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The New Year has come and gone before Matt leaves the precinct. A double shift over New Years’ – not an assignment anyone looks for, but Matt’s trying to prove himself, doing all he can to get into this department’s good graces. His transfer from Los Angeles to New York has gone smoothly, much more smoothly than he had any right to expect. He hasn’t spoken to Janice in… well. Weeks, at least. Since before that night in Kirby Plaza, before he was shot, before he found Molly.
The streets are iced over, a heavy snow warning in effect. It’s thousands of miles from a California Christmas, but he likes it this way. They had hot chocolate at the apartment a few nights ago and for the very first time he understood what it was supposed to feel like. Molly had fairly sparkled with glee, sneaking more marshmallows into her mug than was really necessary. He hadn’t had the heart to chastise her.
He passes a deli still piping holiday music onto the sidewalk, jogging his memory. Mohinder needs a loaf of pumpernickel and some havarti for whatever he’s making tonight, asked Matt to get it after his shift. Since it’s Christmas he didn’t complain about the cost. He’s grinning as he steps into the shop, prompting an eye-roll from the guy behind the counter.
Mohinder brought Molly to visit him in the hospital over the long few weeks of his stay. It was clear he wanted to protect her, probably as much as Matt did. By the time Matt was released they’d come to an understanding. Molly had been living with Mohinder, in his apartment in Brooklyn, and since Matt had nowhere to go – well. It wasn’t unheard of. They became her guardians by the middle of December, another legal process that seemed just slightly too easy. They probably have – oh, who knows, Agent Hanson, or Bennet, or even one of the Petrellis to thank for that.
By the time he gets back to the apartment it has started snowing, just lightly. It still makes him almost giddy, just like being a kid. Molly doesn’t have to go back to school for another week, and as he climbs the long flights of stairs to the sixth floor Matt starts planning a trip to Central Park, maybe a snowball fight. Mohinder probably won’t want to come, not having acclimated to the cold weather nearly as well as the Californians have, but he can ask.
He unlocks the door to 613, steps inside. “Hey, I’m home,” he calls out. It smells like cinnamon, as Mohinder’s cooking always does, a mystery Matt has not yet unraveled. He puts his gun in the secure drawer under the coat rack. The deli bag he drops on Mohinder’s desk, but as he’s shrugging out of his new trench coat it occurs to him that something is odd.
He looks up, around. Molly’s sitting on the secondhand couch, face turned toward her lap. “Molly?” She doesn’t answer and Matt drops his coat on the rack, takes a step forward. A look to the right and Mohinder is standing stock-still in the kitchen, like he’s been frozen there. Matt’s stomach drops, because something is wrong, and then – and then something wraps around him. Invisible bonds coil at his wrists, his ankles, lock around his throat and jaw and he snaps straight, he can’t move, the restraints suffocating until Sylar steps out of Molly’s bedroom, a pleasant smile on his face.
“Good evening, Officer,” he says, polite.
He’s supposed to be dead. That’s the only thing Matt can think as Sylar walks forward, casual, hands in his pockets. Molly’s head lifts up and Matt can see she’s terrified, clearly stuck in her position the same way he is. He wants to console her, wants to drag her out of the room, but the futile straining at his bonds proves that’s not possible.
Sylar notices his struggling, smiles wider. Appropriately, he’s dressed in head-to-toe black. “Good luck with that.” He looks over to the right, cocks his head a little, and then Mohinder’s moving into Matt’s line of sight. The walk – it’s not natural, oddly jerking and lacking any grace, clearly not Mohinder’s idea in the slightest.
“What are you doing?” Mohinder says, even as he’s pushed to his knees, on the tiny rug in front of the couch. Sylar stands ten feet away, near the dark windows. Mohinder’s hands shove behind his back and he winces, but his eyes stay on Sylar, no matter how terrified his expression is. “I’m not going to give you the list.”
“Is that what I’m after?” Sylar says, sardonic. His hair is longer than Matt remembers. He looks around the room, studying Matt for a long second before shifting over to Molly. He walks up to the couch, looking down at her as tears well up and flood from her eyes. “Maybe I don’t need it anymore.”
Matt’s throat clogs, but Mohinder’s the one who can talk. “Don’t hurt her,” he says.
It’s not much of a threat. Sylar turns around, shakes his head. “She’s just a little girl, Mohinder,” he says. “What do you take me for?”
He’s still smiling. Matt swallows, realizes he can speak. “If you try to take Molly’s ability, I swear to God, I’ll –“
Sylar waves a hand and Matt’s jaw shoves closed again, something threads tight around his vocal cords. He breathes fast and harsh through his nose, staring. Sylar looks him up and down, eyebrows raised. “I’m surprised you’re not worried about your own skin, Officer Parkman.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looking around the apartment at his captives, and Matt takes the opportunity he’s given. It’s always simple to let his mind pick up thoughts, but now he concentrates, listens hard. Molly’s girlish tones are easy to pick out, Mohinder’s familiar enough that he can bypass without stopping, but – that’s it. He frowns, reaches farther, but there’s nothing else. It’s almost like trying to read the mind of Bennet’s Haitian sidekick, only Matt recognizes that kind of interference. Here it’s… as though a door has closed, the lock thrown tight, and not even an impression of a thought can slip out. Matt lets his concentration fall back, opens his eyes wide and stares at Sylar’s unfazed face. He can’t help. Not here.
Mohinder’s still pleading, still trying logic with Sylar where none can exist, unaware of Matt’s plight. “If you’re not here for Molly or Matt, it must be the list, but I won’t – I can’t be responsible for any more death.”
Their captor looks down at Mohinder, comes up close. “You really can’t think of any other reason?” he says. Mohinder’s eyes are wide.
"You know, Doctor," Sylar says, that little smile vanishing for a moment. "For someone so brilliant you really can miss the most important details."
Mohinder stares up, into Sylar's face. Matt can't tell if he's being forced into it or not, but there's a stillness in his body, something bone-deep that has nothing to do with calm.
"That list? Yes, of course, I'd like to have it. I don't need it, but it would be useful." His hands are loose at his sides, a constant threat Matt can't push out of his mind. Sylar looks back, as if he hears the thought. "That power, the one you're so desperately trying to use, that would be useful, too. I would certainly use the gift better than you ever could."
Matt wants to scream when Sylar crouches in front of Molly's paralyzed body on the couch. He doesn't touch her, only looking into her eyes, damp and enormous in her face. "And this – this would be the most useful of all, wouldn't it, for the little vendetta you all think I'm on. You think I want to kill everyone, and what better way to find them than with what's inside her head?"
It is so quiet in their little apartment. Matt can't even hear breathing, all three of their bodies forced into an unnatural calm, incapable of panting in the fear he can feel, terror he can hear in ways no one else can. A memory flickers through Molly's head and Matt swallows, throat dry. Sylar glances his way again, with a faint twitch of a smile, and Matt remembers, suddenly, what Mohinder had told him: Sylar might not hear his thoughts, but he can hear everything else.
He blinks, glad he's allowed at least that much freedom. Sylar looks away from him, back down to Mohinder. The lack of that attention on him is a release, a crushing weight lifted away.
