Figure 8 Ch. 06

It seemed though, that the weather was agreeing with Sylar's mood as well. Grey, cloudy and a slight chance of rain later on, the sky was doing no favors for the crew. There was a generator powering up the lights, and even though it was placed at least twenty feet away, the sound crew claimed that they could hear the engine whirling in the background. Evidently, Nick could hear it too.

"Goddamnit!" Nick swore as he tossed his headphones off and pointed at the generator, "Move that fucking thing another ten feet back. Why the fuck is it so loud?"

The crew scrambled to do as he said.

Sylar watched as Emma wilted tiredly when the lights turned off. For the few seconds of reprieve that she had, she quickly ran to get some tissues from her bag. Her nose was running, just a little bit, but often enough that she was wiping her nose on the back of her hand every minute.

"Emma, where'd you go?"

She rushed back to the spot and stood again before Nick shook his head.

"Emma, you mind changing into a pair of shorts? The temperature of the lights won't be right when you're completely clothed."

Are you crazy? It's fucking cold, Sylar wanted to yell in her defense, but did nothing. He didn't want the entire crew to know he was here early, not when the call-time was about an hour later.

Emma ran into the van and got into the front seat. From where he stood, her little ass was framed by the windshield like a perfect picture. As she bent over and dug through her bag, her backside wiggled enticingly in a manner that made Sylar swallow his spit.

He watched as she surveyed the area quickly, looking to see if anyone was watching. When her shoulders relaxed, Sylar realized she was completely unaware of the fact that he was standing a few trees away.

Then she began wiggling in a motion that only meant she was taking off her pants. Her back lowered clumsily, and as her shoulders shook, he was able to make out the size of her breasts. They were average size, but shaped wonderfully round in a way that would fit perfectly in his palm.

Sylar held his breath as she jumped up a little in her seat. When she pulled off her hoodie, skin flashed before his eyes. He felt a sense of loss when her camisole came back down.

What attracted him though was a distinct black tattoo under breast. For some reason he had imagined that she'd have flawless, smooth skin. The sight of ridges, curves and marks only made him want to pull up her shirt and see what else there was to her.

Shit, he thought as Emma hopped out of the van, shivering in practically nothing. The clothes she wore fit her so tightly. The body he remembered touching in that night club had gotten slimmer, tighter as it skipped away from him.

"Oh good, this is better than rolling up your sleeves," Nick commented happily on Emma's decision on skin exposure.

Nick ordered her to sit on her heels, and she did so, delicately and obediently. Sylar groaned, knowing very well what act this position was supposed to be. She looked so pretty in her white top and light blue boy shorts. Her eyes were downcast, unaware of how provocative her position was.

Like an offering.

A true willing offering, a picture not many girls in the industry actually made. He was glad she didn't gaze up. He didn't need a mental picture to keep him up all night.

"Sylar!"

Sylar flinched as Greg came towards him. He turned around to greet his friend, but not soon enough to see how poorly his name had effected her. The innocence faded, and she was as stiff as a board.

Greg slapped his buddy on the back. "I thought we were going to walk to the set together." He spoke so loudly one of the sound crew shushed him. "Oh shush it, you're not even filming yet."

Sylar couldn't help the grin on his face. Greg had a way with sass.

"Aw, my little protege is so pretty." Greg whistled and waved when Emma looked up, her pale cheeks flushed as she timidly waved back.

Sylar swallowed the stagnant saliva in his mouth when Emma completely avoided looking at him. "Your protege?" he asked bitterly, wishing Greg had more tact. Considering the mini conversation they had last night, couldn't Greg get by one hour not mentioning how great his personal relationship with Emma was? Especially compared to Sylar's own progression...

"My little Cinderella project," Greg nodded. "Before she quits, I'm going to make her blossom into a flower. Granted, that menswear thing she has going on has its own allure, but probably only in the bedroom. I'm going to make her handsome boyfriend get on his knees and thank me by the time I'm done with her."

How did Greg manage to make Emma comfortable, as if she were doing a normal 9 to 5 desk job? Hell, Greg could probably ask Emma to strip and she would at least consider it. If Greg weren't gay, Sylar would've long asked Nick to let him go.

"Okay, Martin, come stand in for Sylar."

