Halloween Comment Ficlets
At Halloween I did some comment fics at my journal:
Chuck/Heroes, Mohinder and Sylar in the Buy More
"Let's get this over with as quickly as possible," the accented man hissed - and even from a distance it was pretty hard to miss the venom in his tone. "I don't want to be near you for any longer than I have to."
"Believe me," his friend answered, "the feeling's mutual."
Agent John Casey kept his distance, hidden by the high walls of endless wide-screen televisions. The two men walked down the central aisle of the Buy More, looking out of place with their dark looks and hostile demeanour. They looked like vampires coming into the sunlight, a hard contrast to the bright colours of the store's displays and an even sharper contrast to the eye-catching green polo shirts sported by the resident employees.
Out of place, that was for certain - and around here that never added up to anything good.
"What is it we need anyway?" the pale one asked the other, boredom tinged with amusement as he looked around at the place they'd ended up.
As the two discussed - argued, more like - their future purchases, Casey took the opportunity to slink over to the circular desk belonging to the Nerd Herd. Behind the counter, Chuck looked as busy as ever: building an ever-taller tower out of dead cell phones that had been handed in. Frowning, Casey made sure to knock it over when he leaned against the counter to get the kid's attention. "The couple over there," he said, with the slightest inclination of his head towards the pair. "Any flashes?"
"What? Who?" Chuck looked up, looking around in obvious and attention-drawing confusion before Casey placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back into his seat. God, no wonder this guy needed two agents to defend him - and still found himself in constant mortal peril.
"Two guys who just came in. They're over by the games consoles."
"The guys with Morgan?" Chuck squeaked.
Casey gave him another shove to the shoulder for good measure, then glanced over his shoulder again. Shit. "Yeah, them." If they were bad news, Morgan wasn't going to help matters.
"No. No, nothing. Why? What is it?"
"Nothing. Just checking," Casey answered, turning around and heading back in that direction. Probably nothing more than another pair of this town's weirdos - but with the intersect sitting in the middle of a civilian store, it never hurt to be too careful.
Heroes, Mohinder/Sylar, shopping for furniture
There's a wealth of choices. A whole treasure trove of them. Endless displays and confusing options.
All this, and all he wants is one crib.
One crib for the most special child there'll ever be, Gabriel reminds himself, and the very idea is enough to make him start smiling again. He's surrounded by strangers in a furniture shop that's much larger than any furniture shop has any right to be, yet he's smiling like he's psychotic all over again.
His baby.
His family.
Only a month or so left of waiting now.
His hand brushes over the varnished wood of one of the cribs: it's strong and steady, a piece of furniture designed to last.
And he's happy here, and he's sane, and he's building a future that's real and normal and steady. He's building a life as Gabriel, not Sylar, but there's something missing-
He'd always entertained the idea (far back in the corners of his mind, unacknowledged and unaccepted) that Mohinder might be part of this future, that Mohinder might be part of this family.
(You also, he thinks, thought you might like to destroy the entire world.)
Not his proudest moment, he'll admit.
"Can I help you, sir?" a woman with a name-badge and bright smile asks, appearing at his side.
Gabriel smiles. "Yes," he says, "I'm looking for a crib."
"Well, you're at the right place for that," she confirms with a laugh that feels false.
He lets her guide him through the motions and he sees the beginnings of his nursery starting to form in his minds' eye: a future for him and his child blossoms, but he knows it can't involve that unstable love from his past.
Lost, Desmond/Penny, watching scary movies
She'd seen this movie at least a dozen times already, owned the video, and knew each and every 'scary' moment so well that she could see it coming a mile off. As someone who wore her horror movie fan status with a certain degree of pride among a set of friends who were more interested in pretentious art house movies than anything with a little more bite, she was certainly not the kind of woman who could be expected to cringe at the sight of a little fake blood.
And yet…
Well, maybe tonight was different. Maybe the full moon had startled her; maybe she was superstitious about Halloween; maybe she'd had a bad day; and maybe - just maybe - the temptation of being given the opportunity to curl up at Desmond's side and absorb the protective warmth of his skin was more than enough to make her fake a shriek or two.
"Penny?" he whispered, looking down at her as the camera began to creep through a dark and seemingly empty hallway. "Are you alright? We can watch something else if you'd like."
"I'm fine," she whispered back, though she cuddled closer and was rewarded with his arm curling tightly around her shoulders. "Just fine."
She thought, as they watched another gruesome murder at the hands of the soulless killer, that it was a good thing Desmond was so focused on the movie: her satisfied smirk would otherwise most certainly give her away.