"All of that, I could use." Sylar slides down to a crouch, putting himself at Mohinder's eye level. Matt can see Mohinder's face over the slim black shoulder. His eyes are dark, vulnerable, but he isn't turning away. "But I'm not going to, Mohinder. I'm not going to take that. You expect me to, and I might, one day, but not tonight. Tonight is for you."
"What are you talking about?"
That Mohinder can still speak is a shock on its own; that he does only piles on Matt's shock more thickly. He wants to shout, to stop him, because what could he say that would divert Sylar, that could possibly make this anything but worse? But he can't go back through time and he doesn’t have the power to get into Mohinder's head and try to send him somewhere safe, somewhere thousands of miles from the way Sylar reaches out slim, careful fingers, tilting Mohinder's face up for examination.
"Should I say it with Molly here, Mohinder? Do you want her to hear?"
The instinct rushes through Matt but it's Mohinder whose head is shaking, whose hands are fisting into the air behind his back. Matt expects Sylar to begin playing for his audience, to stalk up to where he's pinned Matt against the wall and put on that smile of his, or to get close to Molly and – and touch her, maybe, or do – something, something Matt won't let himself picture. But Sylar doesn't move, doesn't look away, as though Mohinder is the only other person in the room. Mohinder has gone tense and rigid, obviously straining against the telekinesis keeping him into his position. Sylar props his elbows on his knees, crouched at ease, watching him struggle.
"I've thought about it so many times. When I was on the road, or waiting for someone. How I'd do it." Mohinder stops straining, looking back up into Sylar's face. "I remember how your father treated me, what he helped make me into. It's easier every time, you know? I suppose I should have thanked him, really. He helped me realize my potential.
"I never thought you'd betray me, Mohinder. I didn't think you'd realize who I was. But even if you did, I was sure you wouldn't be able to hurt me." He reaches out and traces a fingertip over the shell of Mohinder's ear, smoothing back a few curls as he goes. A shock of fear hits Matt in the stomach, but he honestly doesn't know whose it is. "In a way, I'm sort of impressed. But we could have done amazing things together, and you ruined it. And now I want you to pay for that."
Molly lets out a strangled noise. Sylar's attention snaps to her and she's silenced, again. With a powerful sense of vertigo, Matt realizes how utterly normal this scene could be. It's barely past seven thirty on a Thursday, and somehow Sylar has trapped Molly into just the position she'd settle into if she wanted Mohinder to read her a story – legs tucked underneath her, hands planted at her sides, curled into the corner of their tatty old sofa. The tears haven't stopped streaming down her face, though. That breaks the illusion.
"I could torture you right here," Sylar says. His voice is quiet, even softer than normal. "I could split you open on the floor, right on the spot where I killed Peter Petrelli, last time I visited. I could make Molly watch."
Matt doesn't think – he throws everything he has at Sylar, narrowing his concentration, trying to slip into that mind and find a way to make him leave, get him away from their family. The familiar dense cloud of thoughts doesn't exist here, though, and instead he's repelled, again, Sylar's mind tight and impermeable as dull iron. He doesn't even get a glance for the attempt. Instead, Sylar stands, a long smooth slide with no apparent effort. He's looking at Mohinder with an expression Matt can't read.
"I could rip them apart. It wouldn't be hard. I could give you a comfortable seat on the couch and show you exactly how I do it. You know you're curious. You've always wanted to know. I bet that would hurt."
It's an effort to keep himself here, in the physical world. Matt knows that he's their only hope, and he can't afford to hear what Molly's thinking, to know what's happening inside Mohinder's head. He can't even bear to look at his face. He hates himself for that, for a second – this is his friend, maybe his only friend, and he isn't going to offer what comfort he can? – but one look would be all he needed to fall into thoughts he's not sure he could escape. He tries to fix his eyes on Molly, but that's almost worse. This is one of the faces from her nightmares brought to life, another set of parents about to die. She's eight years old, for God's sake. She shouldn't have to see this.
"What would do it, Mohinder? What would hurt you most?" Mohinder's face turns up, too smoothly for it to have been his choice. Sylar looks into his eyes for a quiet few seconds.
When he turns and flicks his attention back to Matt it's like a blow to the chest. That tiny smile has reappeared. Matt risks dipping into Mohinder's head just for a moment, just to see –
I don’t know, I don't know what he wants, what he could – what is he thinking, please, not that, I can't I can't
Molly is lifting to her feet when Matt slams back into his own body. Her small limbs unfold with that same unnatural smoothness, the distress on her face making it palpably clear just what is moving her. Mohinder remains on his knees, wrists locked behind his back, turned away so he can't watch as Sylar walks Molly to the door of her room. Matt takes in a shaky breath, completely lost in a way he hasn't been in so long. A flicker of telekinesis and a tall bookcase shudders in front of Molly's window, blocking the fire escape. Sylar stands in the doorway, at ease.
"Remember, I can hear you. I'll know if you try to contact anyone. I'm sure you wouldn't want Mohinder to suffer any more than he has to."
He sounds so calm. Reasonable. Molly shakes, hard enough that Matt can see it, and he wonders for a second what she sees in Sylar's face. But then she slumps to the floor, as abruptly as though strings have been cut. She shoves herself backward into the edge of the bed as soon as she can move under her own power, skidding as far away from Sylar as she can get – but then the door closes. There's a bright pulse of heat, a shearing sound, and when Sylar turns and walks away Matt can see that the handle's been torn off, the lock melted. Molly won't be escaping anytime soon.
His boots are surprisingly quiet on the old wooden floors. He doesn't hurry. His eyes are on Mohinder the whole time, steady and intense. He paces a slow, measured circle around the kneeling man, watching as he breathes shakily in and out.
"Mohinder," he says, finally. With the name, the bindings are gone. Mohinder slumps forward, hands coming out from behind his back at last to keep him from falling flat on his face. "Go wait in the bedroom, will you? Officer Parkman and I will be another moment."
Matt expects Sylar to pick Mohinder up by the scruff of his neck, to throw him bodily into the other room, telekinetically or otherwise. Instead he simply stands there, a safe few feet away, waiting. Eventually, Mohinder seems to work up the strength to get his hands underneath him and he pushes upright, on his feet at last. His legs seem unsteady. He looks up into Sylar's face. His expression is – not something Matt ever wants to see again. Sylar just tilts his head, still waiting, and without another word Mohinder turns on his heel and walks into the bedroom. He doesn't shut the door. After all, Matt thinks, what would be the point?
Sylar watches him go, then turns and cocks his head at Matt, giving him a calculating look. His eyes are sharp, but dispassionate. It makes Matt's stomach turn.
"So, Officer Parkman." Sylar raises his eyebrows when Matt sucks in a quick breath, the damnable little smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. "Sorry about all this. You and Miss Walker weren't part of the original plan, but… This is going to be even better, I think." Matt's hands curl into helpless fists at his sides.
Sylar shrugs out of his coat, draping it neatly over the back of Mohinder's desk chair. Without any apparent rush, he flicks through a few of the papers scattered around and on top of Mohinder's laptop, pausing occasionally to read something in blurred academic's scrawl. Matt works on slowing his breathing, trying to settle himself enough to think of a way out of this situation, but every time Sylar moves his attempts at calm fracture.
