heroslayer | the enemy of my enemy is my friend (rp for factnotbelief)

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the enemy of my enemy is my friend (rp for factnotbelief)

He doesn't like this.

Sylar knows he needs help if he's going to take on Parkman and Petrelli -- he might be smarter than both of them, but they're better armed, and he's never been good at fighting on two fronts -- but people don't just offer people like him help without a catch. Arthur's going to want something from him in return, and as good as he usually is about repaying kindness where kindness is offered, he likes to do it on his own terms. He wants to be the one who decides what and when people get something out of him, not have a debt held over his head, and he knows that's how it's going to go with Arthur. The Petrelli patriarch's already tried it, feeding him some bullshit story about how he's his son to him over the phone to try and make him feel obligated, and he doesn't owe him a damn thing yet. It can only get worse from here on out, he figures, and it's not like he can't find Suresh on his own. He's done it before, biding his time until the heroes let their guard down and move on to more important things, and he's got all the time in the world to wait now. They don't.

Unfortunately, however, neither does Suresh and as angry as he is, he's not too keen on waiting to reclaim what's his and what should belong to him, and that probably explains why, against his better judgement, he gets out of the car and stalks up to the building. If this goes badly, he'll just kill Arthur and go his own way. He makes a show of making sure Arthur knows that's in the cards, too, blowing the door off the hinges as he reaches it in a disturbing display of power. Arthur told him not to kill anyone on his way up here, and he didn't, but he never said he couldn't wreck his little house of cards when he got here.

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Mohinder sighs as well, moving his arms and his core away from Sylar, eyelids opening very slightly as he gazes upwards through long lashes. He's not sure why, but the words that come out of his mouth are almost beyond what he'd normally suggest.

"There's a bed here."

"So there is."

Arthur can wait another half an hour or so until they start making their way back, he figures, and that in mind, he tugs him back towards the bedroom, his fingers groping for the hem of his shirt. Part of him wants to tell him that he missed him, but he supposes this will do just as well.

Much of Mohinder's motives are based on needing to know that Sylar is real. He's been having such intense dreams of him the past few days that he needs this connection. He does most of the work, allowing Sylar to just lounge back against Peter's pillows. The younger Petrelli isn't going to be pleased about this. Not at all.

And that doesn't stop Mohinder from breathing wickedly against Sylar's ear as his hips move in rhythm of their joined pleasure. His fingers move through Sylar's chest hair. He whines.

"Almost...can't tell that I-- Mērē bhagavāna... Shaved you."

"Thank God for small miracles," he breathes in return, a moan on the end of the statement. He'd explain that yes, it itched as Mohinder suggested it was going to, and threaten to get him back one of these days, but he's too distracted to keep the thought in his head for too long, let pin it down with words, so he lets it go. He nips at Mohinder's lower lip instead, hips bucking more viciously against his, hoping to mark him or bruise him or both. That, he figures will get his point across, as well as being far more satisfying.

Such bruises will have to be much more brutal than those given to lighter skinned men, but when they come, when the imprints of Sylar's fingers on his hips begin to appear, Mohinder presses one sweaty palm to the wall over his head and trembles as orgasm hits him.

They'll smell like each other soon, perhaps something a little more animalistic than Mohinder has ever fancied himself being, but he has no intention of showering before leaving this apartment.

He'll takes the bruises and the markings in pain and in sex as badges to remind him that yes, he belongs somewhere and is someone important.

He breaks a second later, the tension in his stomach snapping in a rush of heat. He cries out, kissing him again in a belated attempt to mute himself, then breaks away to drop his head to his shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. It's a good few minutes later before he finally moves again, his fingers finding his way to Mohinder's hair, brushing it out of his face with surprising tenderness, still trying to tell him through touch that he missed him.

He knows. That look they shared when Sylar entered the apartment had been pure heat. And despite the somewhat violent finish of this sex act, it had been the most passionate, loving experience they've managed yet. Mohinder's fingers slip up the back of Sylar's neck and tug through his hair to feel the curves and perfect contours of his skull. There within lies his brain and Mohinder kisses Sylar's sweaty temple to confess his devotion.

A bit of a towelling off and a change of clothes sees Mohinder in another stolen car, dozing lightly against the passenger side door.

His dreams feel somewhat course and familiar, but he wakes up at Pinehearst really rather refreshed. It's only then, in the elevator, that he asks after his friends.