Torchwood, Jack
After the first few hundred years, Jack decided to stop mourning.
Stop missing them, stop mourning them, stop crying.
When the last member of this Torchwood died - bullet to the chest, dead where he stood, no pain, he didn't suffer - Jack didn't go to the funeral. The event would be as alien to him as every other funeral he'd ever attended: something pulled together by the family members, something that had no relation to who they really were, to the people he knew.
When Christian died, Jack got a beer and headed up to the highest roof he could find in the city. He sat on the edge with his legs swinging precariously as he looked across the city: Cardiff had changed a whole lot since the twenty-first century. It was a completely different place by now.
He opened the can of beer - Christian's favourite, always was, remember the time he and Lucy came in still drunk from the night before? What a riot - and he remembered.
More than remembered: he celebrated. He rejoiced in every memory he had and every moment he'd been allowed to spend with them.
"Here's to you, Christian," he said, with a smile that showed deep dimples. "Thank you."
The beer tasted as unpleasant as it usually did but he sat up on the roof until he'd finished it: then it was time to leave, time to move on, time to start recruiting all over again.
Jossverse, Faith, Candy apple
"There. You take one. You take as many as you like!" the Mayor told her, smiling brightly as he brandished the tray at her.
She took a few slow steps further into the room, head tilted to the side curiously. "Candy apples? Little late, isn't it?"
"Oh, it's never too late for a sweet tooth. I thought, with all the work you've been doing for me, that you deserve a treat." His smile was so shiny that it wouldn't have been out of place in a toothpaste commercial. "Come on! They're good, I promise."
She took a hold of one of the wooden sticks and picked it up, raising the candy-encrusted fruit to her mouth to take a bite. It was so sweet it hurt her teeth - she'd been a kid the last time she'd had one of these. So young.
She could feel the Mayor watching her with the same doting expression that would belong on the face of a proud father. Awkwardly, she paused. "Thanks," she said, voice muffled.
"Don't talk with your mouth full, Faith. It's rude," he scolded, frowning, but like always his disapproval passed quickly. Instead he shuffled through the papers on his desk, looking for one in particular. "Now, I have a favour to ask from you. There's a certain artefact coming into Sunnydale tonight. I'd like you to get it for me. Can you do that?"
She covered her mouth with her hand and swallowed, still holding onto the rest of the apple on its stick. "Sure thing, boss. I'm your girl."
At this point, she thought she'd do just about anything he asked her to.
He smiled again, more proud than her parents had ever been when they looked at her, and he held the file out for her. "That you are, Faith," he confirmed with a happy chuckle. "That you are."
There was nothing in the world that could change that now, Faith was sure of that.
Lost/Heroes, Nathan is Sayid's latest target
He has been crouching here for so long now that his knees have become stiff. His finger hasn't so much as twitched from its position on the trigger for well over an hour as he watches, as he waits, as he bides his time.
He doesn't know what this politician has done that warrants this intervention. He doesn't know why Ben wants him taken out - and there was a time when this would have troubled him a lot more than it does now.
There was a time, he knows, when he would have cared about the lives he is sent to take.
That time has passed.
The hotel is in a more public place than Sayid would have liked: the pavements aren't crowded, with only a few people scattered around, but there are still more witnesses than would be ideal. More witnesses - more of a chance of getting caught.
Please, he thinks. He needs someone to stop him.
His body tenses, ready, when the target leaves his hotel. The target has a blonde woman with him and the two are locked in what appears to be an intense conversation. This is the man who survived another assassination attempt weeks ago: Sayid wonders if Ben was behind that one too. It doesn't matter.
The pair of them look around the street uncomfortably as Sayid takes aim from his position high on the rooftop of a building at the other side of the road. They're arguing about something, he can see it clearly through the telescopic lens of his rifle. Arguing, bickering, pointlessly. He tries not to think about how much time he wasted with Shannon like that. These days, he tries not to think of her at all.
The target steps closer to the woman, his arms curling around her waist in an odd embrace. I cannot do this, kill him in the arms of his lover, but his finger tightens on the trigger.
The bullet fires.
The gun is quiet.
The targets aren't there. With a clink of dirt and shattered concrete the bullet hits into the wall behind where the politician's head should have been: and as Sayid watches, he is given the opportunity to watch their escape as the pair soar higher and higher into the sky above them.
Impossible.
It is impossible.
Impossible but happening, it would seem, and Sayid had rather hoped that he'd left such unexplainable events behind him when he escaped from the island's clutches.
