(no subject)
This pairing is eating my brain, I swear. Noah, Mohinder, and some post-coital he-bitchery.
Title: Tea and Black Coffee
Rating: R
Pairings: Bennet/Mohinder, Bennet/Sandra
Spoilers: None
Summary: From the shade of his still-warm side of the bed Mohinder observed - not watched, never watched - him dress.
“I didn’t realize that you slept with married men, Dr. Suresh.”
Making an indignant face Mohinder turned, sighing inaudibly against the skin-warmed surface of the pillowcase. “I don’t sleep with married men,” he corrected, voice thinning in feigned patience. “I’m not sleeping with anyone. I don’t have the luxury of time for that sort of thing. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Except that perhaps it was, but he wasn't about to admit that in any event.
The smile - so much that it was - that crept towards the corners of Bennet’s mouth was devious in its intent, the warmth of the body beside Mohinder ebbing away with the creaking of mattress springs. He ignored it determinedly as Bennet rose to stand from the bed without another remark.
He dressed in silence, finding first the discarded wool slacks that slid up his hips in some false display of modesty. From the shade of his still-warm side of the bed Mohinder observed - not watched, never watched - him dress, with the kind of silent admiration that could only come when the sunlight coming through the curtains licked the length of his body.
It illuminated the expanse of his back to catch in the harsh lines edging his spine and shoulder blades. Time had made itself known in each scar and tiny nick, engrained in faded stitches and dimples in the outline of bullet wounds. They each told stories of things that made his mind turn curiously, mulling over the details of rarely mentioned exploits that Bennet often filed under “before” or “in the old days,” with a little shifting glance towards his silent former partner that left Mohinder feeling as though he’d been sent to the children’s table.
Shifting in the still-warm sheets, it brought an itch to Mohinder’s fingertips as the now wrinkled blue button-up shirt slid over Bennet’s shoulders to cover them up, remembering how it felt an hour ago to strip it off, muscles sliding beneath warm skin and fabric stiff beneath the attention of keen fingers. The way his knees seemed to fit around broad definition of hipbone when he tried not to think of Sandra when he met her in December in Odessa, looking lovingly at her husband from over the tea and black coffee sitting on the kitchen counter. The insistent fingers pressing into the small of his back as he cursed and fussed hastily with his mobile phone, hitting the “off” button as it rang in his trouser pocket, not wanting to hear whatever errand or smiling deceit Bob had in store for him on the other end.
Just because “Can’t talk now, having sex with one of your former employees, I believe you’ve met him: he shot Thompson in the back of the head at Kirby Plaza” wasn’t the kind of thing he ever wanted to have to explain, to anyone, let alone to Bob. It still sounded better than “having sex with a married man,” if only on face value, but that was an issue for another day.
Biting at the corner of his bottom lip absently, Mohinder propped himself on an elbow. Then perhaps he wasn’t observing quite so much as he was watching. But only for a moment, or two, just until Bennet turned to look over his shoulder, buttoning up his collar.
“Are you coming?” He looked as though he knew more than he was going to say. Then again, Bennet always looked like that.
Swallowing down, Mohinder’s adam’s apple bobbed tensely, but it didn’t betray the polite, self-conscious lift at the corner of his mouth. At least he assured himself it wouldn’t.
“Yes,” he answered, “of course.”
Even if it had…well. Just once couldn’t hurt.
Title: Tea and Black Coffee
Rating: R
Pairings: Bennet/Mohinder, Bennet/Sandra
Spoilers: None
Summary: From the shade of his still-warm side of the bed Mohinder observed - not watched, never watched - him dress.
“I didn’t realize that you slept with married men, Dr. Suresh.”
Making an indignant face Mohinder turned, sighing inaudibly against the skin-warmed surface of the pillowcase. “I don’t sleep with married men,” he corrected, voice thinning in feigned patience. “I’m not sleeping with anyone. I don’t have the luxury of time for that sort of thing. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Except that perhaps it was, but he wasn't about to admit that in any event.
The smile - so much that it was - that crept towards the corners of Bennet’s mouth was devious in its intent, the warmth of the body beside Mohinder ebbing away with the creaking of mattress springs. He ignored it determinedly as Bennet rose to stand from the bed without another remark.
He dressed in silence, finding first the discarded wool slacks that slid up his hips in some false display of modesty. From the shade of his still-warm side of the bed Mohinder observed - not watched, never watched - him dress, with the kind of silent admiration that could only come when the sunlight coming through the curtains licked the length of his body.
It illuminated the expanse of his back to catch in the harsh lines edging his spine and shoulder blades. Time had made itself known in each scar and tiny nick, engrained in faded stitches and dimples in the outline of bullet wounds. They each told stories of things that made his mind turn curiously, mulling over the details of rarely mentioned exploits that Bennet often filed under “before” or “in the old days,” with a little shifting glance towards his silent former partner that left Mohinder feeling as though he’d been sent to the children’s table.
Shifting in the still-warm sheets, it brought an itch to Mohinder’s fingertips as the now wrinkled blue button-up shirt slid over Bennet’s shoulders to cover them up, remembering how it felt an hour ago to strip it off, muscles sliding beneath warm skin and fabric stiff beneath the attention of keen fingers. The way his knees seemed to fit around broad definition of hipbone when he tried not to think of Sandra when he met her in December in Odessa, looking lovingly at her husband from over the tea and black coffee sitting on the kitchen counter. The insistent fingers pressing into the small of his back as he cursed and fussed hastily with his mobile phone, hitting the “off” button as it rang in his trouser pocket, not wanting to hear whatever errand or smiling deceit Bob had in store for him on the other end.
Just because “Can’t talk now, having sex with one of your former employees, I believe you’ve met him: he shot Thompson in the back of the head at Kirby Plaza” wasn’t the kind of thing he ever wanted to have to explain, to anyone, let alone to Bob. It still sounded better than “having sex with a married man,” if only on face value, but that was an issue for another day.
Biting at the corner of his bottom lip absently, Mohinder propped himself on an elbow. Then perhaps he wasn’t observing quite so much as he was watching. But only for a moment, or two, just until Bennet turned to look over his shoulder, buttoning up his collar.
“Are you coming?” He looked as though he knew more than he was going to say. Then again, Bennet always looked like that.
Swallowing down, Mohinder’s adam’s apple bobbed tensely, but it didn’t betray the polite, self-conscious lift at the corner of his mouth. At least he assured himself it wouldn’t.
“Yes,” he answered, “of course.”
Even if it had…well. Just once couldn’t hurt.