"Stretching"--- (Sylar/Mohinder; PG)
Setting/Spoilers: Pre-1x18 "Like Any Parasite"
Notes: Whoops, it's late. Sorry, guys. Real life encroaching on the fluff writing-- not to mention my distaste for fluff writing in general. However! I forgot that fluff writing in Mylar doesn't necessarily equate to smiles and puppies, so I didn't have a terrible time of writing something that wasn't angsty but could still have subliminally treacherous undertones. Go me. Written for the mylar_fic ficathon, with the prompt of "memorize" in Fluff Week, for the lovely Ca (sesemperamabo).
"You have a superb memory, Zane."
Mohinder had been suspicious at first, wondering if it could be a power of some sort, wondering how such a power would be obtained, wondering if more than one ability could exist within a single person. But he's put the thought out of his mind-- he's been in the world of strange phenomena too long. This is simply a moment of relaxation-- Zane is going to give him that, bring him closer to the real world again. It seems as though Zane desperately needs such human contact, too.
"Test it out," Zane says, and grins a little self-consciously.
Sylar feels cramped-- he needs to stretch. Figuratively, of course, and this is a good enough way to do it without suspicion. He can't go throwing things in the air at Mohinder, he can't even pin Mohinder to a wall, no matter how much he'd like to. Well, not with his powers, anyway. But that's for later. He iced over a warming glass of water when Mohinder wasn't looking, but this is a better way. There are other perks, too, like impressing Mohinder. Mohinder's relaxed for the first time today, leaning back on the bench at the rest stop, bearing that Crest Dental Whitestrips smile as his only weapon needed. Sylar admits it's a little appreciated if different-- not that he'd want to get used to it, not that he will, he'll leave eventually, he's using Mohinder, that's all, he knows. But Sylar can feel the connection. He can tell when something's latched together, when two pieces fit together, he can feel these pieces.
He can feel Mohinder's laughter. It's like a little electric shock pulsing through his body.
Mohinder's pulling facts from his mind, anything he can think of now, teasing Zane. "The originator of the theory that God is dead."
"Nietzsche." He laughs lightly. "Easy one, Mohinder. I learned that in school." He thinks for a second Mohinder will ask where, and he'll be forced to pull a lie quickly, but Mohinder is just looking into his eyes.
"You are extraordinary," Mohinder says, laughing, shaking his head, and Sylar thinks maybe he won't leave. Maybe Mohinder can keep playing dumb, and then they can keep this up.
"Ask another question," he says, and hopes it's not too eager.
"My father's name."
"Chandra Suresh," Sylar says immediately, and then wishes he had paused a little first. Mohinder laughing trails off a little, even though his smile is still present, if wavering.
"I-- I told you?"
"Yeah," Sylar-- Zane-- says, and tries to look wide-eyed and earnest.
"I suppose I did, then." Mohinder flashes another grin.
Before he considers the consequences, Sylar drapes an arm around the back of the bench more comfortably, and says in a long rush of words, "You have this little bump of a scar under your collarbone. My right, your left." He shuts his mouth quickly, and tugs at his sleeves nervously, not even having to try for the Zane persona this time. He's not used to this lack of power. If he didn't get such power from the situation already--
Mohinder swallows. "Chicken pox, as a child. How did you--?"
"Y-your shirt collar slipped down a little. Yesterday."
"I see." Mohinder gives a faltering smile, but his eyes are fixed firmly on Sylar's-- Zane's. Sylar's. Then he turns away abruptly, but looks back almost as quickly. Mohinder clears his throat. "I talked about DNA with you, didn't I?"
"Y-yeah, yeah, you did."
Mohinder glances at his face again. "Codons."
"How many are there?"
Sylar grins again. Sixty four. "Fifty nine."
"Sixty four!" Mohinder looks delighted, and points at him. "You slipped up!"
"I guess I'm not perfect, then." Sylar smiles. He tries to make it shy.
"It's quite all right," Mohinder says. His face ducks close to Sylar's, but doesn't touch, pulls away like a wave the second later. Sylar leans in on it, and he thinks Mohinder notices, smiling a little, vaguely.
Slipping up is right.