![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aunt_zeldaTitle: In Over Your Head
Rating: PG-13-ish
Pairing, Characters: Mylar, tiny bit of Matt/Mohinder, hinted Elle/OFC, OMC/OMC, Molly
Word Count: 2,261 (aprox.)
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes, Tim Kring does. I make no money off of this, blah blah blah.
Spoilers: V2.
A/N: This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cerebel 's birthday, which was the 19th, and I am soooooo jealous that her b-day is on Talk Like A Pirate Day. Seriously, how awesome is that?!
Anyhoodle, this is my last fic before the premiere of V3 (which is tomorrow, SQUEE!) cerebral gave me no prompt, just told me to "go crazy." As you can see, I kinda did. Written in Second-Person, which I find kinda creepy but have discovered works rather well. Even though there isn't much to steal, I'd rather people didn't take my OCs.
Comments are love!
(Edit: added in the italisizing. Stupid TextEdit, stupid HTML font, how I wish I were a computer genius.)
You step out of the shadows without a second thought and take a few tentative steps towards him. He's crouched over a bloody corpse in the alleyway and had just begun to straighten up when you decided to make your presence known.
"Doctor Suresh ..." he inclines his head ever so slightly - half mocking, half respectful. You can tell by the tilt of his head that he's been momentarily caught off-guard by your sudden appearance.
"Mr. Sylar ..." you know you should probably smile here but can't, not yet. You're not entirely sure that these next minutes won't be your last.
There's a pause. In the distance cars rumble along; you flinch as one drives through the remnants of today's rain: the splash is deafening, even from this distance.
"Why are you here, Mohinder?" he asks you, head cocked curtly to one side.
You try to meet his gaze and can't. When he invaded your home, when he tortured you, when you tortured him: you knew where the two of you stood. You knew who had the power and who didn't, you could predict what was going to happen. Now you're adrift, lost at sea, the sails in tatters and no rudder to speak of.
"I ... I wanted to see you." It's the truth, but it sounds wrong. If only you had the power to reverse time ... well, any power at this point would suffice.
"Why?" it's not harsh, but it's not completely free of danger either.
"Because ..." for a second, your resolve slips. You feel yourself sinking back into your other self: the self that wants him dead for all he's done and all he's done to you. You are about to propose something your other self would consider despicable, if he considered it at all.
You draw a deep breath. "Because I want to make a deal."
At this point you're addressing his left shoulder. You see him shift his weight from foot to foot, but still can't bring yourself to look up into his eyes.
"What kind of deal?"
You inwardly sigh with relief: one hurdle down, another million to go. "I ... I'm in over my head, Sylar. The Company's falling apart. They can't control the ... the dangerous people with abilities anymore ... you've seen all that stuff on TV ... and ... and agents are showing up dead left right and center. Ones with powers and ones like me. And I know it's not just you doing it. I -" your breath catches. What if Sylar is leading the rouge specials against the Company? What if you've played right into his hands?
"Oh, Mohinder ..." he laughs darkly. "If I wanted you dead, I'd have done it long ago."
"I know that!" you snap without thinking: the time to tread lightly is over. "Why else would I have sought you out?" you steel yourself and raise your head to look him square in the eyes. You have the sudden understanding of what a mouse feels like when it's paralyzed by a snake. "I'm afraid, Sylar. I'm more afraid of them than I am of you."
"Ah ..." he breaks the gaze, and you feel like staggering backward. "'Better the devil you know than the devil you don't' ... so you want my help?"
You nod, not daring to look into his eyes again.
He laughs. He laughs long and hard, but not cruelly. You wait patiently, nails digging into your sweaty palms.
And suddenly he's slammed you against the alley wall. His body is grinding against yours; his hands are around your wrists, pinning them above your heads.
"Why do you think you can trust me, doctor?" his breath is tickling your ear. You want to sigh and wrench away at the same time but do neither.
Instead you take a deep breath, trying to collect your thoughts: Matt confessing to you "in his own sick, twisted way, Sylar loves you, Mohinder. Use that if you have to ..." and awkwardly kissing you goodbye. Molly whispering "he's been on the fire-escape for the last few weeks ... but he hasn't done anything. Why hasn't he hurt us, Mohinder?" Even though they drove away to God-knows-where weeks ago, you still aren't sure if you're doing the right thing.
"Because I know you want me."
That makes him let go of your wrists. He's still pressed against you, though.
