Heroes fic: Autumn Eyes
Title: Autumn Eyes
Characters: Peter/Mohinder
Word Count: 1,429
Rating: PG
Spoilers: through 1.19, ".07%".
Summary: Mohinder thought he had lost Peter before he ever really got to know him.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Mohinder, or Peter, or any of the other characters from Heroes. Darn.
Traffic was stalled. Sunlight glared off car hoods and tire rims. The red-blue shimmer of police sirens spun across skyscraper glass from somewhere ahead of the bottleneck of honks and exhaust fumes. From behind the glass curtain of his windshield Mohinder watched New York City shudder, windows rolled up to muffle the rush hour orchestra, cloaked in the quiet restlessness of the cab where darkness seemed stitched into the seat threads.
With a yearning tug at his chest he glanced futilely into the rearview mirror. Peter had been there once, curious eyes shaded by dark hair in the chink of reflection cast onto the mirror. And Peter had been there a second time, splayed across the backseat as though dozing, dreaming softly, unaware of the red death painted across his face. Mohinder remembered the first cab ride with more admiration and passion than he liked to admit; he tried desperately to numb his mind to the second.
Peter’s eyes had left an indelible impression on him. He missed them. Their brown-gold shadows had fascinated him, innocent and intelligent and fiercely honest all at once, holding Mohinder’s gaze in the mirror with earnest intensity. In the apartment, Peter’s eyes fiercely sought answers that Mohinder could not provide, despite all he tried; and in the subway they gave way to a sweet softness that echoed words of fervent faith and expectant fathers. “Do you understand this feeling, this intimate question of myself that I trust with you?” those urgent eyes seemed to ask Mohinder as the two of them slid through the subway tunnels. “Do you see how I put my hope in your arms?”
It hurt to see those eyes clouded and empty, shadowed not in warm autumn but in white soulless cloud; and it hurt most to realize that he never got to know those eyes long enough to love them.
---
Strange to consider what thoughts cross your mind at the moment of death; and stranger still to realize you can look back at those thoughts with a living mind and remember, vividly, what it feels like to die.
Peter let the cold water stream freely from his chin and fingers as the showerhead poured wetness into his hair like rain. He felt both alive and dead; he knew them equally well. His skin seemed new, tight, unused, but something weird and dark still pricked the back of his mind like the shard of glass that had shattered him.
He rubbed the base of his skull unconsciously and watched as water dripped from his elbow. He was born today in the sight of his niece and his brother and mother, but a lifetime ago he had died with the face of Mohinder Suresh in his eyes.
He pushed the shower valve into the wall and the rain stopped; for a long moment Peter stood there, hands pressed against the tile, water falling from thick hair onto his lips. He had written down Mohinder’s address and number in hurried script days ago, and the slip of paper was still crumpled in the folds of his wallet. He remembered the smell of spiced tea and leather-bound books embroidered into the walls of Mohinder’s apartment and silently rushed to get dressed.
---
“Mohinder.”
The voice was quiet but compassionate, thick with intensity, naïve as always but laced with a subtle confidence that hadn’t been there before. These ideas spread rapidly through Mohinder’s thoughts at the sound of Peter on the other end of the line, but only after he gaped speechlessly at the voice he was convinced he would never hear again.
Mohinder’s own voice was barely a whisper once he found it. “Peter…? Are you… I… Peter, I saw you-”
“Die,” Peter finished for him. “I know. I regenerated, Mohinder, I’m okay. I just … I wanted you to know that. Know that I’m alive.”
Peter was perched stiffly on the edge of a bed in one of the spare rooms in the Petrelli household, gripping the phone in his fingers until his knuckles were white. He held the crumpled paper from his wallet in his other hand, squeezing thumb and finger together over the words. Silence rang in his ears and he shut his eyes.
“Are you still there?” Peter asked hesitantly.
“Yes,” Mohinder quickly muttered, putting a shaking hand to his forehead. “I’m just … shocked, I suppose. I had accepted you were dead.” I was already grieving for you.
“I came to your apartment yesterday with a question about my abilities.”
So this was why he called. Mohinder sighed so that Peter wouldn’t hear, leaning back in the driver’s seat. He remembered wildfire eyes and a sideways smile and wished Peter were searching for answers to an entirely different question. “I’ll answer it as best I can.”
“Thank you.” Peter swallowed. His next words tumbled out hastily and fervently, rich with eagerness despite his efforts to hold it back. “Can we meet somewhere?”
“Yes,” Mohinder breathed without hesitation. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
---
He felt conspicuous sitting alone on the bench in Central Park, but he wasn’t sure why; it was late afternoon and people were scattered about like wildflowers, leading dogs on leather leashes and reining in children on invisible ones. For a moment Mohinder felt something brush gently against his jacket sleeve; he looked to his right to see Peter sitting next to him, gazing straight ahead, hands clasped in his lap.
