Thirty First Kisses, Kiss #26 – If Only I Could Make You Mine

I have a confession to make.

My confession is that sometimes, I wish I were a Bad Guy. Honest to God, I do. The thing is, I could be. I mean, look at me. Not only can I read minds, now I can actually write them. I can make people do things. That’s classic supervillain material. If this were a comic book, I would make Batman fight a mind-wiped Robin, then, during our big fistfight, I could say, “You can’t win, Batman! I know every move you think of!” That’d be truly cool.

There’s a couple of things in the way of that, though. First off, I’m way too chickenshit to face off against a guy like Batman. Good thing he doesn’t exist. Second, I have this annoying problem of being a serious, classic, Type A Good Guy. I’m a cop, for crying out loud. I hunt down Bad Guys and lock them away. And I’m a dad. (Geez, I still get a thrill out of saying that.) I have a little girl with her own power and I have to be a good role model to her.

But the main reason I’m not a supervillain is lack of imagination. If I were a villain, what would I “vill”? Who needs to rob a bank when your roommate has a boss with unlimited resources? What am I gonna do, kidnap my ex-wife out of revenge? Threaten the kids of the prick who’s giving me grief at work? Pathetic. There’s nothing to do with my power that benefits me. So forget villaindom. It ain’t worth it.

OK, there is one thing I’d kinda like to do.

I’d like to make that man over there get up from his desk, turn around, come over here, and put his sexy hands on my face so he can let me kiss him stupid. I mean, really make out with the guy. Maybe even more than make out. Definitely more than make out. I’d like to put a thought in his head to the effect of “God DAMN am I ever in love with that cop I live with.”

That’s where the conscience part comes into play, though. I’m too good of a guy. Hell, I’m too good of a guy to even say how I feel. There’s too much risk there, too much of a chance that we’d end up in a screaming fight and scar our kid for life. (Yeah, like getting psychic nightmares and facing off against a serial killer have left no scars whatsoever. Hey, at least I know better than to compound things, right?)

But still, sometimes I wish I had the intestinal fortitude to make him want me. There are times I amuse myself by playing certain scenarios in my mind.

Like, for instance, I dull his brain so he ends up bumping into me in the hallway an awful lot. So there’s lots of the whole physical contact thing. Lots of moments where his skin is on mine and I get a feel of that incredible lean body of his. Maybe even his mouth near mine. And I say, “Why, Mohinder–” –god, I love that name, what an amazing sound it’s got– “–are you doing that on purpose?” And I make him think, You know what? I am!

Or, say, I sneak a fantasy about me into his head once or twice when he’s just dozing off so it seeps into his brain. And then I pretend to notice very slowly over the next few weeks as he stares at me, contemplating what it could mean that he keeps having dreams about me, and then, sometime when he’s feeling vulnerable and weak, I decide to corner him with the news that I’ve been dreaming about him constantly and I think it means I want him and what should we do? Then he’d have to admit it’s the same with him, and we can only fall into each other’s arms.

Or, I confuse him into thinking I’m not in the shower, so he goes in to take a shower and there I am, and…

Well. You get the picture.

(“You” being a beer bottle. But hey, a friend’s a friend, right?)

As for all the details– how did I come to fall in love with him, what about the whole gay thing, what are the implications for Molly– that’s all they are, details. The important part is, I really am sick with love for him, and I’m too good of a guy to do something about it. You know that saying about nice guys finish last? That started right here. I am that nice guy.

At least nice guys finish at all. It could be that we get disqualified.

But wait a minute, Mr. Nice Guy, you might say (if you weren’t a beer bottle, that is). How do you know he doesn’t feel the same way? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Well, right. I don’t know. Except for the fact that he’s so far out of my league I would need a hyperdrive to get there from here. (What, you didn’t get the geek bit from the Batman reference?)

Incidentally, I’m not so much of a nice guy that I don’t occasionally listen in on his thoughts, but quite frankly? Not worth the effort. It’s like living with Mork from Ork. He doesn’t think in English half the time, and when he does it’s stuff that’s so academic that I start to fall asleep, same as I did in ninth-grade chemistry. The only two words I remember from that class are “covalent bond.” Mostly because I doodled a guy with a gun and sunglasses saying “I’m Bond. Covalent Bond,” and my friend Leonard thought it was hysterical.

But you’re right, there’s nothing he’s done that tells me he has no interest.

If anything, I’ve had a few clues in the opposite direction. There are times I catch him looking at me. Usually when I’m with Molly, though, so it could just be parental concern. I think he gets jealous when I’m with her. Which is ridiculous because she adores him. I’m not jealous when they’re hanging out. Well, OK, a little. Problem is, I think maybe I don’t know who I’m jealous of. (Ah, there’s my solution! Become an eight-year-old girl and Mohinder will fall all over me!)

