(no subject)
Title: From Prague with love
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Mohinder/Bennet
Rating: PG-13, bordering on R, but not really
Spoilers: Up to 2x01
A/N: Betaed by weirdofromafar, thank you! *glomps*
So. Mohinder doesn't like flying. That is a fact. An ironic fact, at that. And it is not that he doesn't appreciate the exquisite ironies that the gods seem to delight in sending toward him, it's just that he - well, he just doesn't like flying. Period.
The fact that he has to do it a lot, and (definitely) too often, doesn't mean that, every time the plane takes off from the JFK runway, his stomach doesn't feel like jumping out of his body. Especially when most of them take off at three or four o'clock in the morning, or some other ungodly hour where he needs seven coffees to sound human enough to get past security.
He presses his forehead against the cool, trembling surface of the window, hoping it brings some comfort. He wonders if he should ask Bennet to get him a teleporter who'd get him comfy, safe and punctual to the lectures.
***
He collapses in a lonely wooden chair in the corner of Kafka's Café after the lecture.
Prague is cold this time of year.
No, Prague is freezing this time of year.
He shivers over something called Franz Kafka coffee that doesn't taste like coffee at all; the coffee he likes, anyway. Black, over-caffeinated, and definitely unhealthy. He swallows it all in a gulp, grimacing at the taste of whipped cream and peppermint that contaminate the liquid.
He wonders why he continues doing these things, going to all those lectures and playing 007, when it obviously isn't working.
When his mobile starts ringing, he asks for another Franz Kafka coffee and ignores it.
***
"You didn't pick up the phone."
"It was crowded."
And it seemed like a good excuse, at the moment. He's in the middle of the Old City square, so maybe it isn't, but that is not the point.
"Anything out of the ordinary?"
"I think there were more than five people at the lecture, does that count?"
He sounds bitter. He is bitter.
"Suresh..."
"Gotta go. Getting crowded in here."
He snaps the mobile shut.
Very mature, Suresh, and he is not sure when his conscience started sounding like Bennet, but it is quite irritating.
***
Three months. Going to lectures, waiting for something - anything to happen. Worrying if he is safe, if what he - they are doing is working. If it is worth it.
He thinks about Molly, when he's away. The way if feels when he's back at home, and there are people waiting for him, like a family, but not quite. Not really. The stab of jealousy when he leaves and Matt stays. The fact that he doesn't even know if Molly would be safe if he wasn't doing this. Whatever this is, this pointless spy game.
Some people walk past him, pushing him towards the stony edges of Charles Bridge. Pointing and laughing and staring at the chromatic scale that takes over the outline of Prague. Golden, rose, blue, green, all blending together. It gives the city some sort of ethereal quality.
Like a fairy tale.
Molly would like it there.
***
The phone rings again. This time he does pick it up, shifting from his place in the bed and taking a look at his watch. He's been space-staring for three hours, Jesus. That is productive.
"Yeah?", his voice sounds muffled, and he tries to hide the yawn as he sinks again in the pillow.
"What is it?" Bennet's voice is commanding. It is always commanding, and he's learnt to trust it. He doesn't know anymore.
So Mohinder turns on his side, closes his eyes and mutters, "Nothing".
"I mean it."
"So do I." It doesn't sound half as confident out loud, when his voice feels vaguely broken and he feels like he is losing syllables on the way. Bennet doesn't seem to buy it, and Mohinder wonders when he started mastering his silences to feel like a lecture. "I'm just... It's late. I'm tired."
Which goes halfway to the truth, and that's mostly how things work between them. Taking what they need from each other, pretending that's the only thing that matters. It's a nice deal, mostly.
There's a pause, and, for a second, Mohinder feels like hanging up.
"Having second thoughts?" Bennet asks.
"No", he's surprised at how fast the answer leaves his mouth. "Not at all."
"Fine", and it's him who hangs up.
***
So, there was that one time, about three months ago. That doesn't really matter, though.
He is not exactly proud of it. Doesn't regret it either. He's just - not used to sleeping around with married men.
Or men, actually. They don't have to be included in the married department.
But he remembers calloused hands sliding down his back, and lips on his neck and teeth. He remembers it like a blur. Messy and sweaty, and painfully good. Like doing something right after so much time.
Just that once.
***
"How's Prague?"
Mohinder's the one that calls, this time. And god forbid Bennet from starting a conversation with a plain, simple Hello.
"Fucking freezing", he answers. And it's true, he had to buy a scarf. One that he knows Matt will grimace at, but that had nothing to do with it. Well, not entirely. "Listen, I was thinking... You don't happen to know any teleporters, right?"
