something I never finished which amuses me greatly
Wicket tongue, it said, at the very bottom of the last hand-written page of the loose-leaf papers, all tucked neatly into the manila envelope Bob held in his hand. The words were tilted at a 45-degree angle against the pale blue lines, scribbled hastily with a black ball-point that had left messy blots around the "W" and "g".
How very unlike Thompson, Bob thought, tilting his head. He turned the envelope over in his hand and checked the identifying initials on the back: PT, it read, in large blocky letters. So this was Thompson's fine on Doctor Mohinder Suresh, Bob thought, and tilted his head to the other side with a frown. Thompson as Bob knew him had always been meticulous: his immobile poker face, tailored suits, and polished nails perfectly exemplified what kind of man he was on the inside, namely a man of calm determination who left little to chance and nothing to haste. Bob briefly wondered what might have had Thompson in such a hurry or furor, but then tucked the papers back into the envelope and thought little of it.
Until the day Dr. Suresh stood in front of him. The good doctor -- or Mohinder, as Bob soon came to call him, although it made the doctor's eye twitch -- had quite a mouth on him, not in the sense that he would utter those expletives that he had to daily scold Elle for, but the sarcastic retorts Mohinder didn't even attempt to censor.
(something about Bob assuming that's what Thompson meant by "wicked tongue")
(but then one day Mohinder leans in to lick Bob's bald spot)
"Oh god," Bob said. He didn't squeal, or at least he didn't hope he had squealed. Mohinder chuckled above him, sending hot breath down Bob's temple. Bob clutched the arms of his chair, digging nails into leather, and closed his eyes. "Wicked tongue," he muttered, realization finally hitting him.
Mohinder chuckled again. "So you knew Thompson, I gather?"
Bob nodded. It was a frantic movement that shook his hole body and threatened to throw his glasses off the tip of his nose. Mohinder's fingers pushed them up again and Bob snapped his eyes open at the touch; not that he could see much anyway, because the tip of Mohinder's tongue followed a trail from the tip of his nose to the bridge, breathing hot air and fogging up Bob's vision.
"Do you want to know what else I can do with it?" Mohinder asked, lapping right between Bob's furrowed brows.
Bob heard himself mew. A high-pitched, shaky, honest-to-god mew.
Mohinder laughed. "I'll take that as a yes."
And Bob didn't mind that at all.