Various comment ficlets
Several ficlets written for the Comment Porn/Fic day.
Sawyer/Kevin for gottalovev
Sawyer slammed him against the wall, his hands wrapped in the front of Kevin's jacket to stop him from getting away - though, if he'd taken the time to notice, he might've seen that the cop didn't actually seem to be in that much of a hurry to get on with his busy schedule, not when Sawyer was this close, not when he had that bright spark of jealousy in his eyes, not when his body burned with the primal energy that sent Kevin's head into a tailspin.
"Good evening to you too," he said, with a grin that only seemed to make Sawyer angrier, if the frustrated growl was anything to judge by. "Any particular reason you're intent on giving me bruises today? Only I gotta-"
"You're seeing her again," Sawyer grumbled, unable to quite meet Kevin's eyes. He stared at his cheekbone instead, glaring at it as if it was the precise cause of all his troubles. "Kate, you're seeing her again."
"'course I'm seeing her." Kevin frowned. "She was having dinner here last week, Sawyer - it'd be pretty damn hard for me not to see her when you're wining and dining her right under my nose. Should I keep my eyes closed when she's visitin' in future? Might help you keep these wall-slamming tendencies of yours under control."
"You saw her without me," Sawyer clarified. His entire body was tense, almost shaking with tension. "I saw her leaving. You didn't even tell me. What am I supposed to think?"
Yet Kevin's hands had reached for his hips to drive him closer, even though he was supposed to head out to the station soon. Working nightshifts really drove him mad. "She left her jacket," he said, unable to keep the amused twinkle from his eyes. Sharing an ex-girlfriend - ex-wife in his case - was a mighty odd thing to be sure, but most of the time they seemed able to make it worse regardless of those old issues. "Had to come 'round and get it while the kid was at school."
Sawyer's eyebrows raised: a few months spent with Kate left you seeing lies everywhere. Kevin could get that. "Is that so?" Sawyer asked sceptically.
"That's so," Kevin confirmed. "No wild monkey sex here, I swear. Not with me and her, in any case." He raised his eyebrows suggestively, still not quite able to believe that this was the relationship he ended up in - but when Sawyer gave a grunt of consent and pressed him harder back against the wall, he couldn't say that he minded it too much.
Kate/Claire for lenina20
Claire's blonde head lies sleeping on her lap, stirring from time to time but never waking. Pins and needles have started to spread through her joints; Kate knows it will be painful when she tries to stand up, and that Claire will laugh at her and hide it behind her hand as she has to hobble, but she doesn't shift to make herself more comfortable. She wouldn't disturb Claire's rest for the world, and it'll be nice to see her smiling for once. It's been too long since that sunshine face lit up.
Her hand slowly slides through the silky depths of Claire's hair, carefully battling with the tangles that island life has produced. Claire grumbles and shifts against her, fighting with dreams that keep haunting her, with ghosts that won't die.
"It's alright," Kate whispers. She wishes she knew the right words to say, the right things to do, but she's not Charlie and she can't bring him back - so there's no way for her to help other than simply being here. "You're alright, Claire. I promise."
One day, the grief will lessen and sleep will come easier.
Until that day, Kate will be here - to soothe her, watch over her, and always keep her safe.
Charlie/Desmond/Sawyer for thespiansparkle
"Guys!" Charlie protested, flapping his hands at them. "Guys, seriously! You're kind of… squishing me. A little. A lot." When neither Sawyer or Desmond showed much of a sign of wanting to relent, he resorted to wriggling until it was possible for him to break free.
"You just died, Charlie," Desmond said, reaching out to hold onto him again. "I think we've got a license to be a little clingy."
"I didn't die for long," Charlie complained, but he allowed himself to be pulled back into a strong-armed embrace. Sawyer hung back, watching the pair of them from the outside, but it wasn't long before Charlie reached out for him too. "So it doesn't really count."
"You drowned," Sawyer said. "You weren't breathing and we had to get the doc to pull out his CPR training. I'd say that damn well counts to me."
Charlie should have protested more - because, well, he didn't want to think too much about how he'd faced death today, yet again - but there were hands creeping under his shirt and lips by his ear. Arguing at this point would have been counter-productive, so he rested his head against Desmond's shoulder and allowed Sawyer to make headway with stripping them gradually of their clothes.
