Mistletoe:
"As soon as the Wolf began to feel
that he would like a decent meal,
He went and knocked on Grandma's door.
When Grandma opened it, she saw
the sharp white teeth, the horrid grin,
And Wolfie said, "May I come in?"
With no small amount of relief (only overshadowed by the warming sense of triumph) Mohinder allowed his voice to gently descend into silence, where it stayed as, smiling, he carefully placed the now already beloved book on the nightstand.
He rose from the bedside, noiselessly, eyes still fixed smugly on the small, slumbering figure bunched up beneath the blankets, edging carefully towards the bedroom door.
'But Mohinder, I'll never sleep this early and if Santa IS real then shouldn't I be able to find him? And as I can't then it doesn't matter if I'm sleeping or awake or if I'm bed at all and Sarah at school says they put the really cool Christmas stuff on late TV and…!'
The horror of yet another diatribe about Sarah whose mother apparently did not care what time her daughter slept, what she ate or what movies she was or wasn't allowed to see, had forced Mohinder into an uneasy compromise – he would not leave Molly to lay, bored and cynical, awaiting the proof of a man she had come to disbelieve the existence of, and she would be in bed on time, asleep or not.
They had talked about school, skirting the subject of Sarah and her iniquitous mother as much as possible, laughed about the presents bought between them for Matt and other members of their extended family and, in time, had even carefully discussed the recalled and treasured family Christmases of Molly's past.
They had decided, during the frequent late night discussions that peppered the early stages of his, Matt's and Molly's cohabitation, that they would encourage her to talk of her lost family as much as possible but, seeing the sides of that sweet, smiling mouth quirk and turn down as her voice wobbled, Mohinder had decided that just for tonight, perhaps denial was a necessary route.
Rummaging quickly through the Parental Must Have's as recommended to them by the odd parent he had spoken to at Molly's school, he had alighted on a book they had yet to explore.
She had somewhat scoffed at Harry Potter (he thought HE had it rough?) and had been seen to sneer at the more traditional depictions of magical kingdoms, beautiful princesses and handsome princes who rode in to save the day. Sadly, Molly's innocence had been yet another casualty of Sylars rampage, leaving Mohinder often slightly unnerved by the all too knowing, cynical gaze he encountered from those beautiful porcelain doll eyes.
'Revolting Rhymes' had appealed to them both. It poked fun at the fairytale and fable genre she had curled her lip at, whilst still carrying its own set of morals and, to Mohinder's well concealed astonishment, her eyelids had been drooping over amused eyes before the second tale was out.
Now, she slept as deeply and as contently as any other child (saving that bloody Sarah) waiting for Christmas morning, finally giving Mohinder the time he needed to slip away and finish wrapping her presents and to complete putting up the decorations.
Having Molly in his life had considerably brightened up the dank and seemingly tainted space of his fathers apartment, but he was still aware of how far it all was from the life she had known before and he was determined that the place would be glittering like festive fairyland for her when she awoke, even if he had to staple every last piece of tinsel in New York to the ceiling.
He smiled to himself as he snuck about the flat, pulling down concealed boxes from seemingly innocuous cupboards and high shelves, ready to wrap and decorate himself dizzy until Matt arrived home with the piece de resistance – a brand new bike, complete with dazzling purple paint job with a metallic silver sheen (Sarah's bike had been much talked of for many a month but her bike was blue just like her brothers).
Carefully setting the television to a low murmur of sound in the background, Christmas, goodwill and love for all being preached on all channels, Mohinder laid out his tools across the desk.
Paper? Check.
Ribbon? Check.
Tape? Check.
Spangled Tags? Check.
The gifts themselves? Check.
He grinned. This might be his own first proper foray into Western yuletide festivity but he had every intention of perfecting it on his first try. He'd spent days googling the proper traditions, spent even longer casually extracting information from Molly's own past without distressing her and now he believed he was set to make it all perfect.
Well… as perfect as it could be, all things considered.
A gentle chill chased itself over Mohinder's skin, his arm hairs shifting and prickling in the sudden draught.
Standing quickly back from the desk, he looked all about him, hand already curling about the spectre of the weapon he craved, foolishly kept, locked, in the cabinet far on the other side of the room.
SYLAR, he berated himself in horror. Never EVER be lulled into happiness or complacency without stopping to consider him.
He swallowed, hard, palms sweating as his eyes lit on the cause of the sudden breeze, heart hammering as he tried for rationality over terror.
The front door was open.
Not swinging wide, not enough to allow a head or even a weapon past, but open.
