Pairing: Gabriel/Mohinder
Rating: G
Prompt/Request: Mistletoe
Warnings: Fluff, Humor, Slash

"I-it's nothing much really," Gabriel stammered nervously, wiping his palms vigorously against the side of his khaki pants. It was early winter, but the inside of his watch shop suddenly felt like the surface of the sun. "Just a little something that I, uh, thought you might like."

Gabriel could practically feel his heart beat in the tips of his fingers and hear it thrumming in his ears as he watched Mohinder turn the brightly wrapped package in his hands, studying the box curiously with his wide brown eyes.

"This is very thoughtful," Mohinder told him, his bright smile making the young man's knees feel like wet paper. "Um, should I open it now or wait until Christmas?"

"Uh, whatever you want to do, "he said, trying his best to sound casual and indifferent, but inside he was a bundle of nerves. He honestly didn't know whether it would be better if the other man should open his package now, right in front of him, or later when he was out of sight. On the one hand, if Mohinder opened his present now and hated it, his heart would be crushed. On the other hand, if Mohinder waited until later, the anticipation just might kill him.

"I think I'll open it now," the Indian announced. He ripped open the jovial packaging with ease, leaving the tattered remains in a pile on the floor. If Gabriel weren't so enamored, so captivated by the Indian's very movements, he might have been a bit peeved at the mess he was creating. Of course, as usual, infatuation won out over anal-retentive compulsion as Mohinder's eyes lit up at the sight of his gift. "I've been searching for this book for months! How did you know?"

"Lucky guess?" he chuckled awkwardly.

"Thank you! This is so sweet."

Without warning, Mohinder took another step towards him, closing the gap between their bodies as he pulled them together in a friendly hug. Gabriel moaned, his head swimming as Mohinder's enchanting sent filled his nostrils, his warmth engulfed his body, and his soft black curls brushed against his cheek. The embrace only lasted a few seconds, but it was just enough to cause Gabriel's knees to give out under his weight.

"Gabriel!" Mohinder gasped, clutching the taller man by his bicep in an attempt to hold him upright. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he lied, his brain still reeling from the memory of Mohinder's arms being wrapped around his shoulders.

Mohinder let out an uneasy laugh as he helped the watchmaker regain his balance. His laughter faded away when his eyes suddenly caught a glimpse of something above him. "What is that?"

Gabriel tilted his head upward, following Mohinder's line of sight to the leafy green plant taped to the ceiling. "Oh, it looks like we're standing under the mistletoe," he commented innocently, as if he hadn't carefully positioned the two men so that they were standing directly underneath the holiday decoration.

"Mistletoe?" Mohinder repeated skeptically.

"It's a holiday tradition," he explained, his face quickly turning redder as he spoke. "It means we're, uh, supposed to..." he paused briefly to clear his suddenly bone dry throat, "k-kiss."

The Indian chuckled softly, his eyes darting from the mistletoe pinned above them to Gabriel's eager, bright red face. "Well who am I to break tradition?" he laughed, leaning in closely to brush his lips against the watchmaker's burning hot cheek.

The feel of Mohinder's soft lips caressing his heated skin was the last thing he felt before his world slipped away into darkness.

Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: PG
Prompt/Request: White Christmas
Warnings: Slash

Numb.

That's how he felt. From head to toe his whole body was numb and all because of the fact that the heater in his damn taxi was completely busted. Instead of immersing the inside of the vehicle in comfortable warmth when switched on to the heat setting his air conditioning blasted the occupants with a biting chill that could rival the winter conditions outside.

So the heater stayed off and as New York City was treated to an unusually cold late fall, Mohinder found his already contemptible job made that much worse. He cringed each time his door was opened, dreading the howling wind and shots of ice that would pierce his already damaged skin. He would rub his hands together vigorously at each all to brief stop, only to find that the chill would quickly move from the tips of his fingers to his much abused cheeks.

And as if things couldn't get much worse, mid afternoon it started to snow and showed no signs of letting up for the remainder of the day. Blankets of puffy white flurries fell from the sky, covering his windshields and making it that much harder to drive.

Sadly, the wintery weather did nothing to lighten the mood of his customers. Each person who entered his cab seemed to be terser than the last, barking out directions at him as if he were some half deaf, dim-witted pet who was completely unable to retain the most basic information for more than five minutes. If he didn't know any better, Mohinder would have sworn that his fairs had all been in league with one another, each one trying to outdo the other on who could be the most miserable to a complete stranger.

After a few hours of the verbal abuse, the Indian had decided to simply tune out the ungrateful group - a task that proved to be much harder than he had anticipated - by focusing his mind instead on merely getting to where he was supposed to be going or listening to the seasonal music on the radio that his supervisor insisted be played at all times. The result was for his mind to drift off into a haze and all the faces of his fairs to blur together, although that wasn't too different from any other day.

