Something Like Seduction - Heroes - Mohinder/Sylar
Title: Something Like Seduction
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 3829
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Dub-con
A/N: Something fairly silly written to cheer up my winter-blues. I used the 25fluffyfics 'Flowers' and the 25_streetsigns 'Yield' prompt. The poem quoted is Valediction: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne.
Summary: "He's never tried to court someone before, but he's certain that it can't be too hard."
When Sylar was a teenager, still hiding under the guise of a shy and diligent pupil, he'd been nobody. He'd been the 'weird' kid that sat at the front of the class, books always open and pen always ready. Whispers would rustle behind him and occasionally a bright spark of laughter would be thrown his way like a stray firework.
He wasn't alone: he had his friends, a select group of other 'freaks'. The quiet ones, the strange ones, the ones that just didn't look right and the ones who tried their hardest not to. Sylar can remember Gregory Small, a short boy with tufty blonde hair who had sat beside him every day in their maths class for three years without saying more than a couple of words. He remembers Jack Hunter as well, tall and lanky and constantly talking even when nobody wanted to listen.
Most of all, however, he remembers Samantha Smith.
Samantha Smith had played the viola, had been the proud possessor of long blonde hair that had tumbled down in poker-straight lines to her lower back, and had been the very first woman that Sylar had ever kissed: cramped backstage at the school play - she'd been Juliet, he'd been Friar John - she'd noticed his nerves as he read and reread and rereread his lines in preparation.
"You're nervous?" she'd asked, smiling. The freckles on her face had been over-powering, forcing him to mumble a monosyllabic answer. "Don't be. Everything'll go fine, I swear it will."
"Of course it will," he whispered in return, but his lines kept flowing like quicksand from his mind and became clogged in his throat whenever he attempted to speak. His mother was out there in the audience; if he messed this up, he would have failed her.
"Seriously," Samantha - Sam, Sylar thinks, she always wanted to be called 'Sam' - said. She was too close to him as she spoke, close enough that he could smell her hair and see every eyelash. Sylar thinks her hair smelled of coconut conditioner, but that might be a detail added by the white-washing effect of time. "We're going to be great. Don't worry about it."
And that was when it happened: soft lips against his, clumsy and inexperienced; a hand clinging to his arm as if to stop him from falling over; the sticky-sweet taste of too much lip gloss. Gabriel Gray's very first kiss had been a rushed and embarrassing affair, one that he's sure should have been much more dramatic.
"Sam!" one of her friends had hissed seconds later, sounding mortified. "Get over here!"
The other scattered and random romantic experiences of his life had been scarce and equally disappointing - and the majority had taken place in his imagination. A smile from a cashier at the supermarket could be turned into love-at-first-sight. A repeat visitor to his little shop could be interpreted as an epic love affair.
Sad.
Pathetic.
Behind him now.
And yet-
There's still that thorn in his side, isn't there? Even though Sylar has left that miserable existence behind now, even though Chandra helped him to escape the monotonous life of a watchmaker, not everything is so easily shed. Powers and well-honed instincts apparently don't aid one's love life. Sylar had planned on putting such sentimentalities behind him, but plans don't always work exactly as he expects: he'd never in a thousand years have predicted the wildcard that was thrown into the mix.
Mohinder Suresh.
There had been no way of predicting that intrusion. Out of the blue he'd had Chandra's son appearing unwarranted in his life and unwittingly aiding his mission - it would have been a gift from God himself, if having the scientist around hadn't given him the same butterflies that Samantha Smith had all those years ago.
Mohinder - with his dark eyes and sarcastic humour and that naivety he watched the world with - is an impossible man to forget. Worse, though, he is an impossible man to woo, clinging so tightly to his hatred and need for revenge despite Sylar's best attempts at winning him round. Clearly, he's going to have to try a little bit harder in this case - because since he left his watch-making behind, Sylar is done with merely daydreaming.
*
He's never tried to court someone before, but he's certain that it can't be too hard. The films that his mother used to watch seem to spell it out nicely - romance involves a lot of giving of gifts - and he supposes that the strange tangle of events that led them to this situation could be considered the opening farce of those romantic comedies. The humour is fairly black, he has to admit. He still thinks that he can feel Mohinder's blood, mixed with the cheerleader's, pulsing through his veins and bringing his powers back: and one gift deserves another in return, a 'thank you'.
The streets he walks are crowded and busy, but the bustle of the crowd becomes a mindless background noise that gives him room to think. Mohinder isn't an easy person to buy gifts for, and the few days that he spent as 'Zane' by his side have given him less of an insight than he'd thought. This should have been easy - he should have been able to instantly decide what was absolutely perfect.
