Mylar Fic: After a long silence
Jun. 4th, 2009 09:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alicambsTitle: After a long silence (1/4)
Author: alicambs
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Warnings: This is Mylar! Bastard Sylar taking advantage of a weary, guilt ridden Mohinder.
Spoilers: Season 3
Summary: Mohinder is the weary fly caught in Sylar's malevolent web
Disclaimer: Heroes does not belong to me no matter how much I wish it did. Mohinder is not mine, however much I might wish he was. Sylar... okay you get the drift. Not mine.
Word Count: 5,466
Date: June 09
A/N: Many thanks to Takhallus for a very speedy and useful beta.
After a long silence
“And where do you think you are going?”
Mohinder freezes at the edge of the door. “Home,” he says very quietly and with some longing.
“Home?”
“India.”
“I don’t think so,” the voice continues. “Do turn round and face me, Mohinder it’s rather impolite keeping your back turned when someone is addressing you.”
Like you care, Mohinder thinks wearily, but he is too tired and hurt to even think of fighting back so he does as asked and limps round to face Sylar.
Sylar beckons him closer and Mohinder feels the push of telekinesis reinforcing his gesture. His chin is held as Sylar turns his head back and forth. “You’re certainly looking a lot better than when I last saw you,” Sylar says, and pats him condescendingly on the cheek.
Patronising bastard! Mohinder thinks, but makes no response as he stands and looks into Sylar’s eyes, aware of the cruel amusement lurking in them.
Sylar frowns mockingly. “What, no yelling at me, no trying to kill me, no cruel barbed wit?”
Mohinder shakes his head.
Sylar smiles and Mohinder shudders. “Do explain.”
“You’re not worth it,” Mohinder says bluntly.
Sylar laughs. “That’s not entirely the truth now, Mohinder. I think you can do better than that.”
Mohinder closes his eyes briefly and sighs. “Fine, let’s just say that my loathing for you is muted by the loathing I feel for myself at this precise moment.”
“How the mighty have fallen,” Sylar says with glee. He drops his hand onto Mohinder’s shoulder and stares sardonically into his eyes. “Not feeling quite so sanctimonious and superior now are we, Dr Suresh?”
Mohinder ignores the scorn, however near the truth it might be and resists the urge to hit out. “Just kill me and get it over with,” he says quietly.
“Kill you, whatever gave you that idea?” Sylar asks.
Mohinder remains silent - unwilling to play the game. He’s danced with death a couple of times to day and this unexpected and unwelcome meet up with Sylar looks likely to be the final dance, whatever Sylar pretends.
Sylar smiles, raises his eyebrows, lifts his left hand and points his forefinger at Mohinder’s head. “You mean like this?” He makes a brief movement of his finger and Mohinder feels a stabbing pain. “I don’t need your power and I feel no need to kill you.”
“How magnanimous,” Mohinder snarls, the pain momentarily lifting him from his apathy. He pulls away his hand from his forehead and inspects the blood on his fingers.
Sylar laughs. “Most people would keep a civil tongue in their head after having their life spared, but not you, Mohinder. It’s one of your more endearing qualities.” He turns away from the door and looks towards the mess of the laboratory.
Mohinder follows his gaze and feels indifference at the destruction. He hated working in the lab and he wants nothing more than to get away from Pinehearst and everything that reminds him of his stupidity and greed.
“You’ll need help to clear this up.” Sylar says.
“I have no intention of ever setting foot in here again,” Mohinder says firmly.
Sylar raises an eyebrow. “Then you’ll be disappointed, Mohinder as I have every intention in making sure you do.” He raises his finger to his lips as Mohinder tries to speak, muting him. “I have decided to take over the business from my recently deceased ‘father’,” he raises his hands and makes quote marks.
Mohinder feels the fury building up inside him as Sylar speaks yet his interest is caught by the bitterness he can sense in the words.
Sylar shows his teeth. “A word of warning about the Petrelli family, they are all lying bastards, don’t trust any of them.”
Except Peter, thinks Mohinder and feels a sense of regret that their fledgling friendship has more than likely floundered due to his own stupidity and greed.
“Including Peter,” Sylar adds, and Mohinder hopes by all the gods he doesn’t actually believe in that Sylar has not added mind reading to his continually expanding list of abilities. He moves a little to alleviate the strain of standing for so long on his injured leg and tries to straighten his aching back, wincing as he does so.
Sylar’s eyes track the movement. “Where are my manners?” he says derisively. “I forgot you were injured. Come.” He gestures grandly forward and raises his eyebrows.
Mohinder contemplates making a run for it and stands motionless for a few seconds until common sense tells him that Sylar is ready and able to use his multitude of powers to bring him down before he’s even got halfway to the door so he gives in to the inevitable. Sylar grins malevolently and despite his cooperation the all too familiar push of telekinesis has him stumbling forward at a faster speed. He bites on his lip to stop any sound, unwilling to show any more weakness than he has to.
They walk through the building and Mohinder sees that only his lab is affected. How Sylar stopped the fire he doesn’t know and doesn’t care, but where everyone is does bother him. He can’t regret the death of Arthur Petrelli, the man was an unmitigated bastard and, as far as he can make out, a worse killer than even the man in front of him. He does wonder where Elle is. Gossip had even made it to him that Elle and Sylar are an item, something he finds hard to comprehend since it’s well known that Sylar killed her father.
They descend to the basement and Sylar comes to a stop outside of a reinforced metal door, opening it with a wave of his hand. “Your home from home,” he says in that mocking voice he has used since the start of their encounter.
Mohinder limps in and views the accommodation silently. Despite the lack of a window it’s far bigger than he expected and a lot more comfortable, he was thinking more of a cell than an actual room.
“A thank you would be pleasant, Mohinder,” Sylar says in his ear and Mohinder can’t stop the small start of surprise. He bites down on the desire to demand for what, clears his throat and gives Sylar what he wants in the hope that the man might leave him alone.
“Thank you.”
Sylar grins. “I bet that just killed you,” he says snidely, and accurately. He gestures at a door in the corner. “The bathroom is there, you’ll find a medicine cabinet.” He turns to leave. “I’ll be back later.”
“Don’t hurry on my account,” Mohinder says and manages not to sound too sarcastic.
Sylar gives an appreciative grin even as he flicks his hand. Mohinder’s head whips back as if he’s been slapped and he feels heat on his cheek.
“I know I’m so going to enjoy teaching you respect.” Sylar winks at him and leaves, closing the door firmly behind him.
Mohinder takes a deep breath and reaches into his jacket for his cell. He check that there is some signal, speed dials Peter’s number and is about to speak when the phone is pulled from his hand and flies across the room to land into Sylar’s outstretched hand.
Sylar shakes his head and wags his fingers at him. “Unhappy with my hospitality already?” he asks. He gestures with his hand and Mohinder flies across the room and crashes into the bathroom door. “The bathroom is here, use it.” He turns to leave as Mohinder slowly pulls himself up to his feet. The door closes and then opens again and Sylar pops his head in. “Just thought I’d let you know, the door will withstand more pressure than even your enhanced strength can manage.” He smiles and the door closes and this time Mohinder hears the slam of bolts.