You slide one of your hands into his pants, groping around in a blur of desperation and hope.
To your relief he doesn't kill you for touching him so personally. You see his face crumple and his shoulders loose a fraction of tension.
Suddenly he whirls the two of you around and grips your shoulders so tightly that you can almost see the bruises.
"Fine, you want protection ... and you're willing to pay." he shoves you to the ground, hard. Your knees hit the damp pavement; tears spring to your eyes.
"Oh, I like this ..." he weaves his fingers through your hair, idly contemplating you: kneeling before him. "So many possebilities ... so very little time ..."
A siren wails in the distance; a woman screams a few blocks away. You flinch, but glance up at his face to check. He nods, and you get to work on unzipping his pants.
~*~
To everyone else, you seem the same as always: you work in the lab, you donate blood to people with the Shanti Virus, you make weekly calls to Matt and Molly with the assistance of a coma patient who can act as a two-way radio. You hide in closets and under desks when a prisoner escapes or an escapee comes back to exact vengence. You comfort Elle and tell her everything will be alright, all the while glaring over her shoulder at her father, even though Bob looks like he's aged thirty years since you met him.
And, in truth, you are the same. Whenever someone mentions Sylar you wince and remind people of how much you despise him: the man who used you and drove your last vestiges of family into hiding. There's a photograph of your father on top of your desk and a gun taped underneath it.
Some nights, though, you become a different person. When Sylar crawls into your bed you don't resist his touch; you kiss him willingly, clinging to the only tangible thing in your life. You never have to lie to him, you never have to reassure him: he reassures you. He's the only one you can trust because you know his motivations, know how to please him or calm him down. You prefer the nights because you can never clearly make out his face and, deep down, you still hate yourself for doing this. You're not sure if it's because he's a murderer or because he's a man.
In return for those nights (and sometimes quickies during the day) you are never attacked by rouge specials. No one has ever accosted you in your home, though once or twice you have opened the door to find Sylar furiously mopping up a large amount of blood. On those occasions, you turn around and wait outside in the hallway.
You've always been good at compartmentalizing, so good it sometimes scares you. What if someday your barriers break and you completely fall apart? You feel a sudden kinship with Niki Sanders; understand how horrific it was for her to live as two people, how emotionally draining the process was.
You aren't sure how long you can continue this, but it's all you've got.
~*~
"Don't go to work today."
You consider the phone, then hold it back up to the side of your head. "Dare I ask why?" your tone is calm, but inside you dread the answer.
"It's going to be ... bad. Very bad. Your research is safe, though."
You wonder what is so horrible that Sylar would risk going into the Company and taking your research. "Can ... can I warn anyone?"
There's a pause, then he says "If you've got friends there, tell them to get out now."
"Where do I tell them to go?!" in your mind's eye you see piles of bodies with Company name tags.
"If anyone makes it to your apartment ... I'll protect them too."
With a 'click' the line goes dead.
You glance at the clock. It's eight-thirty. Every member left of the Company are at the offices right now.
Elle's silver-bell laugh rings in your ears, and suddenly you're dialing the Loft, where you know she will be.
You can't save everyone, you can barely save yourself, but at this point you'll save anyone.
~*~
There are five people in your apartment. Elle; Ben: a man Noah Bennet told you to trust; Julia and Anne: two women who helped you in the lab; and Mark: a middle-aged man with the ability to power electronics. Noah himself went missing a month ago; the rest of the Bennets and Peter went missing at the same time. You have yet to work up the courage to ask Sylar whether he was responsible.
Outside, the city is falling apart. The news blames the explosions and gruesome murders on terrorists, but you and the people in this apartment know better. The streets are clogged with traffic; people are either fleeing or looting or hiding in their basements.
You have not seen or heard from Sylar in a week, not since he called to warn you about the mass-attack on the Company. Something awful happened there, but nobody's willing to talk about it: Anne has a broken arm; Ben is missing an eye; when you asked Elle about her father she fried the carpet.
"Even the pigeons have gone ..." Mark observes one day. "Is that like rats deserting a ship?"
You shrug, and go out on a another food-run with Elle and Ben.
An hour later you return to find Anne dead on the floor. Julia has bad burns and is missing a hand. Mark is gone.
There's a note on the kitchen table: too many. so sorry. - S
After that, you all go out on food runs, as a team. You seldom see other people on the streets: perhaps it is your numbers that scare others away, or the fact that Elle's hands crackle with visible electricity whenever they set foot out of the apartment.