He stops walking outside of a florist. The pavement is coated with vibrant displays and blooming bouquets, pinks and blues and yellows like a toddler's finger-paintings. Flowers are traditional, aren't they? There's certainly no denying that Mohinder seems to be drawn towards the bright colours of the world, if the clothes he wears are anything to go by.
"Can I help, sir?" a blonde-haired woman to his right says. She wears a blue polo shirt with the shop's logo embroidered on it.
Sylar smiles politely, though he only spares a glance at her for a second. "Yes," he says, "I think you can."
*
He stays hidden around the corner, by the stairs, when he hand-delivers the flowers to Mohinder's doorstep. Considering how their last meeting went - and how very relieved Mohinder had seemed when that electric girl turned up - he thinks that it would be best to test the water before chancing another meeting. Using those beautiful returned powers, he carefully floats the bouquet forward and places them down for Mohinder to find.
It took a lot of consultation with the shop-girl before he'd managed to work out what would be suitable. They'd ended up with yellow and red flowers - roses and lilies and some others he doesn't recognise and can't remember the names of - along with a glass vase. It's pretty, he thinks. Mohinder seems like someone that will enjoy pretty things, being an extremely pretty thing himself.
Not a thing, Sylar reminds himself stubbornly, but it's hard to think of him as anything else - as anything other than decorative and desirable. He crouches low, hidden around the corner with images of James Bond running through his mind, and uses his power to rattle the door in its hinges. It's not quite as effective as a knock, but he won't take the chance of being caught. Not yet.
Another rattle, more forceful this time, finally brings an answer to the door. Mohinder bustles to answer it, a distracted frown on his face. Sylar wonders what he was doing inside - was he lost in his theories and ideas or was he simply preparing a meal for his perfect little family? - but the thread of his thoughts are lost when Mohinder notices the yellow explosion on his doorstep. The frown turns from annoyance to confusion as Mohinder kneels down to pick the vase up cautiously. There's a tease of a perplexed smile on his face; that alone is enough to encourage Sylar to continue with this line of action.
He nods to himself, satisfied, and fades away before Mohinder can read the anonymous note that is attached:
Thinking of you, always
xx
*
Yet even that doesn't seem like enough - it's more than Sylar has bothered to do for another person in such a long time, but even he can tell that it isn't the magic cure for the way that Mohinder thinks he has wronged him. A bouquet of flowers isn't enough to make up for the murder of a father.
No - more gifts are required.
He glances to the golden-coloured box that sits on the desk next to him. It's dark outside already and he thinks that Mohinder would be unsettled by any midnight visits. It will have to wait until tomorrow: he can deliver it himself by the light of day, while the cop is at work and the little girl is at school.
Tonight, however, he'll be prepared. The tag that goes with the box - a selection of rich and dark chocolates designed to make the mouth water - waits in front of him and the pen he holds taunts him with his indecision. It's just a note. Writing this should be the easy part. It's everything else that ought to be difficult.
He taps the end of his pen against the edge of the desk and bites his bottom lip, deep in thought. Easy, easy, easy. It's got to be simple - but it's got to be meaningful too. The blank tag seems to taunt him cruelly, before he simply gives up. He raises the pen and writes-
I want you. I'm sorry.
xx
*
It isn't working. He's trying so hard and yet it still isn't working. There's no sign that he's making any progress and Mohinder has hardly reacted to the flowers or chocolates beyond an amused smile when he finds them on the doorstep. Sylar needs more than 'amused'.
Time to step things up, in that case, and he really begins to wish that his mother was still alive. He's sure that she would have a thousand and one suggestions for dealing with a situation like this. With her help, he'd have Mohinder dreamy-eyed and helpless in a matter of hours.
Through his own folly, however, he'll have to cope with this alone. As he continues tracking down his next victim - he's tempted, so tempted, to go after Petrelli again, but forcefully reminds himself that he's learnt that lesson and will have to wait until he's a little more powerful first - he multitasks and tries to work out what his next move should be.
What else would Mohinder like?
*
The card that is delivered to Mohinder's house the following day is handmade, with spidery hand-writing inside. When Mohinder picks it up and opens it he seems perplexed by what's inside, running his eyes over the quoted verse several times in an attempt to grasp what it is that's turned up on his doorstep this time.
We by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Poetry - Sylar's certain that Mohinder must be a fan of poetry - but as he hides and watches, Mohinder just stays frowning as he reads it. This isn't working.
Damn it.
*
He just has to step things up a gear, he tells himself. Flowers, chocolates, poems… They're all very nice, but they're all very ordinary. Mohinder isn't ordinary, is he? And logic therefore dictates that he requires something extraordinary. It's simple - Sylar can only wonder why he didn't realise it before.
