Fic: The Game (Mohinder/Sylar, PG-13)
Title: The Game
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Mohinder/Sylar
Words: 1375
Warnings: Mild slash. A bit of swearing. Sylar being creepy as usual.
Spoilers: Through the end of season 2.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not writing this for profit.
A/N: This was written for the table I claimed at
un_love_you , prompt #08: "I'm cruel". We all know how much Sylar enjoys emotional torture, so I had no choice but to make this one all about him.
X-posted at
un_love_you and
mylar_fic
Summary: You have to find something to amuse yourself with while you're waiting to destroy your enemies - and a panicked geneticist can be pretty amusing.
“Peter just needs a couple of minutes. Then we can move out.”
Sylar lounges back in the one chair in the storeroom and watches a screw sticking out of the wall.
“Did you hear me?”
Sylar lolls his head back and rolls his eyes up to stare sarcastically at Mohinder, who has enough presence of mind to look embarrassed by the question. Mohinder turns to Patrick and asks him to head up to the top of the stairs to keep watch, and Patrick scurries to obey, flinching as he passes Sylar.
Patrick. The little nebbish they’ve been saddled with. Mohinder's gone to absurd lengths to keep him from learning what Patrick can do and why he's needed for this errand. As if that's going to keep him from finding out in the end. Or from taking it.
But making leading comments to try to draw his nervous mark out, while Mohinder tries to cut him off, is at least a game to distract him from boredom while he waits for the payoff. It doesn't matter whether he actually succeeds in getting information - the real entertainment is in watching Mohinder watch him. And sometimes just in watching Mohinder.
It’s almost as delicious to know that they need him for their little plan. Even with the ability to time travel, Peter can't reliably be in two places at once - Sylar had greeted that admission with a smirk that clearly showed his opinion that Peter couldn't even reliably be in one. But in exchange for using certain abilities to get them what they need, they’re going to lead him straight to the person who gave the order to have those abilities suppressed...and then stand back while he does whatever he wants. It’s an offer he really can’t refuse.
He knows it’s childish to want revenge but he doesn’t care. He suspects he’ll also be doing someone else’s dirty work, just like he suspects there’s a plan to remove him, in turn, afterwards. He’s not particularly worried about that, though. He’s dealt with these people before. He’s already got a number of rough plans for how to handle any aggression - and besides, it’s more than worth the risk in order to get closer to more people who are potentially of worth to him.
He hasn't entirely decided what he's going to do after this particular task is done, though. His fingers itch at the thought of more abilities, but he can always come back later for these small fry. There's something big behind all this - he knows it, with the same certainty that he knows that pi equals 3.1415927. They wouldn’t have come to him unless they were desperate for help to handle whoever it is. And that means it might be better to stay quiet and unthreatening, to try to work his way further into their good graces, to get closer to the jackpot.
Mohinder bends over his bag and rustles through it, looking for something. Sylar watches the other man’s movements, quick but lithe, and his mind wanders to a place it goes more and more often in the months since the two of them first crossed paths.
“What are you up to?”
Sylar reflexively snaps on an innocent look as he glances up, even though he knows it’s no use.
“I know that expression. I don’t know what you’re planning, but you can forget about it right now.”
Mohinder walks closer with anger stamped across his face. It’s boredom that makes Sylar stand and say impertinently, “What expression?”
“The look that says you’re already imagining what someone’s head would look like, split open in front of you.” Mohinder moves closer, clearly hoping to look threatening. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m not.” He reflects on the fact that the enjoyment of Mohinder’s reaction if he told the truth might be worth blowing his plans to hell.
“Don’t try this with me. I know you.” Mohinder literally gets in his face, to the point that cold brown eyes are all he can see, and suddenly all he can think about. “What do you think you’re up to?”
It’s as if his hand moves of its own accord, clutching Mohinder’s hair and jerking his head backwards. Mohinder grabs Sylar’s arms reflexively, trying to keep his balance, and stares at him open-mouthed.
It’s so easy.
Mohinder’s mouth is cool from breathing in the cellar air. Sylar closes his eyes as he kisses him deeply. He waits for a reaction, an attempt to bite his tongue off, something. Mohinder’s hands grip him more tightly, and for just a second, he can imagine...
Then Mohinder shoves against him. He keeps his fist tight around Mohinder’s hair and uses just enough telekinesis to keep him from backing away. He can actually feel Mohinder’s pulse speeding up as he struggles. It’s from terror, not from desire, but it’ll do. For now.
“Dr. Suresh! I need you!” An urgent voice drifts down the stairs.
Sylar lifts his head regretfully. If they had to be interrupted, couldn’t it have been in person? The thought of Mohinder’s reaction to being caught like this makes him smile.
Mohinder looks shell-shocked as he shakily calls out, “We’re coming.”
