Two drabbles, VM and Heroes, and some other stuff.
It's Mother's Day, I've only been awake for an hour and a half, and I had an insane urge to write some baby fic. :::thwaps that nefarious biological clock to make the alarm stop:::
Veronica leaned across the desk to answer the ringing phone, scooting back so that the edge wouldn't catch against her huge belly. Eli couldn't help but grin. Like, stupid grin. He had a ridiculous amount of pride in his wife.
Fuck. His *wife*.
Even years later, it blew his mind to think of her that way. To remember how they'd stood up in front of God at St. Anthony's with Sheriff Mars walking her down that long-ass aisle. She'd said "yes," and "I do," and "forever," and somehow it had worked out.
"…and I'll have to warn you that my rate is standard and that we don't do motel surveillance and money shots. Mars-Navarro is a clean business."
"It's a *family* business," he added, loudly-- making her cup her hand over the receiver and mock scowl at him.
Of course, they both knew it wasn't out of some sense of morality or judgment that the "no money shot" rule had gotten instituted. It was more because their oldest, Josefina, had decided to make her world debut while Veronica was staking out the Camelot. And considering he couldn't touch Veronica without knocking her up -- three kids in four years-- they'd figured it was best to nip any more back seat arrivals in the bud.
God, he loved seeing her pregnant. "How forward-thinking of you, Eli," she liked to laugh when he stroked his hands possessively over her stomach and whispered, "Mine." He loved being deep inside her, feeling their babies fluttering there beneath her taut, pale skin.
"…it's a pleasure. Bye!" Veronica winced, hanging up and rubbing the place where Josie and Letty's brother must've landed one solid kick. "Fuerte como tu papi, huh?"
"No," he grinned, moving towards her. "Just like his mother."
Yeah, it blew his mind.
The baby stirred and Mohinder shushed her with a string of Tamil syllables that would translate to nothing in English. He cradled her against his chest, kissing her tiny fists as soothingly as he could manage given the circumstances.
The agents were close. Too close. He could hear the crackling of their comm devices, the static as they received orders from their superiors. *Shoot to kill. Do not hesitate.* He did not need to hear the tinny voices to know what they spoke. He had already seen the results, already known that loss.
And he would be damned if his child would suffer the same fate.
He could feel her heartbeat, frantic like the backbeat of a tabla. She was worried for Papa but he knew she was too small… too fragile… to truly help. "Shhh," he said, again. "Shanth, Munni…shanth…"
Peace, Baby, peace. He had been wishing for it so long. He knew it was far beyond their grasp.
They stayed still, huddled, for what felt like hours. She began to fuss, impatiently gumming at the finger he placed against her lips.
Then there was chaos. Noise. Salvation.
"Mohinder?" Peter asked, shoving aside the closet doors. "Gayatri?"
He laughed with relief at the familiar mangling of, "Guy Tree," and the baby giggled in recognition as well, going happily into Peter's arms. For just an instant, Mohinder allowed himself the luxury of watching them… of watching her snuggle against his neck and him kiss the top of her curly head.
Then, he allowed himself one moment to embrace them both, to ignore the bodies that Peter had left in his wake. To be at peace.
I also just watched a really interesting documentary on PBS called The Slanted Screen, all about the portrayals of Asian men in Hollywood, and it was fascinating. It pretty much hit a lot of the recurring themes in my own meta and in fandom meta in general. Daniel Dae Kim narrated it (guh!) and it featured Jason Scott Lee, Cary Hiroyuki Tagawa, Will Yun Lee, and Dustin Nguyen among others. Yes, folks, they brought up 21JS as a positive portrayal of Vietnamese Americans and gave it props for the highly meta Japanese-guy-passing storyline! Bwah! Score one for H.T. Ioki! I still haven't finished season three. I blame Booker.
I should probably scrounge up something to eat soon. I had a Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich at, like, 4:45 this morning. And the guy sweeping up behind the ice cream counter totally laughed at me when I had trouble opening the door as I left the store. Ass!
And, oh! Thinking about Cary Tagawa reminds of a short story I started writing in 1993 or 1994, after I saw Rising Sun, all about this Japanese ghost named Eddie who was tied to this girl and had basically watched her grow up. Of course, then she turned into a smokin' hot teenager and sexual wackiness ensued. What was her name? Damn. It was so wrong. It's probably in my parents' house somewhere.