They disappear through the air leaving a puffy white trail as the man flies faster than Sayid's eyes can follow. His grip relaxes on his gun - his fingers hurt, clenched too long - and he takes a moment to come to terms with the unreality he has found himself plunged into.
Just a moment. That is all he'll take.
His hand reaches for his cell phone and he calls the only number he has saved. "Ben," he says curtly, "I think we need to talk, don't you?"
For once in his life, he thinks as he stares up to the clear blue skies, he'd like some answers.
Lost, Claire/Juliet, Claire is scared and Juliet makes her feel better
Claire can feel the thumpthumpthump of her heart beating madly.
She can hear the tropical rainstorm thundering outside.
The room is dark. The room is still. The room is quiet.
It is safe - but she is not.
Her breath flickers more fragilely than a moth's wings and her eyes stare into the black. Something is coming. Someone is coming.
Always.
"Claire," Juliet murmurs, her voice sleep-soaked but concerned. "Claire, it's okay."
It's okay.
One year spent in a cabin with the dead and she's okay.
Juliet's soft fingers pull the blonde sheet of hair back from her face, leaving her neck bare for Juliet to kiss. Her lips are warm, are hot, are gentle. "You're okay, Claire. I promise."
And she's not dead.
Not dead.
That's as okay as they can get.
Her hand finds Juliet's and their fingers lace like tangled string.
"I know," she says. "I'm not scared."
Liar, but it's a lie Juliet doesn't call her on.
"Go to sleep, Claire," Juliet suggests. "I'll be here in the morning."
She nods, her head shuffling on the pillow.
She doesn't sleep, but the pounding of her heart evens as Juliet's breathing begins to level out to a quiet rhythm of rest. Claire lies silently and stares at the wall: with Juliet's hand still held in hers, the darkness seems a little lighter.
Heroes, Mohinder/Sylar, 5YG
He's halfway towards sleep by the time the bed shifts, creaks and Nathan's warm body slips under the covers behind him. Mohinder grudgingly opens one eye to look at the clock that sits on his bedside table: it's long past midnight. The sun will probably be rising in a few hours.
"'everything alright?" he mumbles, starting to turn to face him before Nathan's hand touches his hip to stop him, holding him in place. Nathan nestles behind him, his body a cloak. "It's late."
"I was busy," Nathan answers.
He's the President - Mohinder doesn't get to question him any more than that.
He grumbles in reply and closes his eyes again, drifting away before he feels the determined brush of Nathan's hand over his skin. His fingertips are always so cold.
"Nathan," Mohinder complains, "we've both got to be at work in a few hours."
"Then we'd better be quick." Nathan smiles against his skin, warm as sunshine.
Mohinder's too tired for this, but he doesn't object and can't make himself push Nathan away: he's too weak-willed when it comes to the velvet feel of Nathan's lips. "And how exactly are you going to explain it when you come in looking like you haven't slept?"
"I don't need to explain myself," Nathan points out, with a tickling laugh. "I'm the president, Mohinder. I don't need to explain myself to anyone."
Mohinder laughs in agreement and rolls his eyes, ready to let Nathan have his impatient way with him - but if he's honest, truly honest, he'd admit that Nathan's skill with his tongue isn't the only reason that he feels a cold shiver running down his spine.
Hollyoaks, John Paul/Kieron, sky-diving
"I can't believe you just did that," John Paul says, laughing, as they walk on unsteady feet away from the sky-diving site.
"What?" Kieron teases, his arm finding its way around his boyfriend's (husband's, god, husband's, he's still getting used to that) shoulders, "did you think I'd chicken out?"
"You?" John Paul questions. His eyebrows rise innocently. "Big, brave, manly you? Of course not."
The grin that worms its way onto his face is little short of wicked.
"You're insufferable, you know that?" he accuses, a warm whisper that tickles by John Paul's ear. He can feel the heat from John Paul's skin, and with the adrenaline still pumping hard and strong throughout him he can't wait to get back to their hotel room.
"Yeah, I know," John Paul says, his grin never flickering, "but you'd better get used to suffering. I'm not going anywhere."
He turns his head to catch Kieron's mouth with his own. They stop walking, holding onto each other instead, and with the comforting tease of John Paul's mouth Kieron knows that he's never going to get bored of this. He can only smile helplessly into the kiss and wonder what the next day of their honeymoon (the next day our life together) is going to bring.
Lost, Sawyer/Kevin, cupcakes
He came home to a house that smelt like home - warm and cosy with the scent of fresh baking flowing through the hallway to the front door. Sawyer frowned, closing the door quietly behind him. Baking?