When Sylar walks into the kitchenette, Matt revolves in place, telekinesis an insistent force wrapped around his wrists and ankles. He makes an unintentional noise when Sylar lifts a tea bag out of the steaming mug on the counter, provoking another little smile. "Don't want to let it over-steep," he says, utterly reasonable. Matt swallows. Sylar puts the dripping bag carefully on a saucer, then steps back, surveying the fridge.
"Molly's quite the artist," he says. He starts rolling the sleeves on his black button-down, glancing from the fridge back to Matt. "She's in… what? Third grade?"
Sylar doesn't wait for an answer, which is lucky because Matt's jaw is still frozen shut. He finishes with his sleeves, neatly tucking in the last edge at his elbow as he looks back to Molly's brightly colored depiction of a beach: blue skies, white puffy clouds, sea gulls winging in black Vs in the distance. He takes another picture off of the fridge door, examining it as he walks slowly back toward Matt. His look is intent, again, but when he flips it around for Matt to see he gives another tiny smile. This one is of a curly-headed figure in a lab coat and a rather round policeman holding hands with a small child with pink ribbons in her hair. Matt meets Sylar's eyes – and they're flat, dark, fixed on him.
"You've got a comfortable little life here, don't you?"
There's an edge to his voice that wasn't there before. Matt strains, tries to catch any thought he can, but Sylar just smiles, eyes still unmoving and cold. "Sorry," he says, stepping back and leaning one hip against the kitchen table. He drops the drawing to the floor and taps the side of his head with one finger. "I've had some practice at keeping myself to myself. I don't think you're going to get much out of me, Officer."
There's a muffled thump from the bedroom. Matt inhales sharply, nails digging into his palms, but Sylar doesn't even glance over. "He knocked a book off his dresser. He's a little agitated." Sylar folds his arms over his chest, the full weight of his attention on Matt. "Or is it your dresser?"
A heavy beat of silence passes, then another, before Matt realizes Sylar actually expects an answer. He opens his mouth, the constriction's easing almost painful as blood flows back. "I don't know what you're getting at," he says.
Sylar tilts his head, that smile widening. "I bet you can guess."
Matt stares back at him, but he honestly doesn't know what Sylar's saying. He strains his hearing, but Molly and Mohinder are silent in their separate bedrooms. Here, in the dim kitchen, his throat hurts from the constant pressure of the telekinesis and he can't help it, he goes for broke. "Let us go," he says, voice low and urgent. "I know you want –"
His jaw shoves closed, teeth clacking together painfully without his permission. Sylar's shaking his head, though he hasn't moved from his casual pose against the table. "You don't have any idea what I want," he says.
His voice is suddenly sharp, dark and dangerous, and Matt's bonds tighten. Sylar unfolds his arms and stands up straight and Matt's hauled against the wall, joints aching under unrelenting, invisible pressure.
But then, abruptly, it eases. Matt sags against the wall, breathing hard and trying not to panic. He reaches out with his mind, not thinking, and hears Molly (he's here, he's here, please don't let him hurt –) and Mohinder (I'm sorry, I'm so sorry –) and the flat black silence where Sylar's thoughts should have been before he reins himself back, wrestling for control. When he opens his eyes again, Sylar is studying him.
"It must be fascinating," he says. "To know. No one can lie to you, can they, Officer Parkman?" There's an odd, hungry expression creeping onto his face, but he shakes his head before Matt can try to understand it. "But that's not for tonight, is it?" He gives Matt another smile, then glances over to the bedroom door. "I think he's ready by now, don't you?"
The wall seems to repel Matt, suddenly, a ripple of force wrapping around his legs and moving him forward. Sylar looks him up and down, smile gone, then turns around, holding out one hand. One of the rickety chairs judders out from under the table and Sylar walks forward, out of the kitchen. Matt lifts off his feet, the floor receding in a sickening moment of vertigo before he's propelled along in Sylar's wake. The chair screeches along the floor without any apparent effort on Sylar's part as they move into the bedroom. Sylar's fingers twitch at his side, and the chair rotates, slamming into the wall next to the old wooden chest of drawers. Another wave of force hits Matt, making him grunt, but then he's shoved into the chair so hard his head thumps against the wall. His wrists slam down onto the thin wooden arms of the chair and stick there.
He's dazed for a second, but he shakes his head, trying to get back into the game. He blinks hard, making his eyes clear – and then stops breathing for a second.
Sylar's put him out of the way, but he's facing the side of the bed. Mohinder, standing by the foot, doesn't even glance at Matt – not that Matt can blame him. All of his attention is fixed on Sylar.
"This isn't going to work," Mohinder says, lifting his chin. His hands are in painful-looking fists at his sides.
Sylar looks up from his perusal of the books on the dresser. "What isn't?"
Mohinder flinches when Sylar holds out one hand, palm flat – but all he does is smile, and a thick genetics textbook floats up off the ground, settling gently with its fellows.
"I'm not going to give you the list, no matter what you do to me."
Sylar rolls his eyes. "You aren't that great at listening, are you, Mohinder?"
He takes a step forward, and Mohinder instantly steps back, bumping into the edge of the mattress. "This isn't going to accomplish anything," Mohinder says, desperation creeping into his voice. Matt closes his eyes. "You can't hurt me any more than you already have. My father –"
He cuts off, abruptly, with a strangled sound. Matt forces his eyes open, because surely, after all this, Sylar wouldn't just choke him, would he? But, no, Mohinder's still breathing – though his face has shut down, eyes squeezed tightly shut, because Sylar's hand is on his shoulder.
"Sit down, Mohinder."
Again, it sounds pleasant. A request. Mohinder swallows and looks up, into Sylar's face, but there's no possibility of argument or defiance. Sylar waits, head cocked, until Mohinder sinks onto the bed. He's so rigid – with anger, or fear, or something – that Matt's own muscles ache with sympathy.
"You really don't know why I'm here?"
Mohinder swallows, lifts his chin. "No idea," he says. His voice doesn't waver and Matt feels an abrupt surge of pride.
Sylar smiles – an actual smile, not the frightening flicker of sadistic amusement he wears so often. He seems genuinely pleased. "I did tell you, before," he says.
Matt reaches out, cautiously, but it's no use. Sylar still has control. He has to figure another way out.
Meanwhile, Mohinder has been staring up at their captor. "You really –" He plants his hands on the edge of the mattress, taking a breath. "You want to hurt me?"
"What I am doing is revenge," Sylar says, in a sing-song tone, as though he's quoting something. Mohinder flinches and looks away. Sylar's smile widens. "See, I knew you'd remember."
"I don't – I don't believe you." Mohinder's voice is less steady, but he manages to turn back, dragging his eyes back to Sylar's face. "You wouldn't come back – you wouldn't risk something like this just to get revenge on me. You must want something else."
Sylar cocks his head, looking down at Mohinder for a long, silent moment before his head turns to Matt. His attention is worse than before, unnerving and heavy, and Matt strains unthinking against the telekinesis holding him in place. "You underestimate your own importance, Mohinder," Sylar says, but he's still looking at Matt.
