Bound by Blood
Title: Bound by Blood
Characters/Paring: Mohinder/Sylar, and a pair of OC vampires.
Rating: R
Spoilers: S1 & 2
Warnings: Vampires! Violence, blood, sexuality, some angst.
Word Count: 6,644
Summary: Though Sylar had yet to decide what, exactly, should be done with Mohinder Suresh, his death at the hands of another was unacceptable. Mohinder becoming a vampire, on the other hand, was just damn confusing.
mission_insane Table: Horror / Prompt: Vampire
Notes:
1) This is a much belated birthday and Christmas present for my dearest ladywilde80. This fic was started back in the spring, but I would have abandoned it entirely had she not expressed her excitement at me trying my hand at Vampires. So I resurrected it just for her, and watched it explode into something much bigger than I had planned.
All for you darling, all for you.
2) levitatethis was kind enough to beta this and she did an amazing job. Any little grammatical errors and the like are definitely all mine, but the last paragraph is all hers. I tried to modify her re-write, but hers was just so damn good, so there you go.
Thank you again!
-----
Mohinder paced down shadowy New York streets with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, hunched against the chill. Work at the lab had been highly frustrating and he had decided that a walk in the cool, spring, nighttime air would help settle his mind. At the very least he should be physically exhausted enough by the time he got home to assure a full night’s sleep, something that had been eluding him ever since Sylar reappeared in his life. The serial killer had gone back underground after absconding with his cure, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time until he reappeared once more.
Before his thoughts could continue down that dangerous path, Mohinder’s pocket began to ring. Frowning, Mohinder pulled out his cellphone and flipped it open. His frown deepened further at the display. It simply read “Pay Phone”. He couldn’t imagine who might be calling him at this time at night, especially from a payphone, but he couldn’t ignore the call. He tapped the receive button and brought the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mohinder.”
A shiver shot down Mohinder’s spine and he froze in his tracks. That deep, gravelly voice was etched permanently on his memory.
“Sylar,” he bit out with evident frustration. “Whatever you want, you can forget about it.”
“Now that’s not very nice, Mohinder.” Sylar replied in that patronizing tone of his; he spoke as if he were some all-knowing god, imparting wisdom from on high. The arrogance of it was infuriating. “Besides, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
“All you ever do is use people. Why should this be any different?” Mohinder shot back. He would have hung up then and there if he could have been certain the action wouldn’t end up causing even more trouble.
Sylar sighed on the other side of the line, and for a moment there was silence.
“Listen, Mohinder, I know you don’t have any reason to believe me but-“ He broke off as a car drove by. “Wait, are you outside? What time is it?”
Ok… and I didn’t think he could get any more insane.
“Whatever it is you’re playing at, I’m not interested.” Mohinder returned angrily. He was sick of Sylar’s head-games. “Don’t call me again.”
“No, wait! Mohin-“
Mohinder snapped his phone shut and shoved it roughly back into his pocket. Was it too much to ask for that psycho to leave him alone?
He set off down the sidewalk once more.
Mohinder’s mind whirred with the implications of this latest contact. Were Matt and Molly safe? Did Sylar know where they lived? He thought they’d covered their tracks, but with Sylar anything was possible.
Mohinder was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear it at first. The sound was faint, echoing from building to building, but as Mohinder became aware of it the sound grew in power and volume. It was a haunting tune, a siren song blanketing all other noise. It filled Mohinder’s mind, wrapped itself around him, enthralling with every note.
His feet were moving without conscious choice. He had to find the source of the soul-sweet melody. Curiosity consumed him and became an obsession in seconds. He didn’t question it, he couldn’t.
As his feet led him into a dark, dank alleyway, Mohinder was dimly aware that his pocket was ringing again. Part of him knew it was important, that he should do something about it, but then the song blanketed out the trilling and he knew that nothing could be more important than obeying its call.
The alley was devoid of life, inhabited only by the darkest shadows, but his feet didn’t slow in their pursuit of the ultimate goal. He didn’t need to see; as long as the lilting melody surrounded him he would always be safe.
He was so deep in the alleyway that the exit was nothing but a dim light in the distance when the music abruptly cut off. A pained moan escaped his lips as he stumbled to a halt. He blinked in confusion, his muddled mind suddenly kicking back into gear, trying to puzzle out what was going on.
Mohinder hissed in surprise at the sharp burst of cold that brushed against the bottom of his chin. A hand, long fingers, impossibly chilled for any living creature, wrapped around his jaw, holding it in an unnaturally firm grip.
Mohinder panicked, tried to jerk backwards. Another frigid limb wrapped around his waist; supernatural strength made escape impossible.
“What luck! You’re so pretty…”
Mohinder couldn’t make out a face in the dark, but the voice and the body suddenly pressed against his were unmistakably female.
“Wha-“ Mohinder shivered violently and tried to push away but the grip only tightened. “Let me go!”
A rasping chuckle met his ears in response as his chin was tilted further upwards and then side to side. “Oh no, you’re far too fine a catch.”
Mohinder twisted and writhed, fighting to break free, but it was impossible. The arms holding him fast might as well have been made of steel. Then the grip on his chin vanished, and for an all-too brief moment Mohinder thought he might manage to get out of this in one piece. But the hand was back just as fast, wrapped in his hair. His head was yanked back and to the side, exposing the long line of his neck. A whimper of pain escaped at the brutal treatment; his attacker seemed to find this highly amusing.
“Shhhhh,” she hushed tenderly, and Mohinder felt ice-cold lips hovering over his trembling flesh.
“Please, don’t…” He pleaded desperately. He didn’t know what was about to happen, but he knew it couldn’t possibly be good. Mohinder opened his mouth to try and reason with this woman, but all that came out was a cry of pain as sharpened fangs ripped through the flesh of his neck.
Trembling tears of shock leaked from his eyes, as panic and disbelief warred with one another. He could feel his own hot, wet blood gushing through the open wound to be greedily devoured by the mouth clamped to his flesh, sucking and swallowing. This was impossible; it couldn’t be real; he had to be dreaming.
The pain in his neck began to dull as his entire body started to ache. His head was swimming, the world was spinning. His fingers were cold, numb. Spots of light flared in his vision as he lost control of his limbs, hanging limply in his attacker’s grip. The arm curled around his waist began to warm as he felt his own body start to cool.
All he could do was moan as his life bleed away, devoured by an impossible devil, darkness and cold consuming him down to the soul.
Vision blurred, reality fading, time washed away and lost all meaning.
A warm, metallic nectar of the gods washed over his tongue, and the darkness began to recede. He didn’t know what it was and found he didn’t care. The sweet drink was pushing away the hurt and the cold and the darkness, and that was all that mattered. Warmth spread from his mouth to his core to the tips of his fingers and toes. Disjointed but invigorating, it revitalized, surging power back through him.
Mohinder clutched the source of this life-giving fluid. Some small part of his mind, still trying to work out what was going on, was sending up warning flares, but he was so tired and weak that he easily ignored it. Later, when he wasn’t so cold and empty, he would let his curiosity run free. He sucked hard and greedily at the fountain of life, feeling the strength and energy it contained flow through him. His world narrowed to nothing but that warm nectar.
Without warning, the source was yanked away from him. Mohinder whimpered and reached out, his mind consumed by loss and thirst.
“Shhhh…” A soft voice drifted into his ears and a hand ran through his hair. “Just go to sleep. When you wake up the world will be a much better place.”
Mohinder wanted to protest, to deny the soothing words, but he was swiftly feeling exceedingly groggy. His body began shutting down, and his mind swiftly followed suit.
---
Sylar stared at the shattered cellphone that lay abandoned on the floor of the alley, reflecting the weak light of evening. It could belong to anyone, really. This whole thing could be one huge coincidence. Mohinder was probably at home with his sickeningly cute daughter and that moronic cop, enjoying the freedom of the weekend.
I shouldn’t even be here.
With a flick of his wrist the cellphone floated up to land in his palm. It was broken beyond repair. There was no way he could get at the information inside and discover the truth, but he didn’t need to. He knew it was Mohinder’s. His paintings of the future had never been wrong before, and this was the alleyway he had drawn, down to every last grimy detail.
If I’d known it was going to happen so soon…
He sighed deeply. There wasn’t anything he could have done differently. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to stop this in time… whatever this had been. He’d drawn a scene after it, and now he was going to have to make that one come true as well.
