a short Mylar bedtime story
Title: Grounded
Author: errandofmercy
Pairing(s), Character(s): Mylar
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: Sylar can't disengage. Mohinder can't relax. They find relief in each other.
Disclaimer: not mine!
Word Count: 720
The kitchenette was dark except for the Dell notebook's tireless, otherworldly glow. It leveled its milky gaze at a row of dormant pots and pans, filtering sullenly past Sylar's hooded head to inspect their crusty decrepitude. Somebody ought to clean up this dump. The killer pushed aside the nagging urge to fix and narrowed his eyes at the screen.
Below his sniffling nose, a tapestry of suffering was unfolding across the sleek liquid crystal display. Names, addresses, dossiers, and mugshots flitted past his inky eyes and etched themselves like smoldering henna into a newly eidetic memory. This list held so much potential... Sylar felt a manic flutter seize his hollow chest at the thought of the power within. He continued to scan, wondering towards which destiny it would sweep him...
He did not notice the stringy, sleepy form draped across the far doorway, or the incongruously haggard expression it wore. The voice startled him when it finally stirred (why didn't I notice him?) and shattered his focus like a cheap Christmas ornament underfoot.
“I hope you're playing Solitaire.” Weariness and anger made a murky cocktail in the Indian's war-torn throat as he leaned, willow-like, against the frame. “Trust is earned, you know. I thought we were going to look at that list together.”
Sylar flinched internally, a deeply-buried guilt reflex jerking to life at the sting of Mohinder's defeat. He shifted his weight, eliciting a sharp squeak from the disintegrating relic that was his seat. “I couldn't wait,” he replied in a voice kept carefully cool and amoral. His bottomless gaze floated up to meet Mohinder's, whose eyes held the red, raw quality of a man learning the lifestyle of terror. The Indian scratched at his head uncertainly.
“Well, now that you've seen it,” he croaked, “will you please... come to bed?” Both of them could hear the incredulous self-loathing beneath the simple invitation. Sylar all but watched as the Hundred Deadly Questions spun through Mohinder's threadbare thoughts: How did it come to this? What on earth am I doing? Will I ever sleep soundly again? If he holds me long enough will I finally stop worrying? Unconsciously the scientist wrung his spindly hands, searching for a tactile comfort, a thumb ring, which was not there.
In an instant of lightning-fast contemplation, Sylar weighed his options. There were many (to be nearly immortal and all-powerful widens the scope of possibility,) but he opted out of the path of violence and settled on the two most reasonable choices - to assert his will and continue with the list, or to go to Mohinder and reinforce his commitment to what was becoming a tentative partnership. But he idea of the Indian's warm, supine form sculpted to his seemed to soothe his racing mind, and he relented - all in the blink of a dry, nearsighted amber eye.
“Okay.” In a gesture of humility, Sylar closed the laptop's single unblinking eye with his own hand and made his way gently to the door, where he paused to warm his nose in the hollow of Mohinder's smooth, fragrant neck. They enjoyed a small synchronized sigh at the contact, drifting towards the rumpled bed that served as both battlefield and refuge. Despite the psychological turmoil that had pervaded his relfections, tension slipped like a cloak unfastened from Mohinder's stiff shoulders as they settled into their nest of blankets. It took a moment for him to realize, with a mixture of panic and delight, that he was the lucky recipient of the world's first telekinetic neck massage. Tired of ruminating about the evils of the man's power, he buried his head in Sylar's embrace and focused all his attention on the slow, rhythmic movements liberating his worry-worn body.
Sylar watched in wonder, in his mind's eye, as the whirling centrifuge of thoughts and desires that he contended with daily began to slow and settle with each of Mohinder's quiet exhalations. The warm dampness of his breath collected at the base of Sylar's neck like an amulet, warding off the mania that came with his power and replacing it with a feeling he had long yearned for, but never been able to name. In this moment, so simple and yet infinitely complex, for the first time in his life, he felt grounded.
