Whisper Your Goodbyes - Heroes - Mohinder/Sylar
Title: Whisper Your Goodbyes
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 2300
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Set in the For Them 'verse, shortly before Mohinder returns to India in Slipping Away. Written with the 25fluffyfics 'Parting' prompt.
Summary: He always seems to outstay his welcome.
The sound of water rushing is shut off with a squeaking turn of the taps. Sylar lies on the bed with his eyes closed, listening to Mohinder's bare feet on the bathroom tiles. Mohinder's heartbeat is steady, calm. After so many months to adapt to this situation, it seems he's finally getting used to it. Sylar's glad not to have to put up with the heightened heart rate and steady scowl that used to accompany every visit.
The pillow his head rests on smells of laundry detergent and fabric softener. Clean, fresh, safe and soothing. Sylar could quite happily never move from this spot, but when he hears the sound of Mohinder moving out of the bathroom he can imagine the white towel that will be wrapped around his hips, the wet skin and soaked hair, and he sits up.
There are shadows in Mohinder's eyes, a hesitancy in his steps as he enters the bedroom, but it's not as bad as it was in the beginning. He doesn't look sickened; just wearied. It's an improvement.
"I figured we could go out tonight," Sylar says. It sounds like a suggestion - it's not. In this apartment any suggestion is a decision, is an order. It's intoxicating. "Go and see a movie, maybe…"
Mohinder nods as he moves towards the closet. "That sounds good," he murmurs, accepting the clothes that Sylar floats out before he reaches it. Allowing Mohinder to choose his own clothes inevitably leads to badly patterned disasters. "Is there anything particular you want to see?"
Mohinder glances towards him for a scant second as he's getting changed: it's casual, easy. It's like this is normal, like they're normal. A regular couple choosing how to spend their Saturday evening. Normality, domesticity, it's enough to make Sylar smile as he lies back once more and watches Mohinder towelling off and pulling his clothes on.
"Not really," he says, waiting until Mohinder's slipped his trousers on before he pulls him towards the bed with a nudge and push of his telekinesis. Mohinder doesn't resist, soon finding himself standing at the side of the bed, one leg between Sylar's. He's close enough that Sylar can see the water on his chest, dripping from his wet hair. His trousers cling a little to his legs: he got dressed in a hurry. "We'll just see whatever's on."
Mohinder murmurs in agreement, whatever words he was planning on saying fading away when Sylar sits up and places his hands on his hips. His thumbs smooth over his hipbones, fingers skimming by the top of Mohinder's trousers. A rumbling moan spills quietly from Mohinder's lips - every sound even now is like a victory, hard-won and long-sought - and he seems breathless. "I should finish getting dressed," he says.
Sylar pulls him forward, gets the satisfaction of Mohinder stepping onto the bed to straddle his hips. He smells of soap and shampoo. Sylar presses his lips against his shoulder. "We've got time," he whispers, and doesn't hear any dissent.
*
They're laughing when they come home, their minds full of flashing images and terrible dialogue: a regular couple. Just like everyone else. There's always something exciting about taking Mohinder out, about the way people look at them. Disgust or jealousy. Together they're special - different. They're worth a second glance.
"That is absolutely the last time that you get to pick the film," Mohinder says, removing his shoes once they're inside.
"Oh, because you have such impeccable taste?" Sylar grins. There's no real challenge to his authority here. Mohinder isn't going to mutiny over one questionable film choice. "The last time I let you choose we ended up sitting through hours upon hours of subtitles."
"And, if you don't mind, that was still easier to follow than the convoluted plot of that monstrosity." Mohinder smiles and shakes his head in easy-going disapproval. If only it could always be like this, always be this easy.
Sylar grins and pulls Mohinder towards him, able to hear the calm beating of his heart as he draws him close. It's not as exciting as it was in the beginning. It's gone past that, further, into something he doesn't even recognise and certainly never planned upon. He catches Mohinder's lips with his own, tastes salt and the cinema's treats and allows Mohinder to moan once before he pulls away.