And yeah, there was the time when I made some really bad pun– I think I repressed it, cause I can’t remember for the life of me– and Molly rolled her eyes and groaned and Mohinder laughed himself silly for a bit longer than I would have thought a guy normally would. I remember smiling at him and the way he smiled back sort of gave me a bit of a lump in my throat. Like the smile was saying something besides “Parkman, you big dork.” But what can you interpret from a smile, really?

OK, OK, so it’s more than just smiles. He, uh, he’s kind of a touchy-feely sort of guy. It’s always with the hand on my arm or his shoulder sort of rubbing mine if we’re looking at something together, and it’s really, well, it’s really nice, but it’s also really kind of disconcerting. I mean, how do I know if he’s doing that because of who he is, or if he’s doing that because of who I am? You know?

I’ll tell you something, though. If I were able to get him, I would make it so worth his while.

If he were mine I would learn everything I could about genetics so he could talk to me about work and know that it wasn’t falling on Dumbo ears. I’d really try to listen hard and understand. I have a little fantasy that some dumbass comment I make might be the answer to one of his big scientific inquiries, like the dad in “Independence Day” who makes an offhand remark about catching a cold and ends up saving the planet. And Mohinder would be so grateful and when he won his Nobel Prize or whatever he’d just be all over me and we would have Nobel-quality nookie.

If he were mine I would give up expensive coffee entirely. Why? So I could save up money to take him and Molly to Disney World. Or, if Disney World has gotten too expensive, just to take little weekend excursions up and down the coast. Boston. Cape Cod. Baltimore. D.C. Everywhere. And we could get away for a few days at a time and have a little bit of magic every so often.

If he were mine, god, I would go down to Greenwich and ask around for the best GLBT bookstores so I could read up on how to do all the things to him that I want so badly to do and wouldn’t act like an absolute ignorant jackass once I got the chance to do them. I would blow that man’s mind. (No, I don’t want to know how you thought I would end that sentence.)

Mostly, if he were mine I would do absolutely everything and anything to make him feel safe, appreciated, loved, secure. To make sure he always knew I was his, too. Hell, I already am his… he just doesn’t know it.

Ah well. Nice guys finish last.

And speaking of nice guys, this one has just slammed his pen down on the desk and gotten up, looking kinda frustrated. God, so handsome even when he’s frustrated. He’s heading slowly for the kitchen, and it’s too easy just to sit back and watch and let the fantasies wash over me of all the things I’d do if I could only make him mine.

I’d take him to the symphony and the theatre. How interesting since I never go there, but sure, why not…

and I’d ask him to take me to football games and sports bars, that sounds way better, but something’s wrong here…

and I’d teach him a few choice words in Tamil so we could whisper scandalous things to each other over Molly’s head and these are not my thoughts, I don’t think…

and I’d never let him sleep in that ratty twin bed again and that’s it. I stand up and block the doorway. He is not leaving this room.

“What?” First word he’s said to me all night.

I want to confront him, ask him what the meaning of all that is, but oh my GOD the panic is overwhelming me and so are the what-ifs. What if the beer has relaxed me too much? What if I’m projecting my own fantasies of what I hope to hear him say and I just don’t know it? What if this is all my doing?

“Matt, your face has gone through about fifteen expressions in the past five seconds. What’s wrong?”

“Am I–” I gulp and release the question, fling it like a shotput before I lose my nerve, or my lunch, or both. “Am I making you think things?”

“Wha–” His eyes go round with horror. “Oh, no. It’s late, I forgot you were there and you could–”

“These things you were thinking. About Tamil, a– and sports bars, and the b-b–”

“Don’t!” He’s scarlet and avoiding my gaze. I feel my stomach lurch. I did it again, didn’t I?

I have to cop to it. “I did that. I’m sorry.”

“What?” Like I have just said to him that I came from Mars. “You’re sorry for–”

“I made you think those things. Just now. Right?”

“Well. Yes.” He shuffles his feet. I adore that habit of his. This is not the time or place for me to be adoring anything. I should be on my knees begging for forgiveness.

“I must be having trouble controlling it– I didn’t mean to, I just must be doing it without thinking–”

“Matt.” Suddenly his voice is firm and I have shivers and a fever all at once. “Not like that.”

I am sinking to the couch again. I am so lost. “Not like what?”

In answer, Mohinder marches back to his desk. He’s handsome when he’s determined, too. Jesus, he’s handsome when he’s breathing. He rips a page out of his notebook and avoids my eyes as he hands it to me…

(I must remember not to do something passive-aggressive like leaving this out where he can see it.)

11:05 P.M.

i don’t know why I’m bothering to timestamp this page. there is no chance in hell I’m going to write anything remotely work-related. Not when he’s sitting there behind me with that pensive look on his face

Damn it, Matt

Why’d you have to decide to have your nightcap here? I don’t even need to turn around to know how you must look with your head back and the beer bottle clutched in your hand.

ahh. I almost want to draw hearts around his name. pathetic. suresh. pathetic.