Sylar told himself he was just curious about these creatures; whether it was some strange ability, rare disease, or a product of the supernatural.
Vampires! So unbelievable… and Mohinder…
He shouldn’t care, he really shouldn’t. Letting the geneticist live had been one thing. It was a justified for response for the return of his abilities, even if Mohinder had tried to deceive him. Sylar shouldn’t give a damn. No, not at all.
---
Thirst defined him. He woke into a world based on it, fueled by it, tempered by it. Mohinder was cold and sore and overwhelmingly confused, but none of it compared to the sheer force and ache of the thirst.
“Oh you get me the best gifts,” a female voice trilled startlingly close by. Mohinder cracked his eyes open in response. Two pale women were hovering over him. The one closest by had long, straight red hair, with delighted green eyes and a greedy smile. Though her skin was near to white now, it held the faintest traces of what might have once been freckles. She was gazing at Mohinder like she wanted nothing more than to devour him whole.
The other woman ran long fingers through the cascade of her sunset locks. She smiled through blood red lips and leaned up against the smaller woman’s frame, her own blonde curls falling to mix with the other’s flow of red.
“You know I can’t resist doting on you, my darling.” The second woman’s voice was familiar and it sent a tremor down Mohinder’s spine that had nothing to do with thirst and everything to do with fear. He couldn’t concentrate hard enough to place it though, couldn’t remember why it was important. How could anything be more important than ceding to the demands of this overwhelming craving?
He scrambled into a sitting position, ignoring the way the room tilted and spun as he did so. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. A scent tickled his senses, wafting up his nose and invading his brain. It wrapped around all reason and logic, smothering it and letting his ravenous thirst defeat the last shreds of civilized defense he was unknowingly holding onto.
Mohinder’s body acted of its own accord, lunging upwards not towards the pair of women, but towards the source of that tantalizing scent. He was on his feet in one second, taking three long strides towards the source in the next room before a pressure around his neck snapped tight and brought him to a violent halt. He gave a choked, gasping cry as he tripped and fell hard backwards, clawing at his neck as he hit the floor.
A thin but sturdy ring of steel encircled his throat, and a quick examination illuminated the existence of a linked chain running from the back of the collar to a post anchored beside the small pad where he had regained consciousness.
“Oh, he’s a feisty one too!” The first woman exclaimed with glee as Mohinder struggled to get a grasp on the situation.
The sudden, jarring pain had briefly overridden the strange instinct that had overwhelmed him. With this brief moment of clarity, he wrapped his hands around the collar, trying to find a way to remove it. His mind was fuzzy. Logic, something he had counted on his whole life, was somehow out of his grasp. It didn’t take logic, however, to know that being chained and collared was Not Good. To his increasing dismay, the collar appeared to be a solid ring of metal. He tugged at it in vain, frantically trying to pry it off, but the material was harsh and unyielding.
“It would be cruel to keep him waiting,” the second voice purred. “The first thirst is always so very strong.”
The world was starting to spin now, Mohinder’s vision misted over in a red haze. The urge to flee was being stomped back, pummeled into submission, as the thirst clawed its way back into control. He wanted to scream, cry out or rage, but even in this his body was betraying him. All that came out as he thrashed against his bonds was an eerie hissing, like a snake or an angry cat.
---
Sylar peered at the dingy looking, ostensibly abandoned warehouse with a mixture of caution and disbelief. He wasn’t worried for his own safety, not after his most recent acquisition, but it was always good to be careful. Underestimating an annoying little Japanese man had nearly gotten him killed, after all, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he was dealing with here.
Sylar pocketed the crude sketch that had led him to this spot and steeled himself for a fight. He glanced around one last time to make sure that no one was watching before slipping quietly inside.
---
How could he possibly have resisted? Every atom in his body sang when she opened his throat. Manna of the deepest red beckoned him forward. Free from his bonds, he moved without thought, acting on a deeper instinct than he had ever known. Deeper than fear, more powerful than anger, thrumming stronger than infatuation; this thirst was undeniable.
---
The first thing Sylar heard was giggling: female, with two distinct voices. One set of laughter was soft, and for some reason it made Sylar imagine someone of great refinement. It was a genuine laugh that somehow managed to stay restrained, proper. Yet there was something indefinably off about the sound, something that made the toes tingle and the spine crawl. That anything was capable of such an effect on him was unsettling.
Confident he was now close enough, he paused to focus his hearing. The odd sense of trepidation bubbled away as anger seized control; he couldn’t hear Mohinder’s heart beat. In fact - he physically jerked in shock - he couldn’t hear any heartbeats at all. And yet, he had heard the laughter clear as day.
Wait! There-
One heartbeat, just one; the last ember of life flickering out.
Down the hallway and through the door, Sylar flew without thought. The little complexities became unimportant as rage overwhelmed. Though he had yet to decide what, exactly, should be done with Mohinder Suresh, his death at the hands of another was unacceptable.
The heavy doors slammed open with the unrestrained force of telekinesis, and the impact of those doors on the walls that housed them rang through the old warehouse like a bell.
Sylar froze in place, his mind momentarily unable to process the sight before him. The two women in the room stared at him, one with surprise, and the other, who had clasped her hands over her ears in pain, with irritation. He barely noticed them, because Mohinder was not dying.
Mohinder was standing, near the center of the room, cradling a dying boy in his arms. The child couldn’t have been older than 16; clothes scruffy and stained suggested that he had been living rough, but it was his neck that Sylar couldn’t tear his eyes from. Mohinder’s lips were wrapped around the boy’s throat, small rivulets of blood escaping the loose seal of flesh to trickle down and add to the stains marring the boy’s shirt. Mohinder swallowed the ebbing torrent without pause, oblivious to his surroundings.
Sylar’s brain short circuited. He blinked, twice, and then it began to reboot.
He could not possibly have raised his arms to defend himself in time; a rough sphere of telekinetic force only barely deflected the blow. He stumbled back a step, but quickly gathered his wits. The red-head lunged at him once more, with astonishing speed, but froze in place when invisible forces wound around her limbs and rendered movement impossible. She made an odd, panicked, little hissing sound, and Sylar could feel her thrashing against his hold. She was strong, like the woman in Kirby plaza, only nothing like that at all.
He couldn’t understand how she worked. The desire to know, to understand, defined him, and it was rare that he could resist it. He never wanted to. He processed her clinically, and was left confused. Her heart didn’t beat, and though the one he had ensnared was letting out little hisses and gasps, neither the other woman nor Mohinder were breathing at all.
“Fascinating,” he uttered the word almost without meaning to. For the first time in a long time there was too much confusion for him to process, and the need to know, to understand, was a life preserver. He clung to it desperately. “You really are the un-dead. It’s truly remarkable.”
“As are you, clearly.”
“And very dangerous, you must understand.” He held his right hand out in the blonde’s direction. “Especially if I don’t get what I want.”
“I’ve survived your kind before.” She spoke with boundless confidence and calm. Sylar wondered how much age was behind it as well. Immortality was most certainly a subject of interest to him.
“I imagine you have.” Sylar replied with a slight nod. The one caught in his hold had quieted and was now glaring at him with unrestrained fury. “But then, I imagine you’ve never met anyone quite like me.”
“You can’t have him back, you know. He’s one of us now.”
“Two things you might want to know about me: I always get what I want.” With the flick of his wrist the snared creature was at his side and he slapped a hand onto her forehead. “And I don’t play well with others.” Concentrating on his faith in what he had drawn, the pages of rough detail sketched out in pencil and blood, he told himself he could do this, and it would work. He thought of a scorching summer sun, and pushed with his mind. The power trickled down his fingers, and radiation shifted its waves to UV, pulsing out from under his fingertips with such refined intensity that the skull under his hand incinerated in a second, the entire body following suit in moments.
Vampires don’t like sunlight.
If the surviving creature’s skin could have paled more, Sylar suspected it would have.
“Not even a summer’s day kills that fast…” The words were softly spoken, not meant to be overheard, but Sylar didn’t play by the rules.
He took one step away from the pile of ash that was all that remained of the red-headed woman, and towards the blonde.
“Wait!” She held out a hand in a defensive gesture, but her voice held hints of both panic and threat. “If you kill me you kill him as well.”
Sylar raised a skeptical eyebrow, but he couldn’t keep his gaze from flitting to Suresh, who, as they spoke, dropped the body in his arms and stared down at it, blinking blearily.