He waits for what seems like an eternity but is more like a few minutes before slowly making his way into the bathroom and letting himself break down.
~~~
Mohinder’s sleep is full of nightmares and when he finally wakes he feels exhausted. His watch tells him he has slept for twelve hours and his stomach reminds him that he’s not eaten for far longer.
He takes a shower this time, drinking some of the water because he feels so parched, cleans his teeth and begins to feel a bit better. He views his clothes with misgiving. They are dry and relatively clean, but they smell odd. However, given a choice between facing Sylar in a fluffy bathrobe, somewhat incongruously hanging on the bathroom door, or odd smelling clothes the clothes win hands down. He explores the room thoroughly and tries his strength unsuccessfully against the door again before settling cross legged on the bed and taking a deep breath. Ever since he thoughtlessly injected himself with his formula he has been unable to meditate and he desperately needs to. He needs to find some way of living with what he did. If he doesn’t, he senses that Sylar is going to tear him to pieces.
He wishes longingly for the meditation shawl his mother made for him when he was twelve. It was off white and hand woven with beautiful designs in black and brown around the edges.
“I made this for you,” she says as she places the folded square next to him.
Mohinder remembers opening the square out and tracing the patterns with his fingers before looking up at her enquiringly.
“It is a tradition in my family to make and present our children with their own shawl, Mohinder.” and she takes it from him and drapes around his shoulder.
Mohinder can remember the smell and feel of it to this day.
She smoothes it round him and hugs him tight to her “They say that the shawl retains the energy from your meditation,” she smiles at him and kisses his cheek.
He brought the shawl with him when he came to America but he honestly can’t remember the last time he used it. He sits up straighter and finds his centre resting his arms on his knees. He takes in a deep breath and slowly exhales and repeats until his breathing is automatic and regular. He then works on clearing his mind of the all consuming guilt and remorse. Slowly the world around him fades and he is absorbed in his meditation. Some time later, mentally refreshed and calmer, he slowly opens his eyes.
“You are a remarkably beautiful man,” Sylar says in his ear and strokes a finger down his face.
Mohinder tenses and holds back a shudder with some difficulty, cursing himself for showing vulnerability in front of Sylar.
“I think clean shaven would be more suitable and those clothes smell,” Sylar muses continuing his exploration of Mohinder’s face.
Mohinder tries to move away and is held still by Sylar’s telekinesis.
“Get in the bathroom and get out of those clothes,” Sylar orders as he drops his hands.
“Why?” Mohinder half stammers.
Sylar raises an eyebrow and points at the bathroom. “Just do it, Mohinder.” He turns and the door slams and locks behind him.
Mohinder starts trembling. He’s not too sure what he fears most, the mocking, sarcastic Sylar of yesterday or the semi-solicitous man of today. He drops his face in his hands and takes shuddering breaths until he is calm enough to get off the bed and try the door. Unsurprisingly it remains locked and impassable. He bites his lip in quandary, he wants to refuse, he wants to fight, but he has learned from bitter experience that unless he can take the man by surprise he is powerless against Sylar, even with his augmented strength. His best way of escaping the man is to use his intelligence and plan an escape and to do that he needs to remain alive and relatively unharmed. Having reluctantly rationalised his need to comply he heads for the bathroom. He slowly strips, wraps himself in the bathrobe and waits trying to find the composure he felt just before he ended his meditation.
Sylar returns bearing a cut throat razor and it take all of Mohinder’s courage to remain still. Sylar can obviously sense his distress as he smiles and holds the razor aloft running a finger lightly across the edge turning the finger to Mohinder so that he can watch as the cut bleeds and heals all within a few seconds.
Sylar crooks his finger and pats the counter. Mohinder is sat on it facing Sylar before he can even blink, his legs braced between Sylar’s. Sylar covers his face in shaving foam, grips his chin and raises the razor. “Keep very still,” he warns with a smirk and begins shaving.
Mohinder almost stops breathing gripping hold of the counter so tightly he feels the material buckling under him. He relaxes his grip a little and tries hard to keep absolutely still as Sylar strokes the blade back and forth across his face, stopping to wipe the blade on a towel before resuming.
“That’s better,” Sylar says and moves his head from side to side as he inspects his work. He lets go of Mohinder’s legs and steps back. “Jump down, remove the robe and let me see if you took good care of yourself last night.”
Mohinder baulks at the order and holds the robe tight. “I’m fine,” he says firmly.
“I’ll decide that,” Sylar says and crooks his finger.
Mohinder flies off the counter and into Sylar’s arms where the robe is pulled from him. He struggles upright and backs away covering himself.
“Have you some reason for being so modest?” Sylar asks and the mocking tone is back in his voice.
Mohinder grits his teeth, drops his hands and raises his chin defiantly. Sylar grins bearing his teeth and makes a circling movement with his finger.
Mohinder resists the impulse to play stupid. He doesn’t like being naked in front of Sylar but neither does he have any reason to feel ashamed of his body. He turns and stops, waiting to see what next humiliation the man is going to put him through.
“Nice,” Sylar says with a note of amusement in his voice. “A few bruises, but you’re okay.”
“I told you that,” Mohinder snaps.
Sylar ignores him and continues. “You could do with a little more flesh on you though.”
Mohinder finds this somewhat ironic coming from a man who is tall and remarkably lean himself. “I’m fine,” he says shortly. “You said my clothes smelt, do you have some more clothes for me?”
“On the bed,” Sylar answers.
Mohinder nods and moves towards the door.
“Did your mother not teach you to give thanks when given something, Mohinder?” Sylar asks, halting his progress.
“Thank you for the clothes,” Mohinder says without hesitation, certain that whatever he says or does it will be wrong. From the way he is slammed up against the door he is apparently right.
“I don’t think a simple thank you is adequate,” Sylar says as he holds Mohinder by the shoulders.
Mohinder reacts instinctively pushing him away, but Sylar is ready for him and shocks him, pinning him against the door with his telekinesis. “Thank you very much, Sylar” Mohinder tries, gasping as his head is bounced firmly against the door and still shuddering with the after effects of the electricity.
Sylar shakes his head and raises him eyebrows. “I want more than words,” he says and smiles at the bewilderment Mohinder can’t help showing. “I’m thinking we’re going to become very close Mohinder, even closer than when you thought I was that pathetic Zane.”
Mohinder clenches his fists at the reminder. “The difference is I liked Zane,” he gasps.
Sylar makes a tutting sound in his throat and shakes his head.
“Then you can think of me as Zane,” Sylar continues gleefully, “as I think a kiss would be an appropriate thank you.”
Mohinder feels his mouth drop open in shock. “You’re mad,” he says.