Three nights after you lost Mark and Anne, Sylar arrives.
He knocks Elle unconcious and telekinetically flings Ben and Julia aside, ignoring you for the moment.
You stand up slowly, taking in the fresh scars on Sylar's face, the rips and tears in his clothing, and the unkemptness of his usually imaculate hair.
He's leaning over Elle and raises a hand. You've seen this before, you know what's going to happen.
"Sylar ... please."
He slowly pivots on the spot, and you gasp at the haunted look in his eyes. For the briefest of seconds, you fear for your life. He has changed out there, more than you have changed, cooped up in this apartment for the past two weeks.
"Why, Mohinder?" his voice is odd, and you notice cracks around his lips and the bags under his eyes.
"Because ... she trusted me to keep her safe."
He stares at you. Julia is crying silently, clinging to Ben in the background. Ben's single eye is half acusitory, half understanding.
You slowly turn your back on all of them and take a cup from the cupboard. As you prepare the tea you feel your shoulders tense up. He could kill you right now. He will probably kill Elle, and there is nothing you can do about that. You feel a stab of regret for the fates of Ben and Julia. During a tragedy like this you get to know people more in two weeks than you do in two years, and though you deserve this, and Elle probably deserves this, Ben and Julia do not.
After an eternity, you turn around to face him. He hasn't killed Elle. He hasn't even moved.
You take three tiny steps towards him and hold out the tea. "I promise it isn't drugged."
He take it and drains it in a single gulp. He drops the cup, steps over Elle, and pulls you into a desperate embrace.
"Mohinder ..." it's almost a prayer.
You feel him crumpling and slowly slide down to the floor with him. He's clinging to you like you used to cling to him: you have gone from the drowning man to the life preserver.
"Shhhhhh ..." you whisper, feeling tears pricking at your eyes. You remember the sight of Anne's bloody corpse; watching Elle snuggle up to Julia like a cat last night; the longing you felt when you heard Mark and Ben's muffled moaning in the other room as they made the springs on your bed creak.
"It's going to be alright ..." you promise, realizing that you no longer have to live as two people. No more secrets, no more lies, no more hiding or skulking or hating yourself. Yes, he has comitted atrosities, but he left Matt and Molly alone for weeks. He protected strangers at your request. He let you, who tortured him and tried to kill him, live. He trusted you enough to sleep beside you, knowing full-well that there was a gun in the room.
You rest your head on his shoulder. "I'm here ... it's going to be ok ..."
For now, you are at peace.
Rating: PG-13-ish
Pairing, Characters: Mylar, tiny bit of Matt/Mohinder, hinted Elle/OFC, OMC/OMC, Molly
Word Count: 2,261 (aprox.)
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes, Tim Kring does. I make no money off of this, blah blah blah.
Spoilers: V2.
A/N: This is for
cerebel 's birthday, which was the 19th, and I am soooooo jealous that her b-day is on Talk Like A Pirate Day. Seriously, how awesome is that?!Anyhoodle, this is my last fic before the premiere of V3 (which is tomorrow, SQUEE!) cerebral gave me no prompt, just told me to "go crazy." As you can see, I kinda did. Written in Second-Person, which I find kinda creepy but have discovered works rather well. Even though there isn't much to steal, I'd rather people didn't take my OCs.
Comments are love!
(Edit: added in the italisizing. Stupid TextEdit, stupid HTML font, how I wish I were a computer genius.)
You step out of the shadows without a second thought and take a few tentative steps towards him. He's crouched over a bloody corpse in the alleyway and had just begun to straighten up when you decided to make your presence known.
"Doctor Suresh ..." he inclines his head ever so slightly - half mocking, half respectful. You can tell by the tilt of his head that he's been momentarily caught off-guard by your sudden appearance.
"Mr. Sylar ..." you know you should probably smile here but can't, not yet. You're not entirely sure that these next minutes won't be your last.
There's a pause. In the distance cars rumble along; you flinch as one drives through the remnants of today's rain: the splash is deafening, even from this distance.
"Why are you here, Mohinder?" he asks you, head cocked curtly to one side.
You try to meet his gaze and can't. When he invaded your home, when he tortured you, when you tortured him: you knew where the two of you stood. You knew who had the power and who didn't, you could predict what was going to happen. Now you're adrift, lost at sea, the sails in tatters and no rudder to speak of.
"I ... I wanted to see you." It's the truth, but it sounds wrong. If only you had the power to reverse time ... well, any power at this point would suffice.