After all, Charlie reminded himself as he relaxed into experienced hands, if he had almost died today… He definitely deserved a little bit of comfort.
Peter/Jack for crowgirl13
The food from the hospital's cafeteria takes 'bland' and 'gross' and pushes it to an extra level, Peter thinks as he looks down at his plate, prodding at the food with a fork. It's unlikely that it's going to kill him, not with Claire's healing ability lodged deep inside him - Adam's too, he reminds himself, but he'd rather not think about him right now - but that doesn't mean he wants to subject himself to it.
"It's not as bad as it looks," a voice says behind him. When he glances around, he sees a man in scrubs holding a tray of dubious-looking food of his own. "I swear."
"Yeah?" Peter says. "'cause to me it looks a little poisonous."
"If the cooks hear you saying that, tomorrow it just might be." The doctor smiles and indicates to the seat opposite Peter. "Do you mind if I sit down?"
And it's not like Peter's waiting for anyone, so he shrugs and waves an invitation. "I'm Peter."
"Jack," the doctor says. "I work here."
"I used to." Peter looks around. "I did one of my rotations here."
"You're a doctor?"
"A nurse," Peter corrects. "Or I used to be, anyway. I'm not… I don't know any more." It's all up in the air these days. He doesn't think he could go back to that: these abilities that invade every cell, they mean that he's more than just a nurse. He has a destiny, a purpose. "I'm just visiting. My brother, he's…"
Jack nods. "I know."
Peter frowns, but he shouldn't be surprised. Nathan was shot in front of an entire audience of viewers; it's hardly stunning that the medical personnel might just recognise the brother who's been at his bedside for weeks. He prods the food with his fork one more time and doesn't respond, because every time he thinks about what happened to Nathan he's left wanting to do something about it - he's left with his powers starting to bubble out of control and he can't let that happen. It's not what Nathan would want.
"Someone once told me," Jack says, with the quiet, rehearsed tone of someone who's been waiting for a long time to say this. Peter wonders how many days Jack has walked past him at this table and wondered whether or not to stop. "When I was feeling- When I was feeling like I wasn't able to fix anything, like life wasn't going to get better… A stranger found me, and he told me I had to 'lift it up, brother'." His voice takes on a painful imitation of a Scottish accent, but he's smiling so Peter thinks he can get away with it.
"Yeah? What does that mean?"
Jack smiles, a knowing twinkle in his eye. "Think about it," he advises - but then he's standing again, taking his tray and walking away, leaving behind a single glimmer of hope.
George/Alex for icewhisper
"I'm fine," Alex protested as George inspected the burn marks on his hand. They weren't anything serious at all, nothing more than slightly reddened skin, but George leads him over to the sink anyway. "Seriously, I'm fine."
"I really don't get how you manage to burn yourself when you're using a microwave, Alex," George complained, their hands under the freezing cold water. "I mean, honestly? You have to be really trying to get hurt with that."
"The food was hot when I took it out," Alex said. The steaming container still sits by the microwave now, seeming to smile at him maliciously when he glances at it. "It's not my fault."
"Most people would kind of guess not to grab something with their bare hands when it's, you know, bubbling and threatening to explode," George points out. He's right. Alex really hates it when he's right - but right now, he's willing to put up with it, seeing as George is carefully taking care of him with the attention to detail usually afforded to his patients and not his kind-of-sort-of-awkwardly-unofficial boyfriend.
He presses his lips to George's shoulder, to George's neck - because, really, standing this close George is pretty much asking for it - and winds his uninjured hand around George's waist to keep him from escaping. If this is the treatment he gets when he's hurt, Alex thinks he ought to start having a few more accidents around the home.
Peter/Nathan for Babylon_pride
Nathan can feel Peter watching him as he looks in the mirror, his nerves getting the better of him. Over and over again he repeats his speech in the mirror. It's not one of his best, he's sure of that. Something scrawled on a scrap piece of paper as Matt works his magic is never going to be a work of art, but it's enough: after all, it's what he's saying that really matters, not how he's saying it.
He glances to the side again to catch Peter's eye and smiles: it's hard to take his eyes off of Peter now that he has him back. The four months that have passed without his brother feel like an eternity.