“I’ve never been called that before,” Sylar says with amusement. “Bad, wicked, amoral and a number of similar adjectives, many by you as I seem to remember, but never mad. You have a choice, kiss me and dress, or not kiss me and remain naked.”
“Bastard,” Mohinder mutters, almost anticipating the ringing slap to his cheek he receives in response.
“Last chance, Mohinder. I’ll enjoy it but I doubt you will.”
Mohinder moves forward and pecks Sylar quickly on the lips before retreating to the door.
“How disappointing,” Sylar says mildly. “I’m sure dear sweet Maya had far better than that from you. I suggest you make a lot more effort next time you need to express your gratitude.”
Mohinder can feel the steel jaws of Sylar’s malevolence enclosing him. How better to humiliate your enemy than to keep them dependent on you for everything, how more amusing if you can make them debase themselves at the same time. Mohinder strains to keep his expression as blank as possible as he absorbs this knowledge, but this really couldn’t be happening at a worse time for him, what with his behaviour alienating all those he could, at a stretch, call friends. He is unlikely to be missed, even more unlikely to be looked for except by his mother. With an effort he pushes these thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrates on learning how to survive Sylar’s company long enough to escape, hopefully with some dignity still intact.
“May I dress now?” he asks with icy politeness.
Sylar’s grin suggests that he knows exactly what Mohinder is thinking as he nods and follows him out to the bedroom. The clothes are familiar and reassuring. Mohinder slips into them, laces up his boots and stands to face Sylar feeling a little less vulnerable.
Sylar opens the door and gestures for him to follow.
He’s never liked working at Pinehearst and he was never fond of the people Arthur surrounded himself with, but the place now feels almost like a mausoleum. He and Sylar walk in silence until they reach the huge, light filled lobby of the building. He can see a receptionist on the phone, but otherwise the lobby is empty.
“Where is everyone?” Mohinder asks finally, breaking the silence.
“The ones that survived the take over you mean?”
“Survived?” Mohinder asks sharply. “I thought the damage was limited to the labs, few people were involved in that.”
Sylar moves them towards the stairs and shrugs. “Some people seemed to be very invested in what Arthur Petrelli was doing and I didn’t want them to remain so I cancelled their contracts. A couple of people were rather violent in their objections and I had to terminate them.”
Mohinder blinks. “Why aren’t the police crawling over the building then?”
Sylar laughs. “Do you think I’m stupid, Mohinder? Of course they didn’t die here, they had a fatal car accident driving to a conference they had all booked into some weeks before. Tragic really, such a shame, I expressed my deep condolences to their families of course.”
Mohinder takes a deep breath and reminds himself that Sylar is a liar, and he’s a fool if he believes everything the man tells him. They pass a couple of people as they walk along the corridor towards Arthur Petrelli’s office, who he notes nod respectfully at Sylar, and Mohinder reflects that this particular building was never a hive of activity even when Arthur Petrelli was alive. It was the glossy front that Pinehearst displayed to the world.
Once in the office Sylar waves Mohinder towards a seat and sits down behind Arthur’s desk. “Primatech in New York was destroyed by fire last night,” he says casually. “Pinehearst is now the only centre for studies into evolved humans, not that any of the employees here appear to be doing any serious research in that area. Petrelli seemed more interested in acquiring Specials to work for him and developing the formula. He had this grand vision of controlling the future by restricting access to the formula.”
Mohinder blinks at the news about Primatach and wonders exactly what role Sylar had to play in its destruction, but the rest of the information is known to him. “What do you plan to do with it?” he asks, genuinely curious.
Sylar sinks back in the chair and smiles. “I’ve decided to become legitimate.”
Mohinder blinks again in surprise, he didn’t expect that answer. “In what way?” he asks, determined to get the most out of this expansive Sylar.
“I’m going to discover, with your help, what makes us Specials tick, and you are going to find a way for me to take new powers without killing.”
Mohinder’s eyes widen. “You want to stop killing?” he asks, incredulous.
Sylar laughs. “No, but I need to find a way of acquiring power without littering states with all too recognisably dispatched bodies,” he says.
“It’s never bothered you before,” Mohinder says bitterly, the memory of Dale Smither’s body suddenly vivid in his mind.
“Gabriel Gray the business man can’t afford to be associated with Sylar the killer,” Sylar says. “Arthur Petrelli offered me family, respectability and power. He lied, but both he and the even more twisted Angela Petrelli made me realise that I wanted to be in the driving seat, to be in control and to have influence and ultimately to have power.”
“I don’t understand,” Mohnder says in frustration. “Power to do what? You already have more power than any man can need, you’re invincible, you can’t die, what more do you require?”
Sylar shakes his head mockingly. “You’re thinking far too small, Mohinder,” he says. “I want to influence things, to snap my fingers and have people doing something on my say so. I want to control peoples’ lives like mine has been controlled.”
“Controlled, how, who by?” Mohinder asks, sidetracked.
“The Company,” Sylar says, and Mohinder can almost feel Sylar’s anger. “That’s why I destroyed it, although the people I wanted dead got away. I thought your father’s betrayal was the beginning of Sylar, but Elle and that bastard Noah Bennet were actually the ones who discovered me.”
“Elle?” Mohinder says, shocked for some reason. “Elle knew you from before?”
“Pretended a friendship with me and played me for a sucker,” Sylar says with some bitterness.
“You’d know all about that,” Mohinder says sarcastically.
Sylar looks up, blinks and his face darkens for a second before he flicks a hand and Mohinder’s head jerks back so fiercely from the slap he almost ends up on the floor. Blinking back the tears he resists the temptation to rub his cheek and sits back in the chair facing Sylar defiantly.
“You will learn respect, Mohinder,” Sylar promises darkly.
Not for you I won’t, Mohinder thinks, and continues to glower.
Sylar watches him for a moment in silence and slowly his face lightens until he is almost smiling. “You look like a child sulking,” he says in amusement and it takes all Mohinder has not to glower some more. “I think I may have to find a more suitable way to keep you in line, one I’ll enjoy a lot more.”
Mohinder doesn’t want to think about that too deeply and decides to distract the man. “Presumably they made you forget everything.”
Sylar nods, “I made Elle tell me the truth before I killed her.”
Mohinder can’t control his gasp of shock at the news. “But I thought you were together,” he stutters.
Sylar shrugs again. “Petrelli set that up, not that I was against it. He wanted me suitably distracted and out working for him. In fairness, Elle was a very lovely distraction and I could have easily fallen for her, but she knew everyone, including herself, was lying to me and said nothing.”
Mohinder finds himself speechless. Elle was a sociopath, a killer and completely unbalanced, although he blames her father for most of that, but he doesn’t feel that she deserved to die at Sylar’s hands. “Surely you could have worked things out,” he eventually says, slightly horrified that he’s giving relationship advice to Sylar of all people.
Sylar shakes his head. “The betrayal was too deep. She made me feel she cared for me when all she was doing was using me. I even contemplated going straight for her.”
Mohinder opens his mouth to say something biting and closes it again after a few seconds. Even from his limited experience of the man he can sense that he was truly affected by Elle’s perceived betrayal.