“He is newly changed, fragile, and this binds him to me. With time that bond will weaken, but right now if you murder me it will kill him just as surely.” Desperate words, but she made them sound triumphant.
“Then I suggest you leave,” Sylar spat out. He wanted to crack her skull open and find out what made her work. He wanted to flay her alive for daring to touch Suresh. But even without a heartbeat to confirm it, Sylar was convinced she spoke the truth. “Before I change my mind.”
The creature must have truly valued her life over all else, for she was gone in moments.
“Sylar?” Mohinder’s voice was confused, though he was finally displaying an awareness of his surroundings. Except that he was now ignoring the body he had previously been staring at. “What? I don’t understand.” Mohinder appeared lethargic, a little dopey. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve in an absent gesture. Darkening stains of blood shifted out of their natural patters into an embarrassed smudge. He seemed not to notice what he had done.
“Rescuing you, apparently.” It even sounded vaguely heroic. He wasn’t opposed to heroism, when it got him what he wanted.
Mohinder frowned in a vaguely puzzled way, tottering on his feet. “Why?”
“I drew it?” It seemed as good a reason as any at the moment.
“Destiny?” Mohinder scoffed with unrestrained scorn.
“If you want to-“
“Sod your destiny!” Mohinder spat back, throwing his arms up in exasperation. It sent his unstable form stumbling back a step. “Don’t- don’t want any part in your- your- you-“ He yawned largely, took another shaky step backwards, and toppled over.
Sylar let out a deep sigh. This was going to be nothing but trouble.
---
Sylar rubbed his temples with tired fingers, trying to will away his growing headache. While Mohinder had been suffering from shock, as well as being lethargic from his meal, he’d still been possessed of an uncanny amount of strength. Forcing him to co-operate and dragging him back to his apartment had taken a stunning amount of effort. By the time they’d finally arrived, Sylar had been nearing the last of his rather scarce amount of patience. Fortunately, it had been nearly sunrise by then, and the arrival of the dawn seemed to have a soporific effect on the newly turned vampire.
Vampire.
The word made the situation seem all the more absurd, but whether it was a disease, parasite, something brought about by an ability, or mythical creature of legend, Mohinder had been changed into something that had no other description.
Mohinder had become increasingly helpless as sunrise approached. While Sylar was grateful for the change, it was a worrying fact. It was more than likely that it was just because Mohinder’s body was still adjusting to the change. Otherwise the species/infection/parasitic creatures would never have survived to propagate and spread; unless, of course, this was the truly strange byproduct of someone’s ability. Regardless of the ‘why’s and ‘how’s, it was a reality both men would have to accept, in their own way.
For the moment, Mohinder was stuffed (as comfortably as possible given the circumstances) into his own bedroom closet, sleeping like the dead - or undead.
As he was now supremely confident that vampires weren’t fond of sunlight, Sylar had gone through the small apartment and closed all the blinds and curtains. He’d then found the darkest sheet he could and sealed off the bedroom windows as tightly as possible. Nails forged from the deft re-shaping of kitchen utensils held the sheet in place, ensuring that not even a sliver of natural light could sneak through.
He then pulled a beer out of the fridge, popped off the top with a thought, and chugged.
It had been a long night.
---
Even Sylar couldn’t stave off exhaustion forever. As morning bled into the afternoon he found himself lying on Mohinder’s bed, trying to decide what to do next, while keeping an eye on the closet door. Thinking quickly became simply staring at the plain wooden surface, and not long after that sleep smothered his vigil.
---
Sensitive ears, trained to pick up on abnormalities or nearby sources of sound, were all the wakeup and warning Sylar got. The scraping of wood against wood and the faintest squeak of the closet’s hinge roused Sylar from his slumber a mere instant before near-frozen flesh hit him with the force of 10 men, rather than one slight geneticist, pinning him to the bed with ease.
Sylar’s reflexes were sharp, but a combination of still being half asleep and shock at the fact that Mohinder was on top of him, straddling him with a hungry look in his eyes, dulled those reflexes considerably. Hungry eyes met startled ones for the barest of instances, before Mohinder lunged forward and sunk impossibly sharp fangs into Sylar’s neck.
Sylar let out a gasp of pain, echoed eerily by Mohinder’s muffled moan of pleasure as he drank Sylar’s life with abandon. The pain dulled swiftly, however, leaving behind an almost narcotic sensation. It was like a normally heady mixture of pleasure and pain, twisted and strengthened so that it coursed through his body setting every nerve on fire and flushing skin while still leaving him with the faintest undercurrent of panic. Mohinder was still straddling his hips, and they both squirmed in the intoxicating flood of instinct and desire. Every little movement of his hips brushed and teased in a way that was almost cruel, but served as a potent reminder as to why Sylar had even bothered to follow that trail of drawings in the first place.
His body tingled and numbed as the loss of blood began to reach dangerous levels, and Sylar’s survival instinct kicked in once more. A need to regain control of the situation was all consuming and he grabbed Mohinder’s torso, seized hold of them both with his telekinesis and ripped Mohinder’s jaws from his shoulder as he flipped them over, pinning Mohinder beneath him. Blood flew everywhere, splattering all over the walls and the bedspread as Mohinder’s death-grip on his neck tore the flesh to shreds, but Sylar was unconcerned.
He’d been busy.
Even as Mohinder’s gaze began to clear, the thirst finally releasing him from its all-consuming grasp, Sylar’s flesh began to knit back together. It had been terribly nice of Nakamura, to leave immortality gift-wrapped in such a handy little box.
Mohinder’s expression was swiftly shifting from blind need to horror. Whether it was due to the knowledge that Sylar had killed again, remembering that he had taken a life now too, or the situation Mohinder currently found himself in, Sylar couldn’t say. What he did know was that he had Mohinder pinned beneath him, confused and looking vulnerable even with a mouth slathered in blood. His dark skin had taken on an otherworldly sheen, and all Sylar wanted to do was run his mouth, tongue and teeth all over it. He hadn’t thought it possible for Mohinder to look more beautiful, but whatever it was that had happened to him, this transformation, had given him an aura of the untouchable, the sublime. It would be madness to resist.
He swooped down, capturing those blood-splattered lips with his own. Mohinder’s eyes flew open in shock, as if a simple kiss was so much worse than what had just passed between them. Buttons dug into Sylar’s chest as Mohinder shoved him up and away with little effort.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Mohinder’s already pleasant voice was somehow even more entrancing now. It set Sylar’s toes tingling; something vaguely disturbing and yet unbelievably enjoyable.
“It seemed like the right thing to do?” He flashed a grin he hoped was more disarming than threatening. “If I had known you felt this way all along...” He rolled the words under his tongue with devious intent. He was quite certain the grinding had not been entirely one-sided. It took only one thrust of his pelvis to prove himself correct, by the unmistakable groan it forced from Mohinder’s throat.
“I hate you.” Mohinder returned after a moment. His words were harsh, but he didn’t attempt to throw Sylar off again.
“You hate some of my actions, what I’ve done.” Sylar replied smoothly, the words tumbling from his lips. “But you find the rest of me utterly fascinating.”
Mohinder let out a snarl and wrenched Sylar to the side and down by the firm grip on his shirt. Sylar hit the mattress with a dull thud, but he couldn’t say he was entirely disappointed when this led to Mohinder straddling him once more.
“Don’t you dare! You have no idea! You- you- I-“ He fumbled over his words as his expression began to change. A dawning comprehension as he noticed the blood on his sleeve that didn’t belong to either man in the room.
“I killed him…” The words escaped Mohinder’s lips as if his mind had suddenly caught up with reality and was unable to contain the truth within the cramped contents of his own mind. It slipped out unbidden, and, like some crucial support had broken free with it, he crumpled in on himself.
“You did,” Sylar confirmed unpityingly. He knew only too well that it was no use running from the facts. “But you don’t have to anymore. I’m your salvation.”
“You’re evil.”
“That too,” he admitted generously. “But it’s you who has a taste for blood now and I, well, I have an unlimited supply.”
Mohinder closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Sylar waited for him to say something, anything, but he seemed to have pulled into himself and Sylar didn’t think he was likely to resurface anytime soon. Or, at least, not before Sylar’s patience ran out.