"You don't have to do this, you know," Peter says. "Telling everyone about us- about what we can do? I know that's…"
"Pete, I'm the one that suggested it," Nathan points out, "But thanks for the sentiment."
Peter watches him curiously, head tilted to the side. Nathan looks down to his speech once again, but he can't focus on the words now that he knows how closely Peter's watching him, studying him intently. "You're different," Peter states. "I don't know what it is, but… You're different. What happened?"
"It's been four months," Nathan says - because how can he tell Peter about it all, about losing Heidi, his kids, his life, his sanity? His brother, ever the martyr, will only blame himself. "I'll tell you about it later," he promises. Maybe this is one promise he'll actually keep - or maybe he'll let it go to waste like every other one he's ever thrown his brother's way.
"You'd better." Peter crosses his arms over his chest. Even with more killing power than everyone else in this building put together, he still seems harmless.
"Later," he reaffirms. "After the press conference." Their whole lives will be different then. Their secret will be out - and maybe then he'll finally be free to tell Peter every other detail he's held back to protect him.
Charlie/Sayid for themoononastick
"Do you ever intend on leaving me alone?" Sayid asks, when he spies Charlie out of the corner of his eye again. It's disconcerting, as always, to spy the ghost of a dead man in the centre of his apartment.
"Not particularly, no," Charlie says, looking around the place as if he's never been here before, as if he hasn't been haunting Sayid's footsteps ever since he left the island. Sayid had never believed in ghosts before, but now he's beginning to believe that it would be foolish to deny their existence - and if it can't be Shannon that comes to visit him, then Charlie is at least a pleasant substitution. "Oi!" Charlie interrupts. "I'm not a sodding 'substitution'."
"You're right," Sayid confirms. "Shannon would never manage to be quite as persistent as you are." He finds himself pleased to see Charlie grin in response to that. "But it's been months, Charlie, and you still haven't told me why you're here. Why me? Why not Claire- Hurley- Desmond- There are so many others…"
"Hell if I know. 's not like I choose where I get sent, is it?"
"Where you-"
"Enough of the questions, Sayid. You know I can't tell you any more than that."
Sayid presses his lips together and watches as Charlie inspects the mantle of the fireplace, looking at every item that has clustered there since Sayid moved into this apartment. "Charlie, I-"
"Sayid?" Nadia's voice calls from the kitchen. She steps to the doorway and peers out in confusion. "Who are you talking to?"
Sayid's eyebrows raise, as startled to be caught talking to a ghost - a figment - the air as he always is. When he looks back to the fireplace, Charlie is no longer there to investigate his car keys and his loose change. He smiles uneasily, and wonders if a call to the other survivors is finally in order: is he the only one with his own personal ghost?
"It's nothing," he tells Nadia with a distracted smile. "Don't worry about it."
Charlie/Desmond for janie_tangerine
One, two, three, four…
He can feel Charlie's heart beating under his hand, like a metronome counting the music that goes past. The night is steady; it's theirs. Charlie's skin is smooth under his hand and that heartbeat reassures him of one thing.
He's not dead yet.
One hand stays steady on Charlie's chest even as they rut desperately together, jeans half-on and half-off, bunched around their legs in the hurry. Charlie's heart is being faster than it should, speeding Desmond's movements up. He grasps what he can, fingernails digging into Charlie's skin a little harder than they should. Little moans by his ear, Charlie's voice telling him how long he's waited, how good this is, how much he needs it, how close he is. Desmond nods and holds him tight, listening only to the music of his heart as it whispers to him: I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive.
Peter/Mohinder/Sylar for ladywilde80
Sylar means it when he says he believes in destiny. He believes that fate has led him to this moment, that every action in his life has brought about this one. His hand skims over the inside of Mohinder's leg. His skin feels soft, softer than it should. It feels like it would rip like tissue paper if he applied just the right amount of pressure. Mohinder's breath shivers and there's a clatter of metal against metal as he pulls on the handcuffs that keep his arms behind his back.
Sylar hushes him thoughtfully, and the struggling stops - Peter's hand threads through the dark curls of Mohinder's hair, soothing him. Dark memories stop him from being easily able to accept any level of submission, but Sylar is good at persuading. It's the resistance that makes it worth it, Mohinder's complaints and the look in his eyes when he first catches sight of the handcuffs.
