aunt_zelda | I Miss You ... (Mylar fic)

Title: I Miss You …

Rating: R to be safe.

Warnings: If you haven’t watched all of Season 1 of Heroes, you shouldn’t be here, you should be at nbc.com catching up!

Disclaimer: Uh … obviously I don’t own Heroes, because if I did, I’d have Mylar making out on screen instead of in slash fics or my twisted mind …

Summary: Sylar’s leaving Mohinder little gifts and notes … but it’s not crack

My Comments: Wrote this months ago, but never finished it. (I hate that I killed off Claude!) Wrote the ending and did some touch-ups here and there around one in the morning. Hope it isn’t too … odd or sudden or weird. Sorry, just wanted to clean up a bit.

Mohinder was exhausted. A long day, trying to figure out ‘The List’ again at the new ‘Company’ jokingly called ‘OWI’ (organization without initials) by those who worked there, and checking in on Molly at Jessica and DL’s house. She was staying there for a few days, so Mohinder could have some alone time.

Sighing, he hung up his jacket and headed for the bathroom, intending to take a nice, long shower.

Mohinder glanced at the mirror, expecting his usual harassed office-face, and jumped about three feet in the air:

The mirror had frosted over, like something from an ice-age horror movie.

I miss you was traced in the ice.

Mohinder staggered backward, feeling the sudden urge to throw up. Only Sylar could have iced-over his mirror, only Sylar would have snuck into his empty apartment and scrawled a message meant to terrify.

Was he still here? Mohinder whirled around stupidly, seeing nothing.

Fighting blind panic, Mohinder somehow managed to keep himself calm, or, at least, a cheap imitation of calm. If Sylar was really here, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it, so he just proceeded as if nothing had happened, taking a very, very long shower.

When he got out, the mirror was still frosted over, but a new message was written in the ice.

You turn me on – Sylar

~*~

Mohinder tried to put the events surrounding the mirror out of his head; buried himself even deeper in his research at OWI.

But the fact remained that Sylar had ‘written’ him two messages: one of which had been created while Mohinder was hardly four feet away.

Was Sylar just toying with him before killing him, like a cat with a mouse? Or was it something else, something even more disturbing?

Mohinder shook his head. At least Molly was safe, practically smothered with superpeople to protect her for the next few days.

Perhaps then he’d have figured out what to do.

~*~

Mohinder stared at the dinner table, unable to take his eyes of the pool of liquefied metal which had once been a rather expensive candlestick.

It wasn’t the fact that Sylar had once again broken into his home and wasn’t waiting there to kill him that surprised him. Or the fact that the candlestick had melted: he’d gotten used to that on the road trip with ‘Zane.’

No, it was the fact that the melted metal had been shaped into a heart, like a valentine.

Mohinder simply couldn’t fathom it. Sylar leaving unsettling notes he could vaguely understand, but this?! It was just too … weird.

“Are you here?” Mohinder asked loudly.

No one answered.

~*~

Days and restless nights followed. A week passed. Mohinder tried not to be lulled into what might be a false sense of security, but Sylar didn’t strike him as the type to dawdle around and get sidetracked.

Molly came back, taking Mohinder’s mind off Sylar’s strange behavior for the time being. Of course, he was cautious, worried about Sylar getting his hands, or telekinesis, on Molly, but still, nothing.

~*~

Mohinder awoke two weeks after Sylar’s message in the mirror, rolled over, and nearly jumped out of his skin:

A small cardboard box, the kind a microwave might have come in, was sitting on his bedside table.

Happy Holidays – Sylar was written on the side in large red letters.

Cautiously, Mohinder opened the box and jumped back, expecting something to blow up or attack his face.

Nothing happened. Mohinder tentatively peeked over the edge.

Inside was a large collection of small paintings and sketches, some in pencil, some in pen, others in paint or pastel or charcoal. All were of Mohinder, asleep. Several depicted a darkened figure, swarthed in shadow, lying beside Mohinder, usually practically on top of him.

The last one was a painting, not even a foot in diameter. Mohinder was blissfully asleep with the figure’s arm draped across his chest, lips brushing Mohinder’s forehead.

It was titled ‘Incubus.’

~*~

Mohinder hung a string from a hook he’d banged into the ceiling about six feet away from the door, put the chair back at the table, and taped a note to the string. Then he left for work, terrified how Sylar would react.

All day, the words in the note ran through his head. He almost went home at lunch, but the thought of coming into contact with Sylar after all this time … he couldn’t.

Sylar:

I should have known better than to think you were dead. Of course you wouldn’t just fade away. If you intend to drive me mad with this bizarre string of circumstances I’m well on my way. If not, either find someone else to torment or meet me face-to-face. I’m not scared of you anymore.

– Mohinder

God, what if Sylar was waiting for him, inside, with that sneering grin on his lips? Mohinder nearly turned and fled, then remembered that Molly was due home in an hour, so he’d better face whatever was waiting for him in the apartment.

Slowly, gently, Mohinder pushed the door open, bracing himself.

His note was crumpled on the floor, a new sheet of paper was taped to the string. Mohinder shut the door and gently tore the note off.

You’re not scared of me?