“Mohin-“ before he could even finish the name, Mohinder was off Sylar, off the bed, and out of the room. “-der,” the bathroom door slammed shut just as Sylar got out the last syllable. He took a deep breath, sat up, and stared at the thin sheet of wood that separated the two men. He considered tearing it down, ripping it off its hinges. For a moment it was an extremely tempting proposition; but finally, he decided against it. This was the first time Mohinder had seemed particularly lucid. He probably had a lot to process. It was only fair to give him some time to do it in.
---
Hair: shiny and healthy and perfect, too perfect. Skin: flushed and with an otherworldly sheen. Eyes: the same, and haunted. Lips: red and raw from scrubbing. Teeth, mouth: scrubbed clean, but the taste is still there, beneath the mint. Fangs: sharp, retractable, deadly. Pulse: non-existent. Respiratory function: non-existent.
I can breathe with my lungs if I want to, but I don’t have to. What does that say?
Mohinder stared at his reflection in the mirror. It was only slightly improved from his first glance. Sylar’s blood was scrubbed away, but Mohinder could still feel it. He could still smell it. He could smell it pumping through Sylar’s veins, two rooms away now.
Toast was browning in the toaster and the scent was unsettling. Something once bland and welcome to a queasy stomach was now as appealing as road-kill.
It didn’t matter how many times he told himself he hadn’t been able to control it. There was a stranger in the mirror, looking back. Someone who wasn’t him, but Mohinder had to live his life now… or end it. He couldn’t be responsible for any more deaths, he couldn’t.
How had it come to this, from the improbable to the impossible? He was in a nightmare and he couldn’t wake up.
Blood mars his cheeks, tears of crimson, and he can’t even mourn in peace.
It starts in his chest, near the heart that doesn’t beat. It simmers up and bubbles over and bursts forth like a leaky damn erupting into destruction. The scream powered by air he doesn’t breath, shattered only by the sound of glass, tinkling off the skin, poking out of too-perfect flesh, and now that’s coated in blood too. A world drenched in blood.
The door unlocks, seemingly on its own, and Sylar has breached his walls, but nothing matters. One of the gashes, glass already cleared from the wound by gravity, slowly closes up before his eyes.
“Well that’s a handy one,” Sylar comments, and something about the words shake Mohinder from his red stained prison.
“Where did you get yours?” He asks softly, though his eyes can’t be torn from his shredded fist.
Sylar steps closer, peering intently at the damage as well. “A man, buried alive,” he replies almost absently. “I did him a favour. I even put him back together after I was done, set him free.”
“How generous of-“ Mohinder’s scathing retort broke off into a hiss when Sylar grabbed his wrist.
“Shhh, let me.” A wave of his free hand and the shards of glass still embedded in Mohinder’s flesh dislodged themselves. Dripping slivers of glass dropped in the sink with the rest. Both men watched with fascination as the smallest wounds healed over; the larger ones simply stopped bleeding.
“Not quite as good,” Sylar mused thoughtfully. “Or maybe it’s a residual effect from drinking my-“
---
Sylar hadn’t thought Mohinder could move like that. He rather suspected it was a new development. A twist of the body, a sweep of the leg, and Sylar was lying flat on his back, head spinning from a rapidly healing concussion.
Mohinder’s hand was wrapped around his throat, as he kneeled to Sylar’s side.
“I’m certain you can heal from what I do to you, but I’m also certain that having a crushed wind-pipe won’t be a pleasant experience. So you just stay extremely still, and you won’t have to know what it feels like.”
Sylar had to admit, he was impressed with the ruthless stance.
“Understood.”
“What was done to me?” Mohinder demanded first. Sylar was less amused with the question, but Mohinder’s tone suggested it was more something he had to ask, rather than something he truly expected to be answered. At least, that would be nice, as Sylar couldn’t give him any truth.
“You know as much as I do, or a bit more,” he replied simply.
Mohinder glared at him, as if challenging the veracity of the statement, but swiftly moved on.
“You tried to warn me, didn’t you?”
“I told you, I drew it.”
“Why?”
“Why warn you?”
Mohinder nodded.
“Why not?”
Mohinder’s hand clenched threateningly on Sylar’s throat, “Try again.”
“You know me and destiny.”
Mohinder’s grip increased beyond what Sylar might call a fun level of pain, to a troublesome one. Ordinarily, he might find some pleasure in showing Mohinder how powerless he truly was, by using his mind to return the favour, but Mohinder didn’t need air to breath. Crushing his throat would only crush his voice, and Sylar rather enjoyed that.
Instead, he used his mind to wrench Mohinder’s fingers, one by one, off his throat. Mohinder fought him every step of the way, with incredible strength, but Sylar was relieved to note that he still had the upper hand. Finally breathing without impediment once more, Sylar tossed Mohinder like a rag-doll, slamming him into the one clear bathroom wall.
Mohinder just laughed, seemingly unconcerned by the bodily harm.
“You can’t even answer a simple question!”
“You find me amusing?” Sylar growled out the question in annoyance. He wasn’t often without an answer and the fact that he didn’t have a clear one for what he had done wasn’t something he was eager to admit.
“Would you prefer terrifying?”
“Possibly…”
“Well it appears that I’m the monster now! So maybe you should be afraid of me.” Mohinder pulled himself to his feet, crawling up the wall to support himself, but straightening with ease after a few moments more.
Sylar closed the gap with two long strides, until he was so close that he could feel the panting of Mohinder’s breath; a reflex action, ultimately meaningless, but perhaps some way of clinging to humanity. He grasped Mohinder’s chin with long fingers, and Mohinder trembled under the touch. His flesh was cooler than natural, but still warmed by what little of Sylar’s blood flowed now within him.
“No…” The word tumbled off of Mohinder’s lips unprompted.
Sylar paused, considered what might have triggered the statement, and came up empty. He opened his mouth to inquire, when Mohinder’s right hand snaked up and tangled in his hair in a flash. Sylar froze, the movement was startling.
“I…” Mohinder drew out the vowel, dragged it through a world of pain. He inhaled deeply, moaned.
Sylar barely stifled a cry of pain as his head was jerked roughly to the side, but he didn’t fight it. This strangeness, this thing Mohinder had become, Sylar didn’t understand it, but he could see what it was doing to Mohinder. There were two directions, two forces at play. This craving for blood, this change in sustenance meant a life of blood and death and insanity. Mohinder was strong, and if his will to live won out he could do it, Sylar was sure, for a while. But in the end it would destroy him.
Contemplating immortality now himself, Sylar didn’t think he wanted to create a world in which mankind’s most fascinating specimen was destroyed through some cruel trick of fate. The future was his, and he wanted Suresh in it. Of that, at least, he was certain. Now, now he was broken, but Sylar was the cure. Or at least, the temporary fix.
Fangs broke flesh once more, spilling whatever toxin gave such an incredible rush.
A whimper broke from Sylar’s throat. He acted on impulse, slamming Mohinder up against the wall, but not breaking his hungry grip in the slightest. He reached a hand down, palmed Mohinder’s groin, and was pleased to find some of that blood filling Mohinder’s cock; half hard, it twitched under his grasp.
Mohinder let out a gasp, detaching from the intersection of Sylar’s neck and shoulder. Sylar pounced on the opportunity, stealing bloody lips in a kiss once more. He pulled back, slowly, reluctantly, licking his own blood off his lips.
Mohinder was staring up at him in confusion.
“You want this.” Sylar panted lightly, something deep and needful was curled in his belly and he was done denying it. “You need me, and still, even now, even knowing, you still want me.”
Mohinder seemed on the verge of panic, like he was going to bolt once more; but Sylar wasn’t about to accept that ending this time. He squeezed at the throbbing bulge once more, eliciting another whimper.
He rested his lips by the shell of Mohinder’s ear, “Don’t you want to feel alive?”
---
Clothes shredded, blood smeared over lips and necks and everywhere hands have trailed it, their bodies move together. They ride a tide of thirst and hunger, of fear and terror, of attraction, of connection, of bliss. Once impenetrable boundaries have been blurred by impossibilities.
Two souls, destined or not, crash into each other again and again. They are aligned by something indefinable, tempted by phrases like “redemption” and “salvation”. But this clash is not redemption, and salvation nowhere to be found. Higher ideals cannot exist in this world of craving and indulgence, of wanting and taking.
In their shared breakdown, as they cling to each other with tangled limbs that claw at flesh and unspoken expectations, as power charges between their pressed and aching bodies, as intensified pleasure refuses to grant mercy, there is only violence.
