all too familiar cool blade is being pressed to his throat, and Mohinder tenses as he hears Sylar chuckle beside him.
“Oh my god, Aaron, are you actually trying to pull that one,” Sylar says with a rather convincing laugh. Mohinder feels the killer’s lips brush over his right ear, the one not pressed to the phone, and Sylar threateningly whispers, “laugh, now...”
Mohinder does, forcing a chuckle, listening to the bitter voice of the emergency operator, “sir, is this a prank?”
“Sorry about my friend here, he’s a little tipsy,” Sylar says, pulling the phone from Mohinder’s hand, “I’m really really sorry. I won’t let him near the phone again.”
“No,” Mohinder whimpers, but Sylar is already snapping the mobile shut, and dropping it into his pocket.
Mohinder stares at Sylar, taking a step back toward the wall, keeping distance between them. He expects Sylar to cut him, or hit him, to grab him by his hair, and throw him into the wall. The killer stands there, staring back at Mohinder.
Finally he speaks, and the words only serve to make Mohinder more ill at ease in their kindness, “you haven’t eaten today, have you?”
Mohinder shakes his head slowly.
“Go and clean up. I’ll make some dinner,” Sylar says.
“I don’t have...”
“I’ll bring you soap and towels in a moment,” Sylar says, voice quiet, distant.
“I’m not hungry,” Mohinder says, his voice sounding alien and useless to his own ears.
“You’re going to eat anyway,” Sylar states.
Mohinder stares down at the floor, feeling numb and lost.
There is a tense silent moment which makes the air almost stifling between them. Then Sylar leaves without a word, returning a few minutes later, handing Mohinder a bag with showering supplies.
“What do you want for dinner?” Sylar asks.
Mohinder shrugs, mind at a loss for a single thing that sounds appetizing. He hears a small sigh from Sylar.
“Go shower,” Sylar orders gently, “there’s fresh clothes in there.”
Mohinder slides around the doorway, through the bedroom, into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him, body working without thought, autonomic, barely there.
He’s standing in the shower, warm water running over him, cleansing him.
His fingers trail down, to his legs, between his legs. He hurts. His body aches, and throbs, and he can see blood on his fingers when he holds his hand up.
And it’s then that Mohinder’s strained calm shatters, and he collapses forward to his knees in the bath, bracing his hands on the smooth surface of the tub as he throws up...not for the first time in Sylar’s house. When he’s able to catch his breath, he only finds himself throwing up again, watching the former contents of his stomach swirl and wash down the drain.
Mohinder closes his eyes, just sitting there, trembling, not wanting to move, to go back out and face Sylar.
How long can he stay? What can he do?
It only he could just wash away with the water swirling down the drain...disappear.
If only he didn’t have to feel, and worry, and hurt like this.
If only he didn’t have the fear of what more Sylar could do if given the chance. And it’s with that thought in mind that Mohinder stands, and uses shaky hands to continue cleaning himself. Scrubbing desperately. Until his skin is raw. Until it burns.
Cleansing.
Cleansing.
It’s not enough.
It’ll never be enough.
XXXX
Sylar closes his eyes as he presses his ear to the door, listening as Mohinder throws up.
His fingers brush over the fine wood of the door, imagining the naked and vulnerable body on the other side.
Sylar’s control has been faltering, his desire overwhelming him. Mohinder...something about the man has thrown Sylar off his game.
And it frightens him...
But not nearly as much as it excites him.
Sylar winces a bit as his shoulder throbs where the bar made contact. It hurts like hell, but his thoughts are so preoccupied with the man who inflicted it, that he barely notices the aching.
He listens to the change in the water signaling Mohinder is washing himself again.
Sylar presses his forehead to the door, eyes closed, so tempted to rush in there, and claim the man again, to hurt him, make him cower, and bleed, and cry out for mercy.
But he doesn’t.
He holds himself back, and he’s not entirely sure why.
“God I’m going to miss you when you’re gone,” Sylar mutters into the door, content that Mohinder can’t hear him.
When he hears the shower shut off, he turns and walks away.
Time to make dinner. Time to take back control.
Time to enjoy Mohinder Suresh in the few days they have left.