fic: A Warm Welcome
Title: A Warm Welcome
Author: Furius
Rating: R
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Spoilers: through 2x09
Words: about 1600
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Mohinder is not a dangerous man.
Warning: A bit of blood and humor. AUish.
A/N: Promo inspired. Feedback appreciated.
-=-=
Mohinder is not a dangerous man.
"Welcome home, Dr. Suresh."
Mohinder walks backwards and presses himself against the wall. "You should be dead." He looks at the clock; Molly's still at school and Matt's at work for at least several more hours.
"I expected a warmer welcome," Sylar continues, standing up, "I'm very much alive."
Mohinder draws the gun from the holster at the small of his back and fires. The bullet whistles past Sylar's ear shattering the window behind him. Sylar turns away. Instinct has Mohinder lunging for the door while Sylar lunges at him. Physics has them colliding painfully, Sylar's arms against his waist. The warmth shocks him. Mohinder becomes very still beneath the other man. The gun is digging into his back and the safety's off.
There was an interminable silence.
"What do you want?" He finally asks.
"A cure," Sylar mumbles against his shirt. The stubble sticks through the cotton and tickles against skin. Mohinder has an insane urge to laugh but manages to stop himself. "What?"
"I bought you gifts," Mohinder waits, hoping that someone might have the decency of calling the police after hearing the gunshot. Sylar apparently thinks the pause means he needs more information: "They're in your room."
Is this any less insane? He has images of blood and mutilated bodies in his head, painfully anatomically accurate. And, oddly, of the laundry schedule. It would be his turn to do the laundry.
"Oh god, Sylar." He groans at the prospect.
"I like how you say that," Sylar still hasn't let him go, "But I found a very odd thing in your room, Mo-hin-der," He drags out the syllables of the name like something to be savored. Mohinder feels like he's in the grasps of a boa constrictor, an incredibly warm one, but still, when Sylar wounds his arms tighter around his waist, it almost hurts. "Another -"
"You are hurting me," Mohinder points out, "Ineffectively." He hopes. God knows what Sylar could've picked up in his long time away. This close, he could smell him. He frowns, Sylar smells like his soap.
"You still haven't seen your gifts. Also, I want a needle, a clean one."
"And I want you off of me," Mohinder snaps, "And gone. Dead, preferably but I'm sure I can arrange another spinal tap if you like, as a parting gift. I still have the tuning fork if you are here to be nostalgic."
Sylar props himself on his elbows, his mouth parting as if to speak, but Mohinder takes the opportunity slips his hands out, and in a move that he definitely did not learn as self defense slips out of Sylar's grasp, reverses their position, and holds a gun to his forehead.
As usual, Sylar is stoically facing down the barrel.
"I didn't expect you would be alone," Sylar begins, "But I," he's biting lower lip. It's incredibly Zane-like, but he is Sylar, perverse and psychopathic and Mohinder of yesterday would've been certain that he's going to pull the trigger. But the Mohinder of yesterday is gone and there are tears in Sylar's eyes again, then a hand lightly touching his throat, stroking where the pulse is, as if this is once upon a time…a fairytale not even of worthy of Molly, who's nine and already reading The Hobbit.
Then Mohinder is feeling perverse, too. He clears his throat and names Bennet. Parkman. Elle. There, Sylar has the gall to look wounded. The expression bears a remarkable resemblance to Elle's. Mohinder sighs- he's rapidly gaining a highly specialized knowledge on psychopaths.
Who knew all that time trying to evade Elle's touches and reading up on why could come in so handy.
And so, he is just perverse and determinedly confused (because he has to be in order to do this) to lean down and kiss Sylar, who is, suddenly, desperately kissing back.
Oh.
Mohinder puts the safety back on.
-=-=
He's pushing moving slowly, steadily and Sylar is relaxed, almost pliant beneath him.
"I've missed this," Sylar says, looking at him with terribly dark eyes.
"You've never had this," Mohinder says, and thrusts forward more forcefully. Sylar gasps, hands scrabbling at the sheets, not touching him. Mohinder makes a note to figure out whether this passiveness is usual, or just for him.
"You're a bit fast."
Mohinder isn't sure if that's suppose to be a comment on his movement or his character, so he ignores it. Then he slides one of his hand across the back of one thigh, fingers light upon the skin and brings up to wrap around Sylar's erection. Sylar's eyes fall close and there is a sound strangely like a whimper.
