Timorous Rude and Not Ginger Beastie (sweetbelle07) wrote in hero_valentines,
Timorous Rude and Not Ginger Beastie
sweetbelle07
hero_valentines

Title: Effects
For: iz_factor
Words:
746
Rating: PG
Specifics: Takeout. Hurt/comfort.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes.



It was in the time they could only refer to as
"After".

The news channels prefer to call it as the
after-explosion, or the mutant era, or even
post-New York. Stupid, because New York is still on
the map, and even mostly whole. No radiation to kill
anyone who steps within its borders, as some crack
scientists might have you believe. Just people, going
on living despite the crater and the circle of
buildings broken down like card houses where they
hadn't been quick enough.

(New York had weathered worse before, within all too
recent memory. At least no one had died this time, at
least no one really. The liberal acceptance found in
this city takes mutants in its stride, but even they
are hard-pressed to mourn those who had had a part in
the attempted destruction.

There is still pride, here, after all.)

Despite the reporter's catchy lingo, no one else
really bothers to give it a name. Mohinder is
sort-of a famous scientist now, sort-of actually truly
completely really. Nathan is the front of their
operation, smiling at the newsmen and charmingly
answering none of their questions.

But Mohinder is second-in-command and the only one who
really understands the why so he deals with all
the technical details, lecturing to scientists and
fellow geneticists the world over. Nathan and Hiro and
Nathan's PR representatives make sure everyone falls
in love with their new "heroes", as easily as the
world fell in love with Superman and Batman and
Spiderman.

Mohinder makes sure they do not run tests on
no-longer-helpless men and women.

He misses India, but he isn't going back. He knows it
won't be any different, and he couldn't stand being
praised by those who had called him crazy. Hypocracy
still makes him sick, and he doesn't care if it's
childish.

It's a Friday night, which would mean 'good' for
anyone else, anyone who didn't work seven days a week
forcing acceptance on a world who isn't ready, when he
stumbles back into his apartment. He's got money now,
but he won't leave that little three room hole. The
map is still on the wall, and the lizard is still in
the tank.

But there are two bags on the desk, smelling like
noodles and chicken and chinese takeout. And there's a
man sitting in the chair, which Mohinder should have
learned to fear but as it is he's only sort of happy
that someone cares.

The chair turns around and there are bangs, soft and
long over newly-jaded eyes, and Peter.

Peter who walked out on him last week, saying that
they were over, completely and totally, because he was
straight and he loved Simone and Issac had finally
given her up for good (or so he had said, though no
one really believed it) and

And.

Eyes. God damn it all, because Mohinder won't crack
for this. Not for this, takeout and pretty eyes and
pretty lips and I'm sorry and I love you and let's eat
and then let's fuck.

And then tomorrow, or maybe the next day, or next week
or next month, when SImone and Issac break up again as
they always do, every so often, he'll walk out again.

But looking into those god damned eyes is like falling
off a god damned cliff. Like Nathan or Claire (or, he
supposes, Peter) must feel every time they step off a
building. Like anyone else feels every time they go on
that wooden contraption at Coney Island.

Like Mohinder feels every time he steps onto the
podium to give a lecture to another crowd of sceptics,
non-believers, those still convinced that Heroes are
just a new media hoax.

Except that Peter does believe, believes fully, throws
himself into belief like he throws himself into
everything else, heart open mind locked and passionate
and ready to listen to anything. Ready to listen and
believe.

Mohinder needs someone to believe him.

And so maybe, when Peter looks up at him through big
brown eyes, laying Bollywood videos on the desk and
standing up to greet properly, and ask--maybe
beg--forgiveness, and cuddling and pancakes in the
morning. Just like it was before Thursday, just like
it was when they called it love, and maybe accepting
that everyone makes mistakes and they can maybe try
and rebuild. Maybe put Peter on probation and try this
one last time, because they might just have something
here, something real, something they both need in a
world that isn't sure if it's ready to understand.

Maybe Mohinder might just say yes.

[end.]

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