"Stop it, Nathan," Peter says, and it takes Sylar a few moments to realise it's him being addressed. This new identity still doesn't fit. He looks up, eyebrows raised. "Quit playing around." The scar on his face twists as he talks, so Sylar reaches up to smooth his fingers over it. Peter flinches, like he always does. Sylar tries not to smirk.
"What do you think, Mohinder?" he asks as his hand moves possessively to his ass, touching spots that would make Mohinder scream if he knew who it was that was really touching him. He feels like a spy, intruding where he shouldn't be. The adrenaline that rushes through him is thrilling. "Do you want me to stop playing?"
His fingers dip to places they should not, and he feels Mohinder shiver, sigh, surrender. "Please," he whispers; his voice is entrancingly broken, in a way that no amount of pain inflicted had ever managed. "Please, just-"
"Get on with it, Nathan," Peter insists, "Or I'll do it."
He feels it then, the telekinetic intrusion as Peter starts to prepare Mohinder for him. He wants to throw him back, make him bleed, make him suffer, but he is 'Nathan Petrelli'. The only thing that he can do is fly at him.
"Don't rush me," he complains, but he does as he's told: he moves ahead and makes Mohinder buck, moan, beg. Everything asked for is given, and when Peter slides his cock into Mohinder's waiting mouth - and Sylar knows, first hand, how hot and complaint Mohinder can be - this feels right. An invader in their bed, their lives: this is where Sylar was born to be.
Charlie/Sawyer for Zelda_zee
I'm not a good man, Sawyer had said, and now it plays in Charlie's mind like a snatch of a melody he can't get rid of. It's not like he didn't know; he's seen Sawyer shoot polar bears, horde supplies, carry guns, con the camp, start fights… But to hear him state it so blatantly? It's like he doesn’t want to be anything else, like he doesn't strive to be a better man with every single day that passes, and that's just wrong.
He doesn't sleep that night, as Sawyer's words echo through his mind. The memory of what he did to Sun plays along, those words as a backing track. He could have hurt her. Clumsy as he is, he could have killed her. He rolls onto his side to escape from the thought as his own list of crimes threatens to surround him. He shot Ethan, right in front of everybody on this island. Out of all of them, maybe he's the worst - because he doesn't regret it, not one bit.
When he finds Sawyer alone by the fireside, he sits beside him with no word of objection from the man. He confesses, quietly, "Me too" - and Sawyer doesn't need to ask him what it is he's talking about. The fire crackles loud and angrily and the heat is almost painful from the flames, but they don't move. The light burns into his eyes and leaves white imprints when he blinks.
"I'm trying," he admits eventually: because beyond the drugs, beyond the anger, beyond the resentment, he really is.
"Me too," Sawyer whispers: because beyond the outer shell, beyond the bullshit, beyond the insults, so is he.
Charlie smiles and glances at him out of the corner of his eye - Sawyer's not someone he would ever have sat beside if not for this plane crash, would never have talked to, and would definitely never have found anything in common with. His gaze returns to the fire. He feels more at peace now: if someone like Sawyer has a chance at redemption, then he'd better bloody have one too.
Owen/Tosh for vervassal
The thousand and one reasons that Owen shouldn't have even let himself glance in Tosh's direction had become a thousand and two when he became a dead man walking - they weren't right, they didn't click, she wasn't his type, he wasn't interested, she deserved better. Better than him, and better than a homicidal alien, and better than a man in a box who only came out once a year. Just better, yet she didn't seem to understand that.
And it didn't seem to stop him.
He couldn't feel it when she kissed him. Couldn't get hard when her hands moved over his skin in a way that he knew would have driven him mad a few days ago - but he could respond in kind, his cold fingers between her legs to make her moan and clutch to him desperately.
It would be awkward at work tomorrow, he knew that. She wasn't like Gwen, wasn't like Suzie - more and less and different from them both. He shouldn't have let this happen, but she was all he had now. Who else would look at him twice? Who else would willingly touch him in this state?
His mouth met hers as she tensed above him, drinking moans and whimpers as if they might bring him back to life - as if they might let him feel something for once. There was nothing, even as she relaxed against him with a contented moan. He felt nothing at all, cold as ice. Cold as the damned.
