Matt visits Mohinder.

Author's note: This was written ages ago, when it made sense to write it. I think it was my first Heroes fic (and one of the few), which is funny, because I absolutely hate season 3. (and yet... maybe that's exactly why I had to write it). It's not exactly a fic, but a series of one-shots (three, if I stick to the plan).


Scales

He's doesn't know what he's doing there (he is not sure he wants to know).

He's pretty sure this wasn't his intention when he left the apartment, and doesn't think he consciously chose the way. He's not sure he wants to get in, either.

There's a package of cigarettes in the left pocket of his jacket (and when did he start smoking again?). He finishes one slowly, drag after long drag, his back against the door.

Go away.

The voice is clear, familiar; so familiar that for a second he can't help but close his eyes and be back at the kitchen counter, Molly laughing on a stool, Mohinder (all messy curls and blue apron) mockingly throwing them out because they 'never let him work'. His heart feels heavier than it had in months.

Go away.

He makes up his mind, and takes a deep breath.

The door makes a rusted noise. The lab is dark, all the blinds down, the lights and noise of the city left out (a vague memory of foreign lives). The air carries a moldy scent; dampness, dust and abandonment. And also… it's there, too, hidden by dust. Not the same scent, not exactly… but it's there.

"Mohinder?"

Go away. Don't find me.

"Mohinder… I know you're here. I can hear you."

A stab of foreign panic and something hides behind the shelves.

Don't hear me. Just go. Don't listen. Don't see me.

Matt doubts for a second. It may be better this way. What's he doing here, anyway? Doesn't he have a family waiting at home? A wonderful daughter and a girlfriend? What is he doing here?

But there must be an answer to that question, because he can't manage to turn around and get through the door.

When he takes notice, he's sitting at the top of the stairs.

Why don't you leave, Matt? Why are you here?

Mohinder's thoughts are hardly encouraging. They go from aggressive to anguish, begging a bit sometimes (go away, please, don't be here). But they all come wrapped in that voice, familiar and distant, and soon it's like it was before, a comfortable rhythm that makes him feel at home, the background music of his day-to-day (the constant movement of Mohinder's mind, coming and going, like the waves at the beaches of California). Even under the present circumstances he holds tight to that music, while his eyes adjust to the darkness and the weight of the past two years sets in his memory.

"Go away."

The voice is not the same. Turned into real sound, it's not the same. There's something scratchy at the bottom, something not quite human.

Still, when Matt turns to the source of that new voice, he can make the clearly human shape in the shadows. And something else. Something that hits him in the gut and freezes his lungs. Behind the shelf, barely visible in the shadows (yet undeniable), he can see Mohinder's eyes for the first time in over two years.

Is that why he's here?

"Daphne is pregnant," he says, all of a sudden.

Yeah, that could be it. Maybe that's why he's here. To say it out loud, looking into those eyes.

"We're getting married," he says, because the music has stopped abruptly, and he misses it.

Even if it's this hurt, confused music. Chaotic and violent.

And I suppose you'll take the bitch to my house.

"Be careful with your words." The black eyes hide behind the shelves. "And no. Of course not. We're looking for a place."

The music becomes faster, urgent. Matt knows this melody.

"Stay."

"What?"

"Stay… please." There's something about this non-Mohinder voice when it softens. Something painfully familiar. "The fact that you and Molly live at my place is the only link I keep with you."

I need that link, Matt. I need to remember I had all that once.

"This is…" Matt sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "You haven't changed as much as you think. It's always like this, isn't it? This is all about you."

"Matt…"

"Do you think it's easy for us to live there? That Molly doesn't spend hours making comparisons? That she doesn't miss you?" That I don't? "Had it even occurred to you that we're moving for our own mental sake?"

"Matt…"

"No, of course not. Because it is important to you to keep that link. Because you need us to stay in your place."

"Matt…" Please, understand. You and Molly are all that's left from me. The one thing to remind me that I was human.

And whose fault is that, exactly? Matt thinks, but he bites his tongue.

"You're human, Mohinder… Maybe too human."

He thinks he catches a reflection of those eyes. But it only lasts a second, and then the shadows are back.

"Stay…" Even if that bitch has to sleep in my bed.

Enough.

"Stop calling her that. Her name is Daphne, and she's going to be my wife. And as far as I remember, Mohinder, I wasn't the first to take a strange woman to our house." Where did that come from? A strange woman? To our house? It has to be the gayest thing he's said in his life.

Maybe that's it. Maybe that's why he's here. To finally say the things he didn't say in time.

Mohinder doesn't seem to mind when he uses his favorite excuse. Matt had almost forgotten.

"It's different."

"It's different? Wow, that's an original answer."

Mohinder never seemed to mind that they fought like an old marriage.

"I… wasn't myself… then." It's the formula. It turns me into this. I can't control it.

"You can't control it?" Matt laughs.

Come out, he commands. And Mohinder resists desperately, but comes out.

Closer. And Mohinder becomes visible, thin like wire, covered by an old jean and a gray hooded sweatshirt.

"You can't control it?"

Take off the hood.

Mohinder fights (please… Matt…. don't do this), but Matt repeats the order, and the hood falls back.

It's like he suspected. Like that scratchy voice. It's Mohinder and it's not, at the same time. It's his eyes, and his lips, and the bridge of his nose. But it's not his skin (and somehow, it's not his eyes, or his lips, or the bridge of his nose). It's rough, crackled, violet-lips, dark-scaled Mohinder. There's something terribly wrong with his hands. But it's Mohinder right there, deep inside, almost rising to the surface.

Matt touches the scales with his fingertips. They're softer than he expected. He misses the skin he never got to touch.