Comments and criticism are always welcome :) ilu guys <3
Author: errandofmercy
Pairing(s), Character(s): Mylar
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: Sylar can't disengage. Mohinder can't relax. They find relief in each other.
Disclaimer: not mine!
Word Count: 720
The kitchenette was dark except for the Dell notebook's tireless, otherworldly glow. It leveled its milky gaze at a row of dormant pots and pans, filtering sullenly past Sylar's hooded head to inspect their crusty decrepitude. Somebody ought to clean up this dump. The killer pushed aside the nagging urge to fix and narrowed his eyes at the screen.
Below his sniffling nose, a tapestry of suffering was unfolding across the sleek liquid crystal display. Names, addresses, dossiers, and mugshots flitted past his inky eyes and etched themselves like smoldering henna into a newly eidetic memory. This list held so much potential... Sylar felt a manic flutter seize his hollow chest at the thought of the power within. He continued to scan, wondering towards which destiny it would sweep him...
He did not notice the stringy, sleepy form draped across the far doorway, or the incongruously haggard expression it wore. The voice startled him when it finally stirred (why didn't I notice him?) and shattered his focus like a cheap Christmas ornament underfoot.
“I hope you're playing Solitaire.” Weariness and anger made a murky cocktail in the Indian's war-torn throat as he leaned, willow-like, against the frame. “Trust is earned, you know. I thought we were going to look at that list together.”
Sylar flinched internally, a deeply-buried guilt reflex jerking to life at the sting of Mohinder's defeat. He shifted his weight, eliciting a sharp squeak from the disintegrating relic that was his seat. “I couldn't wait,” he replied in a voice kept carefully cool and amoral. His bottomless gaze floated up to meet Mohinder's, whose eyes held the red, raw quality of a man learning the lifestyle of terror. The Indian scratched at his head uncertainly.
“Well, now that you've seen it,” he croaked, “will you please... come to bed?” Both of them could hear the incredulous self-loathing beneath the simple invitation. Sylar all but watched as the Hundred Deadly Questions spun through Mohinder's threadbare thoughts: How did it come to this? What on earth am I doing? Will I ever sleep soundly again? If he holds me long enough will I finally stop worrying? Unconsciously the scientist wrung his spindly hands, searching for a tactile comfort, a thumb ring, which was not there.
In an instant of lightning-fast contemplation, Sylar weighed his options. There were many (to be nearly immortal and all-powerful widens the scope of possibility,) but he opted out of the path of violence and settled on the two most reasonable choices - to assert his will and continue with the list, or to go to Mohinder and reinforce his commitment to what was becoming a tentative partnership. But he idea of the Indian's warm, supine form sculpted to his seemed to soothe his racing mind, and he relented - all in the blink of a dry, nearsighted amber eye.
“Okay.” In a gesture of humility, Sylar closed the laptop's single unblinking eye with his own hand and made his way gently to the door, where he paused to warm his nose in the hollow of Mohinder's smooth, fragrant neck. They enjoyed a small synchronized sigh at the contact, drifting towards the rumpled bed that served as both battlefield and refuge. Despite the psychological turmoil that had pervaded his relfections, tension slipped like a cloak unfastened from Mohinder's stiff shoulders as they settled into their nest of blankets. It took a moment for him to realize, with a mixture of panic and delight, that he was the lucky recipient of the world's first telekinetic neck massage. Tired of ruminating about the evils of the man's power, he buried his head in Sylar's embrace and focused all his attention on the slow, rhythmic movements liberating his worry-worn body.
Sylar watched in wonder, in his mind's eye, as the whirling centrifuge of thoughts and desires that he contended with daily began to slow and settle with each of Mohinder's quiet exhalations. The warm dampness of his breath collected at the base of Sylar's neck like an amulet, warding off the mania that came with his power and replacing it with a feeling he had long yearned for, but never been able to name. In this moment, so simple and yet infinitely complex, for the first time in his life, he felt grounded.
Comments and criticism are always welcome :) ilu guys <3