Sawyer/Kevin for gottalovev
Sawyer slammed him against the wall, his hands wrapped in the front of Kevin's jacket to stop him from getting away - though, if he'd taken the time to notice, he might've seen that the cop didn't actually seem to be in that much of a hurry to get on with his busy schedule, not when Sawyer was this close, not when he had that bright spark of jealousy in his eyes, not when his body burned with the primal energy that sent Kevin's head into a tailspin.
"Good evening to you too," he said, with a grin that only seemed to make Sawyer angrier, if the frustrated growl was anything to judge by. "Any particular reason you're intent on giving me bruises today? Only I gotta-"
"You're seeing her again," Sawyer grumbled, unable to quite meet Kevin's eyes. He stared at his cheekbone instead, glaring at it as if it was the precise cause of all his troubles. "Kate, you're seeing her again."
"'course I'm seeing her." Kevin frowned. "She was having dinner here last week, Sawyer - it'd be pretty damn hard for me not to see her when you're wining and dining her right under my nose. Should I keep my eyes closed when she's visitin' in future? Might help you keep these wall-slamming tendencies of yours under control."
"You saw her without me," Sawyer clarified. His entire body was tense, almost shaking with tension. "I saw her leaving. You didn't even tell me. What am I supposed to think?"
Yet Kevin's hands had reached for his hips to drive him closer, even though he was supposed to head out to the station soon. Working nightshifts really drove him mad. "She left her jacket," he said, unable to keep the amused twinkle from his eyes. Sharing an ex-girlfriend - ex-wife in his case - was a mighty odd thing to be sure, but most of the time they seemed able to make it worse regardless of those old issues. "Had to come 'round and get it while the kid was at school."
Sawyer's eyebrows raised: a few months spent with Kate left you seeing lies everywhere. Kevin could get that. "Is that so?" Sawyer asked sceptically.
"That's so," Kevin confirmed. "No wild monkey sex here, I swear. Not with me and her, in any case." He raised his eyebrows suggestively, still not quite able to believe that this was the relationship he ended up in - but when Sawyer gave a grunt of consent and pressed him harder back against the wall, he couldn't say that he minded it too much.
Kate/Claire for lenina20
Claire's blonde head lies sleeping on her lap, stirring from time to time but never waking. Pins and needles have started to spread through her joints; Kate knows it will be painful when she tries to stand up, and that Claire will laugh at her and hide it behind her hand as she has to hobble, but she doesn't shift to make herself more comfortable. She wouldn't disturb Claire's rest for the world, and it'll be nice to see her smiling for once. It's been too long since that sunshine face lit up.
Her hand slowly slides through the silky depths of Claire's hair, carefully battling with the tangles that island life has produced. Claire grumbles and shifts against her, fighting with dreams that keep haunting her, with ghosts that won't die.
"It's alright," Kate whispers. She wishes she knew the right words to say, the right things to do, but she's not Charlie and she can't bring him back - so there's no way for her to help other than simply being here. "You're alright, Claire. I promise."
One day, the grief will lessen and sleep will come easier.
Until that day, Kate will be here - to soothe her, watch over her, and always keep her safe.
Charlie/Desmond/Sawyer for thespiansparkle
"Guys!" Charlie protested, flapping his hands at them. "Guys, seriously! You're kind of… squishing me. A little. A lot." When neither Sawyer or Desmond showed much of a sign of wanting to relent, he resorted to wriggling until it was possible for him to break free.
"You just died, Charlie," Desmond said, reaching out to hold onto him again. "I think we've got a license to be a little clingy."
"I didn't die for long," Charlie complained, but he allowed himself to be pulled back into a strong-armed embrace. Sawyer hung back, watching the pair of them from the outside, but it wasn't long before Charlie reached out for him too. "So it doesn't really count."
"You drowned," Sawyer said. "You weren't breathing and we had to get the doc to pull out his CPR training. I'd say that damn well counts to me."
Charlie should have protested more - because, well, he didn't want to think too much about how he'd faced death today, yet again - but there were hands creeping under his shirt and lips by his ear. Arguing at this point would have been counter-productive, so he rested his head against Desmond's shoulder and allowed Sawyer to make headway with stripping them gradually of their clothes.