He looked older. His hair, still damp, was brushed back and out of his eyes, and his whole body carried new strength and careful form. Mohinder watched him watch the sky; this felt less like the Peter who first knocked on Mohinder’s door and more like the Peter who sent Sylar skidding across the room.
“You look different,” Mohinder said simply, wishing Peter would turn his head so that he could get a better glimpse of those autumn eyes.
“I feel different.”
They were silent as Peter continued looking to the horizon. Mohinder closed his eyes.
“You were the last thing I saw before I died,” Peter said quietly.
“What an unfortunate sight to call your last,” Mohinder chuckled softly, opening his eyes and looking up. Peter was staring intensely at him now, and Mohinder suddenly lost himself in the warm brown shadows.
“I didn’t really know what to think of you when we first met, Mohinder.” Peter broke the gaze and looked down, wringing his hands nervously as though suddenly aware of what he was saying. A lock of hair fell away from the others, and Peter felt foolish and young again; he tucked it self-consciously behind his ear. “Things felt different, though, when Sylar was there. You … seemed to be asking me to save you.”
Mohinder said nothing. He felt Peter watching him again and longed to touch his skin.
“I would have been happy to die that way, you know. With you there, in my sight.”
“I’m glad you ended up alive.”
“If you hadn’t taken me to Nathan’s place, I wouldn’t be. So … thank you.”
Mohinder nodded and swallowed. If he looked into those eyes again, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to hold himself back any longer. Then Peter’s arm was across Mohinder’s shoulder, and their eyes locked. Their breaths mingled in the sunlight between their faces.
The moment was brief but endless. Peter leaned in as they sighed in tune with one another. Mohinder tangled his fingers in the fabric of Peter’s hair, and his own curls brushed Peter’s eyelids like exotic silk. For an instant the darkness in the back of Peter’s mind was forgotten; but then he pulled away his lips and his hands and stood up, breathing quickly.
“Do you see how I put my hope in your arms?” Peter’s eyes asked again, and Mohinder drowned in their earnest ardor. He rose to his feet; they stood the bench’s length apart from one another, hearts and lungs beating together.
“We can’t do this,” Peter murmured, all his passion riding in the wake of his words.
“I know.”
“I need your help to stop the bomb. That’s why I came to you.”
“Yes.”
“When we stop the explosion, then …”
“Yes,” Mohinder said. “Then.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Can I drive you back?”
Peter nodded. They walked side-by-side toward Mohinder’s cab, casting long shadows ahead of themselves.
Mohinder sidled into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirror. For the third time Peter was there in the reflection, curious eyes shimmering dark brown and gold.
Characters: Peter/Mohinder
Word Count: 1,429
Rating: PG
Spoilers: through 1.19, ".07%".
Summary: Mohinder thought he had lost Peter before he ever really got to know him.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Mohinder, or Peter, or any of the other characters from Heroes. Darn.
Traffic was stalled. Sunlight glared off car hoods and tire rims. The red-blue shimmer of police sirens spun across skyscraper glass from somewhere ahead of the bottleneck of honks and exhaust fumes. From behind the glass curtain of his windshield Mohinder watched New York City shudder, windows rolled up to muffle the rush hour orchestra, cloaked in the quiet restlessness of the cab where darkness seemed stitched into the seat threads.
With a yearning tug at his chest he glanced futilely into the rearview mirror. Peter had been there once, curious eyes shaded by dark hair in the chink of reflection cast onto the mirror. And Peter had been there a second time, splayed across the backseat as though dozing, dreaming softly, unaware of the red death painted across his face. Mohinder remembered the first cab ride with more admiration and passion than he liked to admit; he tried desperately to numb his mind to the second.
Peter’s eyes had left an indelible impression on him. He missed them. Their brown-gold shadows had fascinated him, innocent and intelligent and fiercely honest all at once, holding Mohinder’s gaze in the mirror with earnest intensity. In the apartment, Peter’s eyes fiercely sought answers that Mohinder could not provide, despite all he tried; and in the subway they gave way to a sweet softness that echoed words of fervent faith and expectant fathers. “Do you understand this feeling, this intimate question of myself that I trust with you?” those urgent eyes seemed to ask Mohinder as the two of them slid through the subway tunnels. “Do you see how I put my hope in your arms?”
It hurt to see those eyes clouded and empty, shadowed not in warm autumn but in white soulless cloud; and it hurt most to realize that he never got to know those eyes long enough to love them.
---
Strange to consider what thoughts cross your mind at the moment of death; and stranger still to realize you can look back at those thoughts with a living mind and remember, vividly, what it feels like to die.
Peter let the cold water stream freely from his chin and fingers as the showerhead poured wetness into his hair like rain. He felt both alive and dead; he knew them equally well. His skin seemed new, tight, unused, but something weird and dark still pricked the back of his mind like the shard of glass that had shattered him.
He rubbed the base of his skull unconsciously and watched as water dripped from his elbow. He was born today in the sight of his niece and his brother and mother, but a lifetime ago he had died with the face of Mohinder Suresh in his eyes.