Just an inch, barely, swinging gently, hinge almost but not quite creaking as the suggestion of wind out in the corridor had it nudging back against the latch, quickly kissing it on each swing before letting yet another burst of frigid air through into the nicely heated rooms.
The Window out in the hall must be open. That's why it's cold. Not ice, no frost, no gentle flakes of snow falling where they shouldn't be.
And the catch clearly wasn't fully in place… one strong gust from that open window and it just popped open… just enough to let the cold in. Just the cold.
And nothing more.
Swallowing what felt like the majority of his internal organs from an abruptly dry throat, Mohinder crossed the room, shaking his head at his own paranoia as he gently but firmly closed the door once more.
He wasn't going to let thoughts of Sylar sneak in and colour this. Not this, not when he'd worked so hard to make it perfect.
He leaned back against the door, smiling ruefully as he saw the array of sparkling and garish decorations gleaming back at him from all over the room. He only had the ceiling decorations and banners to finish (He, Matt and Molly had perfected the tree quite some nights before) and then the room would be fit to host the following days festivities, but… something wasn't right.
Brow creasing, Mohinder became aware of something at the periphery of his vision and lifted his gaze to the suddenly unsettling sight of shining white berries amidst a clutch of glowing green leaves.
Mistletoe.
Just inside the doorway, pinned high on the ceiling… too high, too wrong…
Too late.
As swiftly as Mohinder jerked forward to run to Molly, he was slammed quickly back into the door, wrists high, pinioned against the wood with unseen fingers, spine and legs as though glued to the spot as his eyes swivelled madly in his skull for any sign of his tormentor beyond the bizarre appearance of the traditional green plant.
Didn't put that there, said No, no poisons in our home – not this time, not willingly…
Smooth, phantom digits smoothed a lock of hair from his eyes and Mohinder thrashed as best he could in response.
"Where are you? SHOW YOURSELF!" He hissed, unable to bring himself to scream or yell past the terror in his throat for the small form sleeping in the room next door.
Nothing.
The lights on the tree twinkled merrily at him and a muted voice from the television argued about the worth of one mans life to all who knew him – but no Sylar.
No darkly clad form, no sudden shift in the atmosphere, no pain, no blinding light or searing heat, only the firm, immovable grip that held him captive against his own front door, gazing helplessly between the lush green and white cluster above him and the almost horrifyingly empty room before him.
"Sylar…" he heard himself near sob, and the imploring note in his voice had Mohinder's teeth chattering in fright and, even as he tried to calm himself, he had the impression of heat and solidity before him.
'Ssshh…' said a voice that appeared to not quite exist, directly to his brain, and he felt an odd wave of lassitude course through him, slumping into the steel-like grip now holding his entire body in place, another ghostlike finger pressing tight against his lips whilst its brothers (toomanynotpossible) wrapped tight about his throat.
'Quiet now.' Said the non-voice, dark and bitter, but warm like the molten chocolate he'd shared with Molly from the fountain at Santa's Grotto, seeming to coat him, thick and heavy so that the words were heard and felt through every pore.
Mohinder quivered as a hot exhalation against his skin caused the little hairs across his body to stand up and shudder in reaction to his minds confusion.
There was no one there. Sylar held him in place, spoke into his ear, his mind as clearly as though he were holding him there with the strength of his form pushed tight against him… unless..
Mohinder bucked slightly, and the impression of strength and weight moved with him, still preventing his escape but somehow parting about his movement like wisps of smoke, before settling about him, enfolding him, constraining him once more.
So, not invisible then, Mohinder mused with the last part of his brain not boggling at the actuality of Sylars phantom presence in his flat, holding him tight… touching…
A tiny startled noise made its way past the non-fingers at Mohinder's throat as a firm but ghostly touch skated over his brow, cupping his jaw as something (his thumb?) stroked over his lower lip.
Oxygen left him in a great rush as the surreal caress was repeated and Mohinder abandoned all pretence of understanding and thrashed once more, baring his teeth as he snarled again at the serial killer to show his face.
But no sound came. Mohinder's mouth worked furiously, spitting curses silently at Sylar for his cowardice, stilling in renewed shock as hot, moist lips pressed tight to his ear.
'I said Ssshh.' and before Mohinder could do more than blink, that same somehow nonexistent mouth pressed itself over his.
The first, prevalent sensation was that of his lips being crushed, albeit gently back against his teeth, that soft, supple glide to and fro as though manipulated, manoeuvred by another mouth atop his own and the second…
Mohinder's breath stuttered somewhere deep in his chest as a tiny lick, like the melting blurry soft corner of an ice cube skated the tight seam of his lips.
This cannot be happening.
