Title: The Happiness Trap
Genre: Romance
Rating: T
Pairing: Mohinder x OC
Spoilers: N/A
Summary: She can become anything for you. Wife, lover, best friend, wise man, fool, idol. It isn't a bad life to have everyone in the world at your beck and call.
Word Count: 1,915
Warnings: N/A
Disclaimer: Not mine. Summary belongs to Star Wars: The Original Series.
A/N: I am pretending Heroes: Reborn doesn't exist.
Pleasure (noun) 1. The state of being pleased 2. Enjoyment or satisfaction derived from what is to one's liking; gratification; delight 3. Worldly or frivolous enjoyment 4. Recreation or amusement diversion; enjoyment 5. Sensual gratification 6. A cause or source of enjoyment or delight 7. Pleasurable quality
The heat is sweltering in India in the summer – the harsh press of sun on the hordes of people who are crammed into the cities during the mid-day rush was a thick blanket. It covered you, pressed down on you, suffocated you. The push and pull of people and cars and animals was thick and cloying. It always made Mohinder wonder why he had returned here. He had been to, and lived in, other cities of high population (New York, London, Los Angeles), but none of them were like Mumbai. India's residents seemed to all have the same plan at any given moment – all moving in one direction, towards one goal, all in the same moment.
But then he'd remember playing in streets like this as a child, chasing a soccer ball, weaving in and out of the legs of travelers and businessmen and women carrying children and baskets, and he'd be transported back in time. He'd remember people watching, days spent studying or at prayer, helping his mother clean the house. And then he'd remember that India, in his heart, was his home, no matter how claustrophobic it made him at times.
Days like today though, days when the sun beat down like a drum and the air was heavy with the scent of sweat and dirt and spice, made him long for the cool New York springs, made him long for rain and overcast days. With a sigh of relief, he entered his apartment, air conditioner left on full blast since this morning. His electric bill was astronomical, but it was worth it, just to walk home in the heat and cross the threshold into a cool, arctic home.
There was a very fine line teaching genetics these days. When before he was seen as a futurist, this thinking revolutionary, even blasphemous, now people knew the truth. There were those out there who were different, more evolved, different. But how to teach that to others so they understood that this was not providence of God's will or divine intervention, but instead was natural selection – Darwinism. That right now, they were standing on a great precipice in history, and humans, and the world, in mere decades, would be forever changed because of it? Mohinder tried his best, but there were always students who either blatantly didn't belief in the existence of humans with gifts (contrary to visual evidence), thought it was God, thought they were extraterrestrials. Very few people took his class simply based on the science of it all. Most seemed to want to contradict him. And he always had to be careful to blend his theories on gifted humans with lesser facts, to avoid people looking too closely into his lessons, his ideas.
When he stumbled into the cool, refreshing air, all thoughts of erstwhile students fled his mind. His bag hit the floor with a dull thud, and, in another two steps, he'd collapsed onto the couch. He only meant to rest in the soothing climate controlled heaven that was his apartment for a few moments, but, between one breath and the next, Mohinder Suresh, was fast asleep.
A crash sent him careening from deep sleep to full wakefulness in a matter of moments. The darkness confused him momentarily, off put him. How long had he been asleep for? But his heightened senses allowed his thoughts to ping around in his head, even as his other senses took in his surroundings and reacted.
The sound had come from his lab, a small room set off from his living quarters, and he rolled silently off the couch and started to creep towards the half ajar door. Sometime in the night he'd kicked off his shoes, so he padded noiselessly forward, body crouched low, eyes straining in the darkness for any hint of light or movement. When he peered around the door, a quick flash of motion caught his eye and he reacted without thinking. Reaching out to grasp the intruder, he caught a quick flash of eyes – brilliantly gold and slitted like a cat's – and yanked them forward. They gasped in surprise as they were spun around, then groaned when Mohinder slammed them into the wall, lifting their feet off the ground with no effort at all.
"Who sent you here?!"
The voice, when it came, startled him into letting go of them, dropping them unceremoniously onto the floor. "No… one…" The voice was smooth and cultured, honeyed. A woman?
Two steps to the side and he flicked on the light, blinking down at her in shock for several long moments.
The woman crumpled at his feet was someone who would turn heads, no matter where she was – she had that ethereal, quintessential sense of beauty about her. She was a huddled mass of lean length – arms, legs, torso – all graceful, all smooth porcelain skin. Long waves of blonde hair half concealed a face built of arched angles – chin, cheeks, nose – and full lips. Her eyes were chips of emerald. Mohinder blinked. Green?