Ways We Could Get Together
1) I could march right over and tell him I’m in love with him.
2) I could fold this paper into a paper airplane and throw it at him.
3) I could ask him to read my mind and tell him that way.
4) I could just get up and walk over to that couch and put my hands on his face and kiss him and he could kiss me back.

Ways We Could Not Get Together
1) I could keep my mouth shut
2) I could keep my fantasies on this piece of paper
3) I could stop thinking in English, period
4) I could get up and walk over to that couch and put my hands on his face and kiss him and he could run like hell in the other direction.

“Falling in love with raging heterosexuals SUCKS.” –Quotable quotes by Mohinder Suresh, Ph.D.

I wish I was the one with mind-control powers…. damn… mmmm, Sex Slave Matt Parkman. (Moral compass? What moral compass? Hah!)

Things I’d Like to Do to Him
1) (censored)
2) (censored)
3) (censored)
you get the idea.

(“You” being a piece of paper. Friends are friends, though.)

Oh just give me your powers for just TWO SECONDS Matt so I can know how you feel about me
whether you notice what I’m trying to say when I smile at you
whether you feel it when I touch you “casually”
whether you know I’m just as jealous of molly as I am of you when you’re together

(Hell, I’m jealous of that beer bottle right now to have his hand wrapped around it. Damn. Calm DOWN)

Matt Matt Matt Matt MattmattmattmattmattMatt

you are a great gigantic idiot of a moron of a fool and I love you so very very very much

damn it!

A thousand volts of electricity go through me as the words resolve themselves one at a time and go dancing in and out of legibility. I ask the dumbest question ever. “Is this true?”

“Wh… which part?” Those dark eyes that move so quickly won’t land on me; they’re hovering anywhere and everywhere else.

“I don’t know, pick one! The part that’s all censored. The part where you have written my name fifteen times. The part where–” I put my head in my hands. “The part where I’m not imagining this. The part where it’s not just me thinking, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if…’?”

Mohinder is still standing. He takes back the paper, folds it up carefully like it is something delicate and fragile. “If what?”

…if I could only make you mine…

I feel something at my forehead. There is a scientist standing over me with a sad smile on his face. One of his hands is very tentatively stroking my hair, beginning at the ruffle of my hairline and pulling back, then starting again.

“I’ve been so scared to do this,” he whispers, “to touch you like this…”

“Why?” I’m just as quiet, although I know the answer just as well as he does. I see my own hand rising, moving toward his waist. It’s a little hard to breathe.

When the hand makes contact, Mohinder shuts his eyes briefly, swallowing. “I’m so afraid, still,” he admitted. “Don’t let this be another daydream. Another daydream and I might break…”

Courage fills me. “No. No more daydreams.” I’ve grabbed him with my other hand now and I’m pulling him down so he’s on my lap, thigh against thigh in weight and warmth. “No more daydreams. I swore to myself, if you were mine I’d protect you.” I can hear fire in my own voice and I am afraid of it, but it’s gonna come if it’s gonna come and all I can do is let it burn through me. “Never ever give you a reason to doubt or fear ever again. Never let you break…”

“Please…” I don’t know what he’s pleading for and I don’t think he knows either. My hands are on his shoulders. Fingertips tracing up his neck toward his jaw. His skin under mine is, wow, there aren’t words for it.

“So it can’t be a daydream. Because I’m not a Bad Guy, right? I don’t break people, I don’t make them do things they don’t want to do, right? So this has to be real, you have to love me because if you don’t… oh, what the hell am I saying?”

“Matt…” He has fingers on my face now, and I think I’m surrounded by him or drowning in him or something, “it’s you who has to love me… because if you don’t…”

I feel myself say it long before I hear the words. “But I do.“

His eyes catch mine for the first time, and it’s like a match in the depths of a powder keg torching it, and the explosion throws us toward each other. Oh God, oh god in all the heavens and the earth and everywhere else, we’re kissing, I’m kissing Mohinder Suresh, his lips are on mine, such soft sweet wonderful lips and skin and hair and he’s kissing me back, he’s smiling into it, his thoughts are going yesyesyes and yesyesyes, so are mine.

News flash, folks, the nice guy has finally finished, and he is so glad he never went bad because Bad Guys never get the happy ending, after all, and who would have thought I wouldn’t have to make him mine? Who would have thought who I am would be enough for him?

(Stop looking at me like that, beer bottle. I know what you’re thinking.)

I guess Batman can breathe easy another night. Another potential supervillain saved with the power of love.

Which is good, because now that Mohinder loves me, I have absolutely nothing villainous I want to do.

Well, OK, maybe there’s one thing…