"Go to the bedroom," he whispers, feeling Mohinder's breath hot against him. He runs his hand down Mohinder's arm - feels him shiver in unwilling response - and has to smile. "I'll be through in a second."
There's nothing to do here, no reason to wait, but there's a sharp thrill that shoots through him when Mohinder nods and slips away, when Mohinder does exactly as he's told. He's never going to get used to that. Never: he'll always be waiting for that flicker of defiance to return. This feels too easy.
The bedroom door closes behind Mohinder and it's hell not to rush straight through there. Sylar moves aimlessly through the living room, organising stray newspapers and scientific journals into neat piles as a way of keeping his hands busy. Considering how long Mohinder has been living in this apartment, it's strange that these scraps are the only touches of him within it: it's practically a show home, devoid of personality. Sylar wonders whether to tell him to add some personal touches to it, to make it feel like home. Would that be weird? he asks himself, before a smile tickles the corner of his mouth. What is there about this entire situation that isn't absolutely bizarre?
He sits down on the couch and listens to the ticking sound of his watch, counting the seconds. Thirty go by. He decides to let it get to sixty then he'll go to the bedroom - but Mohinder's voice calls through before he even makes it to forty-five, warm and teasing. "If you're making me wait for the sake of waiting," Mohinder says, "I'm not going to be impressed."
Sylar's smile stretches and he knows he ought to stubbornly wait out here just to teach Mohinder a lesson: yet when Mohinder's asking him to come and join him, when Mohinder isn't pushing him away… Sylar knows he'd be an idiot to say no. Still smiling he stands up and moves through to the bedroom - there are, after all, better ways to remind Mohinder who's in charge.
*
He wakes to the sound of Mohinder's voice, hushed and whispered from the other room. Sylar groans and rolls over: Mohinder's side of the bed is still warm and the covers are rumpled from when he'd woken. A heavy hand attempts to brush the sleep from his face. He wonders what time it is before he realises he hasn't the energy to check: sunlight isn't peeking in from under the curtains yet. There is no reason to stir.
Yet Mohinder is up and awake and talking to someone. Sylar frowns, disgruntled, and edges to the side of the bed before he manages to persuade himself to sit up. The bed creaks and the conversation halts abruptly. "I've got to go," Mohinder whispers - the voice that answers him along the phone has a stronger accent than his own. Male. Sylar doesn't recognise it.
He hears the sound of Mohinder placing the receiver down and then the soft brush of his feet on the carpet as he moves back through to the bedroom. Sylar can only see the outline of his body, an empty silhouette. "Who was that?" he demands. He sounds angry, possessive, paranoid and wishes he didn't. There's no reason to.
Mohinder's heart is pounding. "Just Matt," he says - though Sylar knows that voice didn't belong to the cop. "He was wondering when I'll next be able to visit Molly."
It's a terrible lie: Matt lacks certain social skills, but even he would not phone at such an obscene time for a question like that. Sylar should challenge him on it, but instead he finds himself lying back down in bed. When Mohinder slips back under the covers he slips his arm around his waist. Mohinder doesn't protest and doesn't pull away.
"You can visit her tomorrow," Sylar whispers. The dark seems to swallow his words, but Mohinder stirs to show he hears him. "I'm going to be busy anyway." No real plans, not before now, but he's already been in town for almost a week. It's time that he started working where to go next, where his hunt should take him. One week's break is far too long.
Mohinder shifts and Sylar feels his lips pressing against his collarbone. "Thank you," Mohinder whispers against his skin - but it sounds more like a long lost apology.
*
The sound of sizzling and the hot rush of spices infiltrate the kitchen. Sylar sits at the kitchen table with Mohinder's laptop in front of him, flicking casually through the news sites as he looks for something promising: he always makes sure to check out the 'frivolous' stories. That's where the gems are buried, that's where the impossibilities lie, that's where his next victim waits.