And blood.
Characters/Paring: Mohinder/Sylar, and a pair of OC vampires.
Rating: R
Spoilers: S1 & 2
Warnings: Vampires! Violence, blood, sexuality, some angst.
Word Count: 6,644
Summary: Though Sylar had yet to decide what, exactly, should be done with Mohinder Suresh, his death at the hands of another was unacceptable. Mohinder becoming a vampire, on the other hand, was just damn confusing.
mission_insane Table: Horror / Prompt: Vampire
Notes:
1) This is a much belated birthday and Christmas present for my dearest ladywilde80. This fic was started back in the spring, but I would have abandoned it entirely had she not expressed her excitement at me trying my hand at Vampires. So I resurrected it just for her, and watched it explode into something much bigger than I had planned.
All for you darling, all for you.
2) levitatethis was kind enough to beta this and she did an amazing job. Any little grammatical errors and the like are definitely all mine, but the last paragraph is all hers. I tried to modify her re-write, but hers was just so damn good, so there you go.
Thank you again!
-----
Mohinder paced down shadowy New York streets with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, hunched against the chill. Work at the lab had been highly frustrating and he had decided that a walk in the cool, spring, nighttime air would help settle his mind. At the very least he should be physically exhausted enough by the time he got home to assure a full night’s sleep, something that had been eluding him ever since Sylar reappeared in his life. The serial killer had gone back underground after absconding with his cure, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time until he reappeared once more.
Before his thoughts could continue down that dangerous path, Mohinder’s pocket began to ring. Frowning, Mohinder pulled out his cellphone and flipped it open. His frown deepened further at the display. It simply read “Pay Phone”. He couldn’t imagine who might be calling him at this time at night, especially from a payphone, but he couldn’t ignore the call. He tapped the receive button and brought the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mohinder.”
A shiver shot down Mohinder’s spine and he froze in his tracks. That deep, gravelly voice was etched permanently on his memory.
“Sylar,” he bit out with evident frustration. “Whatever you want, you can forget about it.”
“Now that’s not very nice, Mohinder.” Sylar replied in that patronizing tone of his; he spoke as if he were some all-knowing god, imparting wisdom from on high. The arrogance of it was infuriating. “Besides, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
“All you ever do is use people. Why should this be any different?” Mohinder shot back. He would have hung up then and there if he could have been certain the action wouldn’t end up causing even more trouble.
Sylar sighed on the other side of the line, and for a moment there was silence.
“Listen, Mohinder, I know you don’t have any reason to believe me but-“ He broke off as a car drove by. “Wait, are you outside? What time is it?”
Ok… and I didn’t think he could get any more insane.
“Whatever it is you’re playing at, I’m not interested.” Mohinder returned angrily. He was sick of Sylar’s head-games. “Don’t call me again.”
“No, wait! Mohin-“
Mohinder snapped his phone shut and shoved it roughly back into his pocket. Was it too much to ask for that psycho to leave him alone?
He set off down the sidewalk once more.
Mohinder’s mind whirred with the implications of this latest contact. Were Matt and Molly safe? Did Sylar know where they lived? He thought they’d covered their tracks, but with Sylar anything was possible.
Mohinder was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear it at first. The sound was faint, echoing from building to building, but as Mohinder became aware of it the sound grew in power and volume. It was a haunting tune, a siren song blanketing all other noise. It filled Mohinder’s mind, wrapped itself around him, enthralling with every note.
His feet were moving without conscious choice. He had to find the source of the soul-sweet melody. Curiosity consumed him and became an obsession in seconds. He didn’t question it, he couldn’t.
As his feet led him into a dark, dank alleyway, Mohinder was dimly aware that his pocket was ringing again. Part of him knew it was important, that he should do something about it, but then the song blanketed out the trilling and he knew that nothing could be more important than obeying its call.
The alley was devoid of life, inhabited only by the darkest shadows, but his feet didn’t slow in their pursuit of the ultimate goal. He didn’t need to see; as long as the lilting melody surrounded him he would always be safe.
He was so deep in the alleyway that the exit was nothing but a dim light in the distance when the music abruptly cut off. A pained moan escaped his lips as he stumbled to a halt. He blinked in confusion, his muddled mind suddenly kicking back into gear, trying to puzzle out what was going on.
Mohinder hissed in surprise at the sharp burst of cold that brushed against the bottom of his chin. A hand, long fingers, impossibly chilled for any living creature, wrapped around his jaw, holding it in an unnaturally firm grip.
Mohinder panicked, tried to jerk backwards. Another frigid limb wrapped around his waist; supernatural strength made escape impossible.
“What luck! You’re so pretty…”
Mohinder couldn’t make out a face in the dark, but the voice and the body suddenly pressed against his were unmistakably female.
“Wha-“ Mohinder shivered violently and tried to push away but the grip only tightened. “Let me go!”
A rasping chuckle met his ears in response as his chin was tilted further upwards and then side to side. “Oh no, you’re far too fine a catch.”
Mohinder twisted and writhed, fighting to break free, but it was impossible. The arms holding him fast might as well have been made of steel. Then the grip on his chin vanished, and for an all-too brief moment Mohinder thought he might manage to get out of this in one piece. But the hand was back just as fast, wrapped in his hair. His head was yanked back and to the side, exposing the long line of his neck. A whimper of pain escaped at the brutal treatment; his attacker seemed to find this highly amusing.
“Shhhhh,” she hushed tenderly, and Mohinder felt ice-cold lips hovering over his trembling flesh.
“Please, don’t…” He pleaded desperately. He didn’t know what was about to happen, but he knew it couldn’t possibly be good. Mohinder opened his mouth to try and reason with this woman, but all that came out was a cry of pain as sharpened fangs ripped through the flesh of his neck.
Trembling tears of shock leaked from his eyes, as panic and disbelief warred with one another. He could feel his own hot, wet blood gushing through the open wound to be greedily devoured by the mouth clamped to his flesh, sucking and swallowing. This was impossible; it couldn’t be real; he had to be dreaming.
The pain in his neck began to dull as his entire body started to ache. His head was swimming, the world was spinning. His fingers were cold, numb. Spots of light flared in his vision as he lost control of his limbs, hanging limply in his attacker’s grip. The arm curled around his waist began to warm as he felt his own body start to cool.
All he could do was moan as his life bleed away, devoured by an impossible devil, darkness and cold consuming him down to the soul.
Vision blurred, reality fading, time washed away and lost all meaning.
A warm, metallic nectar of the gods washed over his tongue, and the darkness began to recede. He didn’t know what it was and found he didn’t care. The sweet drink was pushing away the hurt and the cold and the darkness, and that was all that mattered. Warmth spread from his mouth to his core to the tips of his fingers and toes. Disjointed but invigorating, it revitalized, surging power back through him.
Mohinder clutched the source of this life-giving fluid. Some small part of his mind, still trying to work out what was going on, was sending up warning flares, but he was so tired and weak that he easily ignored it. Later, when he wasn’t so cold and empty, he would let his curiosity run free. He sucked hard and greedily at the fountain of life, feeling the strength and energy it contained flow through him. His world narrowed to nothing but that warm nectar.
Without warning, the source was yanked away from him. Mohinder whimpered and reached out, his mind consumed by loss and thirst.
“Shhhh…” A soft voice drifted into his ears and a hand ran through his hair. “Just go to sleep. When you wake up the world will be a much better place.”
Mohinder wanted to protest, to deny the soothing words, but he was swiftly feeling exceedingly groggy. His body began shutting down, and his mind swiftly followed suit.
---
Sylar stared at the shattered cellphone that lay abandoned on the floor of the alley, reflecting the weak light of evening. It could belong to anyone, really. This whole thing could be one huge coincidence. Mohinder was probably at home with his sickeningly cute daughter and that moronic cop, enjoying the freedom of the weekend.
I shouldn’t even be here.
With a flick of his wrist the cellphone floated up to land in his palm. It was broken beyond repair. There was no way he could get at the information inside and discover the truth, but he didn’t need to. He knew it was Mohinder’s. His paintings of the future had never been wrong before, and this was the alleyway he had drawn, down to every last grimy detail.
If I’d known it was going to happen so soon…
He sighed deeply. There wasn’t anything he could have done differently. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to stop this in time… whatever this had been. He’d drawn a scene after it, and now he was going to have to make that one come true as well.
