"Only Those Who Know," Claire/Nathan, Mohinder, PG
Title - Only Those Who Know
Rating - PG
Characters/Pairings - Nathan, Claire, Mohinder; Claire/Nathan
Challenge - heroes50, 04. Search
Originally Written - November 5, 2007
Spoilers/Warnings - Up through 2.06 "The Line," with heavy spoilers for 2.03 "Kindred" and speculation for future episodes
Summary - the cold March air stinging his skin raw, and for the first time in months, he feels alive
Disclaimer - I don't own "Heroes," I just sometimes wish I did considering the rumors of today.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, a strange, steady rhythm. Mohinder looks up from his speech, and he suppresses the urge to shrug carelessly and instead fishes the phone from its cozy home. One glance at the caller ID means that he cannot ignore this call, not this time. He owes her at least this (he probably owes her more than this).
“Hello.”
“Nathan, I need you.” It’s strange to hear such a hard note of need in the voice that lifted him up for months (even if he never found the words to say thank you).
“Claire, can this wait? I don’t have time -”
“He’s dead.” It’s not like he needs more than this; he gave her every reason to not believe in him - but she still does, even more so now that it counts for something, really.
“I’ll be there soon.”
He cannot believe his promise, and the slight echo in the room with the closing of his phone says no one else can either. Matt looks at him like he might have just condemned them all to death (hasn’t he already done that?), but he heard in her voice, for the first time in months, the promise of something more. A life maybe where he isn’t always running from the face in the mirror.
“She needs me.”
He doesn’t expect them to understand, but Mohinder simply nods, and Matt looks incredulous. A reversal he never would have thought from the Wonder Fathers.
“You can’t just go -”
“Bennet’s dead.” He doesn’t have to say that their plans mean nothing now.
He doesn’t wait for anything more; just goes to the nearest window and jumps - the cold March air stinging his skin raw, and for the first time in months, he feels alive.
**
He lands outside the quiet suburban house, palm trees swaying slightly in the late night breeze. A light shines in the front window of the house. He had it all planned until now, and he walks to the door and raps slightly, praying that maybe he can just fly to her window - rescue her from her heartache like in a fairytale where deaths aren’t ever real.
A woman opens the door, eyes rimmed red, and a puffy dog clasped to her chest, and the dog doesn’t even struggle to get away despite the wet matted hair near his ears. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see your daughter.” The words are surreal (true and deep), and he refrains (barely) from rolling his eyes. “I’m, uh, I’m her father.”
Mrs. Bennet takes a step back, staring uncomprehendingly at him. He wonders exactly how much her husband ever entrusted to her (how fake those parents she met were), but she takes another step back and welcomes him into her home; and for a moment, he can see where Claire’s heart and warmth came from.
“Claire’s upstairs. She won’t come down.” She might be a Bennet in name and heart, but she still is a Petrelli in spirit.
“Thank you. And I’m sorry.”
He knows the words aren’t enough (they probably never will be), and even as he says them, he wonders why he came. It’s only raw wounds that this will open, never healed and open to be exploited by her large heart.
**
He knocks twice on the door that has to be her own; a fine swirly design and a cheap saying about dreams ushering anyone inside. “Claire.”
The door opens slowly, and the face he remembers so willing to fight him, so determined to find another way, has lost its brilliance; the last light of a candle nearly choked by its own wax. “You came.”
“Of course. You’re family,” he whispers before he gathers up the girl that was never quite anything to him into his arms.
She hesitates before she melts against his chest, sobs racking her tiny body, dragging them both the ground. “He’s gone, Nathan. And it’s all my fault.”
She knew, found out the secret Mohinder claimed Bennet kept closer than his own soul, and her father’s last wish for her protection has been shattered by the cruelness of life and all its implications. “Shh… we’ll figure it out, Claire. Together.”
Her golden head pushes into the junction of his shoulder and neck, lips whispering fears and hopes against the sensitive skin that he can almost make out their meaning, but when his broken daughter looks up at him, glassy eyes so uncomprehending that he wants to push all the loneliness away (he just wishes he knew the right way to make it all go away).
**
He took her away, packed up a small bag of knick-knacks and clothes, and flew into the distance. She asked not to tell her mother where she’s gone, just that someday, she’ll come home (he wonders if she’ll ever realize the lie she spoke to save them both).
Mohinder gives his speech now, voice softer and gentler than before, but she, never knowing the soft-hearted Indian any other way, listens quietly - never interrupting but always asking, with her eyes and smiles. If he had no reason to know better, he would be jealous.
They want to help people, an unlikely pair to be sure, but each has a heart bigger than all the rest (they remind him of Peter, but in joyless, hardened way), so that when Mohinder tires of donating blood to save lives, she offers her to test.
“It doesn’t hurt, Nathan, and it’s not like I won’t always have more.” Mohinder sticks the needle in her arm, and he has the irrational desire to put it out and pull her away. She came to him, called him, but with every shared laugh he feels like she is farther from his than she ever was before.
Mohinder draws a vial, before excusing himself. Claire wipes away the pin-prick of blood that serves as the only clue a needle ever touched her skin.
“I know - I just want to protect you.”
She smiles her sad little smile. “You have already, you know.”
She presses a light kiss to his lips before she exits the small lab, exchanging their hidden affection more boldly than he would ever dare.
He came at her call, to save her is what he keeps telling everyone, but he looks at the mirror above the sink in this make-shift hospital room, and a burned and guilty face stares back.
He went to save her (a lie as sure as the one that keeps his head from kicking her out of his bed at night), and he did (her words and kisses and moans suggest as wrong as it all is, that’s right). Now he just wonders how much longer until she saves him from the face in the mirror.
