Heroes: "Untitled Snapshot futurefic" (Mylar, Molly & Micah, PG)
Title: Untitled Snapshot futurefic
Author: airspaniel
Rating: PG
Pairing: a snippet of Mylar, Molly & Micah
Word Count: 931
Spoilers: through first season, oblique for cerebel's Snapshot series
Notes: My last offering for wip_amnesty. For Christmas 2007, I had intended to write a giftfic for cerebel; something set in the future of her wonderfully vivid Snapshot series.
That... didn't happen. >.<
Even so, I wish I could've made this go somewhere, because I'm actually quite fond of it. Oh well, so it goes.
Molly took a deep drag off her cigarette, eyes sliding closed behind dark glasses. The sunlight was nearly blinding after a day spent indoors, mostly hunched over maps and computer screens.
It really did nothing to help her headache.
She fumbled in her purse, popped open the bottle of percodan and swallowed two of them dry, chasing the pills with another lungful of smoke. All she had to do now was wait till they kicked in. Which should be about two cigarettes from now.
Fifteen minutes before she had to be back in the hole. Plenty of time.
Leaning back against the building’s stone façade, she flicked the butt across the sidewalk, still glowing red as it flipped end over end.
Before it hit the ground, she had the next one lit. So many things had tried to kill her in her life; she may as well give cancer a fair shot.
Molly laughed, ruefully. She could almost hear Mohinder’s exasperated voice.
“Molly, I wish you would take better care of yourself.”
Suddenly nauseous, she stubbed her cigarette angrily against the wall. It wasn’t fair that he could guilt trip her from the past, for things he didn’t even know she was doing.
Not like he cared anymore. He could never care about a murderer. Sylar was such a fool.
He always had been, weak and greedy and desperate to mean something. His power hadn’t made him a killer any more than owning a wrench would make someone a plumber. It was just a tool. One that he hadn’t been able to control.
God, she missed him.
“Hey, Cerebro!”
A familiar voice snapped her out of her reverie. Micah.
He smiled at her, one eyebrow raised curiously. “You were a million miles away there. You all right?”
She smiled back, weakly. “Yeah. I’m fine.” His arms crossed over his chest, pulling his t-shirt tight across his shoulders as he gave her that “I know you’re not telling me something” look he was so good at. The sunlight glinted off his tight black curls, and she shook her head.
“I’m fine, hackmaster,” she teased, slapping him lightly across the arm. “Let’s get back to work.”
-----
Between the two of them, they had taken down nearly thirty terrorists and suspected sympathizers in the last two months.
Nakamura was out, Bennet in custody, Wilmer, Gitelman… all the big names. A veritable who’s who on President Petrelli’s enemies list.
Two names were conspicuously absent.
“Where are they?” Peter asked, his veneer of calm, kind concern falling faster away every time they played out this little scene.
Molly’s hand held a silver thumbtack, hovering impotently over the atlas.
4400 Connecticut Ave. Days Inn, room 112. Not far away at all.
Mohinder is asleep in one of the double beds, dark hair disorderly against the white linen. He’s curled up into himself, sheets tucked completely to his shoulders. He looks peaceful.
She notices the other bed is still immaculate and untouched. It almost makes her smile.
Sylar is standing at the window, shirtless, wearing light blue pajama pants. As she watches, he turns back to the bed, regarding its occupant with a curious, sad expression. His hand reaches out, trails gentle fingers down the side of Mohinder’s face, as if doubting his existence.
Mohinder stirs, turning into the touch, and his eyes flutter open. His smile is slow and sleepy, but he leans forward just as Sylar leans down and…
She slammed the atlas shut. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?” Peter hissed. “That’s what you do, right? You find people. So what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know!” Molly yelled, burying her face in her hands. God, her head was killing her. If she could just get to her pills…
The president was quiet, projecting an air of quiet menace. “I suggest you figure it out. My patience has limits.”
“Oh, I’m so scared!” she snapped, tired of this routine. “You won’t kill me, and there’s nothing else you can threaten me with so just stop it! Christ, how did you get anything done before I came along?”
Peter’s face went tight, tension thrumming through his shoulders and arms and for a long moment Molly thought he was going to hit her. She almost smiled. Not many people got to push President Petrelli this far and walk away without a bullet in the brain, at the very least.
Better than the percodan for curing a chronic headache.
He didn’t hit her; didn’t say anything else, just turned and walked out of the room, leaving Molly and Micah alone in uneasy silence.
“You know,” Micah said softly, but his voice echoed regardless. “You’re going to have to tell him eventually.”
Molly threw the atlas in her bag and slid a cigarette out of the pack in the front pocket, not even acknowledging his presence.
“Molly? Have you even seen them since you left? Why don’t you just tell Petrelli and let them take care of themselves?”
“They can’t take care of themselves,” Molly grumbled. “They never could.” She hoisted her bag over her shoulders and stomped to the door, flicking the lights off as she went.
Micah stood and watched her, the blue light of his monitors casting eerie shadows across the room. He pressed his hand against the tower nearest him, and the room was plunged into darkness as the computers shut off in unison.