He pushed the shower valve into the wall and the rain stopped; for a long moment Peter stood there, hands pressed against the tile, water falling from thick hair onto his lips. He had written down Mohinder’s address and number in hurried script days ago, and the slip of paper was still crumpled in the folds of his wallet. He remembered the smell of spiced tea and leather-bound books embroidered into the walls of Mohinder’s apartment and silently rushed to get dressed.
---
“Mohinder.”
The voice was quiet but compassionate, thick with intensity, naïve as always but laced with a subtle confidence that hadn’t been there before. These ideas spread rapidly through Mohinder’s thoughts at the sound of Peter on the other end of the line, but only after he gaped speechlessly at the voice he was convinced he would never hear again.
Mohinder’s own voice was barely a whisper once he found it. “Peter…? Are you… I… Peter, I saw you-”
“Die,” Peter finished for him. “I know. I regenerated, Mohinder, I’m okay. I just … I wanted you to know that. Know that I’m alive.”
Peter was perched stiffly on the edge of a bed in one of the spare rooms in the Petrelli household, gripping the phone in his fingers until his knuckles were white. He held the crumpled paper from his wallet in his other hand, squeezing thumb and finger together over the words. Silence rang in his ears and he shut his eyes.
“Are you still there?” Peter asked hesitantly.
“Yes,” Mohinder quickly muttered, putting a shaking hand to his forehead. “I’m just … shocked, I suppose. I had accepted you were dead.” I was already grieving for you.
“I came to your apartment yesterday with a question about my abilities.”
So this was why he called. Mohinder sighed so that Peter wouldn’t hear, leaning back in the driver’s seat. He remembered wildfire eyes and a sideways smile and wished Peter were searching for answers to an entirely different question. “I’ll answer it as best I can.”
“Thank you.” Peter swallowed. His next words tumbled out hastily and fervently, rich with eagerness despite his efforts to hold it back. “Can we meet somewhere?”
“Yes,” Mohinder breathed without hesitation. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
---
He felt conspicuous sitting alone on the bench in Central Park, but he wasn’t sure why; it was late afternoon and people were scattered about like wildflowers, leading dogs on leather leashes and reining in children on invisible ones. For a moment Mohinder felt something brush gently against his jacket sleeve; he looked to his right to see Peter sitting next to him, gazing straight ahead, hands clasped in his lap.
He looked older. His hair, still damp, was brushed back and out of his eyes, and his whole body carried new strength and careful form. Mohinder watched him watch the sky; this felt less like the Peter who first knocked on Mohinder’s door and more like the Peter who sent Sylar skidding across the room.
“You look different,” Mohinder said simply, wishing Peter would turn his head so that he could get a better glimpse of those autumn eyes.
“I feel different.”
They were silent as Peter continued looking to the horizon. Mohinder closed his eyes.
“You were the last thing I saw before I died,” Peter said quietly.
“What an unfortunate sight to call your last,” Mohinder chuckled softly, opening his eyes and looking up. Peter was staring intensely at him now, and Mohinder suddenly lost himself in the warm brown shadows.
“I didn’t really know what to think of you when we first met, Mohinder.” Peter broke the gaze and looked down, wringing his hands nervously as though suddenly aware of what he was saying. A lock of hair fell away from the others, and Peter felt foolish and young again; he tucked it self-consciously behind his ear. “Things felt different, though, when Sylar was there. You … seemed to be asking me to save you.”
Mohinder said nothing. He felt Peter watching him again and longed to touch his skin.
“I would have been happy to die that way, you know. With you there, in my sight.”
“I’m glad you ended up alive.”
“If you hadn’t taken me to Nathan’s place, I wouldn’t be. So … thank you.”
Mohinder nodded and swallowed. If he looked into those eyes again, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to hold himself back any longer. Then Peter’s arm was across Mohinder’s shoulder, and their eyes locked. Their breaths mingled in the sunlight between their faces.
The moment was brief but endless. Peter leaned in as they sighed in tune with one another. Mohinder tangled his fingers in the fabric of Peter’s hair, and his own curls brushed Peter’s eyelids like exotic silk. For an instant the darkness in the back of Peter’s mind was forgotten; but then he pulled away his lips and his hands and stood up, breathing quickly.
“Do you see how I put my hope in your arms?” Peter’s eyes asked again, and Mohinder drowned in their earnest ardor. He rose to his feet; they stood the bench’s length apart from one another, hearts and lungs beating together.
“We can’t do this,” Peter murmured, all his passion riding in the wake of his words.
“I know.”
“I need your help to stop the bomb. That’s why I came to you.”
“Yes.”
“When we stop the explosion, then …”
“Yes,” Mohinder said. “Then.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Can I drive you back?”
Peter nodded. They walked side-by-side toward Mohinder’s cab, casting long shadows ahead of themselves.
Mohinder sidled into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirror. For the third time Peter was there in the reflection, curious eyes shimmering dark brown and gold.