Author's Notes: Originally part of "The Spaces Between" collection, but I decided that should really be relegated to flash fictions created with the music meme, so I pulled this one out.

"What I've Got Is Mine"

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the open door.

The little room, in the motel just off of I-40 in Amarillo, smelled like smoke and sweat, the faintest musk of sex, and the lingering antiseptic sting of cleanser.

A faint heat crept up his spine as he maneuvered through the door with his bundles, catching his hip on the door jamb.

Guilt, he supposed it was. Of a sort.

Mohinder deserved better than some pay-by-the-hour roach motel.

But it couldn't be helped.

Sylar was determined they make it to San Diego by tomorrow morning; there was a cruise ship leaving tomorrow evening. In less than two weeks, they'd be in Willemstad. But even with his powers and strange body chemistry—that seemed capable of keeping him awake for hours on end—Sylar was coming on an hour where he needed to sleep.

He'd been behind the wheel for close to 34 hours, with little more than short pit stops to snag food and take a piss.

A telekinetic kick closed the door behind him. Another mental brush slid the deadbolt and chain lock into place. The bags he'd been holding on his left arm flew atop the dresser.

Mohinder—cradled against Sylar's right side and just barely moving under his own power—stirred and muttered something in an untranslatable mix of Tamil and English.

"Shh," said Sylar and he moved toward the bed, drawing back the blanket and sheet before lowering Mohinder and settling him atop the bed.

Sylar straightened, frowned.

They could both use a shower. But Sylar barely trusted himself to remain standing, let alone to keep Mohinder upright.

So he knelt and removed Mohinder's shoes and pants, then stripped him of his shirt, leaving the man clad only in a soft pair of black boxer-briefs.

Mohinder's skin stood out dark and beautiful in contrast to the white cotton sheets and Sylar ran his fingers over the toned bicep, traced the smooth chord of muscle up and over the shoulder, followed the curve of muscle down to Mohinder's chest where his fingers lingered over the steady heartbeat.

Sylar leaned down, rested his forehead against the smooth skin of Mohinder's chest; on impulse he allowed his tongue to slip out, draw a dark nipple into his mouth, and he felt Mohinder quake and shudder.

"Sylar?"

"Shh." Sylar raised his head. Mohinder's eyes were open. The beautiful umber clouded from the cocktail of drugs flowing through his system.

It was a heady mixture. The kind used in the treatment of psychotropic disorders. When given in the right doses and with the continued application of suggestions, it was possible for a dedicated psychotherapist to introduce new concepts to the trance laden mind.

Whether that concept was no longer being afraid of heights. Or coming to terms with a lover's death. Or breaking through a block that obscured a history of sexual abuse.

…Or suggesting to someone that they loved you. That they wanted you.

Psychotherapist he might not have been. But he was dedicated; an understanding of analytic hypnotherapy, even for him, didn't come in the blink of an eye.

"I've got you, baby," he said. And he lightly brushed his lips against Mohinder's mouth. But couldn't resist a more thorough taste, licking softly at the corners of the soft lips, slipping inside to caress the sinuous tongue.

Mohinder tasted like the fruit tea Sylar had gotten him to sip earlier.

"You were gone." Mohinder's voice was faint and wary. Confused. Accusatory. And even half lucid he managed to glare, his eyes finding and holding Sylar's for just a moment.

"No," Sylar said, toeing off his own shoes and quickly shucking his clothes—his shower, too, could wait until morning—and sliding into bed, pulling Mohinder's body into the curve of his own. "I've been right here. The whole time."

And Mohinder, fading fast again under the tide of the drug's influence, clasped Sylar's hand, twisting their fingers together and looking him in the eye once more. "Don't go."

And Sylar smiled, brushed the mess of curls off Mohinder's damp forehead and said, "Don't worry, baby. You won't get rid of me that easily."