After all, Charlie reminded himself as he relaxed into experienced hands, if he had almost died today… He definitely deserved a little bit of comfort.
Peter/Jack for crowgirl13
The food from the hospital's cafeteria takes 'bland' and 'gross' and pushes it to an extra level, Peter thinks as he looks down at his plate, prodding at the food with a fork. It's unlikely that it's going to kill him, not with Claire's healing ability lodged deep inside him - Adam's too, he reminds himself, but he'd rather not think about him right now - but that doesn't mean he wants to subject himself to it.
"It's not as bad as it looks," a voice says behind him. When he glances around, he sees a man in scrubs holding a tray of dubious-looking food of his own. "I swear."
"Yeah?" Peter says. "'cause to me it looks a little poisonous."
"If the cooks hear you saying that, tomorrow it just might be." The doctor smiles and indicates to the seat opposite Peter. "Do you mind if I sit down?"
And it's not like Peter's waiting for anyone, so he shrugs and waves an invitation. "I'm Peter."
"Jack," the doctor says. "I work here."
"I used to." Peter looks around. "I did one of my rotations here."
"You're a doctor?"
"A nurse," Peter corrects. "Or I used to be, anyway. I'm not… I don't know any more." It's all up in the air these days. He doesn't think he could go back to that: these abilities that invade every cell, they mean that he's more than just a nurse. He has a destiny, a purpose. "I'm just visiting. My brother, he's…"
Jack nods. "I know."
Peter frowns, but he shouldn't be surprised. Nathan was shot in front of an entire audience of viewers; it's hardly stunning that the medical personnel might just recognise the brother who's been at his bedside for weeks. He prods the food with his fork one more time and doesn't respond, because every time he thinks about what happened to Nathan he's left wanting to do something about it - he's left with his powers starting to bubble out of control and he can't let that happen. It's not what Nathan would want.
"Someone once told me," Jack says, with the quiet, rehearsed tone of someone who's been waiting for a long time to say this. Peter wonders how many days Jack has walked past him at this table and wondered whether or not to stop. "When I was feeling- When I was feeling like I wasn't able to fix anything, like life wasn't going to get better… A stranger found me, and he told me I had to 'lift it up, brother'." His voice takes on a painful imitation of a Scottish accent, but he's smiling so Peter thinks he can get away with it.
"Yeah? What does that mean?"
Jack smiles, a knowing twinkle in his eye. "Think about it," he advises - but then he's standing again, taking his tray and walking away, leaving behind a single glimmer of hope.
George/Alex for icewhisper
"I'm fine," Alex protested as George inspected the burn marks on his hand. They weren't anything serious at all, nothing more than slightly reddened skin, but George leads him over to the sink anyway. "Seriously, I'm fine."
"I really don't get how you manage to burn yourself when you're using a microwave, Alex," George complained, their hands under the freezing cold water. "I mean, honestly? You have to be really trying to get hurt with that."
"The food was hot when I took it out," Alex said. The steaming container still sits by the microwave now, seeming to smile at him maliciously when he glances at it. "It's not my fault."
"Most people would kind of guess not to grab something with their bare hands when it's, you know, bubbling and threatening to explode," George points out. He's right. Alex really hates it when he's right - but right now, he's willing to put up with it, seeing as George is carefully taking care of him with the attention to detail usually afforded to his patients and not his kind-of-sort-of-awkwardly-unofficial boyfriend.
He presses his lips to George's shoulder, to George's neck - because, really, standing this close George is pretty much asking for it - and winds his uninjured hand around George's waist to keep him from escaping. If this is the treatment he gets when he's hurt, Alex thinks he ought to start having a few more accidents around the home.
Peter/Nathan for Babylon_pride
Nathan can feel Peter watching him as he looks in the mirror, his nerves getting the better of him. Over and over again he repeats his speech in the mirror. It's not one of his best, he's sure of that. Something scrawled on a scrap piece of paper as Matt works his magic is never going to be a work of art, but it's enough: after all, it's what he's saying that really matters, not how he's saying it.
He glances to the side again to catch Peter's eye and smiles: it's hard to take his eyes off of Peter now that he has him back. The four months that have passed without his brother feel like an eternity.