"Who are you?" he asked, watching warily as she struggled to stand. The part of him that was used to helping people, noticed she was holding an arm around her stomach in a way that screamed broken ribs. Her movements were slow and jerking.
"No one." She refused to look at him. "I'm just lost, I'll go…"
He grabbed her by the arm when she moved to turn away. "Now wait just a moment." He loosened his hold when she stiffened harshly in his grasp. "I think you owe me an explanation." He pursed his lips at her, mind whirling. "How about a cup of tea?"
They don't speak again until there are two steaming mugs of Darjeeling tea between them. Mohinder watches were swirl her spoon around his chipped china tea cup, staring aimlessly at the liquid, before he breaks the silence. "What's your name?"
For a moment, it doesn't appear as if she will answer. "Sarah," she says softly, in that melodic voice again. "Sarah Grey."
He nods, even though she is resolutely not looking at him. "And why are you here, Miss Grey?"
"I heard there was… a scientist," she presses her lips together as she pauses to think. "And that there might be something here that could… help me…"
Mohinder's eyebrows shoot up. "Help you with what?"
At that, she finally looks up at him, those green eyes hard and cold as glass, wary as any animal. "Look, I'm sorry if I scared you or whatever." She's pushing the tea away from her, starting to stand. "I'll just go and we can forget all about –"
"I'm Professor Mohinder Suresh." At his quiet statement, she freezes, staring at him equal parts thoughtful and afraid. "Now perhaps if you tell me what you're looking for…" He trails off expectantly. He is sure, very sure, he knows part of why she is here. He knows she is gifted, different. But he cannot tell exactly how, cannot tell what she might desire from his lab. There are many things she could want. When she continues to stare at him, the wheels in her head almost visibly turning, he stands, walking across the small kitchen to grab an iron skillet from atop the stove. When he turns back to her, she tenses for a fight, half-crouching in expectation, but Mohinder merely holds it before him where she can see it – and then neatly, as easily and effortlessly as breathing, bends it in half.
Her eyes widen impossibly large in her face, her mouth falling open in astonishment. She looks innocent and young in her surprise. But after a moment, she shakes off the shock and stares him dead in the face. As he watches, it's his turn to be astounded, her pupils slit vertical, her eyes bleed golden, feline. As he continues to watch, her nose changes - flattens, her cheekbones arch more severely, ears slide up her head until they're tufted, twitching cat ears. When she quirks a smile, her canines are pointed.
He watches in stunned silence as the progress reverses, until it is just her staring at him. She's rubbing at her eyes, her mouth a grimace as she runs her tongue across her gums. "I can change all the way."
"To just," he clears his throat, trying to sound more like a professional, and less like a gawking pedestrian, "to just a cat?"
She shrugs. "Anything alive, I think." When she catches his dumbstruck expression, she quirks shrugs again. "At least, I've never tried to turn into anything and haven't been able to." She watches him as he returns to the table, sitting across from her. "So… can you help me?"
He laughs, he can't help it. "Help you? Miss Grey, what could you possibly need my help for? You can become anything, anyone you want? I think the world should be lucky you're not a criminal." His dark eyes are boring into her. "What could you possibly be looking for in my lab?"
When she slumps into her chair, he starts at the suddenness of the motion, at the earnestness in her eyes – green again – "It hurts." The pain in her voice is ragged, and makes something clench inside his chest. "When my parents found out what I was they…. They thought I was a demon. They left me in the woods when I was little, and I had to do what I could to get by. Hunt for food, people usually feed stray dogs, you know? When I was older, I could go to soup kitchens, work, get a job. But…" Her eyes are deep pools, sad and resigned, older than her years, and Mohinder empathizes with that. "It hurts so much to change. My bones ache on the inside, I feel like I'm being torn apart. Sometimes it hurts so bad I want to die…"
He knows, he knows, he's looking at her with sympathy, he can't help it. It's one of his biggest faults. He's sure there's a lengthy list of people who would agree with that. Mohinder Suresh cannot turn away from someone in need, not when there might be something he can do to help.
"I just want the pain to go away…"
His heart breaks a little for her. He'd caused himself aching and pain. He'd given himself the injection to make him more than what he was born. He'd had a childhood – a life – free from it. He forgets that other people don't want their gifts, or don't want to use them but have to. Claire didn't want people to know of her gift, but if she didn't have it she'd be dead. Sarah didn't want to make her muscles and tendons and bones creak and stretch and crack, but did so in order to survive. He understood to, why she attempted to steal what she needed. Mohinder easily could have been a scientist who would have seen her genetic anomaly as something rife for experimentation. Lucky her, he wasn't.
"Of course, I'll help you."