"Kevin?" he called uneasily, walking through to their kitchen.
He saw it then. There was a plate of iced cupcakes sitting on the kitchen table, neatly arranged in a little circle. They'd been slathered with icing - pink icing, he noticed with a quirk of one eyebrow - and their proud baker was leaning against the counter on the other side of the room, wiping his hands on a towel while avoiding the mammoth heap of dishes waiting to be cleaned in the sink.
"This is kinda domestic even for you, hero," Sawyer said, once he managed to clear his head enough to say anything at all.
"I felt like baking."
"I can see that." Sawyer looked down at the plate again, wondering if he ought to check them for poison or just chuck them into the bin straight away…
They did look good, though.
"You got any particular reason for it?" he checked.
Kevin smiled - that soft smile of his, gentle enough to prove that he wouldn't know how to hurt Sawyer if his life depended on it - and shrugged. "It's my birthday."
"It's… What?" Shit. Three months living together and he still didn't know something as fundamental as that? Sawyer was pretty sure that that was the kind of thing that would qualify him for a 'worst boyfriend ever' award. "I- uh… I didn't know. Sorry."
"No problem." Kevin placed the towel in his hands down on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm sure you'll figure out a way to go about making it up to me."
And that smile, that innocent smile, it was starting to look a whole lot less innocent.
Sawyer took that as an invitation to cross the room, close as he could get, to lick the sugar-sweet frosting from the side of Kevin's mouth. "Well, happy birthday," he murmured without backing away.
As Kevin chuckled, one large hand resting on the edge of Sawyer's hip, Sawyer decided that he was going to make sure that this was one birthday that neither would forget in a long, long while.
Lost, Bonnie/Greta
"Bonnie," she complains when she finds herself shoved roughly against the wall of their bedroom. Bonnie's hands have a stranger's blood on them and there's a keen sense of madness that shines from her blue eyes. "Bonnie, it's okay. It's okay."
But it's not.
It is really not okay.
She's seen the violent side of Bonnie now; she's seen what happens when the rage boils over. The blood on that poor man's face… She feels sure that Bonnie would kill him, given the chance. Her arm worms between them and she places her hand on Bonnie's cheek, wiping away tears that aren't there.
"You must think I'm a monster," Bonnie whispers - the words are tight like a trigger.
"No," Greta promises, "never." She pulls her closer, lips brushing hesitantly against Bonnie's. When they kiss, soft and rough at once, she wishes there was a way that she could kiss away all that pain, that frustration, that anger.
She wishes she could make this better.
Fringe/Heroes, Peter meeting Peter
When he opens his eyes again he's lying on his back - and he is, surprisingly, not dead, which is certainly an improved state compared to what he'd been expecting.
Falling from a building easily the height of two double-decker buses and surviving is one hell of a thing: Peter thinks, when he sits up and winces at the bruises he's sure must be forming all over him by this point, that he should be glad that he isn't just one ugly smear on the pavement right now.
And why isn't he, actually?
There'd been a guy up there with him - a guy who'd fallen too…
A guy who is currently on his feet, looking up at the length they'd fallen together without a scratch on him.
There's dried blood, sure, but no actual wounds. No signs that the impact against the ground - and he'd hit it first, hadn't he? He'd cushioned the fall for Peter.
Shit.
Peter gets to his feet with an awkward groan - the whistling pain in his back is something that he just knows is going to feel even worse after a night spent sleeping on a couch in his hotel suite.
"I think I owe you a 'thank you'," he says to the stranger.
The young man looks at him, dazed, before back up at the huge length they'd fallen. "Um. It's no problem. Really."
"Yeah, I can see that." He limps closer, hoping that Olivia and the other agents make it down here before this guy decides to run off: in the state he's currently in, Peter doesn't think that he's at all able to run after him. "Are you going to tell me how you did that?"
"I can…" He gestures vaguely. "I can do stuff."
"Uh-huh. Stuff." It looks as if that is the most detailed explanation that he's likely to get. "Look, I really can't believe I'm about to say this, but… I think my father could help you."
"Your father?"
"Trust me." He shakes his head in disbelief, not sure why anybody would trust him, but the stranger quirks a relieved smile at him, as if he's been waiting for someone to say those words. "What's your name?" he asks.
"Peter."
"Yeah? Me too. Nice to meet you, Peter."
He can see the black-suited agents spilling out of the building by now: they look as stunned as he feels to see him alive and unsplattered. He claps a hand on Peter's shoulder and takes a deep breath, surprised that he still can. For the first time in a long while, he feels as if they might actually be helping somebody.