He spends the following day trailing through the thousands of shops that New York holds. This infatuation is starting to become annoying: there's no joy in the chase any more. He's waiting for the kill.
Hardly surprising that Mohinder would be resistant and stubborn, is it? That fury and spirit is what draws Sylar repeatedly towards him - but he wishes it would be tamed just a little bit faster. He stares through the shop windows with the glazed expression of a zombie, breathing shallowly and wishing that he could be elsewhere. If he left the city, he could get back on the road and start accomplishing his mission again, but the idea of leaving before he's succeeded is painful. He's not a quitter. He never has been.
Scowling at the world, he turns into the nearest shop and has to tell himself that destroying the workers won't do him any good at all. "Are you looking for anything particular, sir?" asks the greying man behind the counter.
He glances around - a jewellery shop, that seems fitting - and clucks his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he tries to think. "Something…" he says, before sighing in intense annoyance, "Something pretty."
"Ah," the man says, with a twinkle in his eye like a demented Santa Claus. "I'm sure I can help you there."
*
If this doesn't work, then Sylar's sure that he's just going to have to give up on the romantic work - he'll have to come to the conclusion that scientists are impossible to catch by conventional means, and will have to try something else instead. He's not quite sure what that 'something else' will be, but he doubts if it will be quite as gentle and giving as his previous methods. He sincerely doubts if it will be something that Samantha Smith would have been impressed by.
The black jewellery box sits on the doorstep, just waiting for Mohinder to come home and find it. Sylar waits as well, crouched in the shadows at the end of the corridor. He arrived half an hour ago and his knees have started to cramp in his hiding spot, uncomfortable and unpleasant. This had better be worth it.
Highly attuned hearing picks up on the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He tries to tell himself not to get excited about that, that it could be anyone, but it sounds right. It sounds distracted and absent-minded, just as Mohinder would if he was buried in his thoughts. Sylar's heart races expectantly.
He wants to leap to his feet when Mohinder turns the corner, head bowed as he hunts for the right key to allow himself into the apartment, and has to force himself to stay still and unnoticed. It isn't yet time to reveal himself, even though every inch of him itches to.
There's a ripple of confusion on Mohinder's face as he spots the box that sits in front of the doorstep. His footsteps halt and he freezes altogether, staring at it like one would stare a bomb. Ungrateful brat.
Mohinder runs an unhappy hand through his hair and kneels down to pick the box up. He's gentle with it, holding it so lightly in his hand that Sylar worries he'll drop it - erring on the side of caution, as always. Unless the little box runs around causing mayhem and a few deaths, Mohinder would never rush into action against it.
It's a gift, a present, a treat, yet Mohinder's expression isn't bright and thankful like it should have been. Guarded, that's the only word for it. Sylar wants a beautiful smile and maybe one of those little half-laughs that get cut off when Mohinder reminds himself that he shouldn't be laughing at all. He misses the sounds and the sights that he was treated to as Zane. He misses them a lot.
Mohinder unlocks the apartment's door and lets himself inside, closing it firmly behind himself. Sylar can hear the sliding of locks afterwards: does that make Mohinder feel safe? Flimsy metal and useless barriers… He has to know that that won't do a thing to stop the sort of people likely to come after him. The illusion of safety, that's all it is. It's a nightlight for a scared child.
Sylar stands and moves forward from where he'd been hiding, right up to the door: right up until he's close enough to rest his forehead against the wood. He can see the green paint on it, old and cracked and worn. It must have been years since this place was decorated. Inside, he can hear the sound of Mohinder's breathing - too heavy, too controlled. Mohinder is scared.
It's hardly an emotion that he's new to finding Mohinder in, but what does Mohinder have to be scared of? He shouldn't even know who the gift is from, never mind that Sylar is right outside his door - but he must. He does.
Of course he does; this is Mohinder, and he isn't half as foolish as his actions usually lead Sylar to believe. It's time to face this head-on, in that case.
The locks and bolts move easily aside for him when he places his palm on the wood of the door and tells them to. It's the easiest version of lock-picking in the world - the door opens in seconds as if it was never closed at all, and Mohinder is there. He leans against the kitchen table, clinging onto it with one hand as if he's grounding himself there. In his other hand, the box with the delicate bracelet that Sylar had picked out for him is gripped as if it's a weapon. Foolish.
"I don't understand what else I'm supposed to do," Sylar says, as a flick of his fingers takes the box from Mohinder and places it down on the table instead. He knows Mohinder well enough to be able to predict that the man would have been idiotic enough to actually try and hurt him with it - and he'd rather not have to harm him in the ensuing, pathetic struggle. "What is it you want from me? I've done everything."