Veronica leaned across the desk to answer the ringing phone, scooting back so that the edge wouldn't catch against her huge belly. Eli couldn't help but grin. Like, stupid grin. He had a ridiculous amount of pride in his wife.
Fuck. His *wife*.
Even years later, it blew his mind to think of her that way. To remember how they'd stood up in front of God at St. Anthony's with Sheriff Mars walking her down that long-ass aisle. She'd said "yes," and "I do," and "forever," and somehow it had worked out.
"…and I'll have to warn you that my rate is standard and that we don't do motel surveillance and money shots. Mars-Navarro is a clean business."
"It's a *family* business," he added, loudly-- making her cup her hand over the receiver and mock scowl at him.
Of course, they both knew it wasn't out of some sense of morality or judgment that the "no money shot" rule had gotten instituted. It was more because their oldest, Josefina, had decided to make her world debut while Veronica was staking out the Camelot. And considering he couldn't touch Veronica without knocking her up -- three kids in four years-- they'd figured it was best to nip any more back seat arrivals in the bud.
God, he loved seeing her pregnant. "How forward-thinking of you, Eli," she liked to laugh when he stroked his hands possessively over her stomach and whispered, "Mine." He loved being deep inside her, feeling their babies fluttering there beneath her taut, pale skin.
"…it's a pleasure. Bye!" Veronica winced, hanging up and rubbing the place where Josie and Letty's brother must've landed one solid kick. "Fuerte como tu papi, huh?"
"No," he grinned, moving towards her. "Just like his mother."
Yeah, it blew his mind.
The baby stirred and Mohinder shushed her with a string of Tamil syllables that would translate to nothing in English. He cradled her against his chest, kissing her tiny fists as soothingly as he could manage given the circumstances.
The agents were close. Too close. He could hear the crackling of their comm devices, the static as they received orders from their superiors. *Shoot to kill. Do not hesitate.* He did not need to hear the tinny voices to know what they spoke. He had already seen the results, already known that loss.
And he would be damned if his child would suffer the same fate.
He could feel her heartbeat, frantic like the backbeat of a tabla. She was worried for Papa but he knew she was too small… too fragile… to truly help. "Shhh," he said, again. "Shanth, Munni…shanth…"
Peace, Baby, peace. He had been wishing for it so long. He knew it was far beyond their grasp.
They stayed still, huddled, for what felt like hours. She began to fuss, impatiently gumming at the finger he placed against her lips.
Then there was chaos. Noise. Salvation.
"Mohinder?" Peter asked, shoving aside the closet doors. "Gayatri?"
He laughed with relief at the familiar mangling of, "Guy Tree," and the baby giggled in recognition as well, going happily into Peter's arms. For just an instant, Mohinder allowed himself the luxury of watching them… of watching her snuggle against his neck and him kiss the top of her curly head.
Then, he allowed himself one moment to embrace them both, to ignore the bodies that Peter had left in his wake. To be at peace.
I also just watched a really interesting documentary on PBS called The Slanted Screen, all about the portrayals of Asian men in Hollywood, and it was fascinating. It pretty much hit a lot of the recurring themes in my own meta and in fandom meta in general. Daniel Dae Kim narrated it (guh!) and it featured Jason Scott Lee, Cary Hiroyuki Tagawa, Will Yun Lee, and Dustin Nguyen among others. Yes, folks, they brought up 21JS as a positive portrayal of Vietnamese Americans and gave it props for the highly meta Japanese-guy-passing storyline! Bwah! Score one for H.T. Ioki! I still haven't finished season three. I blame Booker.
I should probably scrounge up something to eat soon. I had a Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich at, like, 4:45 this morning. And the guy sweeping up behind the ice cream counter totally laughed at me when I had trouble opening the door as I left the store. Ass!
And, oh! Thinking about Cary Tagawa reminds of a short story I started writing in 1993 or 1994, after I saw Rising Sun, all about this Japanese ghost named Eddie who was tied to this girl and had basically watched her grow up. Of course, then she turned into a smokin' hot teenager and sexual wackiness ensued. What was her name? Damn. It was so wrong. It's probably in my parents' house somewhere.