“You coming, genius?” Molly called from the hall, and her voice was just teasing enough that Micah smiled in relief. He shook his head and followed her out.
Author: airspaniel
Rating: PG
Pairing: a snippet of Mylar, Molly & Micah
Word Count: 931
Spoilers: through first season, oblique for cerebel's Snapshot series
Notes: My last offering for wip_amnesty. For Christmas 2007, I had intended to write a giftfic for cerebel; something set in the future of her wonderfully vivid Snapshot series.
That... didn't happen. >.<
Even so, I wish I could've made this go somewhere, because I'm actually quite fond of it. Oh well, so it goes.
Molly took a deep drag off her cigarette, eyes sliding closed behind dark glasses. The sunlight was nearly blinding after a day spent indoors, mostly hunched over maps and computer screens.
It really did nothing to help her headache.
She fumbled in her purse, popped open the bottle of percodan and swallowed two of them dry, chasing the pills with another lungful of smoke. All she had to do now was wait till they kicked in. Which should be about two cigarettes from now.
Fifteen minutes before she had to be back in the hole. Plenty of time.
Leaning back against the building’s stone façade, she flicked the butt across the sidewalk, still glowing red as it flipped end over end.
Before it hit the ground, she had the next one lit. So many things had tried to kill her in her life; she may as well give cancer a fair shot.
Molly laughed, ruefully. She could almost hear Mohinder’s exasperated voice.
“Molly, I wish you would take better care of yourself.”
Suddenly nauseous, she stubbed her cigarette angrily against the wall. It wasn’t fair that he could guilt trip her from the past, for things he didn’t even know she was doing.
Not like he cared anymore. He could never care about a murderer. Sylar was such a fool.
He always had been, weak and greedy and desperate to mean something. His power hadn’t made him a killer any more than owning a wrench would make someone a plumber. It was just a tool. One that he hadn’t been able to control.
God, she missed him.
“Hey, Cerebro!”
A familiar voice snapped her out of her reverie. Micah.
He smiled at her, one eyebrow raised curiously. “You were a million miles away there. You all right?”
She smiled back, weakly. “Yeah. I’m fine.” His arms crossed over his chest, pulling his t-shirt tight across his shoulders as he gave her that “I know you’re not telling me something” look he was so good at. The sunlight glinted off his tight black curls, and she shook her head.
“I’m fine, hackmaster,” she teased, slapping him lightly across the arm. “Let’s get back to work.”
-----
Between the two of them, they had taken down nearly thirty terrorists and suspected sympathizers in the last two months.
Nakamura was out, Bennet in custody, Wilmer, Gitelman… all the big names. A veritable who’s who on President Petrelli’s enemies list.
Two names were conspicuously absent.
“Where are they?” Peter asked, his veneer of calm, kind concern falling faster away every time they played out this little scene.
Molly’s hand held a silver thumbtack, hovering impotently over the atlas.
4400 Connecticut Ave. Days Inn, room 112. Not far away at all.
Mohinder is asleep in one of the double beds, dark hair disorderly against the white linen. He’s curled up into himself, sheets tucked completely to his shoulders. He looks peaceful.
She notices the other bed is still immaculate and untouched. It almost makes her smile.
Sylar is standing at the window, shirtless, wearing light blue pajama pants. As she watches, he turns back to the bed, regarding its occupant with a curious, sad expression. His hand reaches out, trails gentle fingers down the side of Mohinder’s face, as if doubting his existence.
Mohinder stirs, turning into the touch, and his eyes flutter open. His smile is slow and sleepy, but he leans forward just as Sylar leans down and…
She slammed the atlas shut. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?” Peter hissed. “That’s what you do, right? You find people. So what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know!” Molly yelled, burying her face in her hands. God, her head was killing her. If she could just get to her pills…
The president was quiet, projecting an air of quiet menace. “I suggest you figure it out. My patience has limits.”
“Oh, I’m so scared!” she snapped, tired of this routine. “You won’t kill me, and there’s nothing else you can threaten me with so just stop it! Christ, how did you get anything done before I came along?”
Peter’s face went tight, tension thrumming through his shoulders and arms and for a long moment Molly thought he was going to hit her. She almost smiled. Not many people got to push President Petrelli this far and walk away without a bullet in the brain, at the very least.
Better than the percodan for curing a chronic headache.
He didn’t hit her; didn’t say anything else, just turned and walked out of the room, leaving Molly and Micah alone in uneasy silence.
“You know,” Micah said softly, but his voice echoed regardless. “You’re going to have to tell him eventually.”
Molly threw the atlas in her bag and slid a cigarette out of the pack in the front pocket, not even acknowledging his presence.
“Molly? Have you even seen them since you left? Why don’t you just tell Petrelli and let them take care of themselves?”
“They can’t take care of themselves,” Molly grumbled. “They never could.” She hoisted her bag over her shoulders and stomped to the door, flicking the lights off as she went.
Micah stood and watched her, the blue light of his monitors casting eerie shadows across the room. He pressed his hand against the tower nearest him, and the room was plunged into darkness as the computers shut off in unison.
“You coming, genius?” Molly called from the hall, and her voice was just teasing enough that Micah smiled in relief. He shook his head and followed her out.