"Why?" it's not harsh, but it's not completely free of danger either.
"Because ..." for a second, your resolve slips. You feel yourself sinking back into your other self: the self that wants him dead for all he's done and all he's done to you. You are about to propose something your other self would consider despicable, if he considered it at all.
You draw a deep breath. "Because I want to make a deal."
At this point you're addressing his left shoulder. You see him shift his weight from foot to foot, but still can't bring yourself to look up into his eyes.
"What kind of deal?"
You inwardly sigh with relief: one hurdle down, another million to go. "I ... I'm in over my head, Sylar. The Company's falling apart. They can't control the ... the dangerous people with abilities anymore ... you've seen all that stuff on TV ... and ... and agents are showing up dead left right and center. Ones with powers and ones like me. And I know it's not just you doing it. I -" your breath catches. What if Sylar is leading the rouge specials against the Company? What if you've played right into his hands?
"Oh, Mohinder ..." he laughs darkly. "If I wanted you dead, I'd have done it long ago."
"I know that!" you snap without thinking: the time to tread lightly is over. "Why else would I have sought you out?" you steel yourself and raise your head to look him square in the eyes. You have the sudden understanding of what a mouse feels like when it's paralyzed by a snake. "I'm afraid, Sylar. I'm more afraid of them than I am of you."
"Ah ..." he breaks the gaze, and you feel like staggering backward. "'Better the devil you know than the devil you don't' ... so you want my help?"
You nod, not daring to look into his eyes again.
He laughs. He laughs long and hard, but not cruelly. You wait patiently, nails digging into your sweaty palms.
And suddenly he's slammed you against the alley wall. His body is grinding against yours; his hands are around your wrists, pinning them above your heads.
"Why do you think you can trust me, doctor?" his breath is tickling your ear. You want to sigh and wrench away at the same time but do neither.
Instead you take a deep breath, trying to collect your thoughts: Matt confessing to you "in his own sick, twisted way, Sylar loves you, Mohinder. Use that if you have to ..." and awkwardly kissing you goodbye. Molly whispering "he's been on the fire-escape for the last few weeks ... but he hasn't done anything. Why hasn't he hurt us, Mohinder?" Even though they drove away to God-knows-where weeks ago, you still aren't sure if you're doing the right thing.
"Because I know you want me."
That makes him let go of your wrists. He's still pressed against you, though.
You slide one of your hands into his pants, groping around in a blur of desperation and hope.
To your relief he doesn't kill you for touching him so personally. You see his face crumple and his shoulders loose a fraction of tension.
Suddenly he whirls the two of you around and grips your shoulders so tightly that you can almost see the bruises.
"Fine, you want protection ... and you're willing to pay." he shoves you to the ground, hard. Your knees hit the damp pavement; tears spring to your eyes.
"Oh, I like this ..." he weaves his fingers through your hair, idly contemplating you: kneeling before him. "So many possebilities ... so very little time ..."
A siren wails in the distance; a woman screams a few blocks away. You flinch, but glance up at his face to check. He nods, and you get to work on unzipping his pants.
~*~
To everyone else, you seem the same as always: you work in the lab, you donate blood to people with the Shanti Virus, you make weekly calls to Matt and Molly with the assistance of a coma patient who can act as a two-way radio. You hide in closets and under desks when a prisoner escapes or an escapee comes back to exact vengence. You comfort Elle and tell her everything will be alright, all the while glaring over her shoulder at her father, even though Bob looks like he's aged thirty years since you met him.
And, in truth, you are the same. Whenever someone mentions Sylar you wince and remind people of how much you despise him: the man who used you and drove your last vestiges of family into hiding. There's a photograph of your father on top of your desk and a gun taped underneath it.
Some nights, though, you become a different person. When Sylar crawls into your bed you don't resist his touch; you kiss him willingly, clinging to the only tangible thing in your life. You never have to lie to him, you never have to reassure him: he reassures you. He's the only one you can trust because you know his motivations, know how to please him or calm him down. You prefer the nights because you can never clearly make out his face and, deep down, you still hate yourself for doing this. You're not sure if it's because he's a murderer or because he's a man.
In return for those nights (and sometimes quickies during the day) you are never attacked by rouge specials. No one has ever accosted you in your home, though once or twice you have opened the door to find Sylar furiously mopping up a large amount of blood. On those occasions, you turn around and wait outside in the hallway.