A thin, gangly youth, around his early twenties, came and stood right in front of Emma. He was shirtless, awfully pale, and probably half the size of Sylar. Why Nick chose him was a mystery as all the lighting would be off.

"Aren't your eyes particularly green today," Greg surmised with a smirk.

Was Greg inferring to his jealousy? Sylar rolled his eyes. It didn't take a close friend to know that. Most of the crew avoided him like a plague, speaking only to Emma when they thought he wasn't looking. He was jealous of every guy that got to speak to her, because it was evident that he was the only one she was afraid of.

Sylar watched as the kid fumbled with his limbs and stood in front of Emma. His fists clenched as Nick directed the boy to grab ahold of Emma's head. Even Greg reacted with a resolute step forward when Emma instinctively moved back.

It was all wrong, years of experience and being on set told Sylar and Greg that Nick was dicking around, just to see how far he could push his obedient assistant.

And that was exactly what Nick was doing. Only he wasn't just pushing Emma anymore. He was highly aware of Greg and Sylar standing behind him. Those two were fiercely protective of his little Assistant Editor, but it was Sylar who he needed to be careful of. Anyone could see his little obsession with Emma was more than just sex. No matter what Sylar insisted, Nick knew better. People didn't flip angrily back and forth over sexual rejection -- they stayed angry over emotional abandonment.

Nick stilled as Martin started thrusting his hips more than necessary. He frowned, he didn't call for that.

For a second he felt bad for Emma. Felt regretful for the stupid, idiotic plan some actress had put in his head when they were fucking. Emma's virginity would be worth a fortune on camera, and Sylar had just the skills to charm her into doing it. Problem was, no one anticipated how well Emma Ramsay worked on everyone's conscience. Nick felt slightly bad for all the tricks he pulled. Slightly, but the guilt all washed away when she willing obeyed him.

She could've said no. He always reminded her that she didn't have to do anything she wasn't uncomfortable with. Nick sighed as he watched her, wondering if she knew how unnecessarily far Martin was pushing her. Emma Ramsay was one of the best assistants he had in a long while. She worked diligently without judgment. Female actresses loved her. Even though Emma never said anything, the actresses had told him the presence of his new assistant changed everything. Apparently he hired too many men.

So the fact that she was willingly on her knees, as naked as she would ever be, wasn't his fault, was it?

Nick chewed the inside of his cheek as the lighting man gave a thumbs up. He turned around quickly to reveal that he knew Sylar and Greg were behind him all along, but crashed right into Sylar's broad chest. His leading man looked very unhappy.

"You're early, Sylar," Nick chirped, purposely ignoring Sylar's obvious mood.

Sylar's gaze was still focused on the little Assistant Editor.

"That supposed to be my body double or something?" Sylar said with disgust. His voice was loud enough for Martin and Emma to hear. "Am I that scrawny, Nick? Couldn't use someone at least five pounds bigger? The light's going to be all wrong, isn't it?"

Nick shrugged. "Not really, but since you're here, do you want to be your own stand-in?"

Sylar narrowed his eyes. Obviously being his own stand-in wasn't something a popular porn star like him had to do anymore, suggesting it to any other equally famous porn star would've caused them to throw a fit. But Nick was giving him a chance to be close to Emma... Sylar studied his director for a long moment.

Greg laughed and tried to ease the tension. "Come on and let Sylar expose himself to the cold air?"

It was Sylar's way out. All he had to do was agree, and Greg was pleading for him to take the bait. But for Sylar, seeing Emma there gave him tunnel vision. He was just wanted be near her, feel her breath on his skin and lock the memory away for later on tonight.

"I can do it," he said smoothly and started to strip. The chill hit his skin and immediately brought goosebumps forth. How did Emma live through last night?

Sylar avoided everyone's gaze as he sauntered over to the picnic mat. He focused on the top of Emma's head. She wasn't looking at him, her head lowered in a gesture that Sylar would only interpret as submission. Unless she looked up, she would never know he was wearing briefs -- not that it mattered, his hard-on was tenting the cloth so badly. Depending on how long they stood there, she would be able to see the pre-cum dampening through his underwear.

"Are you okay?" he said under his breath, knowing she could hear him.

Emma nodded.

"You should look up at me. That's how the scene goes."