Mohinder refuses to look towards him. He knows the boundaries of their deal - Sylar will stop hunting his friends but he will not stop altogether: he doubts if Mohinder has yet worked out that it's unlikely he'd kill those people unless backed into a corner - yet that doesn't make him comfortable with it. That, however, is far from Sylar's problem. They're both making sacrifices. Sylar has had to give up on the prospect of telepathy despite how very tempting it is.
"How long until we can eat?" he asks, glancing towards Mohinder by the stove. Mohinder's hardly talked to him since he returned from his visit to Molly. Sometimes Sylar thinks that he ought to ban Mohinder from seeing her altogether. He always gets so cranky afterwards, so unhappy with his lot.
Mohinder barely casts a glance in his direction: it's a half-step away from a dark glare. "Another five minutes," he suggests. If Sylar didn’t know any better, he'd say Mohinder was sulking.
And that's alarming, because Mohinder doesn't sulk. He shouts, he complains, he bitches - and he plots.
Sylar allows his wary gaze to rest upon the back of Mohinder's head, longing to peek at the thoughts inside. His fingers remain resting on the keyboard but he's forgotten about his search now: he thinks that perhaps he will be getting out of town just in time, but leaving Mohinder alone isn't ideal either. It's so difficult dealing with him. Sylar thinks he should have further considered what he was letting himself in for when he'd first dreamt up this plan, this deal. Tamed or not, Mohinder is dangerous. Sylar's through with underestimating him.
"How was Molly?" he asks, each word carefully weighted.
Mohinder stiffens, tensing up from just those three words. "Sylar," he says, his voice more clipped than usual.
Sylar lets out a useless puff of air through his nose. "I know," he murmurs. He's not supposed to talk about her. He's not supposed to even think about her - and he doesn't like having to do it anyway. It's an ugly reminder that everything he has with Mohinder is a lie. If it wasn't for the emotional hold that Molly has over him then it would never exist at all. No movie nights, no lazy lie-ins, no one cooking dinner for him when he's too lazy to do it himself. He has Molly to thank for that, yet he can't help but resent her for it.
When they eat, they do so in silence: Sylar's attempts at forcing conversation falls dead by the wayside. Mohinder may manage to smile for him and he tries to talk, but Sylar recognises the dead and cut-off expression lurking in Mohinder's eyes. He'd hoped they were past the stage where Mohinder fought and struggled with him every step of the way. They'll get there eventually. There will come a time when he will be able to stay as long as he wants here without out-staying his welcome.
In the meantime, he thinks as he quietly eats, he'll be glad for a break from this bizarre drama.
*
"Do you miss me when I'm not here?" he asks in the darkness, a hopeless whisper to a dark room. Mohinder doesn’t stir - he's sleeping, as far as Sylar can tell. Just as well. He doesn't really want the answer.
His hand strokes over the bare skin of Mohinder's arm. He feels cold - a glance to close the open window solves that - and he sighs. It's time to leave. It's always difficult and he never bothers with goodbyes, but something feels different this time. Usually he can at least tell what it is he's done to make Mohinder's temper and frustration flare, but this time it seems to have done so spontaneously.
That unexplained phone call from 'Matt' weighs on his mind: no doubt it has something to do with the flip in Mohinder's mood, and no doubt it will come back to haunt him in time. No doubt at all. In a way, that's soothing - in a life of uncertainty it's good to have one constant to rely on, even if that constant is the simple fact that he can never trust Mohinder. No matter how much he sometimes thinks he might want to.
He brushes the dark hair back from Mohinder's forehead and leans down to press his lips there. Mohinder shifts in his sleep with a barely audible groan: bad dreams. Hardly surprising.
Time to go, he reminds himself. As always it's hard to convince himself of why at this point - but he knows himself too well. Settling down into a domestic little life isn't in his future and he would never want it to be. Fleeting visits, brief tastes, forced samples are all he wants.
"See you soon," he whispers before he stands from the bed - and he will, regardless of what it takes. No matter what obstacles Mohinder chooses to throw in his path, Sylar will always manage to see him one last, stolen time.