You've always been good at compartmentalizing, so good it sometimes scares you. What if someday your barriers break and you completely fall apart? You feel a sudden kinship with Niki Sanders; understand how horrific it was for her to live as two people, how emotionally draining the process was.
You aren't sure how long you can continue this, but it's all you've got.
~*~
"Don't go to work today."
You consider the phone, then hold it back up to the side of your head. "Dare I ask why?" your tone is calm, but inside you dread the answer.
"It's going to be ... bad. Very bad. Your research is safe, though."
You wonder what is so horrible that Sylar would risk going into the Company and taking your research. "Can ... can I warn anyone?"
There's a pause, then he says "If you've got friends there, tell them to get out now."
"Where do I tell them to go?!" in your mind's eye you see piles of bodies with Company name tags.
"If anyone makes it to your apartment ... I'll protect them too."
With a 'click' the line goes dead.
You glance at the clock. It's eight-thirty. Every member left of the Company are at the offices right now.
Elle's silver-bell laugh rings in your ears, and suddenly you're dialing the Loft, where you know she will be.
You can't save everyone, you can barely save yourself, but at this point you'll save anyone.
~*~
There are five people in your apartment. Elle; Ben: a man Noah Bennet told you to trust; Julia and Anne: two women who helped you in the lab; and Mark: a middle-aged man with the ability to power electronics. Noah himself went missing a month ago; the rest of the Bennets and Peter went missing at the same time. You have yet to work up the courage to ask Sylar whether he was responsible.
Outside, the city is falling apart. The news blames the explosions and gruesome murders on terrorists, but you and the people in this apartment know better. The streets are clogged with traffic; people are either fleeing or looting or hiding in their basements.
You have not seen or heard from Sylar in a week, not since he called to warn you about the mass-attack on the Company. Something awful happened there, but nobody's willing to talk about it: Anne has a broken arm; Ben is missing an eye; when you asked Elle about her father she fried the carpet.
"Even the pigeons have gone ..." Mark observes one day. "Is that like rats deserting a ship?"
You shrug, and go out on a another food-run with Elle and Ben.
An hour later you return to find Anne dead on the floor. Julia has bad burns and is missing a hand. Mark is gone.
There's a note on the kitchen table: too many. so sorry. - S
After that, you all go out on food runs, as a team. You seldom see other people on the streets: perhaps it is your numbers that scare others away, or the fact that Elle's hands crackle with visible electricity whenever they set foot out of the apartment.
Three nights after you lost Mark and Anne, Sylar arrives.
He knocks Elle unconcious and telekinetically flings Ben and Julia aside, ignoring you for the moment.
You stand up slowly, taking in the fresh scars on Sylar's face, the rips and tears in his clothing, and the unkemptness of his usually imaculate hair.
He's leaning over Elle and raises a hand. You've seen this before, you know what's going to happen.
"Sylar ... please."
He slowly pivots on the spot, and you gasp at the haunted look in his eyes. For the briefest of seconds, you fear for your life. He has changed out there, more than you have changed, cooped up in this apartment for the past two weeks.
"Why, Mohinder?" his voice is odd, and you notice cracks around his lips and the bags under his eyes.
"Because ... she trusted me to keep her safe."
He stares at you. Julia is crying silently, clinging to Ben in the background. Ben's single eye is half acusitory, half understanding.
You slowly turn your back on all of them and take a cup from the cupboard. As you prepare the tea you feel your shoulders tense up. He could kill you right now. He will probably kill Elle, and there is nothing you can do about that. You feel a stab of regret for the fates of Ben and Julia. During a tragedy like this you get to know people more in two weeks than you do in two years, and though you deserve this, and Elle probably deserves this, Ben and Julia do not.
After an eternity, you turn around to face him. He hasn't killed Elle. He hasn't even moved.
You take three tiny steps towards him and hold out the tea. "I promise it isn't drugged."
He take it and drains it in a single gulp. He drops the cup, steps over Elle, and pulls you into a desperate embrace.
"Mohinder ..." it's almost a prayer.
You feel him crumpling and slowly slide down to the floor with him. He's clinging to you like you used to cling to him: you have gone from the drowning man to the life preserver.
"Shhhhhh ..." you whisper, feeling tears pricking at your eyes. You remember the sight of Anne's bloody corpse; watching Elle snuggle up to Julia like a cat last night; the longing you felt when you heard Mark and Ben's muffled moaning in the other room as they made the springs on your bed creak.