When the end of his shift came, Mohinder was all too eager to punch out for the day. His back was sore, his eyes stung, and his fingers felt as if they would snap off if twisted in just the right way.

He was less than half way through filling out his time sheet when one of his co-workers had approached him from behind, interrupting his train of thought and the stroke of his pen.

"Mohinder, I found this in your taxi."

Mohinder frowned, turning to see the other driver holding a bright red package with a golden ribbon in his hands. "It's not mine," Mohinder said simply. "Put it in the lost and found box."

"It has your name on it," his co-worker clarified, indicating the envelope attached to the center of the package.

His frown only deepened as the other man unceremoniously dumped the package in his hands before turning to walk away, completely indifferent to the situation at hand. Mohinder, on the other hand, had been at the center of far too many strange events as of late to take even the most seemingly innocent occurrence lightly.

The hand writing on the envelope was simple, neat, and completely unfamiliar. There was no address, no other name, or even a date written on the piece of paper. Just his name.

Tucking the package under his arm, the Indian delicately peeled off the envelope and felt it thoroughly, testing to see if there were any strange lumps or sags. From what he could feel, the only thing inside was a note on fairly thick piece of paper.

Ripping the envelope open, the geneticist saw that there was only a card inside. On the front, the card displayed a picture of a morose looking snowman standing in front of a log cabin in the middle of the night. The Indian rolled his eyes at the cliche holiday artwork as he flipped the card open. The typical winter slogans of Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas were completely absent. There was only a simple message written in the same careful handwriting:

Take care.

Mohinder quirked a curious eyebrow at the cryptic note as he placed the card down and began tearing away at the festive wrapping paper, only to discover a thin white box underneath. Lifting the lid and pulling away the red tissue paper, the Indian was greeted by the sight of a clean white scarf and a matching pair of gloves.

The geneticist let out a quiet laugh as he gently fingered the soft material. It figured that when he had let his guard down the shape shifter had managed to sneak in. He had to admit, Sylar was nothing if not persistent.

Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: G
Prompt/Request: Spiked Eggnog
Warnings: Fluff, Humor, Slash, Drinking

"Oh God!" Mohinder grimaced, his nose wrinkling in distaste as the creamy white liquid slid down his throat. "How much rum did you put in this?"

Sylar frowned, eyeing the now empty bottle of rum questioningly, wondering momentarily if he had purchased too strong of a proof. "Not that much," he lied easily.

The Indian coughed as he gently placed his now empty glass down with a soft clink. "It's strong!"

"No, it isn't," Sylar scoffed, rolling his eyes with mock indignation at Mohinder's comment. "You just have a low tolerance for alcohol."

"Oh really?" Mohinder snapped, grabbing another glass and pouring the holiday drink in it. "You drink it then."

Sylar hesitated for just a moment, wondering if his rapid regeneration would act quickly enough that he wouldn't feel the burn at all. He had never been a very big drinker. As Gabriel Gray, ginger ale was the most daring thing he d be willing to consume and right now the idea of taking a swig of his own spiked eggnog did not sit well with him. Yet Sylar pushed those thoughts aside as he grasped the glass in his fingers. After all, the longer he waited, the more he assured Mohinder's assumptions.

Sylar held his breath as he took a long gulp of the rum filled eggnog. He had to resist the urge to gag as the intense flavor smacked his taste buds with a bitter spark of fire. The serial killer grimaced, swallowing the burning hot liquid and realizing he had been far too liberal with the rum.

"Jinkies!" he gagged, placing the glass down on the counter with a slight thud.

"You see!" Mohinder cried, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly. "Even you think it's too strong and you have your damned rapid regeneration to keep you sober. You were clearly trying to spike my eggnog and... Did you just say 'jinkies'?"

"No."

"But I could have sworn that I heard-"

"I didn't say 'jinkies'!" he barked, although the killer knew that the pink blush coloring his pale cheeks gave him away.

"You're such a geek!" Mohinder giggled and Sylar had to wonder if Mohinder had been sneaking drinks behind his back because there was no way the geneticist would actually giggle in front of him if he were sober. The Indian had a too eager grin pulling at his lips as he picked up the glass Sylar had pushed away and handed it back to him. "Take another drink! I want to hear what you say."

Sylar frowned, cocking his head curiously at the other man's uncharacteristic behavior. "Are you making fun of the way I drink?"

"Yes."

His frown deepened. This was not exactly what he had had in mind when he had spiked Mohinder's drink. He had wanted to get the other man drunk enough to give him some sloppy, drunken, pre-Christmas sex (since Mohinder was being very stingy with his body lately). Instead, the Indian was laughing at him and trying to get him drunk (although that was an impossible task and they both knew it). Yet he couldn't resist Mohinder, especially when he was tipsy and smiling so brightly, as if they had not spent the better half of their yearlong acquaintanceship as on again off again mortal enemies.