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 2300
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Set in the For Them 'verse, shortly before Mohinder returns to India in Slipping Away. Written with the 25fluffyfics 'Parting' prompt.
Summary: He always seems to outstay his welcome.
The sound of water rushing is shut off with a squeaking turn of the taps. Sylar lies on the bed with his eyes closed, listening to Mohinder's bare feet on the bathroom tiles. Mohinder's heartbeat is steady, calm. After so many months to adapt to this situation, it seems he's finally getting used to it. Sylar's glad not to have to put up with the heightened heart rate and steady scowl that used to accompany every visit.
The pillow his head rests on smells of laundry detergent and fabric softener. Clean, fresh, safe and soothing. Sylar could quite happily never move from this spot, but when he hears the sound of Mohinder moving out of the bathroom he can imagine the white towel that will be wrapped around his hips, the wet skin and soaked hair, and he sits up.
There are shadows in Mohinder's eyes, a hesitancy in his steps as he enters the bedroom, but it's not as bad as it was in the beginning. He doesn't look sickened; just wearied. It's an improvement.
"I figured we could go out tonight," Sylar says. It sounds like a suggestion - it's not. In this apartment any suggestion is a decision, is an order. It's intoxicating. "Go and see a movie, maybe…"
Mohinder nods as he moves towards the closet. "That sounds good," he murmurs, accepting the clothes that Sylar floats out before he reaches it. Allowing Mohinder to choose his own clothes inevitably leads to badly patterned disasters. "Is there anything particular you want to see?"
Mohinder glances towards him for a scant second as he's getting changed: it's casual, easy. It's like this is normal, like they're normal. A regular couple choosing how to spend their Saturday evening. Normality, domesticity, it's enough to make Sylar smile as he lies back once more and watches Mohinder towelling off and pulling his clothes on.
"Not really," he says, waiting until Mohinder's slipped his trousers on before he pulls him towards the bed with a nudge and push of his telekinesis. Mohinder doesn't resist, soon finding himself standing at the side of the bed, one leg between Sylar's. He's close enough that Sylar can see the water on his chest, dripping from his wet hair. His trousers cling a little to his legs: he got dressed in a hurry. "We'll just see whatever's on."
Mohinder murmurs in agreement, whatever words he was planning on saying fading away when Sylar sits up and places his hands on his hips. His thumbs smooth over his hipbones, fingers skimming by the top of Mohinder's trousers. A rumbling moan spills quietly from Mohinder's lips - every sound even now is like a victory, hard-won and long-sought - and he seems breathless. "I should finish getting dressed," he says.
Sylar pulls him forward, gets the satisfaction of Mohinder stepping onto the bed to straddle his hips. He smells of soap and shampoo. Sylar presses his lips against his shoulder. "We've got time," he whispers, and doesn't hear any dissent.
*
They're laughing when they come home, their minds full of flashing images and terrible dialogue: a regular couple. Just like everyone else. There's always something exciting about taking Mohinder out, about the way people look at them. Disgust or jealousy. Together they're special - different. They're worth a second glance.
"That is absolutely the last time that you get to pick the film," Mohinder says, removing his shoes once they're inside.
"Oh, because you have such impeccable taste?" Sylar grins. There's no real challenge to his authority here. Mohinder isn't going to mutiny over one questionable film choice. "The last time I let you choose we ended up sitting through hours upon hours of subtitles."
"And, if you don't mind, that was still easier to follow than the convoluted plot of that monstrosity." Mohinder smiles and shakes his head in easy-going disapproval. If only it could always be like this, always be this easy.
Sylar grins and pulls Mohinder towards him, able to hear the calm beating of his heart as he draws him close. It's not as exciting as it was in the beginning. It's gone past that, further, into something he doesn't even recognise and certainly never planned upon. He catches Mohinder's lips with his own, tastes salt and the cinema's treats and allows Mohinder to moan once before he pulls away.