"It's going to be alright ..." you promise, realizing that you no longer have to live as two people. No more secrets, no more lies, no more hiding or skulking or hating yourself. Yes, he has comitted atrosities, but he left Matt and Molly alone for weeks. He protected strangers at your request. He let you, who tortured him and tried to kill him, live. He trusted you enough to sleep beside you, knowing full-well that there was a gun in the room.
You rest your head on his shoulder. "I'm here ... it's going to be ok ..."
For now, you are at peace.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 12:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 09:26 pm (UTC)i love the whole concept of the two of them having to trust each other and in the end just helping each other cause they have to
Me too ... they can't just instantly forget all of the stuff in their pasts, it'll take time and awful stuff.
Thank you very much for commenting! *beams*
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 09:40 pm (UTC)i could totally see a whole epic fic being written from this ;)
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 11:24 pm (UTC)I have this THING about post-appocalyptic futures ... it's why 'The Wish' (from Buffy) 'Five Years Gone' (Heroes) and 'Turn Left' (Doctor Who) are among my favorite episodes of those serieses. I dunno why ... it's just fascinating to imagine how people would act if something awful happened, who would band together, who would tear apart, that kind of thing.
i could totally see a whole epic fic being written from this ;)
Ohhhhhhhhhh ... no you don't! I saw that, you sneaky-sneak! I have NO TIME and a MILLION things I'd like to write.
Though it is a verse to look back on someday. I mean, Mark/Ben took me completely by surprise, and there's a lot to go on there ... and is Elle just snuggling up to Julia because she likes her or because Julia looks like Claire? *grinz*
I plan on coming back to it, but not right off. Don't hold your breath.
Thank you, though. It's very flattering.
(What does your icon say under 'Quinto?')
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 11:33 pm (UTC)i actually have no idea what it says. i think its just decorative text?
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 01:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 02:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 05:59 pm (UTC)Oh! And I was told/showed how to change a LJ layout (wasn't as difficult as I thought!) and now I have a super special awesome new LJ layout if you want to go see it! =D
And I've also gotten some work done on episode 1 last night. I didn't get in till late last night, but I got started on it--I should have the next part for you soon. I figured that I'd finish up the climax of the episode and then it'd go back to Sunniva-Lynn's POV and you can pick up from there, as the Doctor makes her his companion and stuff. =P
Heroes is on tonight! After all this time!!!! ksdfjdfg!!!!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 09:30 pm (UTC)Oh yes, HEROES OMG YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY! *kerslump* I'm actually gonna take a NAP, that's how tired I am!
Huazzah for episode 1! (Though tomorrow I'll probably be too zombified to do more than stagger through my classes, post "What aunt_zelda Thinks: Heroes V3 Premiere" and beg for the sun to set early.)
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 09:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 10:38 pm (UTC)I like Sylar trusting Momo enough to sleep in his bed.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 11:27 pm (UTC)*reels* Wow ... thank you so very, VERY much!
I love the switch of Sylar making Momo feel safe to Momo making Sylar feel safe.
*beams* I love it when I'm worried about something and it turns out people love it ...
I like Sylar trusting Momo enough to sleep in his bed.
Oh, me too, me too! It's such a luverly image ... too bad I can't draw for beans ...
no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 04:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 04:28 pm (UTC)I love the relationship between Sylar and Mohinder - something a little dark, a little twisted, but in the end very real, emotionally, while the rest of Mohinder's world is painted with this weird unreality.
It's my favorite way to imagine the pairing. It gives it more ... I dunno, clarity, maybe? It seems more real to me than "Sylar corners Mohinder and they have sex and Mohinder hates himself but really digs it." Then again, I've written fics like that, so *shrugs*
I'm getting more into the balance thing in my fanfic. I'm pleased it's working out so well.
You're welcome! *hugs*
no subject
Date: 2008-10-02 07:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-02 10:48 pm (UTC)M-Mabes cried about MY work?!
THE Mabes?! MY work?!
What is this world coming to?! *runs around in hysterics*
(Suffice it to say that I'm incredibly flattered. Thankyouthankyouthankyou! *falls down dead*)
I really love this fic. I seem to prefer fics where Mohinder and Sylar are more ... balanced and working through stuff than the dub-con "this is so wrong ... I HATE YOU ... *lets himself be shoved against walls*" fics for some reason.
Mostly it's the post-apocalyptic thing though. LOVE that.