Chuck/Heroes, Mohinder and Sylar in the Buy More
"Let's get this over with as quickly as possible," the accented man hissed - and even from a distance it was pretty hard to miss the venom in his tone. "I don't want to be near you for any longer than I have to."
"Believe me," his friend answered, "the feeling's mutual."
Agent John Casey kept his distance, hidden by the high walls of endless wide-screen televisions. The two men walked down the central aisle of the Buy More, looking out of place with their dark looks and hostile demeanour. They looked like vampires coming into the sunlight, a hard contrast to the bright colours of the store's displays and an even sharper contrast to the eye-catching green polo shirts sported by the resident employees.
Out of place, that was for certain - and around here that never added up to anything good.
"What is it we need anyway?" the pale one asked the other, boredom tinged with amusement as he looked around at the place they'd ended up.
As the two discussed - argued, more like - their future purchases, Casey took the opportunity to slink over to the circular desk belonging to the Nerd Herd. Behind the counter, Chuck looked as busy as ever: building an ever-taller tower out of dead cell phones that had been handed in. Frowning, Casey made sure to knock it over when he leaned against the counter to get the kid's attention. "The couple over there," he said, with the slightest inclination of his head towards the pair. "Any flashes?"
"What? Who?" Chuck looked up, looking around in obvious and attention-drawing confusion before Casey placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back into his seat. God, no wonder this guy needed two agents to defend him - and still found himself in constant mortal peril.
"Two guys who just came in. They're over by the games consoles."
"The guys with Morgan?" Chuck squeaked.
Casey gave him another shove to the shoulder for good measure, then glanced over his shoulder again. Shit. "Yeah, them." If they were bad news, Morgan wasn't going to help matters.
"No. No, nothing. Why? What is it?"
"Nothing. Just checking," Casey answered, turning around and heading back in that direction. Probably nothing more than another pair of this town's weirdos - but with the intersect sitting in the middle of a civilian store, it never hurt to be too careful.
Heroes, Mohinder/Sylar, shopping for furniture
There's a wealth of choices. A whole treasure trove of them. Endless displays and confusing options.
All this, and all he wants is one crib.
One crib for the most special child there'll ever be, Gabriel reminds himself, and the very idea is enough to make him start smiling again. He's surrounded by strangers in a furniture shop that's much larger than any furniture shop has any right to be, yet he's smiling like he's psychotic all over again.
His baby.
His family.
Only a month or so left of waiting now.
His hand brushes over the varnished wood of one of the cribs: it's strong and steady, a piece of furniture designed to last.
And he's happy here, and he's sane, and he's building a future that's real and normal and steady. He's building a life as Gabriel, not Sylar, but there's something missing-
He'd always entertained the idea (far back in the corners of his mind, unacknowledged and unaccepted) that Mohinder might be part of this future, that Mohinder might be part of this family.
(You also, he thinks, thought you might like to destroy the entire world.)
Not his proudest moment, he'll admit.
"Can I help you, sir?" a woman with a name-badge and bright smile asks, appearing at his side.
Gabriel smiles. "Yes," he says, "I'm looking for a crib."
"Well, you're at the right place for that," she confirms with a laugh that feels false.
He lets her guide him through the motions and he sees the beginnings of his nursery starting to form in his minds' eye: a future for him and his child blossoms, but he knows it can't involve that unstable love from his past.
Lost, Desmond/Penny, watching scary movies
She'd seen this movie at least a dozen times already, owned the video, and knew each and every 'scary' moment so well that she could see it coming a mile off. As someone who wore her horror movie fan status with a certain degree of pride among a set of friends who were more interested in pretentious art house movies than anything with a little more bite, she was certainly not the kind of woman who could be expected to cringe at the sight of a little fake blood.
And yet…
Well, maybe tonight was different. Maybe the full moon had startled her; maybe she was superstitious about Halloween; maybe she'd had a bad day; and maybe - just maybe - the temptation of being given the opportunity to curl up at Desmond's side and absorb the protective warmth of his skin was more than enough to make her fake a shriek or two.
"Penny?" he whispered, looking down at her as the camera began to creep through a dark and seemingly empty hallway. "Are you alright? We can watch something else if you'd like."
"I'm fine," she whispered back, though she cuddled closer and was rewarded with his arm curling tightly around her shoulders. "Just fine."
She thought, as they watched another gruesome murder at the hands of the soulless killer, that it was a good thing Desmond was so focused on the movie: her satisfied smirk would otherwise most certainly give her away.