There's a soft exhalation and Sylar flicks his attention away, looking down. Mohinder has lost all semblance of stubborn defiance and now seems – uncertain. Like he's figured something out but isn't ready to believe it.
"I shouldn't be surprised, really," Sylar says, leaning back against the dresser. He tilts his head in Matt's direction. "You've always been fascinated by abilities. I can only imagine the look on your face when you realized what Officer Parkman could do. And you're certainly not shallow, so his more obvious shortcomings could be overlooked."
He glances at Matt and pats his own flat stomach, a mocking gleam in his eye. Mohinder inhales, sharply, and doesn't look away from Sylar's face.
It's only then that Matt realizes what's going on. He's never been the most brilliant guy in the world, sure, but the truth of the situation is so outrageous, so far beyond anything he'd expected. Once, Mohinder had told him that Sylar could understand anything: it was that which allowed him to steal other people's abilities. Looking up at the cold, sardonic expression, Matt has no idea how Sylar could have gotten everything so wrong.
"When you thought I was dead, were you glad? Relieved?"
There's a long pause. Mohinder looks away. "Yes."
Sylar smiles, a little. "Come on, Mohinder. I know you better than that." He steps forward, coming off the dresser. Matt tries to suppress a flinch when his hands come up – Mohinder doesn't – but Sylar only begins to unbutton his shirt. "Think back a little. Remember that phone call? My moment of weakness?"
Mohinder shakes his head, still looking away. "I only wanted you to stop."
Sylar pauses, fingers halfway down his chest. "I asked for help. You were going to send the police after me. What would have happened to them, do you think?"
"I had to do something," Mohinder says.
"You could've helped." He undoes one more button. "And look what happened."
The gauze over the wound is a frayed, red-brown mess. Two large strips of packing tape smooth over the top, keeping it tight to Sylar's abdomen. The bandage looks homemade. Sylar spreads the shirt open a little more and Matt can see the remains of enormous bruises splotched in purple over his sickly-pale skin.
"Tell me how glad you were to see me killed. Tell me every part of you was just fine."
He doesn't sound threatening. Mohinder stares at Sylar's ruined chest. Matt waits for him to say something, to confirm, to stand up and tell Sylar that he doesn’t care at all. They haven't talked about it much, but Matt knows some terrible things happened – he dipped into Mohinder's head once, without him knowing, but the black fear surrounding the memories was too awful to pierce.
But – Mohinder still isn't saying anything. His jaw is set, brow furrowed, but he's still just looking at Sylar's wound. Through it.
Sylar tilts his head to one side. "Look at me."
Mohinder's eyes drag up. His eyes are damp and Matt's stomach clenches.
Something softens, if only minutely, in Sylar's face. "I thought so."
He lets his shirt fall closed. Matt reaches out again, to Mohinder this time, but the only thing running through his head is I'm sorry, I'm sorry, again and again. Matt doesn't understand, because he knows Mohinder hates Sylar, that he'd have done anything to stop him, knows it the way he knows Mohinder loves Molly and would do anything to protect her. It has always been something pure and easy, no nuance at all. Except apparently there is, because Mohinder hasn't looked away from Sylar's face, and with every repetition of I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry Matt can hear guilt twining around unexpected sorrow.
He's still tuned into Mohinder's thoughts, so only half of his attention is left to watch as Sylar slides down to a crouch, putting himself just below Mohinder's eye level. "I remember how you looked at me, before you knew who I was. Looking into you and seeing what you wanted."
Mohinder eyes go wide and slide to Matt's. The thunder of too many thoughts deafens Matt for a moment and he recoils from Mohinder's mind, but he can still see, and the way Mohinder's face floods with shame, the way he turns his face away – it tells him more than enough.
Sylar's eyes are steady on Mohinder. The softness Matt glimpsed has become something implacable. "Did you know that, Officer Parkman?" Sylar says, attention suddenly fastening on Matt. Mohinder has tensed on the edge of the bed, hands tight fists in the blanket Molly picked out. A little smile appears, devoid of humor, at whatever Sylar sees on Matt's face. "You didn't. How interesting."
He stands and looks down at Mohinder's bent head. He raises a hand, two fingers outstretched, and with an odd little twist the old lamp on the bedside table flickers on, the overhead fixture goes out. The room is dimmer, but the lamp, with its thin shade, spreads soft yellow light over everything, casts shadows which turn Mohinder's face mysterious.
"Stand up," Sylar says, hands now lax at his sides. Mohinder does so, without hesitation. "We're going to make a deal. I'll allow Miss Molly and the officer to live. I won't even hurt them."
Mohinder keeps looking down at the floor. "In exchange for my life?"
Sylar smiles again. "I don't want you dead, Mohinder," he says. "I just want…"
He trails off, studying Mohinder's downturned face. He brings up a hand, raises Mohinder's chin with two fingers. A beat passes, then another – and then the hand slides to the back of Mohinder's neck as Sylar leans in.
Matt's still restrained by the telekinesis, which is the only reason he doesn't leap to his feet and scream. Mohinder appears to be frozen. The only sounds are of Matt's breathing, of the soft smack as their lips separate and Sylar pulls back.
Mohinder's eyes are enormous. Sylar releases his neck, fingers brushing over the long column of throat as they withdraw. They're still just a few inches apart, standing just feet from Matt's chair, but the distance seems suddenly to be that of light-years.
"You understand," Sylar says. His voice is quieter than Matt expected. He's not mocking.
Mohinder swallows. He hasn't even blinked. "You want –" He can't finish the sentence. His head shakes, his hands fist at his sides and for a second Matt's terrified that he'll try to throw a punch, try to fight back. The realization twists in his gut, but there's no place for honor here, not now.
Sylar studies Mohinder for a moment, then shakes his head. "No," he says, though what he's negating Matt doesn't quite understand. He reaches down and catches Mohinder's wrists, the move gentle. “Not that.” Stilling, Mohinder meets his even, calm gaze. "If I'd wanted that, I could have had it whenever I wanted. No, this is… different. I want you to choose."
Matt frowns, looking back and forth between them. Mohinder flinches. "What do you mean?" he says, though it seems as though he knows already.
"I called you and you had a choice. You could give the help I needed or you could try to stop me. We all know how that turned out." Mohinder's eyes drop to Sylar's chest for only a second, but long enough to notice. Sylar's voice is almost… sympathetic, but from his seat against the wall Matt can't see his eyes. "I'm giving you another chance. You can say no. You can agree. I won't force you, Mohinder."
"How can you say that?" he says, voice suddenly thick. He doesn't look away from Sylar's face, but Matt can see his desperation. He’s… not afraid, though. Not quite. "You know I can't risk – I can't let you –"
"Of course you can," Sylar says, and that edge has crept into his words again, that lacing of venom. "You've allowed torture before. You understand the consequences. The only thing forcing you to do anything is your own conscience. Just like before, really," he says, with a brief smile. Mohinder stares at him, lips parted, but then Sylar's face hardens. "Choose."