Feedback is love!
Rating - PG
Characters/Pairings - Nathan, Claire, Mohinder; Claire/Nathan
Challenge - heroes50, 04. Search
Originally Written - November 5, 2007
Spoilers/Warnings - Up through 2.06 "The Line," with heavy spoilers for 2.03 "Kindred" and speculation for future episodes
Summary - the cold March air stinging his skin raw, and for the first time in months, he feels alive
Disclaimer - I don't own "Heroes," I just sometimes wish I did considering the rumors of today.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, a strange, steady rhythm. Mohinder looks up from his speech, and he suppresses the urge to shrug carelessly and instead fishes the phone from its cozy home. One glance at the caller ID means that he cannot ignore this call, not this time. He owes her at least this (he probably owes her more than this).
“Hello.”
“Nathan, I need you.” It’s strange to hear such a hard note of need in the voice that lifted him up for months (even if he never found the words to say thank you).
“Claire, can this wait? I don’t have time -”
“He’s dead.” It’s not like he needs more than this; he gave her every reason to not believe in him - but she still does, even more so now that it counts for something, really.
“I’ll be there soon.”
He cannot believe his promise, and the slight echo in the room with the closing of his phone says no one else can either. Matt looks at him like he might have just condemned them all to death (hasn’t he already done that?), but he heard in her voice, for the first time in months, the promise of something more. A life maybe where he isn’t always running from the face in the mirror.
“She needs me.”
He doesn’t expect them to understand, but Mohinder simply nods, and Matt looks incredulous. A reversal he never would have thought from the Wonder Fathers.
“You can’t just go -”
“Bennet’s dead.” He doesn’t have to say that their plans mean nothing now.
He doesn’t wait for anything more; just goes to the nearest window and jumps - the cold March air stinging his skin raw, and for the first time in months, he feels alive.
**
He lands outside the quiet suburban house, palm trees swaying slightly in the late night breeze. A light shines in the front window of the house. He had it all planned until now, and he walks to the door and raps slightly, praying that maybe he can just fly to her window - rescue her from her heartache like in a fairytale where deaths aren’t ever real.
A woman opens the door, eyes rimmed red, and a puffy dog clasped to her chest, and the dog doesn’t even struggle to get away despite the wet matted hair near his ears. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see your daughter.” The words are surreal (true and deep), and he refrains (barely) from rolling his eyes. “I’m, uh, I’m her father.”
Mrs. Bennet takes a step back, staring uncomprehendingly at him. He wonders exactly how much her husband ever entrusted to her (how fake those parents she met were), but she takes another step back and welcomes him into her home; and for a moment, he can see where Claire’s heart and warmth came from.
“Claire’s upstairs. She won’t come down.” She might be a Bennet in name and heart, but she still is a Petrelli in spirit.
“Thank you. And I’m sorry.”
He knows the words aren’t enough (they probably never will be), and even as he says them, he wonders why he came. It’s only raw wounds that this will open, never healed and open to be exploited by her large heart.
**
He knocks twice on the door that has to be her own; a fine swirly design and a cheap saying about dreams ushering anyone inside. “Claire.”
The door opens slowly, and the face he remembers so willing to fight him, so determined to find another way, has lost its brilliance; the last light of a candle nearly choked by its own wax. “You came.”
“Of course. You’re family,” he whispers before he gathers up the girl that was never quite anything to him into his arms.
She hesitates before she melts against his chest, sobs racking her tiny body, dragging them both the ground. “He’s gone, Nathan. And it’s all my fault.”
She knew, found out the secret Mohinder claimed Bennet kept closer than his own soul, and her father’s last wish for her protection has been shattered by the cruelness of life and all its implications. “Shh… we’ll figure it out, Claire. Together.”
Her golden head pushes into the junction of his shoulder and neck, lips whispering fears and hopes against the sensitive skin that he can almost make out their meaning, but when his broken daughter looks up at him, glassy eyes so uncomprehending that he wants to push all the loneliness away (he just wishes he knew the right way to make it all go away).
**
He took her away, packed up a small bag of knick-knacks and clothes, and flew into the distance. She asked not to tell her mother where she’s gone, just that someday, she’ll come home (he wonders if she’ll ever realize the lie she spoke to save them both).
Mohinder gives his speech now, voice softer and gentler than before, but she, never knowing the soft-hearted Indian any other way, listens quietly - never interrupting but always asking, with her eyes and smiles. If he had no reason to know better, he would be jealous.
They want to help people, an unlikely pair to be sure, but each has a heart bigger than all the rest (they remind him of Peter, but in joyless, hardened way), so that when Mohinder tires of donating blood to save lives, she offers her to test.
“It doesn’t hurt, Nathan, and it’s not like I won’t always have more.” Mohinder sticks the needle in her arm, and he has the irrational desire to put it out and pull her away. She came to him, called him, but with every shared laugh he feels like she is farther from his than she ever was before.
Mohinder draws a vial, before excusing himself. Claire wipes away the pin-prick of blood that serves as the only clue a needle ever touched her skin.
“I know - I just want to protect you.”
She smiles her sad little smile. “You have already, you know.”
She presses a light kiss to his lips before she exits the small lab, exchanging their hidden affection more boldly than he would ever dare.
He came at her call, to save her is what he keeps telling everyone, but he looks at the mirror above the sink in this make-shift hospital room, and a burned and guilty face stares back.
He went to save her (a lie as sure as the one that keeps his head from kicking her out of his bed at night), and he did (her words and kisses and moans suggest as wrong as it all is, that’s right). Now he just wonders how much longer until she saves him from the face in the mirror.
Feedback is love!