"You don't have to do this, you know," Peter says. "Telling everyone about us- about what we can do? I know that's…"
"Pete, I'm the one that suggested it," Nathan points out, "But thanks for the sentiment."
Peter watches him curiously, head tilted to the side. Nathan looks down to his speech once again, but he can't focus on the words now that he knows how closely Peter's watching him, studying him intently. "You're different," Peter states. "I don't know what it is, but… You're different. What happened?"
"It's been four months," Nathan says - because how can he tell Peter about it all, about losing Heidi, his kids, his life, his sanity? His brother, ever the martyr, will only blame himself. "I'll tell you about it later," he promises. Maybe this is one promise he'll actually keep - or maybe he'll let it go to waste like every other one he's ever thrown his brother's way.
"You'd better." Peter crosses his arms over his chest. Even with more killing power than everyone else in this building put together, he still seems harmless.
"Later," he reaffirms. "After the press conference." Their whole lives will be different then. Their secret will be out - and maybe then he'll finally be free to tell Peter every other detail he's held back to protect him.
Charlie/Sayid for themoononastick
"Do you ever intend on leaving me alone?" Sayid asks, when he spies Charlie out of the corner of his eye again. It's disconcerting, as always, to spy the ghost of a dead man in the centre of his apartment.
"Not particularly, no," Charlie says, looking around the place as if he's never been here before, as if he hasn't been haunting Sayid's footsteps ever since he left the island. Sayid had never believed in ghosts before, but now he's beginning to believe that it would be foolish to deny their existence - and if it can't be Shannon that comes to visit him, then Charlie is at least a pleasant substitution. "Oi!" Charlie interrupts. "I'm not a sodding 'substitution'."
"You're right," Sayid confirms. "Shannon would never manage to be quite as persistent as you are." He finds himself pleased to see Charlie grin in response to that. "But it's been months, Charlie, and you still haven't told me why you're here. Why me? Why not Claire- Hurley- Desmond- There are so many others…"
"Hell if I know. 's not like I choose where I get sent, is it?"
"Where you-"
"Enough of the questions, Sayid. You know I can't tell you any more than that."
Sayid presses his lips together and watches as Charlie inspects the mantle of the fireplace, looking at every item that has clustered there since Sayid moved into this apartment. "Charlie, I-"
"Sayid?" Nadia's voice calls from the kitchen. She steps to the doorway and peers out in confusion. "Who are you talking to?"
Sayid's eyebrows raise, as startled to be caught talking to a ghost - a figment - the air as he always is. When he looks back to the fireplace, Charlie is no longer there to investigate his car keys and his loose change. He smiles uneasily, and wonders if a call to the other survivors is finally in order: is he the only one with his own personal ghost?
"It's nothing," he tells Nadia with a distracted smile. "Don't worry about it."
Charlie/Desmond for janie_tangerine
One, two, three, four…
He can feel Charlie's heart beating under his hand, like a metronome counting the music that goes past. The night is steady; it's theirs. Charlie's skin is smooth under his hand and that heartbeat reassures him of one thing.
He's not dead yet.
One hand stays steady on Charlie's chest even as they rut desperately together, jeans half-on and half-off, bunched around their legs in the hurry. Charlie's heart is being faster than it should, speeding Desmond's movements up. He grasps what he can, fingernails digging into Charlie's skin a little harder than they should. Little moans by his ear, Charlie's voice telling him how long he's waited, how good this is, how much he needs it, how close he is. Desmond nods and holds him tight, listening only to the music of his heart as it whispers to him: I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive.
Peter/Mohinder/Sylar for ladywilde80
Sylar means it when he says he believes in destiny. He believes that fate has led him to this moment, that every action in his life has brought about this one. His hand skims over the inside of Mohinder's leg. His skin feels soft, softer than it should. It feels like it would rip like tissue paper if he applied just the right amount of pressure. Mohinder's breath shivers and there's a clatter of metal against metal as he pulls on the handcuffs that keep his arms behind his back.
Sylar hushes him thoughtfully, and the struggling stops - Peter's hand threads through the dark curls of Mohinder's hair, soothing him. Dark memories stop him from being easily able to accept any level of submission, but Sylar is good at persuading. It's the resistance that makes it worth it, Mohinder's complaints and the look in his eyes when he first catches sight of the handcuffs.