Below was a detailed sketch of – god, Molly: dead, her head cut open, with an equally dead Mohinder lying beside her in a rather large pool of blood.

Mohinder nearly gagged, leaning against the door for support.

Then, something struck him. He stashed the notes with the painting from that morning – safely in a box in the back of his closet – and took the string down.

Molly came home, much to his relief, and blathered on about school and the Revolutionary War and how annoying those boys could be. Mohinder put on his father mask and nodded and smiled and glared at the right moments, finally putting her to bed with a chapter from Harry Potter and a kiss.

He waited until he was certain Molly was asleep, and began pacing the room. He wrote another note, ripped it up, and threw it into the recycle bin Molly had forced him to get after a talk at school about that Al Gore movie.

After many pieces of paper, numerous crossing outs, and a cup of coffee, Mohinder switched off the light and went to bed.

~*~

There wasn’t anything unusual the next morning, so Mohinder just got Molly up, gave her breakfast, and walked her to school as if nothing was wrong. If she’d noticed any odd behavior, she didn’t comment.

With an hour to kill, Mohinder returned to the apartment, put the string back up, took the new note out, taped it to the string, and left for work, feebly hoping that a long ride on the subway would distract him for a bit.

~*~

Once again, standing in front of the doorway of his own apartment, terrified of entering.

Mohinder shook his head, even as the note he’d left whirled through his mind:

Sylar:

If you really wanted Molly and me dead, I wouldn’t be writing this note and she wouldn’t be in school right now. I can’t possibly fathom your twisted mind, but perhaps explaining yourself or leaving me the hell alone would somehow work out.

– Mohinder

P.S. If you EVER threaten Molly again, or harm her in any way, I will personally kill you myself, no matter how many people I have to employ or years it takes.

Again, his note was crumpled on the floor, another taped to the string. Mohinder took a deep breath, pulled it off, and read it.

Fair enough: I won’t take Molly’s power, or hurt her AT ALL.

But as for leaving you alone, it’s so much FUN to tease you, Mohinder, especially since you can’t tell if I’m here or not …

Mohinder jumped back, glancing around the apartment uselessly.

A laugh that would haunt him for an eternity echoed through the room: a cocky, cold, terrifying laugh.

Mohinder felt the note leave his hands and fall to the floor, cursing himself for not carrying a gun – but what good was a gun against a person you couldn’t see? Who had telekinesis, for god’s sake?!

Suddenly, he was shoved against the door, a hand around his throat. An actual hand, not a Darth Vader-esque telekinetic grip.

“Take the phone,” Sylar’s voice, as cocky, cold, and terrifying as his laugh, hissed into Mohinder’s ear.

Mohinder, concentrating rather hard on the fact that Sylar had him by the throat, hadn’t noticed that his cellphone, with Molly’s school’s number already dialed, was floating in front of him. He reached out and grabbed it.

“Tell them to call the Sanders’ number, you’ve had a family emergency and have to go back to India for a few days,” Sylar, still invisible, sounded as though he were enjoying himself. “Molly can stay with that family and get her stuff tomorrow, right?” the hand tightened.

Mohinder made a small gasping noise that was meant to convey comprehension.

Sylar loosened his hold on the other man’s neck, but his other hand was now … running though Mohinder’s hair?!

It took a great deal of self-control, and thoughts of the sketch of Molly, dead, to get Mohinder to tell the secretary on the end of the line what Sylar had ordered him to say.

After he hung up, the phone flung itself across the room, settling down on the table, far out of reach.

Sylar shifted slightly, and materialized directly in front of Mohinder. He was dressed just about the same as the night of the explosion: long dark coat, stubble, jeans. He took Mohinder’s wrists and shoved them up above his head, nearly cutting off his circulation. “You can call her tomorrow night,” he assured him. “If you survive, that is,” his teeth trailed along Mohinder’s neck.

“W-what are you doing?!” Mohinder had remained silent as long as he could.

Sylar looked up at him, jerked his head to the side in that odd, chilling way of his. “Well, I believe this is called ‘foreplay,’ though I’m no expert on the subject,” he caught the bewildered Indian man’s lips in a rough, passionate kiss, as if he was attempting to suck the life out of Mohinder.

Realization dawned on Mohinder as soon as Sylar broke away. “You’re going to … you want …” he felt slightly ill. Not excited! Ill …

Sylar laughed. “Oh, so you like me, Mohinder?” he asked, letting go of the other man’s wrists – telekinesis kept them there now – and sliding a hand into Mohinder’s pants. “Oh … that’s rather interesting …”

Dammit …Parkman must be dead! Mohinder settled for concentrating on not being aroused by Sylar’s touch – but it was too late.

“Just give in, Mohinder,” Sylar urged, whispering almost obscenely into Mohinder’s ear. “Embrace it … accept it …” his hand extracted a moan from Mohinder.

The telekinesis lifted.

After a moment or two of indecision, Mohinder wrapped his arms around his father’s killer, shoving them away from the door, slamming Sylar down onto the desk.

Oh, I’ll accept it alright … Mohinder thought to himself, tearing Sylar’s clothes off.

“It’s going to hurt …” he hissed, savagely kissing the surprised murderer.