He swore she was shaking her head, but then he realized that she was trembling. Cold, he hoped, and not fear. Although he wished it were colder, anything to calm his raging erection. His dick seemed to have a mind of its own, slowly raising itself higher and higher until Sylar knew he had to adjust himself.

Then her head moved up.

God this was not her job. Getting him hard was not her job.

And yet she was a brilliant replacement.

When he saw the tip of her nose, Sylar realized that his bulge would be poking her in the face. Without thinking, he quickly pushed her head down. "Sorry," he muttered as he used his free hand to adjust himself. As soon as he realized his hand, her head shot up and Emma was glaring at him furiously with dark eyes.

"What?" he hissed.

The anger he thought she carried was quickly replaced with anxiety. Her big eyes watered as she shook her head. He knew he lost her when she looked to the side. Sylar decided not to say another word. It seemed like whatever he did just gave her ammunition to hate him. He didn't want that.

Oh fuck, he thought as his neck began to hurt from looking down for so long.

He wanted her to smile for him. To want him as much as he wanted her. But after so many years of sexual transparency with all his other fuck buddies, Sylar realized that he had forgotten how to flirt.

"Kendall's here!"

Sylar pretended not to notice how alarmingly fast Emma moved away from him.

---

Another night in the van, Emma thought frightfully as the cold midnight air knocked violently against the window. Somewhere between sunset and completely darkness, the temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees. The shittier part was that no one offered to trade places with her. No one even seemed to remember that she was going to stay the night, all alone, in the van again.

Not even Greg.

Emma had to admit that it hurt a little when Greg pranced off for happy hour at the bar. Everyone had gotten so hot and bothered by Sylar and Kendall's performance that Nick offered a round of drinks on him. Of course, he extended the invitation to her, but considering how she would have to walk back to the van all by herself, Emma politely declined. Now she wished she had at least gone for a few shots. At least she'd feel warmer with alcohol in her veins.

Wrapping her raggedy towel around her shoulders, Emma curled up into the fetal position. There was too much noise in the woods tonight. And the worst part was that her phone died as soon as everyone left. She held the thin metal device in her hands, wanting to will it to life so that Adam could call her. Would he be worried?

Or would he just dismiss it and go back to watching television? If he was watching television and not at a bar...

Emma knew her mind was wandering but there wasn't any way to stop it. She clenched her eyes shut and for a moment experienced vertigo. Her entire world swirled, like those films where the camera spiraled to signal fainting or oblivion. How much she wished the feeling would go on and on until she fell asleep. But it didn't. It stopped as soon as something cracked in the far distance.

At first it just sounded like a branch falling to the ground, but then it became a series of snaps. Louder and louder. Closer. The wind was positively howling now. Or maybe it was the blood rushing through her ears. Emma didn't know which cliché to believe. She put her head in her hands and hoped, by some stupid chance, whatever it was would think she was a pile of clothes.

Rapid knocking startled her and she ducked her head further into her towel.

The knocking clanged like a metal sheet shaken for a thunderous effect. To Emma it sounded like a raging animal wanted to shake her dead. Oh, she wished Adam was here, more than ever, she wished Adam was there to tell her everything was okay. She remembered Greg talking about bears. Bears who were interested in food, and since there was no food around, she could only assume she was their prey. That or the thousand dollar equipment, which would be just as bad if they got their paws on it.

Banging again. Louder and more insistent with a rhythm that suggested it was a highly musical bear.

"Emma, it's me."

Or not a bear at all.

And thieves wouldn't have known her name.

Emma peaked from underneath her covers. Well it definitely wasn't a bear. The shadows and silhouettes of the voice were no where to be seen. Getting on all fours, Emma crawled to the window and peaked out. Whoever it was pulled out their cellphone and used it as a flashlight.

Sylar. His eyes were small, and Emma could barely make out the bright green color of them. He swayed a bit, his cheeks flushed from drinking. Emma sat up and stared as Sylar became very still. They stared at each other, in awe and sentiment, the very same way Romeo met Juliet under the full moon.

Time stood still as Sylar took in Emma's bemused state. Her lips were parted, and her warm breath fogged up the window. He was grateful for the door in between them. It was the only thing stopping him from dragging her down towards his lips. As she pushed her hair out of her face, Sylar watched apprehension fill her eyes as the rest of her asked what he was doing here.