A long moment of silence, broken only by ticking from the old bronze clock on the bedside table. Matt doesn’t remember it ever working. He realizes he's stopped breathing, but that doesn't seem important. Certainly not more important than the way Mohinder's eyes squeeze closed, an expression of pain rippling over his shadowed features, or how his fists clench so tightly each knuckle protrudes in severe knobs of white. A girlish whimper bleeds into Matt's hearing and he knows he's losing control, because hearing Molly is exactly what he doesn't want to do right now. The telepathy flickers, flashing from person to person, and though Sylar is still impenetrable, still iron and black, Matt's mind glances over Mohinder's and he hears the answer before it's given. He closes his eyes, because he can't bear to see Mohinder's face.
"Yes." There's a soft inhale, a rustle of clothing. "Anything."
A moment passes. "Look at me."
Against his will, Matt's eyes slide open, too, an uncontrolled and incomprehensible breach. It seems impossible that Sylar can reach inside here, too, can slip into the tiny spaces between muscle and nerve and force even this simplest of movements. But here he is, faced with the inescapable fact of it, and as he loses the protection of darkness the first thing he sees is Mohinder's hand: loosened from its denying fist, fingers lax and empty. His face has gone – not blank, exactly, but strangely resigned, accepting. The shadow of pain lingers in the tight draw of his lower lip but the black line of his brow is straight, no longer protesting. Sylar studies him, perhaps attempting to quantify his acceptance. After a long moment, he reaches up one hand. It's a slow movement, calculated, which might be why Mohinder doesn't flinch (though Matt tries to, a flattened shudder under the force keeping him still). He settles it on Mohinder's cheek, on the side closest to Matt, his fingers spreading long and pale over the dark, barely-stubbled skin.
Mohinder doesn't blink. Sylar's lips part, so slightly it should have gone unnoticed, but Matt has become hyperaware, sickeningly conscious of his helplessness in the face of this danger. When Sylar's other hand comes up and settles on the curve of Mohinder's waist he thinks he'll vomit, thoughts careening madly in circles. It's almost a relief when his quickly-boiling hysteria flattens in face of this image: Sylar steps close, nearly chest-to-chest with Mohinder, and leans down through the small amount of free air still separating them, and takes Mohinder's mouth in a real kiss.
It's gentle, which Matt didn't expect. Sylar's movements are small, quiet, his eyes closed. When Mohinder opens his mouth one of them makes a muffled sound and one of Mohinder's hands comes up and fists in the black fabric of Sylar’s shirt, though he's not pushing him away. In response Sylar releases his waist and takes his face between both hands, kissing him more intensely, breathing growing deeper, a long thumb stroking over Mohinder's high cheekbone.
It’s only then that the truth really occurs to Matt. This is going to happen. He sits pinned in the narrow chair, forced to watch as Sylar bends his friend backward, just slightly, hands still gentle on his jaw, his neck, fingers trailing down to pet over the vulnerable expanse of his throat. Where he’d expected an assault, this is…
Long fingers go to placket of Mohinder’s shirt, parting the buttons with easy efficiency. From Mohinder’s throat comes a muffled, unknowable sound, and his free hand comes up to join the other on Sylar’s chest – not fighting, not at all. They’re still kissing (or, at least, Sylar is kissing Mohinder) and so the second sound Mohinder makes doesn’t seem unusual to Matt’s half-dazed mind until he notices what else is happening. As Sylar spreads Mohinder’s shirt, pushing it off of his shoulders, Matt’s eyes fall, and sees Mohinder’s foot picking up, the laces on his expensive tennis shoes unknotting of their own volition. Matt swallows and Mohinder’s shirt hits the floor. He’s moved his hands to Sylar’s waist, now, over the protection of the shirt he’s still mostly wearing, and they don’t even try to stop the man when his fingers go to the button on Mohinder’s jeans.
It flicks open. Mohinder’s breath catches and he pulls back from Sylar’s mouth, licks his lips. One of Sylar’s hands skates up his bare chest, wraps carefully (still dangerous) around Mohinder’s neck, his throat. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to – to intimidate, or to make it easier. He’s looking into Mohinder’s face, his own expression intent. When Mohinder takes a deeper breath and opens his eyes, Sylar doesn’t smile. Instead, his thumb strokes a long, deliberate curve over Mohinder’s throat, his jaw, hand coming up to cup his cheek. Even in the relative quiet of the bedroom, the sound of the zipper coming down is almost inaudible.
Matt’s eyes slam closed. He doesn’t know if it’s his own instincts or Sylar, but he’s grateful. There’s the heavy sound of cloth hitting wooden floorboards, of fabric brushing together. Someone sucks in a quick breath. It’s not even hard to reign in his instinct to know what’s happening, and that should be shameful, but whatever Mohinder’s thinking right now – it’s not anything he should hear.
The old mattress creaks, with another gasp as accompaniment, and with that Matt’s eyes open. He knows it’s Sylar, this time, and fights to stay blind in vain.
Mohinder is kneeling on the mattress, naked. He’s facing Sylar, still at the foot of the bed, and Matt can see only his left side. His eyes are closed, but his hand is back on Sylar’s waist. Matt can see his fingers digging into the black fabric. Sylar is still. Matt swallows, throat thick with what he’s fairly certain is disgust, because even if Sylar isn’t doing anything his eyes are heavy, his attention settled and intense on Mohinder’s body. He looks as though he’s – drinking it in, maybe. One hand comes up, slow, and settles gently in the center of Mohinder’s chest.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” Sylar says. His voice is quiet. Matt wonders how many layers are in the question.
Mohinder’s eyes open so slowly it’s as though it’s against his will, only – Matt knows it isn’t. “No,” Mohinder says.
Sylar’s face changes. “Think back,” he says.
He still isn’t smiling. This should be a victory but somehow it doesn’t seem like one. He doesn’t wait for Mohinder’s answer and moves in, hands large and pale against Mohinder’s smooth sides, pressing close. Mohinder just closes his eyes, mouth parting, offering no resistance whatsoever. Even though Matt knows it’s the right move somehow it makes this worse. Sylar’s mouth shifts, moves along Mohinder’s jaw, and Mohinder’s head tilts back, exposing his throat for the taking. At that, Sylar makes an uncontrolled noise – his first, and it’s startling, makes Matt’s hands clench on the arms of the chair – and he stands straight and shrugs his shirt off, eyes black and blazing.
Telekinesis strips the rest of Sylar’s clothing away. It lands in a heap on the floor, out of the way as he moves forward, onto the mattress. Mohinder shuffles back to make room but Sylar grabs his waist, kisses him fiercely. He eases them down, one hand steady on the bed, pushing Mohinder to his back. His touch is – slow, easy, but Mohinder shudders under it, arching at unexpected times. His responses seem too sharp, too vivid for what’s happening. For a second Matt thinks Sylar might be hurting him, somehow, but it soon becomes clear that whatever is going on has nothing to do with pain. Physical pain, at least. Sylar presses his mouth to Mohinder’s jaw, the hollow of his throat, lapping at pulse and the tendons standing out under his attentions. Mohinder’s breathing gets shallower and Sylar settles his weight on top of him.
