(no subject)
Quick and fluffy. Because somebody has to write them. Even if it is me.
Title: What time we have
Author: eonism
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to NBC. I'm just having a laugh at their expense
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Mohinder
Word Count: 525
Author's notes: Post-season two. By the power of the imagination.
Summary: We’ll just have to make do with whatever time we do have.
“I think you’re going blind in your old age.”
The feel of unused black plastic was cool between his fingers when Peter picked up the earpiece. By the meager slice of orange lamplight that had fallen to the bedroom floor where he’d been lying on his back, he held up the eyeglasses in casual examination, watching the way the room bulged cartoonishly through the curve of the slender lenses. He knew better than to put them on, familiar with the sick and dizzy feeling he got when he tried to wear them, but when he heard Mohinder’s incredulous scoff Peter still smirked, content with the reaction.
“33 is hardly old age,” Mohinder retorted, snatching the glasses back from Peter en route from the desk to the bed across the room. Sitting down he leveled him a sharply paternal look and slid them on, thumbing emphatically through the contents of the file-folder in hand to stress his point.
“It is when you’re still clinging to 28.”
If Mohinder had smiled, it was hidden behind the lab reports he was examining with feigned interest. “And if you’re going to lay about my apartment, at least do it on the bed,” he warned affectedly, “I don’t want Molly to come in and think I’ve struck you or something.”
A snort. “You’re such a mom,” Peter teased, and gathered himself up to flop unceremoniously beside Mohinder on the bed. “And what’re you so worried about?” Propping himself on an elbow he plucked the folder out of the scientist’s reach, angling his head with lowered eyes and an amused quirk of mouth. “I think the glasses are hot.”
“As you should.” The folder forgotten Mohinder leaned forward to kiss Peter. A hand on his hip, above the waist of his jeans and beneath his shirt, small nipping kisses leaving Peter to sigh contentedly into his mouth. “Not all of us have the good fortune of regenerating cells…”
Breaking the kiss something crossed Peter’s eyes beneath lowered lashes, and rolling over onto his back he looked to the wall across the room. At that Mohinder swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and looked to the hand now sitting uselessly on the mattress between them.
“You still don’t know for sure, do you?” he asked, cautious. “If you’re…like them. Like Adam.”
“I dunno.” Sigh. “Either I'll live forever or I won't. And even if Adam knew he’s gone now.”
“And if he wasn’t, it wouldn’t change anything.” Mohinder held a breath. “Would it?”
“I can’t deal with that.” Peter looked up at him, shadow making the line of his brow look unnaturally older than it was. “Watching everybody else around me die one by one, for the rest of my life…I can’t do that.”
“But you’re alive.” Stretching out to lay beside him Mohinder put a hand to Peter’s chest, skin warm through the fabric of his shirt. Paler fingers laced around his automatically, fitting easily into the spaces between the digits. “And for the time being so am I - so we’ll just have to make do with whatever time we do have.”
For that Peter smiled, however small in the margins of lamplight.
Title: What time we have
Author: eonism
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to NBC. I'm just having a laugh at their expense
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Mohinder
Word Count: 525
Author's notes: Post-season two. By the power of the imagination.
Summary: We’ll just have to make do with whatever time we do have.
“I think you’re going blind in your old age.”
The feel of unused black plastic was cool between his fingers when Peter picked up the earpiece. By the meager slice of orange lamplight that had fallen to the bedroom floor where he’d been lying on his back, he held up the eyeglasses in casual examination, watching the way the room bulged cartoonishly through the curve of the slender lenses. He knew better than to put them on, familiar with the sick and dizzy feeling he got when he tried to wear them, but when he heard Mohinder’s incredulous scoff Peter still smirked, content with the reaction.
“33 is hardly old age,” Mohinder retorted, snatching the glasses back from Peter en route from the desk to the bed across the room. Sitting down he leveled him a sharply paternal look and slid them on, thumbing emphatically through the contents of the file-folder in hand to stress his point.
“It is when you’re still clinging to 28.”
If Mohinder had smiled, it was hidden behind the lab reports he was examining with feigned interest. “And if you’re going to lay about my apartment, at least do it on the bed,” he warned affectedly, “I don’t want Molly to come in and think I’ve struck you or something.”
A snort. “You’re such a mom,” Peter teased, and gathered himself up to flop unceremoniously beside Mohinder on the bed. “And what’re you so worried about?” Propping himself on an elbow he plucked the folder out of the scientist’s reach, angling his head with lowered eyes and an amused quirk of mouth. “I think the glasses are hot.”
“As you should.” The folder forgotten Mohinder leaned forward to kiss Peter. A hand on his hip, above the waist of his jeans and beneath his shirt, small nipping kisses leaving Peter to sigh contentedly into his mouth. “Not all of us have the good fortune of regenerating cells…”
Breaking the kiss something crossed Peter’s eyes beneath lowered lashes, and rolling over onto his back he looked to the wall across the room. At that Mohinder swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and looked to the hand now sitting uselessly on the mattress between them.
“You still don’t know for sure, do you?” he asked, cautious. “If you’re…like them. Like Adam.”
“I dunno.” Sigh. “Either I'll live forever or I won't. And even if Adam knew he’s gone now.”
“And if he wasn’t, it wouldn’t change anything.” Mohinder held a breath. “Would it?”
“I can’t deal with that.” Peter looked up at him, shadow making the line of his brow look unnaturally older than it was. “Watching everybody else around me die one by one, for the rest of my life…I can’t do that.”
“But you’re alive.” Stretching out to lay beside him Mohinder put a hand to Peter’s chest, skin warm through the fabric of his shirt. Paler fingers laced around his automatically, fitting easily into the spaces between the digits. “And for the time being so am I - so we’ll just have to make do with whatever time we do have.”
For that Peter smiled, however small in the margins of lamplight.