Thanksgiving (A Heroes Slash Fic)
The Table Seating:
Noah
Micah Nathan
Claire Claude
Monica Peter
(empty) (empty)
Mohinder Sylar
(empty)
“Why do you get to be the patriarch?”
“All the other father figures are dead or in Witness Protection.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, this is my house!”
“Fine then …”
Noah Bennet sighed and adjusted his infamous horn-rims. It had been three years since the Explosion, and everyone who wasn’t dead had gathered together to celebrate Thanksgiving in his house. They’d all finally taken seats after some glares and snarky comments, so, as the patriarch, he stood up for the customary announcement.
“So, let’s go around and say what we’re all thankful for. I’ll start: I’m thankful we can all put who killed or tried to kill whom behind us and have dinner.”
There was a pause.
Claude took a deep breath. “I second that.” he and Noah shared a look: the past was behind them, but only for tonight. Claude smiled and threw his arm around Peter’s thin shoulders. “I’m also thankful for Peter, and I don’t care how sappy that sounds.”
Peter blushed. “I’m thankful for you …” he said, kissing his lover sweetly on the lips.
Noah tried very hard not to be insanely jealous of Peter. Claude had once snuggled him like that …
Micah interrupted Noah’s thoughts. “I’m thankful to be out of that Company cell, and that I’ve got a family.”
Monica reached in front of Claire to squeeze Micah’s hand and addressed the table. “I’m thankful for family, and security, and a chance to sit down and eat in peace with friends.”
Claire took a deep breath. “Um … I’m thankful for freedom, and that both my dads are here, and that even though mom and Lyle couldn’t make it, they’re safe.”
There was a tense silence. Everyone was thinking about Sandra Bennet. She’d divorced Noah two years ago and taken Lyle into hiding after an incident at Claire’s school. Claire had refused to go, staying with her father, even though he’d committed murder several times. Sandra had joined up with Heidi Petrelli and her young sons and started a resistance group to take down what remained of the Linderman plot and the Company. Apparently Sandra and Heidi were rather intimate, a fact that cut Noah and Nathan rather deeply.
“I’m thankful that I’ve been spending time with my daughter, and that I’m two years sober.” Nathan raised his glass of cider and toasted the table; everyone toasted him back.
There was a long pause.
Sylar shifted slightly. “I’m … uh … grateful that you’ve brought me into your circle and haven’t … erm … killed me or locked me up.”
There was another long pause. All eyes were on Mohinder. Peter switched on his telepathy and heard: I’m grateful you killed my father, because if he saw me sitting down to Thanksgiving with a serial killer he’d disown me …from the stiff geneticist.
Mohinder cleared his throat. “Um … I’m grateful that Molly is safe … and that the turkey isn’t real.”
There was a ripple of relieved laughter.
Mohinder smiled. “I’m serious, do you have any idea how painful holidays in this country are for vegetarians?”
Dinner went relatively smoothly after that. Claire and Monica got along incredibly well; Claude was showing no signs of discomfort at being in the same room as Noah; Peter kept blushing as people congratulated his cooking; and Micah conducted a serious conversation with Noah about someone called ‘Hana Giteleman.’
Mohinder and Sylar had somehow ended up across from each other at the table. There was an empty chair between Sylar and Peter, and another empty chair between Monica and Mohinder. As a result they were rather isolated from the rest of the table.
Sylar opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, and telekinetically floated the bread basket from Mohinder’s side over to him.
“I would have passed it.” Mohinder snapped.
“I didn’t feel comfortable asking you to do something civil for me,” Sylar replied, buttering his roll. “Seeing as the last time I asked you for something you tried to shoot me in the head.”
“You asked me for the List,” Mohinder countered. “I don’t think a ‘please’ would have made much of a difference with that one.”
Sylar smirked. “No, I don’t mean when I tortured you for the List. I mean when I asked you to sleep with me.”
Mohinder dropped his wineglass, which spilled crimson all over the tablecloth.
The table fell silent.
Mohinder leapt to his feet. “Um … I’ll clean this up …” he darted into the kitchen and returned with some paper towels.
Noah, Nathan, and Peter glared at Sylar, who ignored them and rubbed index finger on the rim of his own glass, generating a piercing hum.
~*~
After an uneventful desert - well, uneventful except for Claude kissing Peter after taking one bite of the empath’s pumpkin pie - they all gathered in the living room.