Matt tries not to pay attention, to let his mind go blank, but every other second there’s heavy breathing, faint noises, the slide of skin on skin. Somehow, despite that Matt knows he has to be distracted, Sylar’s keeping him cemented to the chair, his eyes forced open. When Sylar’s hand skims down Mohinder’s side and settles on his hip, when he slips a leg between Mohinder’s thighs and pushes down, making Mohinder gasp, eyes shut tight – it drags him back, forces him to be right there.
Sylar does something Matt can’t see and Mohinder lets out a cry – quickly cut off, but it makes Sylar pick up his head. He pushes up, so he can see Mohinder’s face. His expression is frightening in its rigid intensity – his eyes are wide open, unmoving. “You have no idea –“ He cuts himself off and cocks his head. Underneath him, Mohinder arches, a whine catching in his throat. He’s lost. Sylar lets out a long, shuddering breath. “You have no idea, all of the things there are to hear.” He brings up one hand, strokes long fingers across Mohinder’s cheek. “Your heart is so loud,” he says, and the tone is almost wondering, almost –
But then his eyes slide to Matt, with a jolt, as though he’s remembered his audience. That smile, the one whose absence has been so noticeable, curls wicked across his face. He slips to the side and turns Mohinder so he can curl up against his back, so they’re both facing Matt. He licks slowly at the curve of Mohinder’s shoulder, then bites. Matt wants to flinch away from how Mohinder quivers, hand clenching in the covers. His dick is half-hard and – it shouldn’t be, no matter that Matt knows logic and what’s right and true have no place here.
Sylar releases his shoulder and breathes out over the wet spot, then drags his mouth up until his lips are brushing the shell of Mohinder’s ear. “Can I, Mohinder?” he murmurs, no hint of the cruel smile coming through in his voice. He puts a hand on Mohinder’s hip, rubs the thumb in firm circles against the sensitive skin. Mohinder shudders and Sylar presses a tiny kiss just above his ear, at his hairline. “I know what you need,” he whispers, hand slipping down to Mohinder’s stomach. He rocks forward and Mohinder grunts, lips parting. Sylar raises his eyes to Matt’s, holding his gaze as he wraps a steady hand around the base of Mohinder’s erection.
“Please,” Mohinder mumbles. Matt snaps to his face, but his eyes are squeezed tight, his mouth suddenly desperate. “I can’t –“
Sylar shushes him and raises up on his elbow. He releases Mohinder and slides the hand up his stomach, stroking across his throat until his fingers brush against his bottom lip. Mohinder’s mouth opens without Sylar even asking and he slides two fingers in, gentle, but he’s still watching Matt. Somehow Mohinder knows what’s expected and he sucks at Sylar’s hand, eyes closed, making noises deep in his chest.
“That’s enough,” Sylar murmurs, drawing his fingers out. They glisten obscenely, and Mohinder’s breathing hard, already turning his face toward the mattress. Sylar’s hand disappears between them, but Matt doesn’t need to see to know what he’s doing. Mohinder jerks, hand tightening in the sheets as Sylar presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Open up for me,” Sylar says, and Mohinder’s top leg slides forward, he bends his head down, curls his spine.
There has to be something – Matt can’t believe Mohinder could go along with this so easily, not even to save himself, to save Molly. The only expression on his face is one of odd, deep concentration, his mouth still open, brow furrowed. Matt can’t close his eyes, can’t get away, but he lets his mind unfocus as it’s been trying to do for so long. He doesn’t even attempt to read Sylar but goes immediately to Mohinder, tries to hear what manipulation Sylar is working, but it’s only –
what is he – oh, God, that’s – please, please, perfect, right there oh I can’t, now now I’m so
Matt’s stomach turns over. Sylar isn’t working Mohinder’s mind, but he is –
“That’s right, Mohinder,” he hears, and his eyes refocus to see Mohinder actually biting the palm of his hand, whimpering into his skin. Now that he’s looking for it Matt can see the moment Sylar sends out a surge of telekinesis, finding a dark secret place deep in his body and coiling around it, pressing hard, letting Mohinder throb with arousal. As he watches, sick, Sylar pulls his hand out from between them, shifts. “You’re ready,” he says, more statement than question.
Mohinder groans, long and low, please now and Sylar pushes in, inexorable, stretching him from the inside out. Mohinder’s hand scrabbles at the sheets, trying to grasp at anything, and Sylar catches it, traps it against the bed. He nudges forward, mouth pressed up against the shell of Mohinder’s ear, and Mohinder doesn’t bother keeping quiet anymore.
“Please,” he rasps, his mind echoing the word a hundredfold. That it’s wrong can’t be heard in a single thought. Sylar pushes in a little harder, rocking Mohinder against the mattress until he cries out.
Matt knows this is being put on for his benefit. Sylar’s still watching him, rocking steady and hard into Mohinder’s pliant, needy body, because Sylar thinks that Matt and Mohinder are – but they aren’t, they never have. Sylar pushes at Mohinder’s shoulder and he rolls to his stomach, groaning until Sylar picks up his hips, raises him to his knees and thrusts. Matt would have known if Mohinder had ever wanted him that way – it’s hard to turn off his telepathy at the best of times, and they haven’t exactly been living stress-free. He would have been able to tell if Mohinder had wanted something like – like this, with Mohinder on his knees, face buried in his folded arms, bleeding almost-pained cries into the mattress. How is it possible that Sylar has gotten this so wrong?
The moment Mohinder’s thoughts start to broadcast pain over pleasure Sylar shifts, runs a hand or a telekinetic touch over a different patch of skin, bends and sucks a kiss against a sharply-defined shoulder blade and Mohinder sinks back into sensation, rocking back into Sylar’s hips. Matt has no idea how Sylar’s picking it up, but that doesn’t matter. Mohinder’s thoughts jolt and shiver when Sylar’s power wraps around his core again, twisting his mind with the shock of it.
“Oh, God,” Mohinder says, breath hitching, and Sylar slows, with a glance at Matt.
“Is that good?” he asks, voice low.
Stupid question, Matt thinks, but Mohinder’s so far gone he’s simply nodding dumbly, breath and thoughts stopping altogether when Sylar does it again. Matt’s given a smile, one full of honest enjoyment, and then Sylar pulls out, not ungentle. Mohinder makes an urgent sound, head picking up, but Sylar’s hands and power are already turning him over.
“I want to see you,” Sylar murmurs, settling back between Mohinder’s thighs, and Mohinder only groans his agreement. He tosses his head back when Sylar slides back into him, knees coming up around Sylar’s ribcage. Sylar’s movements aren’t gentle anymore, or careful, but Mohinder doesn’t care. Oh God this is – I need – and just with the thought Sylar’s bending, taking his mouth and Mohinder moans gratitude deep in his throat because Sylar understands. There’s still that constant refrain of apology thrumming in the back of Mohinder’s mind, but it takes a distant second to the urgency of what Sylar’s doing to him.