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Mohinder/Bennet
Rating: PG-13, bordering on R, but not really
Spoilers: Up to 2x01
A/N: Betaed by weirdofromafar, thank you! *glomps*
So. Mohinder doesn't like flying. That is a fact. An ironic fact, at that. And it is not that he doesn't appreciate the exquisite ironies that the gods seem to delight in sending toward him, it's just that he - well, he just doesn't like flying. Period.
The fact that he has to do it a lot, and (definitely) too often, doesn't mean that, every time the plane takes off from the JFK runway, his stomach doesn't feel like jumping out of his body. Especially when most of them take off at three or four o'clock in the morning, or some other ungodly hour where he needs seven coffees to sound human enough to get past security.
He presses his forehead against the cool, trembling surface of the window, hoping it brings some comfort. He wonders if he should ask Bennet to get him a teleporter who'd get him comfy, safe and punctual to the lectures.
***
He collapses in a lonely wooden chair in the corner of Kafka's Café after the lecture.
Prague is cold this time of year.
No, Prague is freezing this time of year.
He shivers over something called Franz Kafka coffee that doesn't taste like coffee at all; the coffee he likes, anyway. Black, over-caffeinated, and definitely unhealthy. He swallows it all in a gulp, grimacing at the taste of whipped cream and peppermint that contaminate the liquid.
He wonders why he continues doing these things, going to all those lectures and playing 007, when it obviously isn't working.
When his mobile starts ringing, he asks for another Franz Kafka coffee and ignores it.
***
"You didn't pick up the phone."
"It was crowded."
And it seemed like a good excuse, at the moment. He's in the middle of the Old City square, so maybe it isn't, but that is not the point.
"Anything out of the ordinary?"
"I think there were more than five people at the lecture, does that count?"
He sounds bitter. He is bitter.
"Suresh..."
"Gotta go. Getting crowded in here."
He snaps the mobile shut.
Very mature, Suresh, and he is not sure when his conscience started sounding like Bennet, but it is quite irritating.
***
Three months. Going to lectures, waiting for something - anything to happen. Worrying if he is safe, if what he - they are doing is working. If it is worth it.
He thinks about Molly, when he's away. The way if feels when he's back at home, and there are people waiting for him, like a family, but not quite. Not really. The stab of jealousy when he leaves and Matt stays. The fact that he doesn't even know if Molly would be safe if he wasn't doing this. Whatever this is, this pointless spy game.
Some people walk past him, pushing him towards the stony edges of Charles Bridge. Pointing and laughing and staring at the chromatic scale that takes over the outline of Prague. Golden, rose, blue, green, all blending together. It gives the city some sort of ethereal quality.
Like a fairy tale.
Molly would like it there.
***
The phone rings again. This time he does pick it up, shifting from his place in the bed and taking a look at his watch. He's been space-staring for three hours, Jesus. That is productive.
"Yeah?", his voice sounds muffled, and he tries to hide the yawn as he sinks again in the pillow.
"What is it?" Bennet's voice is commanding. It is always commanding, and he's learnt to trust it. He doesn't know anymore.
So Mohinder turns on his side, closes his eyes and mutters, "Nothing".
"I mean it."
"So do I." It doesn't sound half as confident out loud, when his voice feels vaguely broken and he feels like he is losing syllables on the way. Bennet doesn't seem to buy it, and Mohinder wonders when he started mastering his silences to feel like a lecture. "I'm just... It's late. I'm tired."
Which goes halfway to the truth, and that's mostly how things work between them. Taking what they need from each other, pretending that's the only thing that matters. It's a nice deal, mostly.
There's a pause, and, for a second, Mohinder feels like hanging up.
"Having second thoughts?" Bennet asks.
"No", he's surprised at how fast the answer leaves his mouth. "Not at all."
"Fine", and it's him who hangs up.
***
So, there was that one time, about three months ago. That doesn't really matter, though.
He is not exactly proud of it. Doesn't regret it either. He's just - not used to sleeping around with married men.
Or men, actually. They don't have to be included in the married department.
But he remembers calloused hands sliding down his back, and lips on his neck and teeth. He remembers it like a blur. Messy and sweaty, and painfully good. Like doing something right after so much time.
Just that once.
***
"How's Prague?"
Mohinder's the one that calls, this time. And god forbid Bennet from starting a conversation with a plain, simple Hello.
"Fucking freezing", he answers. And it's true, he had to buy a scarf. One that he knows Matt will grimace at, but that had nothing to do with it. Well, not entirely. "Listen, I was thinking... You don't happen to know any teleporters, right?"