He sighed, before taking another gulp of the cream colored drink. "Ugh!" he shuddered. "Oh golly!"

Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: PG
Prompt/Request: 'Tis the Season
Warnings: Humor, Slash

"A clip on tie."

"That doesn't sound too bad."

"It is when you're twenty-five."

"Oh."

"Your turn."

Mohinder was quiet as he thought over the matter very carefully. "A pack of triple A batteries," he said finally.

"Did they go with anything?" Sylar asked, knowing right away that Chandra had most likely been the one to give this gift to Mohinder.

"No," the Indian said simply, his response quick and seemingly indifferent, but Sylar caught the bitterness lingering there. "Your turn."

Sylar sighed, adjusting himself slightly so his bare shoulder "accidentally" brushed up against Mohinder's equally exposed arm. "A sweater," he grumbled bitterly." And before you say anything, if you'd seen it you'd understand." He shuddered internally at the memory of the bright red Christmas sweater with the sloppily stitched on snowman and reindeer that his grandmother had made for him. Horrible.

The geneticist said nothing; he merely shifted himself so that he was sitting further away from the other man. Sylar bit his cheek to keep himself from frowning at the gesture, trying instead to focus on the far too loud music seeping into the dark room from the other side of the door.

"I don't think I can hide in here much longer," Mohinder sighed, brushing a few stray curls out of his eyes wearily. "Someone's going to come looking for me eventually."

The serial killer didn't even bother to nod as he quietly grabbed Mohinder's discarded clothing and stealthily pulling them behind his back, hoping that the lighting was just dim enough that the other man would not notice the movement.

"So what are you hoping to get this year?"

Mohinder frowned, raising a questioning eyebrow at him, but even as he did so Sylar felt safe in knowing that he had already hidden the other man's clothes out of sight. "What do you mean?"

"For Christmas?" he supplied helpfully.

"I don't celebrate Christmas," he scoffed.

"But you're at a Christmas party."

"I think the politically correct term would be Holiday party," the Indian corrected smugly. "And I'm only here because I was invited. You'll find that not killing random people and ripping their skulls open tends to make you rather popular."

"I'll keep that in mind. Maybe I'll make it my New Year s resolution. No more stealing brains. Instead, I'll just kidnap and cocoon my victims."

Mohinder scowled distastefully, clutching the lab coat wrapped around his waist tighter in his hands and shifting away from him. "At least I m apologetic," Mohinder shot back. "You have no remorse for anything you've done."

"Alright, then I'll show how remorseful I am by getting you a Christmas present. What would you want?"

"I don't celebrate Christmas," Mohinder reminded him, shaking his head wearily, yet Sylar took the fact that he was still sitting next to him as a good sign. "Besides, I don't want anything that you could buy in a store."

"Well it's the season of gift giving, so just play along. Let's say I could get you anything, anything you wanted, what would it be?"

The Indian sighed, leaning his head back against the wall with an audible thud. "I want a new life," Mohinder grumbled. "I want... I want a better career. I want to go home and not worry that the whole world is going to crumble around me while I'm asleep."

"I can do that."

The look the other man gave him was absolutely priceless. It was an intriguing mix of skepticism, annoyance, and curiosity.

Sylar beamed, scooting closer to Mohinder and using his telekinesis to pull the other man's naked form closer to him. "You and me and a tropical island," he told him, wrapping a pale arm around the Indian's dark shoulder. "We can just lie out in the sun and forget all our cares."

"An island getaway does sound pleasant," Mohinder laughed, pushing Sylar's arm away from him. "But the you part not so much."

The serial killer frowned, opening his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of someone trying to open the locked door. "Is someone in there?" a voice called in between frantic knocks.

"Time's up," Mohinder sighed, scrambling to his feet and looked around the small office desperately. "Have you seen my clothes?"

"They're over there, I think," Sylar lied, pointing in the opposite direction of the small pile he had hidden behind his back. As Mohinder turned and looked in the direction Sylar had indicated, the serial killer took the opportunity to grab the Indian man's underwear and stuff it into his pocket. "Never mind, I found them."

Mohinder turned around just as Sylar tossed the pile of clothing in his direction. The geneticist muttered a quick thanks as the American quickly dressed himself.

"Where's my underwear?" Mohinder asked wearily. "Every time we do this it disappears! Why does that always happen?"

"I have no idea," Sylar shrugged, taking a moment to finger the pale blue boxers that he had stuffed into his pocket.

He had probably stolen at least a dozen boxers, half a dozen briefs, and two sets of boxer briefs from Mohinder over the past few months. In his mind, that meant that he owed the Indian man a little more than an island vacation and fortunately for the geneticist, Sylar was in a giving mood. After all, it was the season.