Mohinder ground his teeth, eyelids and lips as firmly together as he could, drawing in desperate short breaths through flaring nostrils as a chuckle chased the sensation of that tongue across his mouth before abruptly… nonsensically almost, the spectral Sylar somehow slipped his tongue inside.
"Mff!" Mohinder heard himself squeak and felt that same dark laugh drift through his ears, down his spinal chord where it sat, resonating deep in the pit of his belly as Sylar flicked the very tip of that impossible tongue, tickling, against the roof of his mouth.
Mohinder's breath burst back and forth through his nostrils almost as quickly as the ticking of his watch, shaking with shock and a sudden sense of overwhelming indignation as Sylar kissed him slowly, thoroughly, somewhat insultingly, stroking the inside of his mouth with a tongue that mapped the route between his teeth and lips with a sort of lazy carelessness – Mohinder wasn't going anywhere, why bother rushing?
Sylar seemed to smile against him then (against his skin, his lips, his hair, his throat) and casually started tracing looping figure eights across the roof of his mouth, tickling and… tormenting Mohinder so that he damn near vibrated in place.
STOP IT, he whimpered and shouted in his head and abruptly found the control to spear his own tongue upwards, slamming into the phantom and attempting to prevent its languorous patterns against his flesh.
The sensation was like a sudden shot of hard liquor, his head swam, his balance shifted and those hard, somehow warm ghostly hands were all that held him upright.
'Yesssssss' Hissed Sylar and his tongue twined round Mohinder's in an instant.
Mohinder attempted to pull back, pull away but Sylars mouth, his hands, his presence was firm, long fingers like fire trailing over erogenous zones and unexplored nerve endings, exciting sensations that Mohinder had never even considered, let alone experience.
He moaned (a negation he told himself) and felt dark laughter course through him, bucking as large, unreal hands cupped his buttocks, groin and throat, raking long fingers up the backs of his thighs.
As his hips slammed forward, Mohinder became aware of his growing state of arousal, whimpering piteously, arching his lower body into an echoing hardness that just wasn't there and even as he despised himself for each overpowered sob of pleasure, he yearned for actual contact.
His arms felt loose and cool, and as though they belonged to him once more, but clearly they had to still be under Sylars control – why else would Mohinder be looping them up to cling round shoulders that were not there to blow out the light and reason he felt muttering at the sides of his brain.
Mohinder squeezed his eyes tightly shut. If he could not see the lack of Sylar himself, perhaps he could pretend he was really here before him, touching him, kissing him… slowly pressing warm fingers down under his waistband.
'Good… good boy Mohinder' said the voice, rich with sin and triumph and, somewhere in his mind, Mohinder saw it… the smile, the flash of white teeth, bared, enticing… dangerous.
The bad wolf.
He thrashed then, unwilling even as he kissed him back, fingers tight in thick coarse hair, pulling viciously and snarling, biting back against laughing, hard lips.
NO, damn you, No!
'…Once more with feeling, Doc?'
Warm lips, soft, coaxing, suddenly real enough to have him drop his arms and open his eyes in shock but still the nothingness prevailed, belayed by the taste, the feel of him.
This wasn't real. And if it wasn't real then…
Mohinder shook his head, the sensation of tongue, teeth, lips and hands falling away like mist.
"No." He said clearly.
He felt as though the room, the air shifted about him then, the odd sensation of stubble and soft lips tickling the back of one hand and then… nothing.
Utter stillness.
Sylar, it seemed, had gone… if indeed he were ever there.
Mohinder shook his head again in consternation, letting out a harsh bark of laughter before abruptly crumpling to the floor, legs folded neatly so that he sat back, strings cut against the still safely shut door.
He wasn't sure how long he sat that way, breath whistling in and out as his (unwantedunwarrantedLOATHED) arousal faded, hands trembling in his lap until, finally, he stood on shaking legs and forced himself, eyes determined, to his desk where the unwrapped gifts were waiting… along with a gift tag, formerly blank, atop the others.
'Peace' it read 'and Goodwill to all Men.'
Mohinder trembled, and then jumped as a cheery voice behind him exclaimed in pleasure.
"Hey!" Matt beamed, steering the sparkling, spanking new bicycle through the doorway, "You went for Mistletoe after all!"
Mohinder shrugged, throat tight as he found himself quickly cramming the gift tag into his pocket.
"What changed your mind, man? Thought you said you didn't want poison here?"
Mohinder's nerve endings strummed with the echo of horror and pleasure and he sat down swiftly, busying himself with the wrapping paper and smiling with forced nonchalance.
"I changed my mind."
Fin.