In a comic book, the confusion of Mohinder's expression could have been covered with a simple "…" in the speech bubble. In real life, his reaction is considerably less elegant, filled instead with indignant spluttering and the cruel sound of laughter. Sylar remembers that sound well, the sound that echoed from the idiots in the playgrounds at school. "It was you, wasn't it?" Mohinder says when he can find his voice. "It's you that's been leaving all of this-"
"Who else would it be?" Sylar snaps. How many others are there that are interested? How many other possible candidates are there? Competition, that's one thing he hadn't considered. Mohinder no doubt has a long list of suitors to choose from. Perhaps he should have taken that into account.
It wouldn't have changed any of his actions, however, he's sure of that. He'd do it all the same - but bigger and better and so much more impressive. On the kitchen table, he can see the golden box he'd delivered a few days ago. It's opened, so Mohinder has clearly taken and enjoyed what he was given.
"Did you think it was the police officer?" Sylar asks, stalking forward. "Or- who else? Mr Bennet? Or your little blonde brat?" When he's close enough to accomplish it, his hand reaches to rest on Mohinder's side. The cotton of his shirt doesn't hide the way Mohinder's breath shivers, and Sylar can hear the heavy thumping of his heart, far too loud and too fast. Fear or something else? "Who were you dreaming about, Mohinder?"
"No one." Mohinder's voice is angry and defensive. He jerks away from Sylar, breaking the contact between them, and tries to move around the kitchen table to leave that as a barrier between them. Sylar watches every moment and can see the tension in it. Mohinder is waiting, as ever, for the perfect moment - for everything to slip into place so that he can see an opportunity to attack and get the hell out of there. "I didn't think of anyone… particular."
"A secret admirer?" Sylar chuckles as he moves around the table. His fingers trail along the wood - he's happy to take his time. For once he has no game-plan for this situation, but he knows that Matt won't be home for hours and that Molly's still at school. There's no rush. "That's cute."
Mohinder tries to back away once more but Sylar keeps him in place with no effort at all. It's almost embarrassing how easy it is to stop him from escaping: something else that he ought to offer thanks to Brian Davis for. Mohinder is kept chained to the spot, and when Sylar's fingers stroke over his cheek he can't do anything more than glare. The skin he touches feels every bit as soft as he had imagined it would.
"I don't understand," Mohinder says, breathless, as Sylar's hand slips around into his hair. It's longer than it looks, and the tangled curls bear the mark of someone that doesn't pay attention to their appearance. "What do you want?"
Sylar smiles, a jagged curve, because Mohinder was always so slow on the uptake. One hand is occupied in his hair, cupping the back of his head, but the other raises to stroke a feather-light thumb down the tense tendon of Mohinder's neck: beneath his hands, he feels Mohinder shiver and his breath tremble. "Guess," he whispers.
"I don't-" Mohinder says, close to stammering by now. He seems so unused to the attention; Sylar can hardly understand that. "I don't have the List. I don't have an antidote for you. I don't have anything you want."
Sylar cocks an eyebrow: Mohinder must be doing this on purpose by now. Deliberately hiding from the truth and from the evidence… Surely that isn't very fitting for a scientist. His hand falls from Mohinder's neck, down onto his chest instead. Beneath his palm, he can feel the fast beating of Mohinder's heart again. "Guess again."
Anger blossoms as always on Mohinder's face - and it highlights every feature Sylar loves, brings Mohinder into sharp focus - and Sylar can feel the way Mohinder strains against the power that holds him there. "Sylar, you-" he starts to splutter, but it's far too late by now. All control snapped at the slip of Sylar's name from those lips.
It's not romantic, like it should have been. When his mouth crashes against Mohinder's, their teeth clink and Mohinder groans in annoyance and sounds like a toddler preparing for a tantrum - but the resistance isn't as violent or passionate as it could have been. Mohinder seems to yield reluctantly, slowly, letting Sylar in. Those flowers worked better than he'd thought, Sylar realises as his hands eagerly undo buttons and slip Mohinder's shirt from his shoulders.
*
Mohinder tugs his clothes back on in a hurry afterwards, his face painted dark like a brewing storm. "Get out," he snaps. If words could burn, Sylar would be bearing scars - as it is, he smiles and presses his lips softly to the edge of Mohinder's shoulder. It's jerked away quickly and Mohinder paces without looking at him. "I mean it."
Although it's tempting, he has to choose not to push his luck. Sylar walks from the apartment, a spring in his step and a smirk on his face: he wonders what an appropriate post-coital gift would be.