His fingers lost any sensation a long time ago, clenched tight as they are on the arms of the old wooden chair. I’m sorry, Mohinder thinks, but also I’ve wanted this – oh, please, like that, wanted so long I thought – stop, don’t stop this please, I need –
Sylar’s mouth drops to his throat, thrusts getting rougher, and Mohinder cries out, loud, too loudly and Matt’s mind picks up a high, fearful refrain, his control long-gone. Molly can hear them, these walls aren’t thick enough. Don’t listen, sweetheart, Matt thinks at her, get your head under the pillow, please, and he doesn’t know if she can hear him but the humiliation is rising thick in his throat and he doesn’t know whose it is. He prays Molly doesn’t know exactly what’s happening in here, that Mohinder’s cries could be mistaken for pain. He doesn’t know which would be worse for her, but for himself – God yes, oh it would be easier if Mohinder were being tortured, if he weren’t giving this, if Matt didn’t have to see him surrendering so willingly to –
And that’s it. Matt inhales sharply through his nose. Sylar glances at him from his place at Mohinder’s jaw, with a flash of a smile, but he thinks Matt is just disgusted, just hurt, bleeding inside because he has to watch his lover with their worst enemy. Not rape, not exactly, because he’d given Mohinder the choice (even if it wasn’t much choice at all, not for Mohinder). And Mohinder had chosen this, because Sylar knew about the want Mohinder hadn’t been able to hide, and it was supposed to twist in Matt’s gut, wasn’t it, it was supposed to be a punishment for them both, for hurting Sylar, for standing in his way.
But right now Sylar isn’t being denied. Oh God and Mohinder’s getting close, the thought is blooming up from deep within him, more instinct than sound. Sylar knows, of course, and picks up his head, brushes a kiss over his mouth. One hand slides up Mohinder’s left thigh, pressing it back against his shoulder so he’s splayed open, letting Sylar deeper, pushing him to the edge. Telekinesis seeps into Mohinder’s skin, insidious and swift, and there, there please that’s perfect, perfect, I – yes, I love – piercing something vital, bruises and blood surging and Mohinder’s suddenly coming, jerking, his hands flashing to Sylar’s biceps and gripping tight. The cry he lets out rips through the air and Matt’s mind. Sylar isn’t looking at him anymore. His attention is frozen on Mohinder and he’s still moving, still cradling his body with power.
Mohinder lets out a low sound and his limbs relax in slow, slow increments, only – he’s not letting Sylar go. Matt swallows, because this is – would have been the final betrayal, the last worst thing. Mohinder’s hands go to Sylar’s face and – and Matt can’t hear his thoughts, can’t hear anything except a kind of harsh static buzz as Mohinder opens his eyes and Sylar leans down. This kiss, it’s different than the others, but Matt can’t – he can’t figure out why, not when he can’t…
Sylar doesn’t say anything, doesn’t mock. His eyes are squeezed tight and, for the first time, Matt can tell that it’s Mohinder controlling the kiss, who’s making something in Sylar break. He shifts his hips and Mohinder’s legs come back up, he rocks against Sylar’s body. The welcome is obvious, enough to make Matt’s throat close, and Sylar pushes back in, suddenly not-so-precise, suddenly harsh and he’s the one making noise, now, against the curve of Mohinder’s throat, and it’s Mohinder who has the power, who’s keeping him steady with hands and thighs, rocking down and wanting. Sylar’s hips stutter, a sign impossible not to recognize, and he catches a faint returning thought from Mohinder that’s it, come on, now, please I want before there’s an audible, deafening crack and tick and Matt’s mind almost bows, almost breaks under the black thunder as Sylar comes and a half-dozen voices pour out and
I’ve been waiting so long for this, for you, and how could you have ever tried to – This isn’t how it was supposed to be, you betrayed everything I planned – the whole world, Mohinder, and it could have been ours, so easy, I could have shown you – I’ll destroy him, kill her, kill you last because it’s what you deserve, I hate you and hate you and – you can’t stay here, not with them – you’re everything there is the only thing, the only thing worth – Mohinder, I can’t – Mohinder –
and emotions bleed in, faster than he can understand, it’s never been this chaotic or dense and there’s fury, black and frightening, and awe and confusion and the radiating white static of orgasm, Mohinder’s body, his face, exquisite, adored why can’t you see, understand, please, he did this to me I can’t stop it I’m not strong enough please, please, Mohinder, you’re the only one who could and the reek and sting of death, all around, death again and again in memories rising thick and fast as melting metal – which coalesces, suddenly, clamping down tight in familiar iron, cold and immediate, tick tick tick tick tick
Matt’s gasping by the time he can open his eyes. The only concession to weakness he can see in Sylar is the way he’s cradling Mohinder’s face. He stays still for a moment and they’re just looking at each other, hips gently moving together, riding out the aftershocks. He pulls out slowly, kisses at the corner of Mohinder’s mouth when he shivers at the sensation.
“Perfect,” Sylar says, quiet against Mohinder’s skin, and for once Matt isn’t sure if he was supposed to hear it. Mohinder shudders, thoughts starting to come together with horrific coherence, and the quiet, continuing want flooding in there makes Matt reel back, makes him fight for control.
There’s silence for a few seconds and then Sylar pushes back, abrupt. His movements are sharp. He holds out a hand and his pants float out of the heap on the floor. He steps into them without looking back at the bed or Matt, shrugging into his shirt. It buttons itself while he steps into boots, does the laces. Matt’s thrown, because this isn’t –
“What are you going to do?” Mohinder says, unexpectedly. Sylar stands up, turns to stare at him. Mohinder pushes up on his hands, not trying to cover his nudity. Matt swallows.
“A promise is a promise, Mohinder,” Sylar says. He unrolls the cuffs on his sleeves, buttons the wrists, too casual. “Miss Molly and Matt go unharmed.”
“How can I trust you?” Mohinder says. Challenging, but still quiet.
Maybe it’s that his mind is still righting itself, still fuzzy, but Matt thinks that Sylar softens, somehow. “Come here,” he says, voice low.
Still obedient, Mohinder rolls to his knees. He moves a few feet forward on the mattress, kneeling as he was at the first. Sylar steps close, and the contrast of their bodies is startling – Mohinder nude, stomach wet from his orgasm but his body stiff, hands fists at his sides, defiance trying to come back, but Sylar loose, dressed almost like a priest, his hands slow as they come up and cup Mohinder’s face, one more time.
“Collateral,” he says, but he doesn’t make another move.
Mohinder’s eyes widen slightly, then close. His hands release their tight fists, come up to Sylar’s chest. There’s a moment of utter stillness as Mohinder’s head bows. It’s left to him to lean in, to press his mouth against Sylar’s. Matt closes his eyes as soon as he realizes he can. It goes on longer than he’d expected. Finally, the soft sound as their lips part is, again, all he can hear.
“Goodbye, Mohinder,” Sylar says.
There’s a click as the door shuts. Matt’s eyes shoot open. Mohinder’s frozen on the bed, obviously trapped once again by Sylar’s power. They sit there, motionless, and Matt can hear the footsteps retreating across the floor, the creak as the front door opens, then shuts.
The release of the telekinesis is so painful he almost screams – blood rushes back to his hands, his legs, so fast it’s dizzying. As soon as he can stand he rushes for the door, grabs his gun from the cabinet by the door. He bursts into the hallway, but Sylar isn’t there. He does succeed in terrifying their dotty old neighbor, just entering her apartment.