"Go to the bedroom," he whispers, feeling Mohinder's breath hot against him. He runs his hand down Mohinder's arm - feels him shiver in unwilling response - and has to smile. "I'll be through in a second."
There's nothing to do here, no reason to wait, but there's a sharp thrill that shoots through him when Mohinder nods and slips away, when Mohinder does exactly as he's told. He's never going to get used to that. Never: he'll always be waiting for that flicker of defiance to return. This feels too easy.
The bedroom door closes behind Mohinder and it's hell not to rush straight through there. Sylar moves aimlessly through the living room, organising stray newspapers and scientific journals into neat piles as a way of keeping his hands busy. Considering how long Mohinder has been living in this apartment, it's strange that these scraps are the only touches of him within it: it's practically a show home, devoid of personality. Sylar wonders whether to tell him to add some personal touches to it, to make it feel like home. Would that be weird? he asks himself, before a smile tickles the corner of his mouth. What is there about this entire situation that isn't absolutely bizarre?
He sits down on the couch and listens to the ticking sound of his watch, counting the seconds. Thirty go by. He decides to let it get to sixty then he'll go to the bedroom - but Mohinder's voice calls through before he even makes it to forty-five, warm and teasing. "If you're making me wait for the sake of waiting," Mohinder says, "I'm not going to be impressed."
Sylar's smile stretches and he knows he ought to stubbornly wait out here just to teach Mohinder a lesson: yet when Mohinder's asking him to come and join him, when Mohinder isn't pushing him away… Sylar knows he'd be an idiot to say no. Still smiling he stands up and moves through to the bedroom - there are, after all, better ways to remind Mohinder who's in charge.
*
He wakes to the sound of Mohinder's voice, hushed and whispered from the other room. Sylar groans and rolls over: Mohinder's side of the bed is still warm and the covers are rumpled from when he'd woken. A heavy hand attempts to brush the sleep from his face. He wonders what time it is before he realises he hasn't the energy to check: sunlight isn't peeking in from under the curtains yet. There is no reason to stir.
Yet Mohinder is up and awake and talking to someone. Sylar frowns, disgruntled, and edges to the side of the bed before he manages to persuade himself to sit up. The bed creaks and the conversation halts abruptly. "I've got to go," Mohinder whispers - the voice that answers him along the phone has a stronger accent than his own. Male. Sylar doesn't recognise it.
He hears the sound of Mohinder placing the receiver down and then the soft brush of his feet on the carpet as he moves back through to the bedroom. Sylar can only see the outline of his body, an empty silhouette. "Who was that?" he demands. He sounds angry, possessive, paranoid and wishes he didn't. There's no reason to.
Mohinder's heart is pounding. "Just Matt," he says - though Sylar knows that voice didn't belong to the cop. "He was wondering when I'll next be able to visit Molly."
It's a terrible lie: Matt lacks certain social skills, but even he would not phone at such an obscene time for a question like that. Sylar should challenge him on it, but instead he finds himself lying back down in bed. When Mohinder slips back under the covers he slips his arm around his waist. Mohinder doesn't protest and doesn't pull away.
"You can visit her tomorrow," Sylar whispers. The dark seems to swallow his words, but Mohinder stirs to show he hears him. "I'm going to be busy anyway." No real plans, not before now, but he's already been in town for almost a week. It's time that he started working where to go next, where his hunt should take him. One week's break is far too long.
Mohinder shifts and Sylar feels his lips pressing against his collarbone. "Thank you," Mohinder whispers against his skin - but it sounds more like a long lost apology.
*
The sound of sizzling and the hot rush of spices infiltrate the kitchen. Sylar sits at the kitchen table with Mohinder's laptop in front of him, flicking casually through the news sites as he looks for something promising: he always makes sure to check out the 'frivolous' stories. That's where the gems are buried, that's where the impossibilities lie, that's where his next victim waits.