"Stop it, Nathan," Peter says, and it takes Sylar a few moments to realise it's him being addressed. This new identity still doesn't fit. He looks up, eyebrows raised. "Quit playing around." The scar on his face twists as he talks, so Sylar reaches up to smooth his fingers over it. Peter flinches, like he always does. Sylar tries not to smirk.
"What do you think, Mohinder?" he asks as his hand moves possessively to his ass, touching spots that would make Mohinder scream if he knew who it was that was really touching him. He feels like a spy, intruding where he shouldn't be. The adrenaline that rushes through him is thrilling. "Do you want me to stop playing?"
His fingers dip to places they should not, and he feels Mohinder shiver, sigh, surrender. "Please," he whispers; his voice is entrancingly broken, in a way that no amount of pain inflicted had ever managed. "Please, just-"
"Get on with it, Nathan," Peter insists, "Or I'll do it."
He feels it then, the telekinetic intrusion as Peter starts to prepare Mohinder for him. He wants to throw him back, make him bleed, make him suffer, but he is 'Nathan Petrelli'. The only thing that he can do is fly at him.
"Don't rush me," he complains, but he does as he's told: he moves ahead and makes Mohinder buck, moan, beg. Everything asked for is given, and when Peter slides his cock into Mohinder's waiting mouth - and Sylar knows, first hand, how hot and complaint Mohinder can be - this feels right. An invader in their bed, their lives: this is where Sylar was born to be.
Charlie/Sawyer for Zelda_zee
I'm not a good man, Sawyer had said, and now it plays in Charlie's mind like a snatch of a melody he can't get rid of. It's not like he didn't know; he's seen Sawyer shoot polar bears, horde supplies, carry guns, con the camp, start fights… But to hear him state it so blatantly? It's like he doesn’t want to be anything else, like he doesn't strive to be a better man with every single day that passes, and that's just wrong.
He doesn't sleep that night, as Sawyer's words echo through his mind. The memory of what he did to Sun plays along, those words as a backing track. He could have hurt her. Clumsy as he is, he could have killed her. He rolls onto his side to escape from the thought as his own list of crimes threatens to surround him. He shot Ethan, right in front of everybody on this island. Out of all of them, maybe he's the worst - because he doesn't regret it, not one bit.
When he finds Sawyer alone by the fireside, he sits beside him with no word of objection from the man. He confesses, quietly, "Me too" - and Sawyer doesn't need to ask him what it is he's talking about. The fire crackles loud and angrily and the heat is almost painful from the flames, but they don't move. The light burns into his eyes and leaves white imprints when he blinks.
"I'm trying," he admits eventually: because beyond the drugs, beyond the anger, beyond the resentment, he really is.
"Me too," Sawyer whispers: because beyond the outer shell, beyond the bullshit, beyond the insults, so is he.
Charlie smiles and glances at him out of the corner of his eye - Sawyer's not someone he would ever have sat beside if not for this plane crash, would never have talked to, and would definitely never have found anything in common with. His gaze returns to the fire. He feels more at peace now: if someone like Sawyer has a chance at redemption, then he'd better bloody have one too.
Owen/Tosh for vervassal
The thousand and one reasons that Owen shouldn't have even let himself glance in Tosh's direction had become a thousand and two when he became a dead man walking - they weren't right, they didn't click, she wasn't his type, he wasn't interested, she deserved better. Better than him, and better than a homicidal alien, and better than a man in a box who only came out once a year. Just better, yet she didn't seem to understand that.
And it didn't seem to stop him.
He couldn't feel it when she kissed him. Couldn't get hard when her hands moved over his skin in a way that he knew would have driven him mad a few days ago - but he could respond in kind, his cold fingers between her legs to make her moan and clutch to him desperately.
It would be awkward at work tomorrow, he knew that. She wasn't like Gwen, wasn't like Suzie - more and less and different from them both. He shouldn't have let this happen, but she was all he had now. Who else would look at him twice? Who else would willingly touch him in this state?
His mouth met hers as she tensed above him, drinking moans and whimpers as if they might bring him back to life - as if they might let him feel something for once. There was nothing, even as she relaxed against him with a contented moan. He felt nothing at all, cold as ice. Cold as the damned.