“Sorry, Mrs. Gregson,” he stutters, stumbling to cover, “I thought I heard a burglar, but –“
“Be more careful, young man!” she says.
He nods, mumbles apologies until she closes her door. He races to the end of the hall, but the elevator hasn’t worked since November, the stairwell is silent and empty. Sylar’s gone.
He reenters their apartment, throws the bolt and secures the chain. As though it’d do any good. He starts back to the bedroom, but before he reaches it he knows it’s empty. The water is running in the bathroom. It sounds like the taps are at full blast. He drops the gun on the bedside table, heedless of safety, when the sobbing from the room next door penetrates his hearing.
He’s out of the room and around the corner, talking with a voice as steady as he can make it. “It’s okay, Molly, he’s gone, we’re okay,” he says, laying his hands flat on the door.
“Matt?”
“Yeah, it’s me, sweetie.” Her voice is clogged with tears, weaker than it’s been since the day they met. The lock and handle are still melted, still impossible, but the hinges are on this side of the door. He has to get her out of there. “I’m opening the door, Molly, hold on.”
It takes a combination of hammer and pliers, but he gets the door off its hinges. As soon as he does Molly’s in his arms, tears soaking his chest. He coos nothings, walks her back into the room, settles on her narrow bed. She can’t stop, hiccupping, uncontrolled, and Matt’s own eyes start to well – but he can’t afford that, not now.
“What did he do to Mohinder?” she manages. “Is he – is he –“
“He’s okay,” Matt says. He wonders how much of a lie it is. “He didn’t hurt us.”
“But I heard –“
“He was trying to scare you, Molly. He wanted you to be scared.” Maybe half-true, but it’s all he can manage right now. He smoothes her hair back from her face, swiping a thumb over one wet cheek. She blinks at him, not at all recovered. “I have to go check on Mohinder now, okay? You need to stay here.”
She shakes her head, eyes and mind filling with terror, but Matt can’t – she can’t see, whatever it is. He gets her to stay by promising to return immediately. He turns on the rest of the lights in her room, closing his eyes when the projector lamp she’d begged for throws sweet pink butterflies across the walls.
In Mohinder’s room, the bed is a mess. Matt stares for a second, at the depression in the sheets. There’s a spot in the center, wet, where – and he strips the bed, shoves all of the covers into a corner of the room. He doesn’t know if they’ll be washed or if they’ll have to get rid of them entirely. The door to the bathroom is shut tight. He stands before it, swallows. He can’t call Mohinder’s name, not when it just makes him think of Sylar. He reaches out with his mind, instead.
He’s in the shower, just standing, trying desperately not to think – but of course that never works, does it. His thoughts are tangled, fury and shame bright shards shattering through his mind. Matt puts a hand on the doorframe, concentrates.
There aren’t words, not really, and so Matt can’t be certain. But thrumming underneath the pain lies something that glows, something dark and hot, so dangerous Mohinder’s mind skips away from it, so terrifying it makes him fist his hands in his hair, standing under the scalding water, alone.
Matt flinches and pulls back to the concrete world. He has to swallow, so as not to –
“Matt?” he hears, distant, and remembers that he’d promised Molly he’d come back, that he’d tell her everything was all right. Except – it isn’t. There’s a hollow thump from inside the bathroom, like something being dropped against the porcelain. It’s heavy, frightening.
He goes back to Molly, sits on the side of her bed as she cries, then sniffles, then drifts into an uneasy sleep. She doesn’t fall immediately into nightmares, something for which Matt is thankful. He should go to the couch, make sure the gun’s at the ready, just in case Sylar comes back –
He won’t. Matt closes his eyes, makes sure his mind stays entirely within his own head. Even if Sylar didn’t get quite the revenge he’d hoped for, he’ll never know the difference. Something is – changed, now. Molly won’t be happy, not really, for a long, long time. Matt’s not sure he can leave the apartment, leave them alone, ever again. So much for snowball fights in the park.
He’s exhausted, suddenly. He’s going to have bruises at his wrists, on his jaw where it had been held closed for so long. Still, it’s likely that these will be their only injuries. Sylar was true to his word.
He glances at the pink LED display on Molly’s clock. It’s only nine at night.
Mohinder hasn’t come out. Matt still can’t quite figure out if Sylar had some sort of mind control, some power they don’t know about, that would let him push into their thoughts. Molly whimpers in her sleep, and Matt’s hand is there, rubbing her back through the thick blanket until she quiets. Perhaps Sylar had some kind of compulsion –
No. Matt inhales slowly, trying to settle. He’d been adamant, hadn’t he. It was Mohinder’s choice. He’d wanted willing.
You’re the only thing, everything there is, Mohinder. I would have given you the whole world. Everything.
At ten o’clock the shower is still running.
---
Sylar escapes Kirby Plaza, clinging to life. He recuperates slowly. But there's still this loose thread – an unwound spring, perhaps, in the back of his mind. He is insane, after all, and he has decided that everything went wrong because of Mohinder.
Sylar starts watching him, from a distance. He's always been good at it. It isn't until a few weeks of watching have passed that he realizes Mohinder isn't living alone. Some afternoon, he sees him walking home holding the hand of the little girl from Los Angeles. The sword-wound is still healing, but something else is festering, growing. Mohinder and Molly are joined at lunch by that – fat cop, from L.A., the guy who'd tried to shoot Sylar at Kirby Plaza. They're obviously comfortable together. Sylar goes to the bottom of Chandra's old building and tunes his hearing as best he can – and the cop (Parkman) and Mohinder are talking about Molly's school, moving around the apartment as though they both live there. As though they're together in more than just caring about the girl.
It's worse than Sylar thought. Mohinder has… betrayed him, once again. They had something, didn't they? Mohinder and Zane, they – he wanted Zane, in that short week. And now Mohinder's taken up with this stupid cop. He listens, waiting for his chest to heal, and he doesn't understand what Mohinder could possibly see in him. Mohinder has always been attracted to power. He didn't miss the expression on his face when Zane liquefied something. Like being lifted out of himself. Even after Mohinder betrayed him the first time, when Sylar was fighting Peter: when Sylar floated the shattered glass off the floor, Mohinder didn't try to hide his fascination. So maybe this Matt, with his telepathy, maybe he has something to offer. Something Sylar doesn't have – yet.
It – hurts. It's not just his chest. He doesn't eavesdrop once they start to get ready for bed, because – he doesn't need to hear what he's already deduced. Sylar has wanted to get his revenge on Mohinder for a long time. Now he thinks he knows the perfect way. What would hurt Mohinder – would really reach inside, take something away, like he'd taken something away from Sylar?
When Sylar can finally breathe without feeling like he's going to die, he gets ready. He knows their schedules. He knows what he has to do.
When he gets to the apartment, Mohinder is cooking something. The smell drifts out into the hall – spicy, warm. He and Molly are talking about her schoolwork. The lock tumbles at a twitch of Sylar's finger, and then he's in the door, cutting off Molly's scream with a wave of his hand and smiling at Mohinder as the whisk clatters to the floor.