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 3829
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Dub-con
A/N: Something fairly silly written to cheer up my winter-blues. I used the 25fluffyfics 'Flowers' and the 25_streetsigns 'Yield' prompt. The poem quoted is Valediction: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne.
Summary: "He's never tried to court someone before, but he's certain that it can't be too hard."
When Sylar was a teenager, still hiding under the guise of a shy and diligent pupil, he'd been nobody. He'd been the 'weird' kid that sat at the front of the class, books always open and pen always ready. Whispers would rustle behind him and occasionally a bright spark of laughter would be thrown his way like a stray firework.
He wasn't alone: he had his friends, a select group of other 'freaks'. The quiet ones, the strange ones, the ones that just didn't look right and the ones who tried their hardest not to. Sylar can remember Gregory Small, a short boy with tufty blonde hair who had sat beside him every day in their maths class for three years without saying more than a couple of words. He remembers Jack Hunter as well, tall and lanky and constantly talking even when nobody wanted to listen.
Most of all, however, he remembers Samantha Smith.
Samantha Smith had played the viola, had been the proud possessor of long blonde hair that had tumbled down in poker-straight lines to her lower back, and had been the very first woman that Sylar had ever kissed: cramped backstage at the school play - she'd been Juliet, he'd been Friar John - she'd noticed his nerves as he read and reread and rereread his lines in preparation.
"You're nervous?" she'd asked, smiling. The freckles on her face had been over-powering, forcing him to mumble a monosyllabic answer. "Don't be. Everything'll go fine, I swear it will."
"Of course it will," he whispered in return, but his lines kept flowing like quicksand from his mind and became clogged in his throat whenever he attempted to speak. His mother was out there in the audience; if he messed this up, he would have failed her.
"Seriously," Samantha - Sam, Sylar thinks, she always wanted to be called 'Sam' - said. She was too close to him as she spoke, close enough that he could smell her hair and see every eyelash. Sylar thinks her hair smelled of coconut conditioner, but that might be a detail added by the white-washing effect of time. "We're going to be great. Don't worry about it."
And that was when it happened: soft lips against his, clumsy and inexperienced; a hand clinging to his arm as if to stop him from falling over; the sticky-sweet taste of too much lip gloss. Gabriel Gray's very first kiss had been a rushed and embarrassing affair, one that he's sure should have been much more dramatic.
"Sam!" one of her friends had hissed seconds later, sounding mortified. "Get over here!"
The other scattered and random romantic experiences of his life had been scarce and equally disappointing - and the majority had taken place in his imagination. A smile from a cashier at the supermarket could be turned into love-at-first-sight. A repeat visitor to his little shop could be interpreted as an epic love affair.
Sad.
Pathetic.
Behind him now.
And yet-
There's still that thorn in his side, isn't there? Even though Sylar has left that miserable existence behind now, even though Chandra helped him to escape the monotonous life of a watchmaker, not everything is so easily shed. Powers and well-honed instincts apparently don't aid one's love life. Sylar had planned on putting such sentimentalities behind him, but plans don't always work exactly as he expects: he'd never in a thousand years have predicted the wildcard that was thrown into the mix.
Mohinder Suresh.
There had been no way of predicting that intrusion. Out of the blue he'd had Chandra's son appearing unwarranted in his life and unwittingly aiding his mission - it would have been a gift from God himself, if having the scientist around hadn't given him the same butterflies that Samantha Smith had all those years ago.
Mohinder - with his dark eyes and sarcastic humour and that naivety he watched the world with - is an impossible man to forget. Worse, though, he is an impossible man to woo, clinging so tightly to his hatred and need for revenge despite Sylar's best attempts at winning him round. Clearly, he's going to have to try a little bit harder in this case - because since he left his watch-making behind, Sylar is done with merely daydreaming.
*
He's never tried to court someone before, but he's certain that it can't be too hard. The films that his mother used to watch seem to spell it out nicely - romance involves a lot of giving of gifts - and he supposes that the strange tangle of events that led them to this situation could be considered the opening farce of those romantic comedies. The humour is fairly black, he has to admit. He still thinks that he can feel Mohinder's blood, mixed with the cheerleader's, pulsing through his veins and bringing his powers back: and one gift deserves another in return, a 'thank you'.
The streets he walks are crowded and busy, but the bustle of the crowd becomes a mindless background noise that gives him room to think. Mohinder isn't an easy person to buy gifts for, and the few days that he spent as 'Zane' by his side have given him less of an insight than he'd thought. This should have been easy - he should have been able to instantly decide what was absolutely perfect.