Sylar told himself he was just curious about these creatures; whether it was some strange ability, rare disease, or a product of the supernatural.
Vampires! So unbelievable… and Mohinder…
He shouldn’t care, he really shouldn’t. Letting the geneticist live had been one thing. It was a justified for response for the return of his abilities, even if Mohinder had tried to deceive him. Sylar shouldn’t give a damn. No, not at all.
---
Thirst defined him. He woke into a world based on it, fueled by it, tempered by it. Mohinder was cold and sore and overwhelmingly confused, but none of it compared to the sheer force and ache of the thirst.
“Oh you get me the best gifts,” a female voice trilled startlingly close by. Mohinder cracked his eyes open in response. Two pale women were hovering over him. The one closest by had long, straight red hair, with delighted green eyes and a greedy smile. Though her skin was near to white now, it held the faintest traces of what might have once been freckles. She was gazing at Mohinder like she wanted nothing more than to devour him whole.
The other woman ran long fingers through the cascade of her sunset locks. She smiled through blood red lips and leaned up against the smaller woman’s frame, her own blonde curls falling to mix with the other’s flow of red.
“You know I can’t resist doting on you, my darling.” The second woman’s voice was familiar and it sent a tremor down Mohinder’s spine that had nothing to do with thirst and everything to do with fear. He couldn’t concentrate hard enough to place it though, couldn’t remember why it was important. How could anything be more important than ceding to the demands of this overwhelming craving?
He scrambled into a sitting position, ignoring the way the room tilted and spun as he did so. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. A scent tickled his senses, wafting up his nose and invading his brain. It wrapped around all reason and logic, smothering it and letting his ravenous thirst defeat the last shreds of civilized defense he was unknowingly holding onto.
Mohinder’s body acted of its own accord, lunging upwards not towards the pair of women, but towards the source of that tantalizing scent. He was on his feet in one second, taking three long strides towards the source in the next room before a pressure around his neck snapped tight and brought him to a violent halt. He gave a choked, gasping cry as he tripped and fell hard backwards, clawing at his neck as he hit the floor.
A thin but sturdy ring of steel encircled his throat, and a quick examination illuminated the existence of a linked chain running from the back of the collar to a post anchored beside the small pad where he had regained consciousness.
“Oh, he’s a feisty one too!” The first woman exclaimed with glee as Mohinder struggled to get a grasp on the situation.
The sudden, jarring pain had briefly overridden the strange instinct that had overwhelmed him. With this brief moment of clarity, he wrapped his hands around the collar, trying to find a way to remove it. His mind was fuzzy. Logic, something he had counted on his whole life, was somehow out of his grasp. It didn’t take logic, however, to know that being chained and collared was Not Good. To his increasing dismay, the collar appeared to be a solid ring of metal. He tugged at it in vain, frantically trying to pry it off, but the material was harsh and unyielding.
“It would be cruel to keep him waiting,” the second voice purred. “The first thirst is always so very strong.”
The world was starting to spin now, Mohinder’s vision misted over in a red haze. The urge to flee was being stomped back, pummeled into submission, as the thirst clawed its way back into control. He wanted to scream, cry out or rage, but even in this his body was betraying him. All that came out as he thrashed against his bonds was an eerie hissing, like a snake or an angry cat.
---
Sylar peered at the dingy looking, ostensibly abandoned warehouse with a mixture of caution and disbelief. He wasn’t worried for his own safety, not after his most recent acquisition, but it was always good to be careful. Underestimating an annoying little Japanese man had nearly gotten him killed, after all, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he was dealing with here.
Sylar pocketed the crude sketch that had led him to this spot and steeled himself for a fight. He glanced around one last time to make sure that no one was watching before slipping quietly inside.
---
How could he possibly have resisted? Every atom in his body sang when she opened his throat. Manna of the deepest red beckoned him forward. Free from his bonds, he moved without thought, acting on a deeper instinct than he had ever known. Deeper than fear, more powerful than anger, thrumming stronger than infatuation; this thirst was undeniable.
---
The first thing Sylar heard was giggling: female, with two distinct voices. One set of laughter was soft, and for some reason it made Sylar imagine someone of great refinement. It was a genuine laugh that somehow managed to stay restrained, proper. Yet there was something indefinably off about the sound, something that made the toes tingle and the spine crawl. That anything was capable of such an effect on him was unsettling.
Confident he was now close enough, he paused to focus his hearing. The odd sense of trepidation bubbled away as anger seized control; he couldn’t hear Mohinder’s heart beat. In fact - he physically jerked in shock - he couldn’t hear any heartbeats at all. And yet, he had heard the laughter clear as day.
Wait! There-
One heartbeat, just one; the last ember of life flickering out.
Down the hallway and through the door, Sylar flew without thought. The little complexities became unimportant as rage overwhelmed. Though he had yet to decide what, exactly, should be done with Mohinder Suresh, his death at the hands of another was unacceptable.
The heavy doors slammed open with the unrestrained force of telekinesis, and the impact of those doors on the walls that housed them rang through the old warehouse like a bell.
Sylar froze in place, his mind momentarily unable to process the sight before him. The two women in the room stared at him, one with surprise, and the other, who had clasped her hands over her ears in pain, with irritation. He barely noticed them, because Mohinder was not dying.
Mohinder was standing, near the center of the room, cradling a dying boy in his arms. The child couldn’t have been older than 16; clothes scruffy and stained suggested that he had been living rough, but it was his neck that Sylar couldn’t tear his eyes from. Mohinder’s lips were wrapped around the boy’s throat, small rivulets of blood escaping the loose seal of flesh to trickle down and add to the stains marring the boy’s shirt. Mohinder swallowed the ebbing torrent without pause, oblivious to his surroundings.
Sylar’s brain short circuited. He blinked, twice, and then it began to reboot.
He could not possibly have raised his arms to defend himself in time; a rough sphere of telekinetic force only barely deflected the blow. He stumbled back a step, but quickly gathered his wits. The red-head lunged at him once more, with astonishing speed, but froze in place when invisible forces wound around her limbs and rendered movement impossible. She made an odd, panicked, little hissing sound, and Sylar could feel her thrashing against his hold. She was strong, like the woman in Kirby plaza, only nothing like that at all.
He couldn’t understand how she worked. The desire to know, to understand, defined him, and it was rare that he could resist it. He never wanted to. He processed her clinically, and was left confused. Her heart didn’t beat, and though the one he had ensnared was letting out little hisses and gasps, neither the other woman nor Mohinder were breathing at all.
“Fascinating,” he uttered the word almost without meaning to. For the first time in a long time there was too much confusion for him to process, and the need to know, to understand, was a life preserver. He clung to it desperately. “You really are the un-dead. It’s truly remarkable.”
“As are you, clearly.”
“And very dangerous, you must understand.” He held his right hand out in the blonde’s direction. “Especially if I don’t get what I want.”
“I’ve survived your kind before.” She spoke with boundless confidence and calm. Sylar wondered how much age was behind it as well. Immortality was most certainly a subject of interest to him.
“I imagine you have.” Sylar replied with a slight nod. The one caught in his hold had quieted and was now glaring at him with unrestrained fury. “But then, I imagine you’ve never met anyone quite like me.”
“You can’t have him back, you know. He’s one of us now.”
“Two things you might want to know about me: I always get what I want.” With the flick of his wrist the snared creature was at his side and he slapped a hand onto her forehead. “And I don’t play well with others.” Concentrating on his faith in what he had drawn, the pages of rough detail sketched out in pencil and blood, he told himself he could do this, and it would work. He thought of a scorching summer sun, and pushed with his mind. The power trickled down his fingers, and radiation shifted its waves to UV, pulsing out from under his fingertips with such refined intensity that the skull under his hand incinerated in a second, the entire body following suit in moments.
Vampires don’t like sunlight.
If the surviving creature’s skin could have paled more, Sylar suspected it would have.
“Not even a summer’s day kills that fast…” The words were softly spoken, not meant to be overheard, but Sylar didn’t play by the rules.
He took one step away from the pile of ash that was all that remained of the red-headed woman, and towards the blonde.
“Wait!” She held out a hand in a defensive gesture, but her voice held hints of both panic and threat. “If you kill me you kill him as well.”
Sylar raised a skeptical eyebrow, but he couldn’t keep his gaze from flitting to Suresh, who, as they spoke, dropped the body in his arms and stared down at it, blinking blearily.