Sylar watches him, a wry smile on his face before continuing with his explanation. “It was sitting on the beach watching her body burn when I decided that I wanted not only special powers, but power itself. I wanted to be someone big. I even considered being the President.”
“President!” Mohinder says faintly and shudders, his mind completely pole axed at the very idea of Sylar as President of the USA. “I don’t care what you threaten me with, Sylar, but I’m not doing anything to help you become President.”
Sylar laughs. “Then it’s fortunate for your health that I gave up that idea, Mohinder.” He sits back in the chair and steeples his fingers under his chin. “I’ve a feeling that’s more Nathan Petrelli’s ambition.”
Mohinder pulls a face, but says nothing. He doesn’t much like Nathan Petrelli, and the feeling is mutual. For all his talk, he considers Nathan to be out for his own profit entirely, he certainly seemed to be all too at ease with injecting soldiers with the formula. Mohinder winces at his thoughts; he has no right to moralise about Nathan Petrelli. He looks back at Sylar and doesn’t like the knowing expression he sees. “What is it you expect me to do for you?” he asks wanting to get back to business.
“Tell me where Molly Walker is,” Sylar says unexpectedly.
Mohinder sits bolt upright and faces Sylar. Even at his lowest point when he was desperate for drugs to control the pain and willing to take victims and cocoon them for experimentation to find a cure he never, ever gave up on Molly and he won’t now. “No,” he says quietly but with determination.
“I could torture it out of you,” Sylar says and clicks his fingers.
Mohinder feels as if he has been punched in the abdomen and groans as he folds in on himself. Panting he sits up and faces Sylar. “I won’t tell you,” he gasps.
Sylar clicks his fingers again and this time Mohinder falls to the floor. “I can do this for ever, Mohinder,” he says his voice suddenly near Mohinder’s ear.
Mohinder picks himself off the floor and tries very hard to stop panting as he straightens up to find himself facing the man. “I am not telling you where Molly is,” he wheezes, wishing that he had advanced healing powers rather than advanced strength that gives him no advantage over Sylar’s telekinesis.
“Then it’s a good job I already know,” Sylar says and laughs mockingly at Mohinder shocked face. “Do you think I’m stupid? You got that child out of the way after I threatened her in your lab didn’t you?”
Mohinder is too terrified to answer; he just watches Sylar like a mesmerised rabbit until the man shakes him and slaps his face.
“Mohinder, Mohinder,” the mocking voice croons. “You wanted her safe and I can think of only one place you’d send her.”
Mohinder blinks and holds on to the thought that Sylar can’t read minds, he can’t really know.
“You sent her to your mother in India, didn’t you?”
“No,” Mohinder says quickly, shaking his head to emphasize his answer.
He watches incredulously as Sylar does an extravagant shiver and gives a big grin. “A lie, my dear, Mohinder,” he says, sounding far too cheerful and amused for Mohinder’s liking. “Oh dear, it looks like its lesson time again.”
The look of absolute glee on his face has Mohinder backing away as fast as he can almost stumbling over a chair in his haste to increase the distance between them.
“Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly,” Sylar chants as he holds Mohinder frozen. He returns to his chair dragging Mohinder along with him, sits down and has Mohinder face down over his knees almost before Mohinder can react.
“No,” Mohinder cries, struggling as movement returns fleetingly to his body. Sylar makes no reply as he pulls down Mohinder’s jeans and shorts, grips his legs between his and immobilises him.
“Ten for being a lying little bitch,” Sylar says, and slaps Mohinder’s ass with precision and force.
Mohinder gasps with shock and pain and promises himself he won’t make a noise, he won’t cry out and he’s not going to be beaten by this. Sylar takes great pleasure in counting out each one and Mohinder manages to keep from crying out, relaxing with relief once the tenth one has been given.
“And ten for being a nasty, sarcastic, disrespectful little bitch,” Sylar says with great satisfaction and moves down to the back of his legs.
Mohinder’s resolves falters and he cries out, biting his lip hard to prevent a reoccurrence. By the twentieth he has given up on keeping quiet and is fighting off tears of pain and humiliation.
Sylar stops and rubs his hand along Mohinder’s ass. “What a beautiful colour,” he says with satisfaction, he rubs some more and Mohinder moans with the pain of it. “You have a beautiful ass, Mohinder,” Sylar continues, and a finger trails down his ass cheeks. “Along with a beautiful body and a beautiful face, it’s such a pity that such a glorious package is spoilt by your attitude and behaviour. But never you mind, I’ll get you well trained in no time.” The finger plays around Mohinder asshole.
“Please Sylar, don’t,” Mohinder sobs. The finger tracks towards his flaccid genitals and balls and gently strokes them. “Please,” Mohinder begs. He’s frightened for Molly, helpless and totally and utterly humiliated. The fingers halt their movement and return to stroking his hypersensitive ass.
“Have you ever been with a man?” Sylar asks.
“No,” Mohinder says and shivers as Sylar’s fingers retrace their path along his ass cheeks.
“Ever considered it?” Sylar continues as he plays with Mohinder.
Mohinder shakes his head his heart pounding with fear.
Sylar laughs. “Then it will be new experience for you.” He releases his hold on Mohinder and pulls him to his feet planting a kiss on his lips.
Mohinder swiftly pulls up his shorts and jeans, fastens them and wipes his eyes quickly with his sleeve. He takes a deep breath and looks Sylar in the eye. “Molly?” he asks and hates himself for the quiver in his voice.
Sylar holds his chin and wipes away a stray tear. “She’s my guarantee of your good behaviour, Mohinder, is she not? I’d be a fool to harm her in any way.”
Mohinder closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath and gathers what is left of his shattered dignity and courage. “How can I trust you?” he asks, and hurries to continue at the thunderous expression on Sylar’s face. “Please, Sylar, I still don’t understand what you want from me.”
Sylar’s expression relaxes a little although he gives Mohinder a sharp slap on his bruised and beaten ass. “It’s very simple, Mohinder, I would have thought someone as intelligent as you would have worked it out by now.”
Mohinder is far too afraid that he has worked it out by now, although he still can’t quite believe it.
Sylar places his hands on Mohinder’s shoulders and raises an eyebrow. “We both know you are fully aware of what I want from you, but I’ll play your game this one time. I want you, and I have you. You are mine, mind and body,” he pushes a stray curl away from Mohinder’s face and tilts his chin up and kisses him. “And if there is such a thing as a soul why then that will soon be mine as well.”
The kiss becomes aggressive demanding Mohinder’s submission. It is not in Mohinder’s nature to be either passive or obedient. He has always fought fire with fire, using words as his weapons. Now though, he is tired, exhausted, heart broken and full of useless but corrosive guilt. He may have strength beyond his imagination, but it is useless when faced with this man while his words are met with either mockery or violence. He has nothing left in him to fight. Mohinder surrenders to the inevitable and prays to whoever will listen that he can survive Sylar’s unpredictable demands to fight again another day.