Monica began folding paper cranes for Christmas gifts. Micah started beating Nathan, Sylar, and Noah at Scrabble. Peter and Claire dragged everyone into a long string of Mad Libs that had everyone laughing hysterically and asking to be reminded what an adverb was.
“B-R-A-I-N-Z.” Sylar set down his letters.
Noah glared at him.
Sylar grinned and took the ‘z’ away. “What? You’re just upset because I landed on a triple-word score.”
Noah continued to glare.
Micah snorted. “Not that it will do you much good.” He proceeded to spell ‘xylophone’ with the ‘x’ on a triple-letter box. The others groaned.
It started to get dark: Peter and Claude were snuggling on the couch; Monica still hadn’t stopped folding cranes, but was now blushing deeply at something Claire had whispered to her; Micah had tested the limit of Scrabble points a person could accumulate and now Scrabble and Mad Libs had been replaced with Poker and Rummy.
“You’re using telepathy!” Micah complained when Peter cleaned him out in Poker.
“Am not!” Peter retorted.
“We have no way of telling,” Sylar pointed out, telekinetically dealing another round of Rummy to Claire, Monica, and Mohinder. “There’s always temptation for telepaths to poke around where they don’t belong …” he fixed Peter with a hypnotic stare. I used to want you moaning under me, pretty boy, but then Mohinder came along …I used to picture you and the Englishman to jack off, did you know that? Peter turned bright red and turned back the game, squeezing Claude’s hand nervously and wishing telepathy wasn’t so damn addicting.
~*~
A little later, Mohinder got up and ducked into the kitchen to get another slice of pie … and walked in on Monica and Claire kissing.
After making a loud and surprised noise, he ran out of the room before Claire and Monica could do anything but look mortified.
He knocked into Sylar in the hallway.
“Ooof …” Sylar raised his eyebrows. “What was that all about?”
Mohinder glanced away and tried to pass him, but Sylar blocked his path. Cocking his head to the side, Sylar smirked. “Oh, the two dykes making out in the kitchen? Does that disgust you? Does that turn you on?” he eyed Mohinder’s crotch, “Oh, good, because if that got you all hot and bothered my respect for you would plummet significantly.”
“I don’t want your respect! I want you to let me by!” Mohinder hissed, trying once again to shove past Sylar. “Why are you doing this to me?!” he demanded.
Sylar rolled his eyes. “It’s fucking obvious, Mohinder, but since your IQ goes up and down like the stock market I’ll show you …” and he grabbed Mohinder’s shoulders, slammed the smaller man into the wall, and kissed him passionately on the lips.
By the time the initial shock had worn off, Mohinder realized he was kissing Sylar back. He was using his tongue, something he’d never, ever done. Sylar slid one hand up to grasp Mohinder’s hair and pinned Mohinder’s left hand above their heads.
“Do you get it now?” Sylar whispered, nipping Mohinder’s ear lightly with his teeth.
“God yes …” Mohinder was surging with heat and emotions he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before in his life.
“There’s a bedroom down that way …” Sylar jerked his head to the side.
“Won’t they wonder where we are?” Mohinder asked, letting himself be propelled down the hall.
“They won’t miss us. We’re the black sheep.” Sylar tugged on Mohinder’s curly hair. “Besides, I’ve been thinking dirty thoughts at Peter Petrelli all night, he’ll know what’s going on.” He grinned like a wolf and locked the door.
Mohinder felt slightly claustrophobic now, locked in a room with Sylar, about to ... “Do you have protection? We can’t … if you don’t … I haven’t …”
Sylar wordlessly tossed a condom and a tin of lube onto the floral bedspread.
“Ah … ok …” Mohinder mentally stumbled, then rushed forward and shoved Sylar down onto the bed.
~*~
“See you later,” Claire waved as Claude and Peter climbed onto Claude’s motorcycle and roared off into the night with half of the pumpkin pie. She turned to Monica, who was ushering a sleepy Micah into the red VW Bug. “Call me.”
Monica grinned. “Count on it …” she winked before shutting her door.
Claire smiled and headed to her room, tired, full, and very happy.
Mohinder and Sylar had yet to leave the bedroom.
Noah sank back in his chair and traded a glance with Nathan, who was lying on the couch. “Are you -?” he began.
“No.” Nathan cut him off.
Noah raised his eyebrows. “You’re not -”
“No.” Nathan repeated.
Noah sighed. “If you ever wanted -”
“No.”
Noah sighed, and set about getting more comfortable in his chair: he had a feeling Mohinder and Sylar wouldn’t be done for a while, and apparently Nathan had no intention of sharing the couch.