Sylar smiles even more broadly. “Now there’s a thought,” he whispers. Eyes half-closed, he rubs his lips lightly across the shorter man’s, from side to side. “You know, there were a couple of other things I was thinking about doing, Mohinder.” He draws the syllables of the name out as it trickles over his tongue. “Would you like me to tell you about them?”
This time, when Mohinder tries to get away, he releases the curls and doesn’t stop him. Mohinder’s expression clearly says that he realizes he only freed himself because Sylar allowed it. Sylar savors it.
“Don’t ever, ever, fucking do that to me again.” Still trying to put up a fight, despite everything.
“All right,” Sylar says. “I won’t do that to you again.” And Mohinder catches the slight emphasis he puts on that, but it’s all right, Sylar wanted him to. Let him worry, if he’s going to be watching closely anyway. Mohinder grabs his bag, movements jerky with adrenaline, and Sylar lets him get onto the first step before stopping him.
“You didn’t say you didn’t like it.”
Mohinder glares over his shoulder. “I think that was implied by my reaction.”
Sylar listens to Mohinder’s footsteps heading up and smiles as he wipes his bottom lip. “You still haven’t said you didn’t like it,” he calls out as he starts after the retreating man.
Mohinder and Patrick are huddled at the top of the stairs, Mohinder muttering under his breath about how the door was supposed to be open as he fumbles in an interior pocket of his bag. Sylar takes the stairs two at a time to reach him.
“Having some trouble?” he murmurs. And because Patrick is standing on the other side of Mohinder and can’t see, he strokes the back of Mohinder’s neck with just the tip of his middle finger. Mohinder’s posture stiffens, so he does it again.
Then he reaches the other hand out and touches the door handle, and there’s the faintest of clicks as the tumblers of the lock give way.
“That’s the nice thing about having telekinesis,” he says. His tone is conversational, but his face is turned towards Mohinder’s ear, making sure every one of his words hits home. “There isn’t a door in the world that can keep me out.”
Their companion doesn’t even pay attention, as focused as he is on getting out and getting the job done, and he’s gone. Mohinder, though...Mohinder stands rigid, staring straight ahead, as if he’s trying his best to pretend that this is just a nightmare. Sylar leans into him and grasps the door handle, pulling it further open.
“Wake up, Mohinder,” he whispers. “Tell me...what are you daydreaming about?”
Mohinder turns toward Sylar just slightly, though not enough to actually look him in the face, and he realizes that this is going to be the most delightful game of all. He catches the faintest hint of a flush on Mohinder's cheek as he finally comes to himself enough to stagger through the door.
Sylar watches him go, eyes heavy-lidded, and follows in his wake.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Mohinder/Sylar
Words: 1375
Warnings: Mild slash. A bit of swearing. Sylar being creepy as usual.
Spoilers: Through the end of season 2.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not writing this for profit.
A/N: This was written for the table I claimed at
un_love_you , prompt #08: "I'm cruel". We all know how much Sylar enjoys emotional torture, so I had no choice but to make this one all about him.
X-posted at
un_love_you and
mylar_fic
Summary: You have to find something to amuse yourself with while you're waiting to destroy your enemies - and a panicked geneticist can be pretty amusing.
“Peter just needs a couple of minutes. Then we can move out.”
Sylar lounges back in the one chair in the storeroom and watches a screw sticking out of the wall.
“Did you hear me?”
Sylar lolls his head back and rolls his eyes up to stare sarcastically at Mohinder, who has enough presence of mind to look embarrassed by the question. Mohinder turns to Patrick and asks him to head up to the top of the stairs to keep watch, and Patrick scurries to obey, flinching as he passes Sylar.
Patrick. The little nebbish they’ve been saddled with. Mohinder's gone to absurd lengths to keep him from learning what Patrick can do and why he's needed for this errand. As if that's going to keep him from finding out in the end. Or from taking it.
But making leading comments to try to draw his nervous mark out, while Mohinder tries to cut him off, is at least a game to distract him from boredom while he waits for the payoff. It doesn't matter whether he actually succeeds in getting information - the real entertainment is in watching Mohinder watch him. And sometimes just in watching Mohinder.
It’s almost as delicious to know that they need him for their little plan. Even with the ability to time travel, Peter can't reliably be in two places at once - Sylar had greeted that admission with a smirk that clearly showed his opinion that Peter couldn't even reliably be in one. But in exchange for using certain abilities to get them what they need, they’re going to lead him straight to the person who gave the order to have those abilities suppressed...and then stand back while he does whatever he wants. It’s an offer he really can’t refuse.
He knows it’s childish to want revenge but he doesn’t care. He suspects he’ll also be doing someone else’s dirty work, just like he suspects there’s a plan to remove him, in turn, afterwards. He’s not particularly worried about that, though. He’s dealt with these people before. He’s already got a number of rough plans for how to handle any aggression - and besides, it’s more than worth the risk in order to get closer to more people who are potentially of worth to him.