Mohinder feels rather smug. Half of their clothes are still on and the gun's still very close, but Sylar's apparently forgotten about both the blood (except the bit he lapped from the cut on Mohinder's lip) and that Mohinder knows he doesn't have any power from the moment he said hello. No mention of any gifts, either, thank goodness. It is probably a lie anyways, Sylar lies- that is a constant in the psychopathic world.
Mohinder takes in the view objectively; his body's appear to be following its instinct, if not out of evolutionary imperative, at least from the pleasure principle, quite well by itself. Four months in god knows where, Sylar's gotten quite lean and tan and there is a strength in his long muscles that Mohinder's sure he'll regret liking in a moment. Wherever he was, there must've been sun and exercise involved. Reluctantly experienced, likely enough, for a man who used to be Gabriel Gray.
Mohinder slips his hand under the shirt (new) and touches Sylar's chest. There is a raised edge to a scar, he follows the path and finds that it's larger than the width of a blade, and straight as a surgical scar. He stops, remembering all Sylar's records at the company. Did he not look at the date?
There is a moan beneath him. Right, this is, after all, suppose to be something of a seduction. Mohinder speeds up his movement again until Sylar's grabbing at the sheets again. For the greater good, He repeats to himself as his eyes close. Anyways, it is almost autumn and Sylar is very warm.
-=-=
"Mohinder, the living room is a mess. What happ-" Matt is shouting outside the door.
"Matt!" Mohinder looks for the sheets then realizes that it's already arranged, quite neatly, on his lap.
Matt pokes his head into the bedroom. He's blushing. "Oh, I see, you have company."
"I do?" Mohinder asks and feels a sudden movement from the lump beside him. Denial would be a futile effort. "Yeah, I do." He answers lamely, belatedly.
Matt seems frozen, only his eyes move. They stray to the clothes strewn around the room. Mohinder follows the gaze and sees the remnants of what are unmistakably men's clothes, and, oddly, a brass button that looks like belongs to his pants, which would've been in the living room. It sits accusingly bright against the dark floor.
"Look, I can explain," Mohinder explains, explaining inside his mind, but Parkman appears to have gained so much control over his telepathy that he can stop himself from reading Mohinder's mind. Any other time, the privacy would've been appreciated but perhaps he should feel lucky that Matt does not seem….what, disapproving? He's not his father. But then, his father would have never approved of this anyways. It doesn't even have to be his murderer.
"Why don't I pick Molly up today? Then we'll go see that Bee movie she's been talking about, then dinner, " Matt has withdrawn, "We'll be back, say, eight? Would that be all right?" Would you be finished, asks the telepath to his mind, six hours is a generous window.
"Yeah.." Mohinder says weakly. The warm muzzle of the gun is, disconcertingly, making slow circles on his thigh and moving higher. "Have fun," He finishes.
Then Matt's gone. Sylar and Mohinder again, apparently. The gun, thankfully, has disappeared. Now there's a hand stroking him.
"You know, it's funny, I really…" Matt's voice again.
"What?" Mohinder's is a bit breathless, the word comes out rushed. At this point, he's not quite sure if he wants help or not. He remembers that there was a needle at some point, but Sylar had looked at him blissfully then, nodding when Mohinder said that he'll need a blood sample. It is a miracle neither of them was injured.
"Nevermind. Have a good time. An..uh.." Matt's voice is tiny against the roar in his ears, the statement's unfinished and Mohinder's beyond thought.
"Have I met him before?" Sylar asks, a bit breathless himself.
"No, he's not important," Mohinder replies, "Why don't you get out of under that sheet and come up here?" So I can feed you a bit of my blood later and take some of yours now, the thought comes unbidden. Mohinder squashes it, feeling a bit like a vampire.
When Sylar is finally asleep beside him, around him, actually, Mohinder twists opens the second bedside drawer. He sighs at the sight of the vial of blood he drew. It'll be put under the microscope, later, just in case it turns out that Sylar can fight off odd strains of the Chanti virus. He's certainly not sick from it.
In the meanwhile, he turns the electronic bug back on.
Elle would like him and Bob will probably agree this time if she wants Sylar as a toy. She will have to share though.
Mohinder is not a dangerous man. He's just careful and curious, like any good scientist who keeps company with the insane.