Mohinder refuses to look towards him. He knows the boundaries of their deal - Sylar will stop hunting his friends but he will not stop altogether: he doubts if Mohinder has yet worked out that it's unlikely he'd kill those people unless backed into a corner - yet that doesn't make him comfortable with it. That, however, is far from Sylar's problem. They're both making sacrifices. Sylar has had to give up on the prospect of telepathy despite how very tempting it is.
"How long until we can eat?" he asks, glancing towards Mohinder by the stove. Mohinder's hardly talked to him since he returned from his visit to Molly. Sometimes Sylar thinks that he ought to ban Mohinder from seeing her altogether. He always gets so cranky afterwards, so unhappy with his lot.
Mohinder barely casts a glance in his direction: it's a half-step away from a dark glare. "Another five minutes," he suggests. If Sylar didn’t know any better, he'd say Mohinder was sulking.
And that's alarming, because Mohinder doesn't sulk. He shouts, he complains, he bitches - and he plots.
Sylar allows his wary gaze to rest upon the back of Mohinder's head, longing to peek at the thoughts inside. His fingers remain resting on the keyboard but he's forgotten about his search now: he thinks that perhaps he will be getting out of town just in time, but leaving Mohinder alone isn't ideal either. It's so difficult dealing with him. Sylar thinks he should have further considered what he was letting himself in for when he'd first dreamt up this plan, this deal. Tamed or not, Mohinder is dangerous. Sylar's through with underestimating him.
"How was Molly?" he asks, each word carefully weighted.
Mohinder stiffens, tensing up from just those three words. "Sylar," he says, his voice more clipped than usual.
Sylar lets out a useless puff of air through his nose. "I know," he murmurs. He's not supposed to talk about her. He's not supposed to even think about her - and he doesn't like having to do it anyway. It's an ugly reminder that everything he has with Mohinder is a lie. If it wasn't for the emotional hold that Molly has over him then it would never exist at all. No movie nights, no lazy lie-ins, no one cooking dinner for him when he's too lazy to do it himself. He has Molly to thank for that, yet he can't help but resent her for it.
When they eat, they do so in silence: Sylar's attempts at forcing conversation falls dead by the wayside. Mohinder may manage to smile for him and he tries to talk, but Sylar recognises the dead and cut-off expression lurking in Mohinder's eyes. He'd hoped they were past the stage where Mohinder fought and struggled with him every step of the way. They'll get there eventually. There will come a time when he will be able to stay as long as he wants here without out-staying his welcome.
In the meantime, he thinks as he quietly eats, he'll be glad for a break from this bizarre drama.
*
"Do you miss me when I'm not here?" he asks in the darkness, a hopeless whisper to a dark room. Mohinder doesn’t stir - he's sleeping, as far as Sylar can tell. Just as well. He doesn't really want the answer.
His hand strokes over the bare skin of Mohinder's arm. He feels cold - a glance to close the open window solves that - and he sighs. It's time to leave. It's always difficult and he never bothers with goodbyes, but something feels different this time. Usually he can at least tell what it is he's done to make Mohinder's temper and frustration flare, but this time it seems to have done so spontaneously.
That unexplained phone call from 'Matt' weighs on his mind: no doubt it has something to do with the flip in Mohinder's mood, and no doubt it will come back to haunt him in time. No doubt at all. In a way, that's soothing - in a life of uncertainty it's good to have one constant to rely on, even if that constant is the simple fact that he can never trust Mohinder. No matter how much he sometimes thinks he might want to.
He brushes the dark hair back from Mohinder's forehead and leans down to press his lips there. Mohinder shifts in his sleep with a barely audible groan: bad dreams. Hardly surprising.
Time to go, he reminds himself. As always it's hard to convince himself of why at this point - but he knows himself too well. Settling down into a domestic little life isn't in his future and he would never want it to be. Fleeting visits, brief tastes, forced samples are all he wants.
"See you soon," he whispers before he stands from the bed - and he will, regardless of what it takes. No matter what obstacles Mohinder chooses to throw in his path, Sylar will always manage to see him one last, stolen time.