Torchwood, Jack
After the first few hundred years, Jack decided to stop mourning.
Stop missing them, stop mourning them, stop crying.
When the last member of this Torchwood died - bullet to the chest, dead where he stood, no pain, he didn't suffer - Jack didn't go to the funeral. The event would be as alien to him as every other funeral he'd ever attended: something pulled together by the family members, something that had no relation to who they really were, to the people he knew.
When Christian died, Jack got a beer and headed up to the highest roof he could find in the city. He sat on the edge with his legs swinging precariously as he looked across the city: Cardiff had changed a whole lot since the twenty-first century. It was a completely different place by now.
He opened the can of beer - Christian's favourite, always was, remember the time he and Lucy came in still drunk from the night before? What a riot - and he remembered.
More than remembered: he celebrated. He rejoiced in every memory he had and every moment he'd been allowed to spend with them.
"Here's to you, Christian," he said, with a smile that showed deep dimples. "Thank you."
The beer tasted as unpleasant as it usually did but he sat up on the roof until he'd finished it: then it was time to leave, time to move on, time to start recruiting all over again.
Jossverse, Faith, Candy apple
"There. You take one. You take as many as you like!" the Mayor told her, smiling brightly as he brandished the tray at her.
She took a few slow steps further into the room, head tilted to the side curiously. "Candy apples? Little late, isn't it?"
"Oh, it's never too late for a sweet tooth. I thought, with all the work you've been doing for me, that you deserve a treat." His smile was so shiny that it wouldn't have been out of place in a toothpaste commercial. "Come on! They're good, I promise."
She took a hold of one of the wooden sticks and picked it up, raising the candy-encrusted fruit to her mouth to take a bite. It was so sweet it hurt her teeth - she'd been a kid the last time she'd had one of these. So young.
She could feel the Mayor watching her with the same doting expression that would belong on the face of a proud father. Awkwardly, she paused. "Thanks," she said, voice muffled.
"Don't talk with your mouth full, Faith. It's rude," he scolded, frowning, but like always his disapproval passed quickly. Instead he shuffled through the papers on his desk, looking for one in particular. "Now, I have a favour to ask from you. There's a certain artefact coming into Sunnydale tonight. I'd like you to get it for me. Can you do that?"
She covered her mouth with her hand and swallowed, still holding onto the rest of the apple on its stick. "Sure thing, boss. I'm your girl."
At this point, she thought she'd do just about anything he asked her to.
He smiled again, more proud than her parents had ever been when they looked at her, and he held the file out for her. "That you are, Faith," he confirmed with a happy chuckle. "That you are."
There was nothing in the world that could change that now, Faith was sure of that.
Lost/Heroes, Nathan is Sayid's latest target
He has been crouching here for so long now that his knees have become stiff. His finger hasn't so much as twitched from its position on the trigger for well over an hour as he watches, as he waits, as he bides his time.
He doesn't know what this politician has done that warrants this intervention. He doesn't know why Ben wants him taken out - and there was a time when this would have troubled him a lot more than it does now.
There was a time, he knows, when he would have cared about the lives he is sent to take.
That time has passed.
The hotel is in a more public place than Sayid would have liked: the pavements aren't crowded, with only a few people scattered around, but there are still more witnesses than would be ideal. More witnesses - more of a chance of getting caught.
Please, he thinks. He needs someone to stop him.
His body tenses, ready, when the target leaves his hotel. The target has a blonde woman with him and the two are locked in what appears to be an intense conversation. This is the man who survived another assassination attempt weeks ago: Sayid wonders if Ben was behind that one too. It doesn't matter.
The pair of them look around the street uncomfortably as Sayid takes aim from his position high on the rooftop of a building at the other side of the road. They're arguing about something, he can see it clearly through the telescopic lens of his rifle. Arguing, bickering, pointlessly. He tries not to think about how much time he wasted with Shannon like that. These days, he tries not to think of her at all.
The target steps closer to the woman, his arms curling around her waist in an odd embrace. I cannot do this, kill him in the arms of his lover, but his finger tightens on the trigger.
The bullet fires.
The gun is quiet.
The targets aren't there. With a clink of dirt and shattered concrete the bullet hits into the wall behind where the politician's head should have been: and as Sayid watches, he is given the opportunity to watch their escape as the pair soar higher and higher into the sky above them.
Impossible.
It is impossible.
Impossible but happening, it would seem, and Sayid had rather hoped that he'd left such unexplainable events behind him when he escaped from the island's clutches.