“He is newly changed, fragile, and this binds him to me. With time that bond will weaken, but right now if you murder me it will kill him just as surely.” Desperate words, but she made them sound triumphant.
“Then I suggest you leave,” Sylar spat out. He wanted to crack her skull open and find out what made her work. He wanted to flay her alive for daring to touch Suresh. But even without a heartbeat to confirm it, Sylar was convinced she spoke the truth. “Before I change my mind.”
The creature must have truly valued her life over all else, for she was gone in moments.
“Sylar?” Mohinder’s voice was confused, though he was finally displaying an awareness of his surroundings. Except that he was now ignoring the body he had previously been staring at. “What? I don’t understand.” Mohinder appeared lethargic, a little dopey. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve in an absent gesture. Darkening stains of blood shifted out of their natural patters into an embarrassed smudge. He seemed not to notice what he had done.
“Rescuing you, apparently.” It even sounded vaguely heroic. He wasn’t opposed to heroism, when it got him what he wanted.
Mohinder frowned in a vaguely puzzled way, tottering on his feet. “Why?”
“I drew it?” It seemed as good a reason as any at the moment.
“Destiny?” Mohinder scoffed with unrestrained scorn.
“If you want to-“
“Sod your destiny!” Mohinder spat back, throwing his arms up in exasperation. It sent his unstable form stumbling back a step. “Don’t- don’t want any part in your- your- you-“ He yawned largely, took another shaky step backwards, and toppled over.
Sylar let out a deep sigh. This was going to be nothing but trouble.
---
Sylar rubbed his temples with tired fingers, trying to will away his growing headache. While Mohinder had been suffering from shock, as well as being lethargic from his meal, he’d still been possessed of an uncanny amount of strength. Forcing him to co-operate and dragging him back to his apartment had taken a stunning amount of effort. By the time they’d finally arrived, Sylar had been nearing the last of his rather scarce amount of patience. Fortunately, it had been nearly sunrise by then, and the arrival of the dawn seemed to have a soporific effect on the newly turned vampire.
Vampire.
The word made the situation seem all the more absurd, but whether it was a disease, parasite, something brought about by an ability, or mythical creature of legend, Mohinder had been changed into something that had no other description.
Mohinder had become increasingly helpless as sunrise approached. While Sylar was grateful for the change, it was a worrying fact. It was more than likely that it was just because Mohinder’s body was still adjusting to the change. Otherwise the species/infection/parasitic creatures would never have survived to propagate and spread; unless, of course, this was the truly strange byproduct of someone’s ability. Regardless of the ‘why’s and ‘how’s, it was a reality both men would have to accept, in their own way.
For the moment, Mohinder was stuffed (as comfortably as possible given the circumstances) into his own bedroom closet, sleeping like the dead - or undead.
As he was now supremely confident that vampires weren’t fond of sunlight, Sylar had gone through the small apartment and closed all the blinds and curtains. He’d then found the darkest sheet he could and sealed off the bedroom windows as tightly as possible. Nails forged from the deft re-shaping of kitchen utensils held the sheet in place, ensuring that not even a sliver of natural light could sneak through.
He then pulled a beer out of the fridge, popped off the top with a thought, and chugged.
It had been a long night.
---
Even Sylar couldn’t stave off exhaustion forever. As morning bled into the afternoon he found himself lying on Mohinder’s bed, trying to decide what to do next, while keeping an eye on the closet door. Thinking quickly became simply staring at the plain wooden surface, and not long after that sleep smothered his vigil.
---
Sensitive ears, trained to pick up on abnormalities or nearby sources of sound, were all the wakeup and warning Sylar got. The scraping of wood against wood and the faintest squeak of the closet’s hinge roused Sylar from his slumber a mere instant before near-frozen flesh hit him with the force of 10 men, rather than one slight geneticist, pinning him to the bed with ease.
Sylar’s reflexes were sharp, but a combination of still being half asleep and shock at the fact that Mohinder was on top of him, straddling him with a hungry look in his eyes, dulled those reflexes considerably. Hungry eyes met startled ones for the barest of instances, before Mohinder lunged forward and sunk impossibly sharp fangs into Sylar’s neck.
Sylar let out a gasp of pain, echoed eerily by Mohinder’s muffled moan of pleasure as he drank Sylar’s life with abandon. The pain dulled swiftly, however, leaving behind an almost narcotic sensation. It was like a normally heady mixture of pleasure and pain, twisted and strengthened so that it coursed through his body setting every nerve on fire and flushing skin while still leaving him with the faintest undercurrent of panic. Mohinder was still straddling his hips, and they both squirmed in the intoxicating flood of instinct and desire. Every little movement of his hips brushed and teased in a way that was almost cruel, but served as a potent reminder as to why Sylar had even bothered to follow that trail of drawings in the first place.
His body tingled and numbed as the loss of blood began to reach dangerous levels, and Sylar’s survival instinct kicked in once more. A need to regain control of the situation was all consuming and he grabbed Mohinder’s torso, seized hold of them both with his telekinesis and ripped Mohinder’s jaws from his shoulder as he flipped them over, pinning Mohinder beneath him. Blood flew everywhere, splattering all over the walls and the bedspread as Mohinder’s death-grip on his neck tore the flesh to shreds, but Sylar was unconcerned.
He’d been busy.
Even as Mohinder’s gaze began to clear, the thirst finally releasing him from its all-consuming grasp, Sylar’s flesh began to knit back together. It had been terribly nice of Nakamura, to leave immortality gift-wrapped in such a handy little box.
Mohinder’s expression was swiftly shifting from blind need to horror. Whether it was due to the knowledge that Sylar had killed again, remembering that he had taken a life now too, or the situation Mohinder currently found himself in, Sylar couldn’t say. What he did know was that he had Mohinder pinned beneath him, confused and looking vulnerable even with a mouth slathered in blood. His dark skin had taken on an otherworldly sheen, and all Sylar wanted to do was run his mouth, tongue and teeth all over it. He hadn’t thought it possible for Mohinder to look more beautiful, but whatever it was that had happened to him, this transformation, had given him an aura of the untouchable, the sublime. It would be madness to resist.
He swooped down, capturing those blood-splattered lips with his own. Mohinder’s eyes flew open in shock, as if a simple kiss was so much worse than what had just passed between them. Buttons dug into Sylar’s chest as Mohinder shoved him up and away with little effort.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Mohinder’s already pleasant voice was somehow even more entrancing now. It set Sylar’s toes tingling; something vaguely disturbing and yet unbelievably enjoyable.
“It seemed like the right thing to do?” He flashed a grin he hoped was more disarming than threatening. “If I had known you felt this way all along...” He rolled the words under his tongue with devious intent. He was quite certain the grinding had not been entirely one-sided. It took only one thrust of his pelvis to prove himself correct, by the unmistakable groan it forced from Mohinder’s throat.
“I hate you.” Mohinder returned after a moment. His words were harsh, but he didn’t attempt to throw Sylar off again.
“You hate some of my actions, what I’ve done.” Sylar replied smoothly, the words tumbling from his lips. “But you find the rest of me utterly fascinating.”
Mohinder let out a snarl and wrenched Sylar to the side and down by the firm grip on his shirt. Sylar hit the mattress with a dull thud, but he couldn’t say he was entirely disappointed when this led to Mohinder straddling him once more.
“Don’t you dare! You have no idea! You- you- I-“ He fumbled over his words as his expression began to change. A dawning comprehension as he noticed the blood on his sleeve that didn’t belong to either man in the room.
“I killed him…” The words escaped Mohinder’s lips as if his mind had suddenly caught up with reality and was unable to contain the truth within the cramped contents of his own mind. It slipped out unbidden, and, like some crucial support had broken free with it, he crumpled in on himself.
“You did,” Sylar confirmed unpityingly. He knew only too well that it was no use running from the facts. “But you don’t have to anymore. I’m your salvation.”
“You’re evil.”
“That too,” he admitted generously. “But it’s you who has a taste for blood now and I, well, I have an unlimited supply.”
Mohinder closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Sylar waited for him to say something, anything, but he seemed to have pulled into himself and Sylar didn’t think he was likely to resurface anytime soon. Or, at least, not before Sylar’s patience ran out.