He hasn't entirely decided what he's going to do after this particular task is done, though. His fingers itch at the thought of more abilities, but he can always come back later for these small fry. There's something big behind all this - he knows it, with the same certainty that he knows that pi equals 3.1415927. They wouldn’t have come to him unless they were desperate for help to handle whoever it is. And that means it might be better to stay quiet and unthreatening, to try to work his way further into their good graces, to get closer to the jackpot.
Mohinder bends over his bag and rustles through it, looking for something. Sylar watches the other man’s movements, quick but lithe, and his mind wanders to a place it goes more and more often in the months since the two of them first crossed paths.
“What are you up to?”
Sylar reflexively snaps on an innocent look as he glances up, even though he knows it’s no use.
“I know that expression. I don’t know what you’re planning, but you can forget about it right now.”
Mohinder walks closer with anger stamped across his face. It’s boredom that makes Sylar stand and say impertinently, “What expression?”
“The look that says you’re already imagining what someone’s head would look like, split open in front of you.” Mohinder moves closer, clearly hoping to look threatening. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m not.” He reflects on the fact that the enjoyment of Mohinder’s reaction if he told the truth might be worth blowing his plans to hell.
“Don’t try this with me. I know you.” Mohinder literally gets in his face, to the point that cold brown eyes are all he can see, and suddenly all he can think about. “What do you think you’re up to?”
It’s as if his hand moves of its own accord, clutching Mohinder’s hair and jerking his head backwards. Mohinder grabs Sylar’s arms reflexively, trying to keep his balance, and stares at him open-mouthed.
It’s so easy.
Mohinder’s mouth is cool from breathing in the cellar air. Sylar closes his eyes as he kisses him deeply. He waits for a reaction, an attempt to bite his tongue off, something. Mohinder’s hands grip him more tightly, and for just a second, he can imagine...
Then Mohinder shoves against him. He keeps his fist tight around Mohinder’s hair and uses just enough telekinesis to keep him from backing away. He can actually feel Mohinder’s pulse speeding up as he struggles. It’s from terror, not from desire, but it’ll do. For now.
“Dr. Suresh! I need you!” An urgent voice drifts down the stairs.
Sylar lifts his head regretfully. If they had to be interrupted, couldn’t it have been in person? The thought of Mohinder’s reaction to being caught like this makes him smile.
Mohinder looks shell-shocked as he shakily calls out, “We’re coming.”
Sylar smiles even more broadly. “Now there’s a thought,” he whispers. Eyes half-closed, he rubs his lips lightly across the shorter man’s, from side to side. “You know, there were a couple of other things I was thinking about doing, Mohinder.” He draws the syllables of the name out as it trickles over his tongue. “Would you like me to tell you about them?”
This time, when Mohinder tries to get away, he releases the curls and doesn’t stop him. Mohinder’s expression clearly says that he realizes he only freed himself because Sylar allowed it. Sylar savors it.
“Don’t ever, ever, fucking do that to me again.” Still trying to put up a fight, despite everything.
“All right,” Sylar says. “I won’t do that to you again.” And Mohinder catches the slight emphasis he puts on that, but it’s all right, Sylar wanted him to. Let him worry, if he’s going to be watching closely anyway. Mohinder grabs his bag, movements jerky with adrenaline, and Sylar lets him get onto the first step before stopping him.
“You didn’t say you didn’t like it.”
Mohinder glares over his shoulder. “I think that was implied by my reaction.”
Sylar listens to Mohinder’s footsteps heading up and smiles as he wipes his bottom lip. “You still haven’t said you didn’t like it,” he calls out as he starts after the retreating man.
Mohinder and Patrick are huddled at the top of the stairs, Mohinder muttering under his breath about how the door was supposed to be open as he fumbles in an interior pocket of his bag. Sylar takes the stairs two at a time to reach him.
“Having some trouble?” he murmurs. And because Patrick is standing on the other side of Mohinder and can’t see, he strokes the back of Mohinder’s neck with just the tip of his middle finger. Mohinder’s posture stiffens, so he does it again.
Then he reaches the other hand out and touches the door handle, and there’s the faintest of clicks as the tumblers of the lock give way.
“That’s the nice thing about having telekinesis,” he says. His tone is conversational, but his face is turned towards Mohinder’s ear, making sure every one of his words hits home. “There isn’t a door in the world that can keep me out.”
Their companion doesn’t even pay attention, as focused as he is on getting out and getting the job done, and he’s gone. Mohinder, though...Mohinder stands rigid, staring straight ahead, as if he’s trying his best to pretend that this is just a nightmare. Sylar leans into him and grasps the door handle, pulling it further open.
“Wake up, Mohinder,” he whispers. “Tell me...what are you daydreaming about?”
Mohinder turns toward Sylar just slightly, though not enough to actually look him in the face, and he realizes that this is going to be the most delightful game of all. He catches the faintest hint of a flush on Mohinder's cheek as he finally comes to himself enough to stagger through the door.
Sylar watches him go, eyes heavy-lidded, and follows in his wake.