They disappear through the air leaving a puffy white trail as the man flies faster than Sayid's eyes can follow. His grip relaxes on his gun - his fingers hurt, clenched too long - and he takes a moment to come to terms with the unreality he has found himself plunged into.
Just a moment. That is all he'll take.
His hand reaches for his cell phone and he calls the only number he has saved. "Ben," he says curtly, "I think we need to talk, don't you?"
For once in his life, he thinks as he stares up to the clear blue skies, he'd like some answers.
Lost, Claire/Juliet, Claire is scared and Juliet makes her feel better
Claire can feel the thumpthumpthump of her heart beating madly.
She can hear the tropical rainstorm thundering outside.
The room is dark. The room is still. The room is quiet.
It is safe - but she is not.
Her breath flickers more fragilely than a moth's wings and her eyes stare into the black. Something is coming. Someone is coming.
Always.
"Claire," Juliet murmurs, her voice sleep-soaked but concerned. "Claire, it's okay."
It's okay.
One year spent in a cabin with the dead and she's okay.
Juliet's soft fingers pull the blonde sheet of hair back from her face, leaving her neck bare for Juliet to kiss. Her lips are warm, are hot, are gentle. "You're okay, Claire. I promise."
And she's not dead.
Not dead.
That's as okay as they can get.
Her hand finds Juliet's and their fingers lace like tangled string.
"I know," she says. "I'm not scared."
Liar, but it's a lie Juliet doesn't call her on.
"Go to sleep, Claire," Juliet suggests. "I'll be here in the morning."
She nods, her head shuffling on the pillow.
She doesn't sleep, but the pounding of her heart evens as Juliet's breathing begins to level out to a quiet rhythm of rest. Claire lies silently and stares at the wall: with Juliet's hand still held in hers, the darkness seems a little lighter.
Heroes, Mohinder/Sylar, 5YG
He's halfway towards sleep by the time the bed shifts, creaks and Nathan's warm body slips under the covers behind him. Mohinder grudgingly opens one eye to look at the clock that sits on his bedside table: it's long past midnight. The sun will probably be rising in a few hours.
"'everything alright?" he mumbles, starting to turn to face him before Nathan's hand touches his hip to stop him, holding him in place. Nathan nestles behind him, his body a cloak. "It's late."
"I was busy," Nathan answers.
He's the President - Mohinder doesn't get to question him any more than that.
He grumbles in reply and closes his eyes again, drifting away before he feels the determined brush of Nathan's hand over his skin. His fingertips are always so cold.
"Nathan," Mohinder complains, "we've both got to be at work in a few hours."
"Then we'd better be quick." Nathan smiles against his skin, warm as sunshine.
Mohinder's too tired for this, but he doesn't object and can't make himself push Nathan away: he's too weak-willed when it comes to the velvet feel of Nathan's lips. "And how exactly are you going to explain it when you come in looking like you haven't slept?"
"I don't need to explain myself," Nathan points out, with a tickling laugh. "I'm the president, Mohinder. I don't need to explain myself to anyone."
Mohinder laughs in agreement and rolls his eyes, ready to let Nathan have his impatient way with him - but if he's honest, truly honest, he'd admit that Nathan's skill with his tongue isn't the only reason that he feels a cold shiver running down his spine.
Hollyoaks, John Paul/Kieron, sky-diving
"I can't believe you just did that," John Paul says, laughing, as they walk on unsteady feet away from the sky-diving site.
"What?" Kieron teases, his arm finding its way around his boyfriend's (husband's, god, husband's, he's still getting used to that) shoulders, "did you think I'd chicken out?"
"You?" John Paul questions. His eyebrows rise innocently. "Big, brave, manly you? Of course not."
The grin that worms its way onto his face is little short of wicked.
"You're insufferable, you know that?" he accuses, a warm whisper that tickles by John Paul's ear. He can feel the heat from John Paul's skin, and with the adrenaline still pumping hard and strong throughout him he can't wait to get back to their hotel room.
"Yeah, I know," John Paul says, his grin never flickering, "but you'd better get used to suffering. I'm not going anywhere."
He turns his head to catch Kieron's mouth with his own. They stop walking, holding onto each other instead, and with the comforting tease of John Paul's mouth Kieron knows that he's never going to get bored of this. He can only smile helplessly into the kiss and wonder what the next day of their honeymoon (the next day our life together) is going to bring.
Lost, Sawyer/Kevin, cupcakes
He came home to a house that smelt like home - warm and cosy with the scent of fresh baking flowing through the hallway to the front door. Sawyer frowned, closing the door quietly behind him. Baking?
