Recalibrating
Characters/Pairing: Mohinder and Sylar
Rating: G
Words: 1000
Spoilers: Season 1
Warnings: Pointlessness and product placement
Summary: The boys have an argument while driving.
A/N: Written very quickly, so my apologies. I'm terribly bored at work, and this has always been a nagging question in my mind about Mylar fics.
“I think we’re almost there.” Sylar tapped his fingers on the dashboard and squirmed in his seat. He couldn't wait for a chance to stretch his legs after hours in the car.
“And not a moment too soon,” Mohinder replied without taking his eyes off the road. “We’re apparently only forty miles away from Boston.”
Sylar forced himself to pay attention to the sides of the darkening road, scanning for signs. “Yeah, we should start looking around for a motel starting from now. I’m---“
Sylar was cut off by Mohinder suddenly swerving into the breakdown lane and stopping the car. “No!” he yelled.
“What? What’s wrong?” Sylar asked, preparing himself for an attack of some sort, since he couldn’t figure out what else would have set Mohinder off like this. Now a finger was being wagged in his face.
Mohinder exploded. “I refuse to spend one more night of my life in a grungy motel. I absolutely refuse. Why do you always insist on this?”
“I---I don’t. It’s just---“ Sylar was stunned into stammering. That was the last thing he had expected.
Mohinder had not finished venting. “Just because that’s where we stayed that first time doesn’t mean we have to keep sleeping in these filthy, god-awful excuses for lodging. Has it ever occurred to you to stay somewhere else?”
Sylar pulled on his coat sleeves and felt rebuked. “Well, no actually. I always thought it was fine with you. I didn’t think you cared. I thought you liked it,” he finished in a whisper. Sylar had always felt a secret kind of nostalgia for motels, ever since their first roadtrip together. Staying in them now helped him to pretend that he was back in that time, when Mohinder genuinely liked him for himself, before antagonism and anger had entered their relationship. He had always hoped Mohinder felt the same way, but apparently, he didn't.
“Well, I do care, and I don't like it.” Mohinder breathed, having finally released a frustration he had repressed for weeks.
Sylar dissected the other man with his eyes, and he willed the familiar smirk to return to his features. “Wow, all this time on the road and I’m only just now finding out what a snob you are.”
“It has nothing to do with snobbery, just good sense,” Mohinder retorted. “Not only are we perfectly well funded at the moment, but it simply doesn't make good economic sense to stay in these places.”
Sylar looked confused. “What do you mean? They’re the cheapest.”
Mohinder groaned. “Ugh, why don’t you ever use your brain for anything useful while you’re sitting there?”
Sylar wasn't going to stand for this anymore. “Actually, I do. While we’re having a temper tantrum session---“
“This is not a temper tantrum!”
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, how about I drive sometimes? Don’t you think it gets kind of boring sitting here all day, watching your bad driving?”
“I am not a bad driver!” Mohinder retorted.
“You still think you’re in England or something where they go in the other direction. You’re always looking the wrong way. If you knew how many times I’ve had to TK cars that were going to hit us out of the way, or how many times I’ve TK’d pedestrians to safety.”
“I didn’t think you gave a shit about anyone else.” Now Mohinder was the one feeling chastened. He had always thought he had acclimated surprisingly well to American driving. Now that he thought of it, there had been a few close calls, but he had always attributed them to good luck. Apparently no.
“I don’t. I just don’t want us to be pulled over. A foreigner known to the FBI for suspicious activity and a guy wanted for matricide? A cop would get promoted for that.”
Mohinder pursed his lips. “Moving along. As I was saying. How much are we paying for these motels? About $80 a night, right? Meanwhile, we could stay in a Sheraton in the city center, for only $90. That’s where we’re going tonight.”
“How is that possible?” New worlds had been opened to Sylar. Mohinder could see it in the other man’s eyes, and softened a bit.
“Hotwire.com. I pulled it up on my Blackberry.” Mohinder held up the tiny webpage triumphantly.
“Crackberry,” Sylar muttered under his breath. Mohinder’s fascination and devotion to the device had been the cause of much jealousy and a few passive-aggressive arguments between them.
“I heard that, Gray. As I was saying, now I can sleep in a bed that doesn’t sag and smell of smoke. And you can watch your precious Discovery Channel on some cable television. Ok?” It was formed as a question, but Sylar knew there was only one answer.
“Yes, Mohinder,” he whispered, and looked at his companion with a kind of awe.
“And while I’m at it, I also absolutely refuse to eat in one more diner. How can you live on that shit? Pancakes and waffles for lunch? Preposterous! Sloppy joes for dinner? Never again. If I see another hamburger again, it’ll be too soon. We’re having something civilized and French for dinner tonight and Northern Italian for lunch tomorrow---no pizza!--- and sushi for dinner tomorrow night.”
Sylar sighed, but knew he had no leg to stand on. “Fine.”
Mohinder smiled and turned the car back on. As they pulled onto the highway again, he smiled and offered, “You can choose the music.” Mohinder had always been secretly nostalgic about the way "Zane" had picked the music back on their original trip. It reminded him of simpler times, and had only been reinforced when he discovered on this recent mission that Sylar liked the same sort of music that an angry Mohinder had later convinced himself had all been part of the act.
“I always do,” Sylar replied. He smiled, but inside he was a little bit perturbed. Those keycard hotel doors were harder to pick with telekinesis than the regular lock-and-key motel rooms. He had to figure out a new way of sneaking into Mohinder’s room that night. The little temper tantrum had gotten him all hot and bothered, and with the promise of French wine that evening, perhaps something more interesting than the usual (ie., nothing) might be in the offing.
I ended up writing a sequel...