-=--
Author: Furius
Rating: R
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Spoilers: through 2x09
Words: about 1600
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Mohinder is not a dangerous man.
Warning: A bit of blood and humor. AUish.
A/N: Promo inspired. Feedback appreciated.
-=-=
Mohinder is not a dangerous man.
"Welcome home, Dr. Suresh."
Mohinder walks backwards and presses himself against the wall. "You should be dead." He looks at the clock; Molly's still at school and Matt's at work for at least several more hours.
"I expected a warmer welcome," Sylar continues, standing up, "I'm very much alive."
Mohinder draws the gun from the holster at the small of his back and fires. The bullet whistles past Sylar's ear shattering the window behind him. Sylar turns away. Instinct has Mohinder lunging for the door while Sylar lunges at him. Physics has them colliding painfully, Sylar's arms against his waist. The warmth shocks him. Mohinder becomes very still beneath the other man. The gun is digging into his back and the safety's off.
There was an interminable silence.
"What do you want?" He finally asks.
"A cure," Sylar mumbles against his shirt. The stubble sticks through the cotton and tickles against skin. Mohinder has an insane urge to laugh but manages to stop himself. "What?"
"I bought you gifts," Mohinder waits, hoping that someone might have the decency of calling the police after hearing the gunshot. Sylar apparently thinks the pause means he needs more information: "They're in your room."
Is this any less insane? He has images of blood and mutilated bodies in his head, painfully anatomically accurate. And, oddly, of the laundry schedule. It would be his turn to do the laundry.
"Oh god, Sylar." He groans at the prospect.
"I like how you say that," Sylar still hasn't let him go, "But I found a very odd thing in your room, Mo-hin-der," He drags out the syllables of the name like something to be savored. Mohinder feels like he's in the grasps of a boa constrictor, an incredibly warm one, but still, when Sylar wounds his arms tighter around his waist, it almost hurts. "Another -"
"You are hurting me," Mohinder points out, "Ineffectively." He hopes. God knows what Sylar could've picked up in his long time away. This close, he could smell him. He frowns, Sylar smells like his soap.
"You still haven't seen your gifts. Also, I want a needle, a clean one."
"And I want you off of me," Mohinder snaps, "And gone. Dead, preferably but I'm sure I can arrange another spinal tap if you like, as a parting gift. I still have the tuning fork if you are here to be nostalgic."
Sylar props himself on his elbows, his mouth parting as if to speak, but Mohinder takes the opportunity slips his hands out, and in a move that he definitely did not learn as self defense slips out of Sylar's grasp, reverses their position, and holds a gun to his forehead.
As usual, Sylar is stoically facing down the barrel.
"I didn't expect you would be alone," Sylar begins, "But I," he's biting lower lip. It's incredibly Zane-like, but he is Sylar, perverse and psychopathic and Mohinder of yesterday would've been certain that he's going to pull the trigger. But the Mohinder of yesterday is gone and there are tears in Sylar's eyes again, then a hand lightly touching his throat, stroking where the pulse is, as if this is once upon a time…a fairytale not even of worthy of Molly, who's nine and already reading The Hobbit.
Then Mohinder is feeling perverse, too. He clears his throat and names Bennet. Parkman. Elle. There, Sylar has the gall to look wounded. The expression bears a remarkable resemblance to Elle's. Mohinder sighs- he's rapidly gaining a highly specialized knowledge on psychopaths.
Who knew all that time trying to evade Elle's touches and reading up on why could come in so handy.
And so, he is just perverse and determinedly confused (because he has to be in order to do this) to lean down and kiss Sylar, who is, suddenly, desperately kissing back.
Oh.
Mohinder puts the safety back on.
-=-=
He's pushing moving slowly, steadily and Sylar is relaxed, almost pliant beneath him.
"I've missed this," Sylar says, looking at him with terribly dark eyes.
"You've never had this," Mohinder says, and thrusts forward more forcefully. Sylar gasps, hands scrabbling at the sheets, not touching him. Mohinder makes a note to figure out whether this passiveness is usual, or just for him.
"You're a bit fast."
Mohinder isn't sure if that's suppose to be a comment on his movement or his character, so he ignores it. Then he slides one of his hand across the back of one thigh, fingers light upon the skin and brings up to wrap around Sylar's erection. Sylar's eyes fall close and there is a sound strangely like a whimper.
