Sylar left sometime around two in the morning, leaving me exhausted, but unable to sleep. I no longer felt the need to escape from life by slipping into a dream. Finally, I could be really, truly, happy.
The end to my loneliness, however, was not the solution to all my problems. I realized with extraordinary agitation that I was out of anything even remotely alcoholic.
My obvious next move was to go down to the 7/11 and buy some more booze. It had never occurred to me before that day that I had a problem with my drinking, but when I brought that particular six-pack home, I spent a long time just staring at it. I wanted to drink, but so desperately I wanted to be sober. Sylar might come by that afternoon, and the last thing I wanted was for him to see me drunk and miserable and so very unspecial.
It was, however, extremely hard not to drink, especially since I'd already bought the damn booze. I kept my mind busy for a few hours, doing little things around the house, trying to make it presentable. Eventually, I found myself doing the same things over and over, and I started to panic. There was no way I could ever resist the temptation to drink, not with the beer in my house.
The only thing I could do was put it outside my door, I couldn't bare to get rid of it any other way. Hopefully, some neighbor kids would steal it. The seemingly herculean task done, I locked myself in the bathroom, and simply wallowed in my self-pity.
Unfortunately, that's exactly how Sylar found me when he came by that afternoon: Sitting on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest and making every attempt to stay perfectly still. I felt like any movement I made could destroy what little self restraint I had. I didn't even notice him come in until I felt him sitting next to me.
"Why is there beer on your doorstep?" He acted like I wasn't freaking out, like he was just making conversation, but I could sense his pity, stupid jerk. He was starting to figure out how desperate I was.
"I don't want to talk about it." I answered, my voice a little shaky.
"Come on Mangle." His tone was half concerned, half taunting as he pointed out, "I thought we were friends."
It wasn't exactly my plan to go all sob-story and unload on Sylar, but he left me very little choice in the matter. Before I could stop myself, I was bawling into his shirt, pausing just long enough to moan, "I think I'm an alcoholic."
Shockingly, the emotions I picked up from Sylar were neither compassionate nor disgusted. If anything, he seemed... amused, like he was getting some sick satisfaction from seeing me all weak and vulnerable.
"If that's true, I think I can help." He said smugly, absentmindedly fiddling with a strand of my hair, "I am very good at fixing things, you know."
"You could, couldn't you." I muttered, drying my eyes and looking up at him. Duh. If I had thought about this for just one second, I would have realized that telekinesis plus intuitive aptitude could definitely equal instant-rehab. The one drawback? I would need to ask for help, to admit that I needed Sylar to fix my problem because I couldn't handle it myself.
But he was my friend, right? I could trust him, of all people, right?
I drew a labored breath to calm myself, "Do it."
He smirked, "Say please."
Of all the nasty, manipulative, inhuman, sadistic, cruel, wretched, manipulative... yet, underneath the desire Sylar had to be the one in control of this relationship, there was also a real desire to help me. I supposed that, for a killer, this was most compassion I would ever receive from him.
Putting on a falsetto, I said, with much batting of my eyelids, "Oh, gee, Sylar. I really would think it awful swell of you if you could help me out of my pickle," and with added flourish, finished, "Puh-leeez?"
Suddenly, I felt my body arrested, held rigid but some unseen force.
"Don't move," He said, as if I could. He focused hard, and without warning, I felt something deep inside my brain start to burn with the most intense pain I'd ever felt.
"Ah! You didn't say it would hurt!" I cried.
"I didn't say it wouldn't," he replied, focusing harder, "Done, you're all better now."
Slowly, the pain started to fade, "Wow, I don't even know how to thank you for this."
Silently, Sylar stood, and offered a hand to help me do the same. "I can think of one thing you can do for me." He stated after a short pause.
Uh-oh, "Yeah, sure, okay." I agreed cautiously. I hoped he didn't want me to help him with anything too murderous.
"Stop being blonde, I liked the red better." He demanded, lifting a strand of my hair in front of my eyes, "I've had better luck with redheads than blondes anyway, and the face. Go back to your real face."
"Ok, why?"
"Because," He said, "People like you and me shouldn't have to pretend to be like the rest of them, they should be trying to be like us." He turned and strode out of the bathroom down the hall to my living room.
Following, I complied with his request, but sensed subtext, and felt compelled to press the matter.
"Is there something else bothering you? Something you might want to share?"
He laughed as he sat on my couch, acting like the very thought of him having emotions was completely insane.
"I can SENSE that there's something else bothering you." I rephrased.
"It's nothing."
"C'mon, Sylar." I sat down next to him, "I thought we were friends."
"Alright." He conceded, his countenance growing somewhat darker, "Basically, it's about Agent Taub."
"That guy you're pretending to be?"
"You wouldn't understand." He replied, almost bitterly, "When you disguise yourself, that's all it is; a disguise. I have to change, change myself into that man, every single day."
He was starting to panic, so I wrapped my arm around him. I was taken aback by how surprised he was that I cared.
"I just, sometimes I can't tell which man is real, and which one is..." He looked at his hands for a single questioning moment, before backtracking to draw attention away from his vulnerability "So that's why I don't want you walking around like another person all the time. I need you to be real."
"I can definitely do that."
After that, he nodded, muttered "Good," and turned to look at me. I was still half-wrapped around him, and much closer than I had realized.
"You know Mangle, I've thought of something else you could do for me." He whispered. The waves of his emotion that hit me then were like an avalanche, I was almost caught off guard by the hand he slid up my leg. But, honestly, it was inevitable. Here we were, the only two people in the world who really mattered, and there he was, so very attractive, so very powerful. In what universe would this not happen?
"I don't really have to tell you, do I?" He asked, a flick of his wrist pulling me flush against his chest, "You can sense it, of course."
"Of course." I said trembling, overcome by the feeling of his body against mine, the sweetly poisonous sound of his voice and the potency of both our desires mingling in my brain. Still holding me to him like a puppet on a magic string, he leaned forward so my back was against the sofa.
"And are you going to give me what I want?" He asked, knowing full well the answer to his question.
"Of course." I breathed, barely able to make a sound.
That's when he kissed me, passion radiating out of him. From that point, one thing became perfectly clear: I was his, and nothing would keep us apart.
I'm not going to lie to you, dear reader, It's fairly obvious what happened next.