Part 2
Author: alicambs
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Warnings: This is Mylar! Bastard Sylar taking advantage of a weary, guilt ridden Mohinder.
Spoilers: Season 3
Summary: Mohinder is the weary fly caught in Sylar's malevolent web
Disclaimer: Heroes does not belong to me no matter how much I wish it did. Mohinder is not mine, however much I might wish he was. Sylar... okay you get the drift. Not mine.
Word Count: 5,466
Date: June 09
A/N: Many thanks to Takhallus for a very speedy and useful beta.
“And where do you think you are going?”
Mohinder freezes at the edge of the door. “Home,” he says very quietly and with some longing.
“Home?”
“India.”
“I don’t think so,” the voice continues. “Do turn round and face me, Mohinder it’s rather impolite keeping your back turned when someone is addressing you.”
Like you care, Mohinder thinks wearily, but he is too tired and hurt to even think of fighting back so he does as asked and limps round to face Sylar.
Sylar beckons him closer and Mohinder feels the push of telekinesis reinforcing his gesture. His chin is held as Sylar turns his head back and forth. “You’re certainly looking a lot better than when I last saw you,” Sylar says, and pats him condescendingly on the cheek.
Patronising bastard! Mohinder thinks, but makes no response as he stands and looks into Sylar’s eyes, aware of the cruel amusement lurking in them.
Sylar frowns mockingly. “What, no yelling at me, no trying to kill me, no cruel barbed wit?”
Mohinder shakes his head.
Sylar smiles and Mohinder shudders. “Do explain.”
“You’re not worth it,” Mohinder says bluntly.
Sylar laughs. “That’s not entirely the truth now, Mohinder. I think you can do better than that.”
Mohinder closes his eyes briefly and sighs. “Fine, let’s just say that my loathing for you is muted by the loathing I feel for myself at this precise moment.”
“How the mighty have fallen,” Sylar says with glee. He drops his hand onto Mohinder’s shoulder and stares sardonically into his eyes. “Not feeling quite so sanctimonious and superior now are we, Dr Suresh?”
Mohinder ignores the scorn, however near the truth it might be and resists the urge to hit out. “Just kill me and get it over with,” he says quietly.
“Kill you, whatever gave you that idea?” Sylar asks.
Mohinder remains silent - unwilling to play the game. He’s danced with death a couple of times to day and this unexpected and unwelcome meet up with Sylar looks likely to be the final dance, whatever Sylar pretends.
Sylar smiles, raises his eyebrows, lifts his left hand and points his forefinger at Mohinder’s head. “You mean like this?” He makes a brief movement of his finger and Mohinder feels a stabbing pain. “I don’t need your power and I feel no need to kill you.”
“How magnanimous,” Mohinder snarls, the pain momentarily lifting him from his apathy. He pulls away his hand from his forehead and inspects the blood on his fingers.
Sylar laughs. “Most people would keep a civil tongue in their head after having their life spared, but not you, Mohinder. It’s one of your more endearing qualities.” He turns away from the door and looks towards the mess of the laboratory.
Mohinder follows his gaze and feels indifference at the destruction. He hated working in the lab and he wants nothing more than to get away from Pinehearst and everything that reminds him of his stupidity and greed.
“You’ll need help to clear this up.” Sylar says.
“I have no intention of ever setting foot in here again,” Mohinder says firmly.
Sylar raises an eyebrow. “Then you’ll be disappointed, Mohinder as I have every intention in making sure you do.” He raises his finger to his lips as Mohinder tries to speak, muting him. “I have decided to take over the business from my recently deceased ‘father’,” he raises his hands and makes quote marks.
Mohinder feels the fury building up inside him as Sylar speaks yet his interest is caught by the bitterness he can sense in the words.
Sylar shows his teeth. “A word of warning about the Petrelli family, they are all lying bastards, don’t trust any of them.”
Except Peter, thinks Mohinder and feels a sense of regret that their fledgling friendship has more than likely floundered due to his own stupidity and greed.
“Including Peter,” Sylar adds, and Mohinder hopes by all the gods he doesn’t actually believe in that Sylar has not added mind reading to his continually expanding list of abilities. He moves a little to alleviate the strain of standing for so long on his injured leg and tries to straighten his aching back, wincing as he does so.
Sylar’s eyes track the movement. “Where are my manners?” he says derisively. “I forgot you were injured. Come.” He gestures grandly forward and raises his eyebrows.
Mohinder contemplates making a run for it and stands motionless for a few seconds until common sense tells him that Sylar is ready and able to use his multitude of powers to bring him down before he’s even got halfway to the door so he gives in to the inevitable. Sylar grins malevolently and despite his cooperation the all too familiar push of telekinesis has him stumbling forward at a faster speed. He bites on his lip to stop any sound, unwilling to show any more weakness than he has to.
They walk through the building and Mohinder sees that only his lab is affected. How Sylar stopped the fire he doesn’t know and doesn’t care, but where everyone is does bother him. He can’t regret the death of Arthur Petrelli, the man was an unmitigated bastard and, as far as he can make out, a worse killer than even the man in front of him. He does wonder where Elle is. Gossip had even made it to him that Elle and Sylar are an item, something he finds hard to comprehend since it’s well known that Sylar killed her father.
They descend to the basement and Sylar comes to a stop outside of a reinforced metal door, opening it with a wave of his hand. “Your home from home,” he says in that mocking voice he has used since the start of their encounter.
Mohinder limps in and views the accommodation silently. Despite the lack of a window it’s far bigger than he expected and a lot more comfortable, he was thinking more of a cell than an actual room.
“A thank you would be pleasant, Mohinder,” Sylar says in his ear and Mohinder can’t stop the small start of surprise. He bites down on the desire to demand for what, clears his throat and gives Sylar what he wants in the hope that the man might leave him alone.
“Thank you.”
Sylar grins. “I bet that just killed you,” he says snidely, and accurately. He gestures at a door in the corner. “The bathroom is there, you’ll find a medicine cabinet.” He turns to leave. “I’ll be back later.”
“Don’t hurry on my account,” Mohinder says and manages not to sound too sarcastic.
Sylar gives an appreciative grin even as he flicks his hand. Mohinder’s head whips back as if he’s been slapped and he feels heat on his cheek.
“I know I’m so going to enjoy teaching you respect.” Sylar winks at him and leaves, closing the door firmly behind him.
Mohinder takes a deep breath and reaches into his jacket for his cell. He check that there is some signal, speed dials Peter’s number and is about to speak when the phone is pulled from his hand and flies across the room to land into Sylar’s outstretched hand.
Sylar shakes his head and wags his fingers at him. “Unhappy with my hospitality already?” he asks. He gestures with his hand and Mohinder flies across the room and crashes into the bathroom door. “The bathroom is here, use it.” He turns to leave as Mohinder slowly pulls himself up to his feet. The door closes and then opens again and Sylar pops his head in. “Just thought I’d let you know, the door will withstand more pressure than even your enhanced strength can manage.” He smiles and the door closes and this time Mohinder hears the slam of bolts.