What was he doing here?

A question they both asked themselves.

Sylar had a faint memory of what his train of thought was. After several rounds of shots and pints, the guys were smoking outdoors. At least they were trying to. It was so fucking cold that everyone put out their cigarettes and went back inside. Everyone but Sylar, who lingered and found his thoughts wandering. Wondering if the little bird was freezing without anyone to keep her warm. And then he found himself here.

He must've been drunker than he thought.

As Emma's breath continued heat up the glass, Sylar stepped up and exhaled hotly to create a wet canvas. With the tip of his finger he wrote, "Are you okay?"

He didn't really expect her to answer. She looked at him with such unreadable eyes -- no fear, no lust or hesitation -- just emptiness, to a point where he was about to turn away.

Except the sound of the door unlocking stopped him.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked, scooting back to let him in.

She noticed something thick and large thrown over his shoulder, and when he got a little too close for Emma's liking, she realized it was a blanket. He didn't say a word as he climbed into the van. The blanket dropped onto the seat, and Sylar suddenly realized it was there.

"Oh," he said surprised, "I think I brought this for you."

"You can keep it. I have my clothes."

"I'm okay," he insisted.

Before she could protest further, Sylar wrapped the blanket around her. He paused when the action brought his face inches from hers. There it was again, that scent that drove him crazy -- Irish Spring -- a smell that once reminded him of college dorms now turned him on like crazy.

He should pull away. He knew he should do everything in his power to sit as far from her as possible, but she felt so good. And she wasn't even in his arms. His hands had dropped down to her wrists, and his nose was slipped down from her hair towards the junction between her ear and neck. A sweet spot, a capsule that carried her scent so heavily, that he couldn't resist resting his chin on her shoulder.

Just for a moment, he could pretend.

She felt wonderful against him. Unmoving and still. He couldn't describe how different it was to feel her and not another woman. The fact that she didn't push him away, drag him closer or make an effort to comfort him was more than he ever wanted.

If she ever asked, he could blame it on the alcohol.

Emma couldn't breathe as Sylar's hands seemed to pin her wrists to the seat. The blanket in between them was made of microfiber. It was lush against her skin, and gradually warmed her body.

Most of the heat arguably came from Sylar.

He wasn't hugging her in a vise grip, not the way Adam did. To be honest, he wasn't really hugging or holding her at all. The way Sylar leaned against her made Emma feel as light as a cloud. How did it work like that? Unlike the many other times he had grabbed onto her, this felt pure. She didn't feel suffocated, just supportive.

With Adam, she felt like a drug. He could never stop his hand from wandering over her body. Had he done this during college, she would have gladly responded, but now, with larger worries to life than romantic notions, Emma couldn't help but prefer Sylar's calm, albeit drunken, steady hold. It gave her space to think, allowed her mind to slow down and breathe.

Then she felt sick.

This was unfair to Adam.

Adam.

Emma gently pulled her hands from Sylar's grasp. Treating him as if he were a bomb about to go off, she moved slowly. Suddenly his hands flinched and his arms bound around her entire being.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered into her neck. "I'm so sorry I practically raped you."

Not knowing what to say, Emma decided to stay quiet. Drunk men are like sleeping snakes, her aunt once told her. Don't ever bother them. Let them be and eventually they'll slither away. Although Sylar looked anything but like a snake. He really was an impressive looking man, and on some level his sexually-deviant and assuming personality was a product of the way he grew up. Emma knew she could never be completely angry with him. In many ways he was just as innocent as she.

But that didn't make him safe. Not a hundred percent. So the longer he held her, the more nervous Emma got.

"Are you afraid of me?"

One eye shot open as Emma quickly turned her head away.

"No," she lied.

He snorted and pulled away this time. "Right."

Emma frowned. Why did he even ask? Then she wondered, what would've happened if he believed her?

At the very moment, he looked vulnerable and weak, about to pass out from intoxication alone, but looks could be deceiving. And with Sylar, they would be always be deceiving.

She was still confused as Sylar turned around and opened the door. The gust of night wind brushed over her and jolted her senses. "Where are you going?" she asked, out of compassion and sincerity. "It's blistering cold right now."