He stops walking outside of a florist. The pavement is coated with vibrant displays and blooming bouquets, pinks and blues and yellows like a toddler's finger-paintings. Flowers are traditional, aren't they? There's certainly no denying that Mohinder seems to be drawn towards the bright colours of the world, if the clothes he wears are anything to go by.
"Can I help, sir?" a blonde-haired woman to his right says. She wears a blue polo shirt with the shop's logo embroidered on it.
Sylar smiles politely, though he only spares a glance at her for a second. "Yes," he says, "I think you can."
*
He stays hidden around the corner, by the stairs, when he hand-delivers the flowers to Mohinder's doorstep. Considering how their last meeting went - and how very relieved Mohinder had seemed when that electric girl turned up - he thinks that it would be best to test the water before chancing another meeting. Using those beautiful returned powers, he carefully floats the bouquet forward and places them down for Mohinder to find.
It took a lot of consultation with the shop-girl before he'd managed to work out what would be suitable. They'd ended up with yellow and red flowers - roses and lilies and some others he doesn't recognise and can't remember the names of - along with a glass vase. It's pretty, he thinks. Mohinder seems like someone that will enjoy pretty things, being an extremely pretty thing himself.
Not a thing, Sylar reminds himself stubbornly, but it's hard to think of him as anything else - as anything other than decorative and desirable. He crouches low, hidden around the corner with images of James Bond running through his mind, and uses his power to rattle the door in its hinges. It's not quite as effective as a knock, but he won't take the chance of being caught. Not yet.
Another rattle, more forceful this time, finally brings an answer to the door. Mohinder bustles to answer it, a distracted frown on his face. Sylar wonders what he was doing inside - was he lost in his theories and ideas or was he simply preparing a meal for his perfect little family? - but the thread of his thoughts are lost when Mohinder notices the yellow explosion on his doorstep. The frown turns from annoyance to confusion as Mohinder kneels down to pick the vase up cautiously. There's a tease of a perplexed smile on his face; that alone is enough to encourage Sylar to continue with this line of action.
He nods to himself, satisfied, and fades away before Mohinder can read the anonymous note that is attached:
Thinking of you, always
xx
*
Yet even that doesn't seem like enough - it's more than Sylar has bothered to do for another person in such a long time, but even he can tell that it isn't the magic cure for the way that Mohinder thinks he has wronged him. A bouquet of flowers isn't enough to make up for the murder of a father.
No - more gifts are required.
He glances to the golden-coloured box that sits on the desk next to him. It's dark outside already and he thinks that Mohinder would be unsettled by any midnight visits. It will have to wait until tomorrow: he can deliver it himself by the light of day, while the cop is at work and the little girl is at school.
Tonight, however, he'll be prepared. The tag that goes with the box - a selection of rich and dark chocolates designed to make the mouth water - waits in front of him and the pen he holds taunts him with his indecision. It's just a note. Writing this should be the easy part. It's everything else that ought to be difficult.
He taps the end of his pen against the edge of the desk and bites his bottom lip, deep in thought. Easy, easy, easy. It's got to be simple - but it's got to be meaningful too. The blank tag seems to taunt him cruelly, before he simply gives up. He raises the pen and writes-
I want you. I'm sorry.
xx
*
It isn't working. He's trying so hard and yet it still isn't working. There's no sign that he's making any progress and Mohinder has hardly reacted to the flowers or chocolates beyond an amused smile when he finds them on the doorstep. Sylar needs more than 'amused'.
Time to step things up, in that case, and he really begins to wish that his mother was still alive. He's sure that she would have a thousand and one suggestions for dealing with a situation like this. With her help, he'd have Mohinder dreamy-eyed and helpless in a matter of hours.
Through his own folly, however, he'll have to cope with this alone. As he continues tracking down his next victim - he's tempted, so tempted, to go after Petrelli again, but forcefully reminds himself that he's learnt that lesson and will have to wait until he's a little more powerful first - he multitasks and tries to work out what his next move should be.
What else would Mohinder like?
*
The card that is delivered to Mohinder's house the following day is handmade, with spidery hand-writing inside. When Mohinder picks it up and opens it he seems perplexed by what's inside, running his eyes over the quoted verse several times in an attempt to grasp what it is that's turned up on his doorstep this time.
We by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Poetry - Sylar's certain that Mohinder must be a fan of poetry - but as he hides and watches, Mohinder just stays frowning as he reads it. This isn't working.
Damn it.
*
He just has to step things up a gear, he tells himself. Flowers, chocolates, poems… They're all very nice, but they're all very ordinary. Mohinder isn't ordinary, is he? And logic therefore dictates that he requires something extraordinary. It's simple - Sylar can only wonder why he didn't realise it before.