"Kevin?" he called uneasily, walking through to their kitchen.
He saw it then. There was a plate of iced cupcakes sitting on the kitchen table, neatly arranged in a little circle. They'd been slathered with icing - pink icing, he noticed with a quirk of one eyebrow - and their proud baker was leaning against the counter on the other side of the room, wiping his hands on a towel while avoiding the mammoth heap of dishes waiting to be cleaned in the sink.
"This is kinda domestic even for you, hero," Sawyer said, once he managed to clear his head enough to say anything at all.
"I felt like baking."
"I can see that." Sawyer looked down at the plate again, wondering if he ought to check them for poison or just chuck them into the bin straight away…
They did look good, though.
"You got any particular reason for it?" he checked.
Kevin smiled - that soft smile of his, gentle enough to prove that he wouldn't know how to hurt Sawyer if his life depended on it - and shrugged. "It's my birthday."
"It's… What?" Shit. Three months living together and he still didn't know something as fundamental as that? Sawyer was pretty sure that that was the kind of thing that would qualify him for a 'worst boyfriend ever' award. "I- uh… I didn't know. Sorry."
"No problem." Kevin placed the towel in his hands down on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm sure you'll figure out a way to go about making it up to me."
And that smile, that innocent smile, it was starting to look a whole lot less innocent.
Sawyer took that as an invitation to cross the room, close as he could get, to lick the sugar-sweet frosting from the side of Kevin's mouth. "Well, happy birthday," he murmured without backing away.
As Kevin chuckled, one large hand resting on the edge of Sawyer's hip, Sawyer decided that he was going to make sure that this was one birthday that neither would forget in a long, long while.
Lost, Bonnie/Greta
"Bonnie," she complains when she finds herself shoved roughly against the wall of their bedroom. Bonnie's hands have a stranger's blood on them and there's a keen sense of madness that shines from her blue eyes. "Bonnie, it's okay. It's okay."
But it's not.
It is really not okay.
She's seen the violent side of Bonnie now; she's seen what happens when the rage boils over. The blood on that poor man's face… She feels sure that Bonnie would kill him, given the chance. Her arm worms between them and she places her hand on Bonnie's cheek, wiping away tears that aren't there.
"You must think I'm a monster," Bonnie whispers - the words are tight like a trigger.
"No," Greta promises, "never." She pulls her closer, lips brushing hesitantly against Bonnie's. When they kiss, soft and rough at once, she wishes there was a way that she could kiss away all that pain, that frustration, that anger.
She wishes she could make this better.
Fringe/Heroes, Peter meeting Peter
When he opens his eyes again he's lying on his back - and he is, surprisingly, not dead, which is certainly an improved state compared to what he'd been expecting.
Falling from a building easily the height of two double-decker buses and surviving is one hell of a thing: Peter thinks, when he sits up and winces at the bruises he's sure must be forming all over him by this point, that he should be glad that he isn't just one ugly smear on the pavement right now.
And why isn't he, actually?
There'd been a guy up there with him - a guy who'd fallen too…
A guy who is currently on his feet, looking up at the length they'd fallen together without a scratch on him.
There's dried blood, sure, but no actual wounds. No signs that the impact against the ground - and he'd hit it first, hadn't he? He'd cushioned the fall for Peter.
Shit.
Peter gets to his feet with an awkward groan - the whistling pain in his back is something that he just knows is going to feel even worse after a night spent sleeping on a couch in his hotel suite.
"I think I owe you a 'thank you'," he says to the stranger.
The young man looks at him, dazed, before back up at the huge length they'd fallen. "Um. It's no problem. Really."
"Yeah, I can see that." He limps closer, hoping that Olivia and the other agents make it down here before this guy decides to run off: in the state he's currently in, Peter doesn't think that he's at all able to run after him. "Are you going to tell me how you did that?"
"I can…" He gestures vaguely. "I can do stuff."
"Uh-huh. Stuff." It looks as if that is the most detailed explanation that he's likely to get. "Look, I really can't believe I'm about to say this, but… I think my father could help you."
"Your father?"
"Trust me." He shakes his head in disbelief, not sure why anybody would trust him, but the stranger quirks a relieved smile at him, as if he's been waiting for someone to say those words. "What's your name?" he asks.
"Peter."
"Yeah? Me too. Nice to meet you, Peter."
He can see the black-suited agents spilling out of the building by now: they look as stunned as he feels to see him alive and unsplattered. He claps a hand on Peter's shoulder and takes a deep breath, surprised that he still can. For the first time in a long while, he feels as if they might actually be helping somebody.