Title: Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax (1/1)
Author: SecretAgentSmutGirl
Rating: PG
Summary: The time has come to speak of many things, but after so many months of silence Matt isn't sure he has the voice to speak.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the computer this was typed on yet.
A/N: First foray into the fandom with angst galore. Enjoy!
Matt is still a policeman.
He still wakes up after not enough sleep, with barely a cup of coffee in him he holsters his gun and pockets the badge because that's what he was born to do. He doesn't believe in destiny anymore, but he knows without the routine everything in his life would fall apart like a sandcastle under the tide. He knows that it is an illusion, this routine that gives him a small feeling of control over his life, but it keeps him from staying in bed all day or worse.
In this part of the city, at this time of year, the morning beat is slow but the days all blend together. Too many taxis, too many commuter all full of thoughts that, even now, seep into his unconscious through the traffic and the rolled up windows of his cruiser.
He doesn't know why he stays in New York.
He realizes that there is nothing for him there now, just like he knows there was never anything for him in L.A. either. Fifty states to choose from and none more appealing than the last. At least in New York he has been somebody, he isn't anyone any longer, but he was something special once. He did special things. He knew special people. There was destiny then, not just for him but for the world..
There is nothing now. Only the taste of bad diner coffee in his mouth and a killer headache that he hasn't been able to shake since he watched Nathan Petrelli die in his arms. It's been one year, three months and a handful of days. People have been born and died everyday since that day, but for Matt Parkman time has frozen in a non-special way.
He's a study in damage, but what takes the cake is that he always has been. It just baffles him what a fine line he had been walking and how it took less than a year to topple him over.
Another cruiser passes by and the officer waves. Matt notices that the light in front of him is green and steps on the gas.
It is almost morning again by the time he makes his way home. His one bedroom palace is completely painted white and kept neat as a pin. The dark comfort of clutter is to tempting and after the crush of being part of a husband and wife unit, and then of being a family unit complete with perfect, special daughter it is only fitting that to be alone should be the opposite of all that.
Matt sheds his clothes on his way to his bedroom. He's in bed before he even gets both his shoes off. He's asleep a heartbeat later.
In the end it was easier to extract himself from his life than he'd thought it would be. With Maya to hide there was less room and it was only a matter of suggestion on his part, on his minds part, to show the logic of him getting his own place. His own removed place. Someplace where he wouldn't have to see the look of vulnerability and guilt in Mohinder's eyes, the fear in Molly's or the way they both flinched every time a door opened or a phone rang.
At that time Mohinder's thoughts were thankful that Matt hadn't been around when Sylar swept back into their lives, but just as often they are condemning, full of blame that he wasn't there with his support, his gun and some supposed strength save them and the cheerleaders blood. While their eyes were loving, their thoughts implied that he'd ultimately failed them and he couldn't live like that. It was too much, too soon. The blood on his hands was barely dry and he was given a cross to bear as well.
So he took the cowards way out.
He took the Parkman way out.
He walked.
Unlike Maury, and his exit of epic proportion back lit by broken families and dreams, Matt just made them forget. Not forget him, just forget to look for him. Forget to wonder where he was, or that he was supposed to come home or be there at all. Forget that he'd failed them. That he'd failed Nathan. That he'd failed himself.
Destiny painted him as his father son. Just as his father was trapped in his memories, so was Matt. No cushy coma, just paralyzed by potential. Afraid of going on and living when Nathan couldn't, of being a negligent father who through absence let his daughter witness grief, bear kidnap and near death.
Sometimes he wondered what happened to being a good man. He wondered when being a good man stopped being enough.
The coffeehouse that he favors is one of those collegiate hangouts that has the worn feeling of a college common area, but college coffee came by pocket change and was valued for caffeine and sugar content not its pedigree. Matt orders a latte, though he still doesn't know what that means but it seems simpler than a machiatto or some South African blends with descriptive phrases that even the non-dyslexic can't wade through.
He makes his way to the second floor seating, against the windows that look down into a tiny courtyard that boasts an urban garden of newly planted annuals and a sapling that is just starting to bloom. The smell of coffee is soothing and Sundays are his favorite days because Sunday morning thoughts don't hurt as much.
Neutral thoughts lull him so well that he smells the chai and thinks Mohinder before he notices him, the man, sliding into the chair across the table from him. Mohinder has the kind of eyes that were made for poets to write volumes about and even now, when this appearance means that his compulsion has worn off, there is no censure in those eyes. Or in his thought, which are of the neutral Sunday variety as far as he can tell- but then he's talking and his voice is perfect. "Hello, Matthew. Do you think you're prepared to talk now?"
Matt wonders where the blame went, if it was ever there, or if it was always just inside himself. All he can do is breathe, try to smile and admit that whatever a latte is, it's a good crutch for him to hold on to. You can only run away for so long. Maybe he wasn't mean for running but he doesn't know what to say.
But he does, and he's looking Mohinder in the eye and letting him see the turmoil inside him, letting himself feel the connection to home, real home, that he's denied himself. He finds himself, his ridiculous sense of bravery, and he says, "Yeah, I guess I am."
Never one for books, Matt was always one for movies and their conversation flows like a cheesy montage of all the things that need to be said and some that don't but come naturally. For a mind reader Matt feels pretty stupid but being able to read minds tells him that for a genius, Mohinder feels pretty stupid, too. They are both stubborn and stupid, they are both hurting and alone but they ought to be stupid/stubborn/hurting and together.
In this scenario Molly would say, well duh.
When everything is said and done and the latte has gone cold, and their hands have crept across the table, wary at first but with purpose, to join that's when Mohinder smiles and tells him, "Come home," and it's more powerful than any compulsion in the world.