Sadness hits him like a hammer.

"This thing I can do… this 'ability'… it's a part of me, you know? It's always there." He traces the shape of those eyes with his fingers. "And it's hard not to get lost in that feeling of 'power'." There's something dark in Matt's voice, and Mohinder wonders what kind of tests he's been through in these years, what kind of demons he's had to face. "With the smallest effort, I could dig all your secrets. Make you to do whatever I want. Make you think you're the one who wants it." There's something dangerous in Matt's voice, as he slowly traces the line of Mohinder's cheekbone. "Not just you. Anyone. Everyone." He closes his eyes and breathes. "Do you think it's not hard to control? But I have to. Every day. For Molly, sure. And Daphne. But for myself, too.

And for you… for you, too.

When Matt first met him, Mohinder was this brilliant, gorgeous, graceful, exotic guy, who used expressions like 'fascinating' and was constantly thinking of stuff beyond human understanding. When Matt first met him, Mohinder was the definition of 'out of his league'. Of course, back then it didn't matter. Back then the only thing that mattered was Janice, and maybe someday some other woman (though Matt didn't feel like thinking about that, yet). Surely not his very male roomate, as perfect as his smile was, or that defiant glint in his eyes, or that way he had of being an arrogant jerk without really thinking less of anyone.

He slides his hand around the neck, where the scales are softer and more uniform.

The first thing he noticed, a few weeks after moving, was the absurd amount of details he knew about Mohinder. Stuff he didn't notice about other men (or women, if he must be honest). It was then that he started suspecting why he got so edgy in Mohinder's presence and why, for the first time, he had labeled a man as "out of his league".

He runs a thumb over the scratchy cheeks.

That man is gone, of course. In his place stands this thing, that is and isn't Mohinder. The blues of arrogance. The reason for parents to ground their children 'so they learn their actions have consequences'. The skin, the pose, the halo of perfection, are gone. And yet, when Matt moves towards those dark lips, the eyes fixed on his are unmistakable.

This is why.

This is why he's here (this is why he never planned to come).

They had so many chances… So many long nights, face to face, arguing in rushed whispers about Molly's nightmares. So many awkward meetings in front of the mirror, at the bathroom door. So many laughs shared by the kitchen counter. So many knowing glances. So many furious arguments, yelling, inches from one another…

There were so many ways in which this could have happened. Now he gets it. Getting to the party when everyone has left. Classic, Parkman, he thinks, and closes the distance anyway.

It's not a passionate kiss, but Matt can't remember one more intense. All those fears and insecurities, all those regrets (and even hope, hiding in the back), all those emotions rising to the surface. A kiss that leaves them exposed and naked. A kiss that breaks them in little pieces.

They separate, finally. All ragged breaths and shiny eyes.

"Y-You… kissed me."

The voice seems less scratchy. It's strange to see him turned into this non-Mohinder, and yet feel him for real for the first time.

"I kissed you." Is he telling Mohinder, or is he telling himself?

A barely human hand rises towards Matt's face, but drops before reaching it (there's something terribly, terribly wrong with those hands). Matt catches it, mid-fall.

"I don't mind."

When Matt first met him, Mohinder was out of his league. And now that the world has been turned upside down, now that Matt has a power he never imagined and Mohinder hides in the shadows… Now he gets it. That if that skin was ever perfect (smooth spices from a fairy tale land) it was because it was Mohinder's skin, and not the other way around. That under the scales, the darkness and the poison in his blood, lies Mohinder. That's what matters. That's what he cares about.

"You don't need to hide. Not from me. Never from me."

They stand there, facing each other. Matt refuses to overthink this, and instead let's himself get wrapped in Mohinder's reflexions, coming and going, a steady rhythm at the shores of his mind.

It's one thing to know the terrible things someone has done. It's another thing completely to relive them in the music of their thoughts. Mohinder starts a guilt trip and Matt can feel the bile rising to his throat. He resists the urge and breathes. He knows about the things Mohinder's done in these years. He also knows about the things he has almost done himself.

Good sinners believe in redemption.

"You don't have to live like this. You just need to learn to control it."

"I can't…" It's stronger than me.

"Well, that's how this is." Welcome to the other side. Didn't you want to play with the cool guys? "It's not easy, but we all have to do it. You got a tough one… you'll just have to try harder."

"It's different… it's synthetic…"

It's different.

Matt takes a deep breath and lets the air out slowly. He knows the end of this conversation.

Mohinder was always weak. The first to take in a lonely child, and the first to go on a world tour, running from the day-to-day responsibilities of child care. The first to raise a hand and volunteer to destroy the Company, and the first to doubt the plan and turn around mid-way. Always the first to get excited with a new idea. Always the first to give up.

It's what happens when you get used to get everything right on the first try, Matt guesses.

"I think I should go home."

"Are you going to…?"

"We're staying."

"Thank you." It's barely a whisper. And there he is again (deeply rooted to the darkest pits of Matt's mind), all shiny eyes and perfect smile, drinking tea by the window on a bright Sunday morning.

When Matt first realized what was happening, the fact that Mohinder was a man presented a big problem. He's not sure when that changed, but it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't care that Mohinder is a man. He doesn't care that he's done terrible things. He doesn't care that he's grown scales.

But gender, past deeds and scales were never the problem, were they?

Matt nods and turns around. His eyes itch and the air hurts in that damned place. Mohinder doesn't look for his eyes. Doesn't try to stop him. Never tries.

Before closing the door, Matt turns around one more time. There's no trace of the dark curls or the tired body. They're back in their hiding spot in the shadows.

He closes the door and walks home.