He spends the following day trailing through the thousands of shops that New York holds. This infatuation is starting to become annoying: there's no joy in the chase any more. He's waiting for the kill.
Hardly surprising that Mohinder would be resistant and stubborn, is it? That fury and spirit is what draws Sylar repeatedly towards him - but he wishes it would be tamed just a little bit faster. He stares through the shop windows with the glazed expression of a zombie, breathing shallowly and wishing that he could be elsewhere. If he left the city, he could get back on the road and start accomplishing his mission again, but the idea of leaving before he's succeeded is painful. He's not a quitter. He never has been.
Scowling at the world, he turns into the nearest shop and has to tell himself that destroying the workers won't do him any good at all. "Are you looking for anything particular, sir?" asks the greying man behind the counter.
He glances around - a jewellery shop, that seems fitting - and clucks his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he tries to think. "Something…" he says, before sighing in intense annoyance, "Something pretty."
"Ah," the man says, with a twinkle in his eye like a demented Santa Claus. "I'm sure I can help you there."
*
If this doesn't work, then Sylar's sure that he's just going to have to give up on the romantic work - he'll have to come to the conclusion that scientists are impossible to catch by conventional means, and will have to try something else instead. He's not quite sure what that 'something else' will be, but he doubts if it will be quite as gentle and giving as his previous methods. He sincerely doubts if it will be something that Samantha Smith would have been impressed by.
The black jewellery box sits on the doorstep, just waiting for Mohinder to come home and find it. Sylar waits as well, crouched in the shadows at the end of the corridor. He arrived half an hour ago and his knees have started to cramp in his hiding spot, uncomfortable and unpleasant. This had better be worth it.
Highly attuned hearing picks up on the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He tries to tell himself not to get excited about that, that it could be anyone, but it sounds right. It sounds distracted and absent-minded, just as Mohinder would if he was buried in his thoughts. Sylar's heart races expectantly.
He wants to leap to his feet when Mohinder turns the corner, head bowed as he hunts for the right key to allow himself into the apartment, and has to force himself to stay still and unnoticed. It isn't yet time to reveal himself, even though every inch of him itches to.
There's a ripple of confusion on Mohinder's face as he spots the box that sits in front of the doorstep. His footsteps halt and he freezes altogether, staring at it like one would stare a bomb. Ungrateful brat.
Mohinder runs an unhappy hand through his hair and kneels down to pick the box up. He's gentle with it, holding it so lightly in his hand that Sylar worries he'll drop it - erring on the side of caution, as always. Unless the little box runs around causing mayhem and a few deaths, Mohinder would never rush into action against it.
It's a gift, a present, a treat, yet Mohinder's expression isn't bright and thankful like it should have been. Guarded, that's the only word for it. Sylar wants a beautiful smile and maybe one of those little half-laughs that get cut off when Mohinder reminds himself that he shouldn't be laughing at all. He misses the sounds and the sights that he was treated to as Zane. He misses them a lot.
Mohinder unlocks the apartment's door and lets himself inside, closing it firmly behind himself. Sylar can hear the sliding of locks afterwards: does that make Mohinder feel safe? Flimsy metal and useless barriers… He has to know that that won't do a thing to stop the sort of people likely to come after him. The illusion of safety, that's all it is. It's a nightlight for a scared child.
Sylar stands and moves forward from where he'd been hiding, right up to the door: right up until he's close enough to rest his forehead against the wood. He can see the green paint on it, old and cracked and worn. It must have been years since this place was decorated. Inside, he can hear the sound of Mohinder's breathing - too heavy, too controlled. Mohinder is scared.
It's hardly an emotion that he's new to finding Mohinder in, but what does Mohinder have to be scared of? He shouldn't even know who the gift is from, never mind that Sylar is right outside his door - but he must. He does.
Of course he does; this is Mohinder, and he isn't half as foolish as his actions usually lead Sylar to believe. It's time to face this head-on, in that case.
The locks and bolts move easily aside for him when he places his palm on the wood of the door and tells them to. It's the easiest version of lock-picking in the world - the door opens in seconds as if it was never closed at all, and Mohinder is there. He leans against the kitchen table, clinging onto it with one hand as if he's grounding himself there. In his other hand, the box with the delicate bracelet that Sylar had picked out for him is gripped as if it's a weapon. Foolish.
"I don't understand what else I'm supposed to do," Sylar says, as a flick of his fingers takes the box from Mohinder and places it down on the table instead. He knows Mohinder well enough to be able to predict that the man would have been idiotic enough to actually try and hurt him with it - and he'd rather not have to harm him in the ensuing, pathetic struggle. "What is it you want from me? I've done everything."