Sylar glances over at Mohinder. "What about them?"

Peter is Arthur's son -- he doubts much harm will come to him, even if he's not entirely sure he believes the Petrelli patriarch's story about wanting his family close -- and Matt was promised to him. There might be some awkward family reunion beforehand, depending on whether or not Maury knows what's going to become of his son and if Arthur's the kind of man that'd let them say their goodbyes, but other than that, Matt should be safe, too. For now.

"I've had bad luck with companies of late," Mohinder teases lightly, his look towards Sylar nothing but fond. The elevator stops at the penthouse and Mohinder hooks on his ID badge received in the lobby. It seems overly legitimate, this pharmaceutical company's headquarters. It's actually very similar to a place he'd thought he'd end up before he started after his father and began university work.

He's impressed by the number of employees here, no doubt most of them are normal, like himself. The place is the exact opposite of how Primatech was. It's encouraging.

Still, he hangs back when the doors are open for them. Sylar hadn't done that. "Welcome back. And hello, Doctor Suresh. My son thinks so very highly of you."

"Which one?" Sylar asks, flashing him a smirk, one tinted with sarcasm, as he leads the way into the penthouse. He's not at all impressed by the show Arthur put on in opening the doors for them -- if his power is so similar to his and Peter's, it only makes sense he'd have picked up something like that over the years. Telekinesis, as he understands it, isn't all that rare a gift.

"All three, incidentally, though for different reasons." Arthur laughs, another glass of whiskey in his hand. "Come in. You've taken your time getting back. I was starting to wonder if you wanted your gift, Gabriel."

"We were making up for lost time." He shrugs and props himself against the wall somewhere between Arthur and the door. "Besides. I figured my present wasn't going to get up and walk away any time soon."

Arthur chuckles. "No, of course not. He's waiting the lab for you both." The sound of ice hitting his lip and then the bottom of the glass follows. "And when you're finished that, doctor, you and I ought to have a business meeting."

Sylar pushes away from the wall, not bothering to wait to be dismissed -- he figures Arthur telling him where Matt in the first place is permission enough, and even if it isn't, he doesn't particularly care -- and heads out. He glances over his shoulder, just to make sure Mohinder's following, and once he's sure he is, continues on the way to the lab. Or where he assumes it is, anyway. He passed it on his way through the building the first time, and he's hoping it's in the same place, even if he really never got any further than the elevator. Luckily for him, it is, and he pauses outside the door, casting another look back at Mohinder.

"Arthur knows about your interest in how my brain works." And now that he thinks about it, that strikes him as odd. How the hell did Arthur know what he and Mohinder got up to before he was kidnapped? Was he watching them? Did Matt's father pull it out of his head while he was idling in the elevator and offer it to him? He frowns, albeit briefly -- either way, he supposes it doesn't matter. It's not like Arthur tried to stop him then and soon it won't matter whether he has a telepath on the payroll or not. His thoughts will be completely his own. As will everyone else's. "I'm guessing there's an MRI machine in here somewhere, if you want to take another look after I open my presents."

Opening presents means death for someone, or more than one someone and yet Mohinder is grinning. He's not desensitized, he's simply detached. Mohinder is a scientist and sometimes, science can be pleasant. He seems to have forgotten completely about consent. Or subject safety.

When did people become lab rats to him?

Mohinder's too busy grinning to ask those questions. "You'll need another shave. Or we can skin the heart monitor. You seem fine in there."

He's not terribly interested in another shave so soon after regrowing his chest hair. "We'll skip the heart monitor this time."

Without further ado, he lets them into the room, looking around for Parkman. He's not immediately visible, lost behind a handful of steel medical beds, all unoccupied, and rows of machines, but even so, it doesn't take Sylar long to find him. He's unconscious still, and he can't tell whether it's because of what he did to him earlier -- he's got a nasty goose egg starting just below his hairline -- if Maury did something to his son, or if he's just drugged, but he supposes it doesn't matter. Consciousness won't stop him from getting his ability, it'll just make it less rewarding beforehand as he won't be able to taunt him.

Mohinder doesn't lose his smile, not right away. He's got instrument duty first. He's checking readings, glancing over the manual, and making sure that nothing will go badly for Sylar. The machine needs to function properly because though the man won't die, he can still feel pain.