He waits for what seems like an eternity but is more like a few minutes before slowly making his way into the bathroom and letting himself break down.
Mohinder’s sleep is full of nightmares and when he finally wakes he feels exhausted. His watch tells him he has slept for twelve hours and his stomach reminds him that he’s not eaten for far longer.
He takes a shower this time, drinking some of the water because he feels so parched, cleans his teeth and begins to feel a bit better. He views his clothes with misgiving. They are dry and relatively clean, but they smell odd. However, given a choice between facing Sylar in a fluffy bathrobe, somewhat incongruously hanging on the bathroom door, or odd smelling clothes the clothes win hands down. He explores the room thoroughly and tries his strength unsuccessfully against the door again before settling cross legged on the bed and taking a deep breath. Ever since he thoughtlessly injected himself with his formula he has been unable to meditate and he desperately needs to. He needs to find some way of living with what he did. If he doesn’t, he senses that Sylar is going to tear him to pieces.
He wishes longingly for the meditation shawl his mother made for him when he was twelve. It was off white and hand woven with beautiful designs in black and brown around the edges.
“I made this for you,” she says as she places the folded square next to him.
Mohinder remembers opening the square out and tracing the patterns with his fingers before looking up at her enquiringly.
“It is a tradition in my family to make and present our children with their own shawl, Mohinder.” and she takes it from him and drapes around his shoulder.
Mohinder can remember the smell and feel of it to this day.
She smoothes it round him and hugs him tight to her “They say that the shawl retains the energy from your meditation,” she smiles at him and kisses his cheek.
He brought the shawl with him when he came to America but he honestly can’t remember the last time he used it. He sits up straighter and finds his centre resting his arms on his knees. He takes in a deep breath and slowly exhales and repeats until his breathing is automatic and regular. He then works on clearing his mind of the all consuming guilt and remorse. Slowly the world around him fades and he is absorbed in his meditation. Some time later, mentally refreshed and calmer, he slowly opens his eyes.
“You are a remarkably beautiful man,” Sylar says in his ear and strokes a finger down his face.
Mohinder tenses and holds back a shudder with some difficulty, cursing himself for showing vulnerability in front of Sylar.
“I think clean shaven would be more suitable and those clothes smell,” Sylar muses continuing his exploration of Mohinder’s face.
Mohinder tries to move away and is held still by Sylar’s telekinesis.
“Get in the bathroom and get out of those clothes,” Sylar orders as he drops his hands.
“Why?” Mohinder half stammers.
Sylar raises an eyebrow and points at the bathroom. “Just do it, Mohinder.” He turns and the door slams and locks behind him.
Mohinder starts trembling. He’s not too sure what he fears most, the mocking, sarcastic Sylar of yesterday or the semi-solicitous man of today. He drops his face in his hands and takes shuddering breaths until he is calm enough to get off the bed and try the door. Unsurprisingly it remains locked and impassable. He bites his lip in quandary, he wants to refuse, he wants to fight, but he has learned from bitter experience that unless he can take the man by surprise he is powerless against Sylar, even with his augmented strength. His best way of escaping the man is to use his intelligence and plan an escape and to do that he needs to remain alive and relatively unharmed. Having reluctantly rationalised his need to comply he heads for the bathroom. He slowly strips, wraps himself in the bathrobe and waits trying to find the composure he felt just before he ended his meditation.
Sylar returns bearing a cut throat razor and it take all of Mohinder’s courage to remain still. Sylar can obviously sense his distress as he smiles and holds the razor aloft running a finger lightly across the edge turning the finger to Mohinder so that he can watch as the cut bleeds and heals all within a few seconds.
Sylar crooks his finger and pats the counter. Mohinder is sat on it facing Sylar before he can even blink, his legs braced between Sylar’s. Sylar covers his face in shaving foam, grips his chin and raises the razor. “Keep very still,” he warns with a smirk and begins shaving.
Mohinder almost stops breathing gripping hold of the counter so tightly he feels the material buckling under him. He relaxes his grip a little and tries hard to keep absolutely still as Sylar strokes the blade back and forth across his face, stopping to wipe the blade on a towel before resuming.
“That’s better,” Sylar says and moves his head from side to side as he inspects his work. He lets go of Mohinder’s legs and steps back. “Jump down, remove the robe and let me see if you took good care of yourself last night.”
Mohinder baulks at the order and holds the robe tight. “I’m fine,” he says firmly.
“I’ll decide that,” Sylar says and crooks his finger.
Mohinder flies off the counter and into Sylar’s arms where the robe is pulled from him. He struggles upright and backs away covering himself.
“Have you some reason for being so modest?” Sylar asks and the mocking tone is back in his voice.
Mohinder grits his teeth, drops his hands and raises his chin defiantly. Sylar grins bearing his teeth and makes a circling movement with his finger.
Mohinder resists the impulse to play stupid. He doesn’t like being naked in front of Sylar but neither does he have any reason to feel ashamed of his body. He turns and stops, waiting to see what next humiliation the man is going to put him through.
“Nice,” Sylar says with a note of amusement in his voice. “A few bruises, but you’re okay.”
“I told you that,” Mohinder snaps.
Sylar ignores him and continues. “You could do with a little more flesh on you though.”
Mohinder finds this somewhat ironic coming from a man who is tall and remarkably lean himself. “I’m fine,” he says shortly. “You said my clothes smelt, do you have some more clothes for me?”
“On the bed,” Sylar answers.
Mohinder nods and moves towards the door.
“Did your mother not teach you to give thanks when given something, Mohinder?” Sylar asks, halting his progress.
“Thank you for the clothes,” Mohinder says without hesitation, certain that whatever he says or does it will be wrong. From the way he is slammed up against the door he is apparently right.
“I don’t think a simple thank you is adequate,” Sylar says as he holds Mohinder by the shoulders.
Mohinder reacts instinctively pushing him away, but Sylar is ready for him and shocks him, pinning him against the door with his telekinesis. “Thank you very much, Sylar” Mohinder tries, gasping as his head is bounced firmly against the door and still shuddering with the after effects of the electricity.
Sylar shakes his head and raises him eyebrows. “I want more than words,” he says and smiles at the bewilderment Mohinder can’t help showing. “I’m thinking we’re going to become very close Mohinder, even closer than when you thought I was that pathetic Zane.”
Mohinder clenches his fists at the reminder. “The difference is I liked Zane,” he gasps.
Sylar makes a tutting sound in his throat and shakes his head.
“Then you can think of me as Zane,” Sylar continues gleefully, “as I think a kiss would be an appropriate thank you.”
Mohinder feels his mouth drop open in shock. “You’re mad,” he says.
“I’ve never been called that before,” Sylar says with amusement. “Bad, wicked, amoral and a number of similar adjectives, many by you as I seem to remember, but never mad. You have a choice, kiss me and dress, or not kiss me and remain naked.”
