Heroes: Never Change (Peter/Mohinder | T | 435w)
[ Peter/Mohinder | T | 435w | 2007-11-18, 2008-02-06 ]
Coda to Five Years Gone; occurs just after the last scene. Thanks to tinheart for the look-over.
Never Change
“I-all this time.” Mohinder shook his head. There were three feet of space between them; it felt like years.
“I wanted to tell you.” Peter’s jaw tightened. “But you were with…him. I couldn’t risk-”
Mohinder held out a hand, taking a step forward on instinct, like he was approaching an animal recently freed from a cage. “You don’t have to explain, Peter.”
Peter looked away. “I want to. You deserved better.”
Mohinder’s hand dropped. The smell of burnt flesh, spent bullets and melting ice saturated the air. There were so many bodies that he’d stopped counting.
“Better? After participating in this madness?” He looked around them with a tightening in his gut. “I nearly stopped Hiro.”
It was Peter who took a step closer, now. “But you didn’t.”
“Because of this.” Mohinder gestured; the pages of the comic fluttered open. “If I hadn’t…”
Peter’s fingers came to rest on the wrinkled edges of the pages, surprisingly gentle. His voice had a trace of a smile in it. “Don’t do the science thing, Mohinder. Timelines are only good for giving you a headache.”
Mohinder bit his bottom lip, not quite able to meet Peter’s eyes. He’d gotten out of practice at this, and a slightly giddy sensation overtook him as he spoke.
“Does that mean you don’t want to see the last page?”
There was a hum, a sound low in Peter’s throat that Mohinder remembered from late nights before either of them knew where the world was going, before there was a scar or lies or a death between them.
Peter’s palm came up to press against the back of Mohinder’s wrist.
“Show me,” he said, his voice low, a little more harsh. It was the clear differentiation of the Peter that once was and the Peter that stood before him now, hardened in the crucible of battle.
With a thumb and index finger holding the corners of the paper, Mohinder flipped through the scenes that led them here: a needle re-directed, a stand-off where only one walked away, the disappearance of a traveler mislaid.
And on the last, there was Peter, composed of jagged lines and harsh shadows, form stretched out like a panther: aquiline and predatory. Above him was Mohinder, caught in the curvature of Peter’s legs, nestled between his hips, back arched into steep slope.
“Some things never change,” Peter said.
“Indeed.” Mohinder let Peter take the comic from his hands and toss it aside; they simultaneously closed the remaining paltry distance between them. “Thank God for small favors,” he whispered right before Peter’s lips found his and life imitated art.
Coda to Five Years Gone; occurs just after the last scene. Thanks to tinheart for the look-over.
Never Change
“I-all this time.” Mohinder shook his head. There were three feet of space between them; it felt like years.
“I wanted to tell you.” Peter’s jaw tightened. “But you were with…him. I couldn’t risk-”
Mohinder held out a hand, taking a step forward on instinct, like he was approaching an animal recently freed from a cage. “You don’t have to explain, Peter.”
Peter looked away. “I want to. You deserved better.”
Mohinder’s hand dropped. The smell of burnt flesh, spent bullets and melting ice saturated the air. There were so many bodies that he’d stopped counting.
“Better? After participating in this madness?” He looked around them with a tightening in his gut. “I nearly stopped Hiro.”
It was Peter who took a step closer, now. “But you didn’t.”
“Because of this.” Mohinder gestured; the pages of the comic fluttered open. “If I hadn’t…”
Peter’s fingers came to rest on the wrinkled edges of the pages, surprisingly gentle. His voice had a trace of a smile in it. “Don’t do the science thing, Mohinder. Timelines are only good for giving you a headache.”
Mohinder bit his bottom lip, not quite able to meet Peter’s eyes. He’d gotten out of practice at this, and a slightly giddy sensation overtook him as he spoke.
“Does that mean you don’t want to see the last page?”
There was a hum, a sound low in Peter’s throat that Mohinder remembered from late nights before either of them knew where the world was going, before there was a scar or lies or a death between them.
Peter’s palm came up to press against the back of Mohinder’s wrist.
“Show me,” he said, his voice low, a little more harsh. It was the clear differentiation of the Peter that once was and the Peter that stood before him now, hardened in the crucible of battle.
With a thumb and index finger holding the corners of the paper, Mohinder flipped through the scenes that led them here: a needle re-directed, a stand-off where only one walked away, the disappearance of a traveler mislaid.
And on the last, there was Peter, composed of jagged lines and harsh shadows, form stretched out like a panther: aquiline and predatory. Above him was Mohinder, caught in the curvature of Peter’s legs, nestled between his hips, back arched into steep slope.
“Some things never change,” Peter said.
“Indeed.” Mohinder let Peter take the comic from his hands and toss it aside; they simultaneously closed the remaining paltry distance between them. “Thank God for small favors,” he whispered right before Peter’s lips found his and life imitated art.