"Make sure you remove anything metallic," Mohinder calls over, wiping down the inside of the machine. "That includes your jeans, the zipper will set it off!"

Standard procedures. Standard everything until Mohinder moves through the maze of tables. "My God, Matt!" He rushes over, checking his vitals. He's breathing. His heart is working just fine. "Help me get him up."

Sylar arches his eyebrows, wondering if he's kidding -- for all the terrible things Matt did to him over the last couple of weeks, why the hell would he want to help him now? -- then lowers them, almost unimpressed, when he realizes he's not. He shakes his head, and nudges Mohinder away from the table and his friend teleknetically; if he tries to go back to his side, it'll be a shove against the nearest wall. "No."

"You can't!" Yes, into the wall with Mohinder, enough to jar him, enough to knock the window out of him. Mohinder's a light weight. He crashes hard into things though, always tumbling.

He'll have some new scars from this and one very bad bruise just above the small of his back. Likely, that bruised his kidney as well. A bit of blood in the urine never hurt anyone, right?

"Why not?" He spares Matt one more glance and then turns on him, all the anger he's carried over the last few weeks coming back in a rush of white hot warmth. He curls his fingers into fists, and moves to stand over him, sneering. "He took you away from me. He probably would have had me kill myself if I hadn't managed to get out of whatever he was doing to me."

Or put a bullet in his brain. That, at least, might have gotten him somewhere.

"He was going to destroy you memories of me." He flings one arm in Matt's direction in a wild, angry gesture. "And if I let him go, he probably will just because I came back for you. Just because he can. He has this coming, Suresh. Don't try to tell me he doesn't."

It only takes the sound of his family name to cow him. He knows that Sylar is right. Matt won't give up, he won't back off. He's never going to leave him alone and the moment he can, Sylar will be ripped from his mind without consent. Or he'll persuade Mohinder into thinking that the man he loves is a monster.

Oh God, but he is a monster.

Mohinder watches as Sylar turns back to Matt. It's for the best. He's just holding on to something he doesn't need. Mohinder is getting good at convincing himself of anything Sylar wants him to think.

When no argument comes, he starts in on Matt viciously, his normal pristine, surgical cut anything but this time for as strongly as his rage has taken him. When he finishes, the top of the telepath's head looks like a ten-year-old's first attempt at carving a jack-o-lantern, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. He just peels off the top of Matt's head and dumps it on one of the empty tables nearby, before leaning down to check first that he didn't destroy his brain in his fit -- he didn't, thank God -- and then to look for his prize. As always, it never takes him long to find it, and when he does, he steps back, his fury subsiding in a instant of pain and the pleasure that follows.

He wonders idly, pleasantly, if Mohinder still wants his MRI.

Mohinder is sort of numb, his thoughts a broken jab of Hindi interspersed with English. He's the closest person to Sylar, so his thoughts were the loudest. Of the snippets of English, they all seem to be sad, so sad, raw and bright. He loved that man and now he was dead. Dead. Absolutely dead. He would never be back. Never see Molly again and--

He's praying. It's beautiful and fluid and incomprehensible.

But there are other people too, passing by on floors above them. As with Dale, getting a new power like that is bound to be overwhelming. Too many voices, all crying out at once. And mostly about what they want for lunch or if they have enough deodorant on.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to find a means of filtering enough out that he can hear himself think. There has to be a trick to it, as there was with Dale -- he found if he focused inwards on his own heartbeat, everything else became white noise -- or Matt would have been insane a long time ago for how overwhelming the noise in his head is. And maybe that's it, maybe that's why he thought it was a good idea to try to steal Mohinder's memories, maybe he was insane. He certainly feels like he's getting there, himself, and he's only had this power for a minute or two.

Sylar's pain is all that's needed for Mohinder to snap out of his own. He's dedicated to the psychopath, and though he just lobbed off his friend's skull, and Matt was laying dead on the table beside him, Mohinder's trembling arms immediately move around him. "Shh," he breathes into his ear, fingernails scraping a bit harshly against Sylar's scape.

Scratch, scratch, focus on me. He pushes his words through as forcefully as possible. A little tug, a bite on the jaw. He wants Sylar to only have him on his mind. It should help him focus.

Matt came into his ability little by little. Sylar's not having that option.

On me! My mind. Sort it that way.

the enemy of my enemy is my friend (rp for factnotbelief)

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