Mohinder feels rather smug. Half of their clothes are still on and the gun's still very close, but Sylar's apparently forgotten about both the blood (except the bit he lapped from the cut on Mohinder's lip) and that Mohinder knows he doesn't have any power from the moment he said hello. No mention of any gifts, either, thank goodness. It is probably a lie anyways, Sylar lies- that is a constant in the psychopathic world.
Mohinder takes in the view objectively; his body's appear to be following its instinct, if not out of evolutionary imperative, at least from the pleasure principle, quite well by itself. Four months in god knows where, Sylar's gotten quite lean and tan and there is a strength in his long muscles that Mohinder's sure he'll regret liking in a moment. Wherever he was, there must've been sun and exercise involved. Reluctantly experienced, likely enough, for a man who used to be Gabriel Gray.
Mohinder slips his hand under the shirt (new) and touches Sylar's chest. There is a raised edge to a scar, he follows the path and finds that it's larger than the width of a blade, and straight as a surgical scar. He stops, remembering all Sylar's records at the company. Did he not look at the date?
There is a moan beneath him. Right, this is, after all, suppose to be something of a seduction. Mohinder speeds up his movement again until Sylar's grabbing at the sheets again. For the greater good, He repeats to himself as his eyes close. Anyways, it is almost autumn and Sylar is very warm.
-=-=
"Mohinder, the living room is a mess. What happ-" Matt is shouting outside the door.
"Matt!" Mohinder looks for the sheets then realizes that it's already arranged, quite neatly, on his lap.
Matt pokes his head into the bedroom. He's blushing. "Oh, I see, you have company."
"I do?" Mohinder asks and feels a sudden movement from the lump beside him. Denial would be a futile effort. "Yeah, I do." He answers lamely, belatedly.
Matt seems frozen, only his eyes move. They stray to the clothes strewn around the room. Mohinder follows the gaze and sees the remnants of what are unmistakably men's clothes, and, oddly, a brass button that looks like belongs to his pants, which would've been in the living room. It sits accusingly bright against the dark floor.
"Look, I can explain," Mohinder explains, explaining inside his mind, but Parkman appears to have gained so much control over his telepathy that he can stop himself from reading Mohinder's mind. Any other time, the privacy would've been appreciated but perhaps he should feel lucky that Matt does not seem….what, disapproving? He's not his father. But then, his father would have never approved of this anyways. It doesn't even have to be his murderer.
"Why don't I pick Molly up today? Then we'll go see that Bee movie she's been talking about, then dinner, " Matt has withdrawn, "We'll be back, say, eight? Would that be all right?" Would you be finished, asks the telepath to his mind, six hours is a generous window.
"Yeah.." Mohinder says weakly. The warm muzzle of the gun is, disconcertingly, making slow circles on his thigh and moving higher. "Have fun," He finishes.
Then Matt's gone. Sylar and Mohinder again, apparently. The gun, thankfully, has disappeared. Now there's a hand stroking him.
"You know, it's funny, I really…" Matt's voice again.
"What?" Mohinder's is a bit breathless, the word comes out rushed. At this point, he's not quite sure if he wants help or not. He remembers that there was a needle at some point, but Sylar had looked at him blissfully then, nodding when Mohinder said that he'll need a blood sample. It is a miracle neither of them was injured.
"Nevermind. Have a good time. An..uh.." Matt's voice is tiny against the roar in his ears, the statement's unfinished and Mohinder's beyond thought.
"Have I met him before?" Sylar asks, a bit breathless himself.
"No, he's not important," Mohinder replies, "Why don't you get out of under that sheet and come up here?" So I can feed you a bit of my blood later and take some of yours now, the thought comes unbidden. Mohinder squashes it, feeling a bit like a vampire.
When Sylar is finally asleep beside him, around him, actually, Mohinder twists opens the second bedside drawer. He sighs at the sight of the vial of blood he drew. It'll be put under the microscope, later, just in case it turns out that Sylar can fight off odd strains of the Chanti virus. He's certainly not sick from it.
In the meanwhile, he turns the electronic bug back on.
Elle would like him and Bob will probably agree this time if she wants Sylar as a toy. She will have to share though.
Mohinder is not a dangerous man. He's just careful and curious, like any good scientist who keeps company with the insane.
-=--