In a comic book, the confusion of Mohinder's expression could have been covered with a simple "…" in the speech bubble. In real life, his reaction is considerably less elegant, filled instead with indignant spluttering and the cruel sound of laughter. Sylar remembers that sound well, the sound that echoed from the idiots in the playgrounds at school. "It was you, wasn't it?" Mohinder says when he can find his voice. "It's you that's been leaving all of this-"
"Who else would it be?" Sylar snaps. How many others are there that are interested? How many other possible candidates are there? Competition, that's one thing he hadn't considered. Mohinder no doubt has a long list of suitors to choose from. Perhaps he should have taken that into account.
It wouldn't have changed any of his actions, however, he's sure of that. He'd do it all the same - but bigger and better and so much more impressive. On the kitchen table, he can see the golden box he'd delivered a few days ago. It's opened, so Mohinder has clearly taken and enjoyed what he was given.
"Did you think it was the police officer?" Sylar asks, stalking forward. "Or- who else? Mr Bennet? Or your little blonde brat?" When he's close enough to accomplish it, his hand reaches to rest on Mohinder's side. The cotton of his shirt doesn't hide the way Mohinder's breath shivers, and Sylar can hear the heavy thumping of his heart, far too loud and too fast. Fear or something else? "Who were you dreaming about, Mohinder?"
"No one." Mohinder's voice is angry and defensive. He jerks away from Sylar, breaking the contact between them, and tries to move around the kitchen table to leave that as a barrier between them. Sylar watches every moment and can see the tension in it. Mohinder is waiting, as ever, for the perfect moment - for everything to slip into place so that he can see an opportunity to attack and get the hell out of there. "I didn't think of anyone… particular."
"A secret admirer?" Sylar chuckles as he moves around the table. His fingers trail along the wood - he's happy to take his time. For once he has no game-plan for this situation, but he knows that Matt won't be home for hours and that Molly's still at school. There's no rush. "That's cute."
Mohinder tries to back away once more but Sylar keeps him in place with no effort at all. It's almost embarrassing how easy it is to stop him from escaping: something else that he ought to offer thanks to Brian Davis for. Mohinder is kept chained to the spot, and when Sylar's fingers stroke over his cheek he can't do anything more than glare. The skin he touches feels every bit as soft as he had imagined it would.
"I don't understand," Mohinder says, breathless, as Sylar's hand slips around into his hair. It's longer than it looks, and the tangled curls bear the mark of someone that doesn't pay attention to their appearance. "What do you want?"
Sylar smiles, a jagged curve, because Mohinder was always so slow on the uptake. One hand is occupied in his hair, cupping the back of his head, but the other raises to stroke a feather-light thumb down the tense tendon of Mohinder's neck: beneath his hands, he feels Mohinder shiver and his breath tremble. "Guess," he whispers.
"I don't-" Mohinder says, close to stammering by now. He seems so unused to the attention; Sylar can hardly understand that. "I don't have the List. I don't have an antidote for you. I don't have anything you want."
Sylar cocks an eyebrow: Mohinder must be doing this on purpose by now. Deliberately hiding from the truth and from the evidence… Surely that isn't very fitting for a scientist. His hand falls from Mohinder's neck, down onto his chest instead. Beneath his palm, he can feel the fast beating of Mohinder's heart again. "Guess again."
Anger blossoms as always on Mohinder's face - and it highlights every feature Sylar loves, brings Mohinder into sharp focus - and Sylar can feel the way Mohinder strains against the power that holds him there. "Sylar, you-" he starts to splutter, but it's far too late by now. All control snapped at the slip of Sylar's name from those lips.
It's not romantic, like it should have been. When his mouth crashes against Mohinder's, their teeth clink and Mohinder groans in annoyance and sounds like a toddler preparing for a tantrum - but the resistance isn't as violent or passionate as it could have been. Mohinder seems to yield reluctantly, slowly, letting Sylar in. Those flowers worked better than he'd thought, Sylar realises as his hands eagerly undo buttons and slip Mohinder's shirt from his shoulders.
*
Mohinder tugs his clothes back on in a hurry afterwards, his face painted dark like a brewing storm. "Get out," he snaps. If words could burn, Sylar would be bearing scars - as it is, he smiles and presses his lips softly to the edge of Mohinder's shoulder. It's jerked away quickly and Mohinder paces without looking at him. "I mean it."
Although it's tempting, he has to choose not to push his luck. Sylar walks from the apartment, a spring in his step and a smirk on his face: he wonders what an appropriate post-coital gift would be.