“Bastard,” Mohinder mutters, almost anticipating the ringing slap to his cheek he receives in response.
“Last chance, Mohinder. I’ll enjoy it but I doubt you will.”
Mohinder moves forward and pecks Sylar quickly on the lips before retreating to the door.
“How disappointing,” Sylar says mildly. “I’m sure dear sweet Maya had far better than that from you. I suggest you make a lot more effort next time you need to express your gratitude.”
Mohinder can feel the steel jaws of Sylar’s malevolence enclosing him. How better to humiliate your enemy than to keep them dependent on you for everything, how more amusing if you can make them debase themselves at the same time. Mohinder strains to keep his expression as blank as possible as he absorbs this knowledge, but this really couldn’t be happening at a worse time for him, what with his behaviour alienating all those he could, at a stretch, call friends. He is unlikely to be missed, even more unlikely to be looked for except by his mother. With an effort he pushes these thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrates on learning how to survive Sylar’s company long enough to escape, hopefully with some dignity still intact.
“May I dress now?” he asks with icy politeness.
Sylar’s grin suggests that he knows exactly what Mohinder is thinking as he nods and follows him out to the bedroom. The clothes are familiar and reassuring. Mohinder slips into them, laces up his boots and stands to face Sylar feeling a little less vulnerable.
Sylar opens the door and gestures for him to follow.
He’s never liked working at Pinehearst and he was never fond of the people Arthur surrounded himself with, but the place now feels almost like a mausoleum. He and Sylar walk in silence until they reach the huge, light filled lobby of the building. He can see a receptionist on the phone, but otherwise the lobby is empty.
“Where is everyone?” Mohinder asks finally, breaking the silence.
“The ones that survived the take over you mean?”
“Survived?” Mohinder asks sharply. “I thought the damage was limited to the labs, few people were involved in that.”
Sylar moves them towards the stairs and shrugs. “Some people seemed to be very invested in what Arthur Petrelli was doing and I didn’t want them to remain so I cancelled their contracts. A couple of people were rather violent in their objections and I had to terminate them.”
Mohinder blinks. “Why aren’t the police crawling over the building then?”
Sylar laughs. “Do you think I’m stupid, Mohinder? Of course they didn’t die here, they had a fatal car accident driving to a conference they had all booked into some weeks before. Tragic really, such a shame, I expressed my deep condolences to their families of course.”
Mohinder takes a deep breath and reminds himself that Sylar is a liar, and he’s a fool if he believes everything the man tells him. They pass a couple of people as they walk along the corridor towards Arthur Petrelli’s office, who he notes nod respectfully at Sylar, and Mohinder reflects that this particular building was never a hive of activity even when Arthur Petrelli was alive. It was the glossy front that Pinehearst displayed to the world.
Once in the office Sylar waves Mohinder towards a seat and sits down behind Arthur’s desk. “Primatech in New York was destroyed by fire last night,” he says casually. “Pinehearst is now the only centre for studies into evolved humans, not that any of the employees here appear to be doing any serious research in that area. Petrelli seemed more interested in acquiring Specials to work for him and developing the formula. He had this grand vision of controlling the future by restricting access to the formula.”
Mohinder blinks at the news about Primatach and wonders exactly what role Sylar had to play in its destruction, but the rest of the information is known to him. “What do you plan to do with it?” he asks, genuinely curious.
Sylar sinks back in the chair and smiles. “I’ve decided to become legitimate.”
Mohinder blinks again in surprise, he didn’t expect that answer. “In what way?” he asks, determined to get the most out of this expansive Sylar.
“I’m going to discover, with your help, what makes us Specials tick, and you are going to find a way for me to take new powers without killing.”
Mohinder’s eyes widen. “You want to stop killing?” he asks, incredulous.
Sylar laughs. “No, but I need to find a way of acquiring power without littering states with all too recognisably dispatched bodies,” he says.
“It’s never bothered you before,” Mohinder says bitterly, the memory of Dale Smither’s body suddenly vivid in his mind.
“Gabriel Gray the business man can’t afford to be associated with Sylar the killer,” Sylar says. “Arthur Petrelli offered me family, respectability and power. He lied, but both he and the even more twisted Angela Petrelli made me realise that I wanted to be in the driving seat, to be in control and to have influence and ultimately to have power.”
“I don’t understand,” Mohnder says in frustration. “Power to do what? You already have more power than any man can need, you’re invincible, you can’t die, what more do you require?”
Sylar shakes his head mockingly. “You’re thinking far too small, Mohinder,” he says. “I want to influence things, to snap my fingers and have people doing something on my say so. I want to control peoples’ lives like mine has been controlled.”
“Controlled, how, who by?” Mohinder asks, sidetracked.
“The Company,” Sylar says, and Mohinder can almost feel Sylar’s anger. “That’s why I destroyed it, although the people I wanted dead got away. I thought your father’s betrayal was the beginning of Sylar, but Elle and that bastard Noah Bennet were actually the ones who discovered me.”
“Elle?” Mohinder says, shocked for some reason. “Elle knew you from before?”
“Pretended a friendship with me and played me for a sucker,” Sylar says with some bitterness.
“You’d know all about that,” Mohinder says sarcastically.
Sylar looks up, blinks and his face darkens for a second before he flicks a hand and Mohinder’s head jerks back so fiercely from the slap he almost ends up on the floor. Blinking back the tears he resists the temptation to rub his cheek and sits back in the chair facing Sylar defiantly.
“You will learn respect, Mohinder,” Sylar promises darkly.
Not for you I won’t, Mohinder thinks, and continues to glower.
Sylar watches him for a moment in silence and slowly his face lightens until he is almost smiling. “You look like a child sulking,” he says in amusement and it takes all Mohinder has not to glower some more. “I think I may have to find a more suitable way to keep you in line, one I’ll enjoy a lot more.”
Mohinder doesn’t want to think about that too deeply and decides to distract the man. “Presumably they made you forget everything.”
Sylar nods, “I made Elle tell me the truth before I killed her.”
Mohinder can’t control his gasp of shock at the news. “But I thought you were together,” he stutters.
Sylar shrugs again. “Petrelli set that up, not that I was against it. He wanted me suitably distracted and out working for him. In fairness, Elle was a very lovely distraction and I could have easily fallen for her, but she knew everyone, including herself, was lying to me and said nothing.”
Mohinder finds himself speechless. Elle was a sociopath, a killer and completely unbalanced, although he blames her father for most of that, but he doesn’t feel that she deserved to die at Sylar’s hands. “Surely you could have worked things out,” he eventually says, slightly horrified that he’s giving relationship advice to Sylar of all people.
Sylar shakes his head. “The betrayal was too deep. She made me feel she cared for me when all she was doing was using me. I even contemplated going straight for her.”
Mohinder opens his mouth to say something biting and closes it again after a few seconds. Even from his limited experience of the man he can sense that he was truly affected by Elle’s perceived betrayal.