“Mohin-“ before he could even finish the name, Mohinder was off Sylar, off the bed, and out of the room. “-der,” the bathroom door slammed shut just as Sylar got out the last syllable. He took a deep breath, sat up, and stared at the thin sheet of wood that separated the two men. He considered tearing it down, ripping it off its hinges. For a moment it was an extremely tempting proposition; but finally, he decided against it. This was the first time Mohinder had seemed particularly lucid. He probably had a lot to process. It was only fair to give him some time to do it in.
---
Hair: shiny and healthy and perfect, too perfect. Skin: flushed and with an otherworldly sheen. Eyes: the same, and haunted. Lips: red and raw from scrubbing. Teeth, mouth: scrubbed clean, but the taste is still there, beneath the mint. Fangs: sharp, retractable, deadly. Pulse: non-existent. Respiratory function: non-existent.
I can breathe with my lungs if I want to, but I don’t have to. What does that say?
Mohinder stared at his reflection in the mirror. It was only slightly improved from his first glance. Sylar’s blood was scrubbed away, but Mohinder could still feel it. He could still smell it. He could smell it pumping through Sylar’s veins, two rooms away now.
Toast was browning in the toaster and the scent was unsettling. Something once bland and welcome to a queasy stomach was now as appealing as road-kill.
It didn’t matter how many times he told himself he hadn’t been able to control it. There was a stranger in the mirror, looking back. Someone who wasn’t him, but Mohinder had to live his life now… or end it. He couldn’t be responsible for any more deaths, he couldn’t.
How had it come to this, from the improbable to the impossible? He was in a nightmare and he couldn’t wake up.
Blood mars his cheeks, tears of crimson, and he can’t even mourn in peace.
It starts in his chest, near the heart that doesn’t beat. It simmers up and bubbles over and bursts forth like a leaky damn erupting into destruction. The scream powered by air he doesn’t breath, shattered only by the sound of glass, tinkling off the skin, poking out of too-perfect flesh, and now that’s coated in blood too. A world drenched in blood.
The door unlocks, seemingly on its own, and Sylar has breached his walls, but nothing matters. One of the gashes, glass already cleared from the wound by gravity, slowly closes up before his eyes.
“Well that’s a handy one,” Sylar comments, and something about the words shake Mohinder from his red stained prison.
“Where did you get yours?” He asks softly, though his eyes can’t be torn from his shredded fist.
Sylar steps closer, peering intently at the damage as well. “A man, buried alive,” he replies almost absently. “I did him a favour. I even put him back together after I was done, set him free.”
“How generous of-“ Mohinder’s scathing retort broke off into a hiss when Sylar grabbed his wrist.
“Shhh, let me.” A wave of his free hand and the shards of glass still embedded in Mohinder’s flesh dislodged themselves. Dripping slivers of glass dropped in the sink with the rest. Both men watched with fascination as the smallest wounds healed over; the larger ones simply stopped bleeding.
“Not quite as good,” Sylar mused thoughtfully. “Or maybe it’s a residual effect from drinking my-“
---
Sylar hadn’t thought Mohinder could move like that. He rather suspected it was a new development. A twist of the body, a sweep of the leg, and Sylar was lying flat on his back, head spinning from a rapidly healing concussion.
Mohinder’s hand was wrapped around his throat, as he kneeled to Sylar’s side.
“I’m certain you can heal from what I do to you, but I’m also certain that having a crushed wind-pipe won’t be a pleasant experience. So you just stay extremely still, and you won’t have to know what it feels like.”
Sylar had to admit, he was impressed with the ruthless stance.
“Understood.”
“What was done to me?” Mohinder demanded first. Sylar was less amused with the question, but Mohinder’s tone suggested it was more something he had to ask, rather than something he truly expected to be answered. At least, that would be nice, as Sylar couldn’t give him any truth.
“You know as much as I do, or a bit more,” he replied simply.
Mohinder glared at him, as if challenging the veracity of the statement, but swiftly moved on.
“You tried to warn me, didn’t you?”
“I told you, I drew it.”
“Why?”
“Why warn you?”
Mohinder nodded.
“Why not?”
Mohinder’s hand clenched threateningly on Sylar’s throat, “Try again.”
“You know me and destiny.”
Mohinder’s grip increased beyond what Sylar might call a fun level of pain, to a troublesome one. Ordinarily, he might find some pleasure in showing Mohinder how powerless he truly was, by using his mind to return the favour, but Mohinder didn’t need air to breath. Crushing his throat would only crush his voice, and Sylar rather enjoyed that.
Instead, he used his mind to wrench Mohinder’s fingers, one by one, off his throat. Mohinder fought him every step of the way, with incredible strength, but Sylar was relieved to note that he still had the upper hand. Finally breathing without impediment once more, Sylar tossed Mohinder like a rag-doll, slamming him into the one clear bathroom wall.
Mohinder just laughed, seemingly unconcerned by the bodily harm.
“You can’t even answer a simple question!”
“You find me amusing?” Sylar growled out the question in annoyance. He wasn’t often without an answer and the fact that he didn’t have a clear one for what he had done wasn’t something he was eager to admit.
“Would you prefer terrifying?”
“Possibly…”
“Well it appears that I’m the monster now! So maybe you should be afraid of me.” Mohinder pulled himself to his feet, crawling up the wall to support himself, but straightening with ease after a few moments more.
Sylar closed the gap with two long strides, until he was so close that he could feel the panting of Mohinder’s breath; a reflex action, ultimately meaningless, but perhaps some way of clinging to humanity. He grasped Mohinder’s chin with long fingers, and Mohinder trembled under the touch. His flesh was cooler than natural, but still warmed by what little of Sylar’s blood flowed now within him.
“No…” The word tumbled off of Mohinder’s lips unprompted.
Sylar paused, considered what might have triggered the statement, and came up empty. He opened his mouth to inquire, when Mohinder’s right hand snaked up and tangled in his hair in a flash. Sylar froze, the movement was startling.
“I…” Mohinder drew out the vowel, dragged it through a world of pain. He inhaled deeply, moaned.
Sylar barely stifled a cry of pain as his head was jerked roughly to the side, but he didn’t fight it. This strangeness, this thing Mohinder had become, Sylar didn’t understand it, but he could see what it was doing to Mohinder. There were two directions, two forces at play. This craving for blood, this change in sustenance meant a life of blood and death and insanity. Mohinder was strong, and if his will to live won out he could do it, Sylar was sure, for a while. But in the end it would destroy him.
Contemplating immortality now himself, Sylar didn’t think he wanted to create a world in which mankind’s most fascinating specimen was destroyed through some cruel trick of fate. The future was his, and he wanted Suresh in it. Of that, at least, he was certain. Now, now he was broken, but Sylar was the cure. Or at least, the temporary fix.
Fangs broke flesh once more, spilling whatever toxin gave such an incredible rush.
A whimper broke from Sylar’s throat. He acted on impulse, slamming Mohinder up against the wall, but not breaking his hungry grip in the slightest. He reached a hand down, palmed Mohinder’s groin, and was pleased to find some of that blood filling Mohinder’s cock; half hard, it twitched under his grasp.
Mohinder let out a gasp, detaching from the intersection of Sylar’s neck and shoulder. Sylar pounced on the opportunity, stealing bloody lips in a kiss once more. He pulled back, slowly, reluctantly, licking his own blood off his lips.
Mohinder was staring up at him in confusion.
“You want this.” Sylar panted lightly, something deep and needful was curled in his belly and he was done denying it. “You need me, and still, even now, even knowing, you still want me.”
Mohinder seemed on the verge of panic, like he was going to bolt once more; but Sylar wasn’t about to accept that ending this time. He squeezed at the throbbing bulge once more, eliciting another whimper.
He rested his lips by the shell of Mohinder’s ear, “Don’t you want to feel alive?”
---
Clothes shredded, blood smeared over lips and necks and everywhere hands have trailed it, their bodies move together. They ride a tide of thirst and hunger, of fear and terror, of attraction, of connection, of bliss. Once impenetrable boundaries have been blurred by impossibilities.
Two souls, destined or not, crash into each other again and again. They are aligned by something indefinable, tempted by phrases like “redemption” and “salvation”. But this clash is not redemption, and salvation nowhere to be found. Higher ideals cannot exist in this world of craving and indulgence, of wanting and taking.
In their shared breakdown, as they cling to each other with tangled limbs that claw at flesh and unspoken expectations, as power charges between their pressed and aching bodies, as intensified pleasure refuses to grant mercy, there is only violence.
And blood.