Sylar watches him, a wry smile on his face before continuing with his explanation. “It was sitting on the beach watching her body burn when I decided that I wanted not only special powers, but power itself. I wanted to be someone big. I even considered being the President.”
“President!” Mohinder says faintly and shudders, his mind completely pole axed at the very idea of Sylar as President of the USA. “I don’t care what you threaten me with, Sylar, but I’m not doing anything to help you become President.”
Sylar laughs. “Then it’s fortunate for your health that I gave up that idea, Mohinder.” He sits back in the chair and steeples his fingers under his chin. “I’ve a feeling that’s more Nathan Petrelli’s ambition.”
Mohinder pulls a face, but says nothing. He doesn’t much like Nathan Petrelli, and the feeling is mutual. For all his talk, he considers Nathan to be out for his own profit entirely, he certainly seemed to be all too at ease with injecting soldiers with the formula. Mohinder winces at his thoughts; he has no right to moralise about Nathan Petrelli. He looks back at Sylar and doesn’t like the knowing expression he sees. “What is it you expect me to do for you?” he asks wanting to get back to business.
“Tell me where Molly Walker is,” Sylar says unexpectedly.
Mohinder sits bolt upright and faces Sylar. Even at his lowest point when he was desperate for drugs to control the pain and willing to take victims and cocoon them for experimentation to find a cure he never, ever gave up on Molly and he won’t now. “No,” he says quietly but with determination.
“I could torture it out of you,” Sylar says and clicks his fingers.
Mohinder feels as if he has been punched in the abdomen and groans as he folds in on himself. Panting he sits up and faces Sylar. “I won’t tell you,” he gasps.
Sylar clicks his fingers again and this time Mohinder falls to the floor. “I can do this for ever, Mohinder,” he says his voice suddenly near Mohinder’s ear.
Mohinder picks himself off the floor and tries very hard to stop panting as he straightens up to find himself facing the man. “I am not telling you where Molly is,” he wheezes, wishing that he had advanced healing powers rather than advanced strength that gives him no advantage over Sylar’s telekinesis.
“Then it’s a good job I already know,” Sylar says and laughs mockingly at Mohinder shocked face. “Do you think I’m stupid? You got that child out of the way after I threatened her in your lab didn’t you?”
Mohinder is too terrified to answer; he just watches Sylar like a mesmerised rabbit until the man shakes him and slaps his face.
“Mohinder, Mohinder,” the mocking voice croons. “You wanted her safe and I can think of only one place you’d send her.”
Mohinder blinks and holds on to the thought that Sylar can’t read minds, he can’t really know.
“You sent her to your mother in India, didn’t you?”
“No,” Mohinder says quickly, shaking his head to emphasize his answer.
He watches incredulously as Sylar does an extravagant shiver and gives a big grin. “A lie, my dear, Mohinder,” he says, sounding far too cheerful and amused for Mohinder’s liking. “Oh dear, it looks like its lesson time again.”
The look of absolute glee on his face has Mohinder backing away as fast as he can almost stumbling over a chair in his haste to increase the distance between them.
“Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly,” Sylar chants as he holds Mohinder frozen. He returns to his chair dragging Mohinder along with him, sits down and has Mohinder face down over his knees almost before Mohinder can react.
“No,” Mohinder cries, struggling as movement returns fleetingly to his body. Sylar makes no reply as he pulls down Mohinder’s jeans and shorts, grips his legs between his and immobilises him.
“Ten for being a lying little bitch,” Sylar says, and slaps Mohinder’s ass with precision and force.
Mohinder gasps with shock and pain and promises himself he won’t make a noise, he won’t cry out and he’s not going to be beaten by this. Sylar takes great pleasure in counting out each one and Mohinder manages to keep from crying out, relaxing with relief once the tenth one has been given.
“And ten for being a nasty, sarcastic, disrespectful little bitch,” Sylar says with great satisfaction and moves down to the back of his legs.
Mohinder’s resolves falters and he cries out, biting his lip hard to prevent a reoccurrence. By the twentieth he has given up on keeping quiet and is fighting off tears of pain and humiliation.
Sylar stops and rubs his hand along Mohinder’s ass. “What a beautiful colour,” he says with satisfaction, he rubs some more and Mohinder moans with the pain of it. “You have a beautiful ass, Mohinder,” Sylar continues, and a finger trails down his ass cheeks. “Along with a beautiful body and a beautiful face, it’s such a pity that such a glorious package is spoilt by your attitude and behaviour. But never you mind, I’ll get you well trained in no time.” The finger plays around Mohinder asshole.
“Please Sylar, don’t,” Mohinder sobs. The finger tracks towards his flaccid genitals and balls and gently strokes them. “Please,” Mohinder begs. He’s frightened for Molly, helpless and totally and utterly humiliated. The fingers halt their movement and return to stroking his hypersensitive ass.
“Have you ever been with a man?” Sylar asks.
“No,” Mohinder says and shivers as Sylar’s fingers retrace their path along his ass cheeks.
“Ever considered it?” Sylar continues as he plays with Mohinder.
Mohinder shakes his head his heart pounding with fear.
Sylar laughs. “Then it will be new experience for you.” He releases his hold on Mohinder and pulls him to his feet planting a kiss on his lips.
Mohinder swiftly pulls up his shorts and jeans, fastens them and wipes his eyes quickly with his sleeve. He takes a deep breath and looks Sylar in the eye. “Molly?” he asks and hates himself for the quiver in his voice.
Sylar holds his chin and wipes away a stray tear. “She’s my guarantee of your good behaviour, Mohinder, is she not? I’d be a fool to harm her in any way.”
Mohinder closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath and gathers what is left of his shattered dignity and courage. “How can I trust you?” he asks, and hurries to continue at the thunderous expression on Sylar’s face. “Please, Sylar, I still don’t understand what you want from me.”
Sylar’s expression relaxes a little although he gives Mohinder a sharp slap on his bruised and beaten ass. “It’s very simple, Mohinder, I would have thought someone as intelligent as you would have worked it out by now.”
Mohinder is far too afraid that he has worked it out by now, although he still can’t quite believe it.
Sylar places his hands on Mohinder’s shoulders and raises an eyebrow. “We both know you are fully aware of what I want from you, but I’ll play your game this one time. I want you, and I have you. You are mine, mind and body,” he pushes a stray curl away from Mohinder’s face and tilts his chin up and kisses him. “And if there is such a thing as a soul why then that will soon be mine as well.”
The kiss becomes aggressive demanding Mohinder’s submission. It is not in Mohinder’s nature to be either passive or obedient. He has always fought fire with fire, using words as his weapons. Now though, he is tired, exhausted, heart broken and full of useless but corrosive guilt. He may have strength beyond his imagination, but it is useless when faced with this man while his words are met with either mockery or violence. He has nothing left in him to fight. Mohinder surrenders to the inevitable and prays to whoever will listen that he can survive Sylar’s unpredictable demands to fight again another day.
Part 2
