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the_dala at 03:18pm on 10/12/2006 under fic: other
the_dala at 03:18pm on 10/12/2006 under fic: otherMore "Heroes" fic, because I cannot be stopped. Isaac-focused with multiple pairings: Isaac/Mohinder, implied Matt/Audrey, and yes, implied Peter/Claire.
In the Dark
There are some paintings Isaac never lets anyone see.
Most of them lack any kind of context, so he tells himself that they’d be impossible to figure out anyway. But they’re often prompted by some event or conversation. The night he runs into Matt and Audrey at the Indian place around the corner (Matt in a crisp button-down shirt, Audrey looking nice – and embarrassed about it – in a dark green dress), he sketches a pretty brown-haired woman at a kitchen table. She has an uneaten frozen dinner steaming beside her, and she is hunched over the table sobbing as if her heart is breaking, mascara running down her pale cheeks. He feels a curious kinship with her, so he paints the rough sketch in cool blues and grays, then tucks it into a plain manila folder and tries to forget about it.
Nothing of note happens before he paints a small portrait of Micah – teenaged if not older, in a dark suit and tie, somber at first glance but with anger in his shadowed eyes. The sun sets behind him as he stands before a fresh grave. Isaac wonders if some thread of consciousness caused him to paint it so that the name on the stone can’t be seen. He rolls this one up and sticks it in a cylindrical cardboard protector, then hides it under his bed.
One night when he’s sleeping at the brownstone, he wanders downstairs to get a beer. The rest of the house is quiet, but Peter and Claire are on the couch playing some sort of complex fantasy game on the XBox. She appears to be kicking his ass. Isaac stands against the kitchen counter to watch for a few minutes, impressed by the graphics. At some point the low-volume action of the game and the giggles and arguments on the couch fade away, and when it all comes shooting back he is surprised to see that he’s drawn something with a ballpoint pen on the back of an old receipt. It’s a comic strip, starring Claire and Peter; in the first panel she’s waving her arms around, clearly shouting, though he didn’t give her a speech bubble. Peter has one in the second panel, though – he’s saying Claire… and taking her face in his hands. She looks confused and a little panicked; his eyes are bright with emotion. They’re flipped around from their position in the first panel, and now the long scar crossing Peter’s eye is clearly visible. In the third panel they’re kissing, and the fourth is a close-up of Claire’s face over Peter’s shoulder, full of wonder and gratitude and love and relief. It’s pretty expressive for being so rough. Peter looks the same except for the scar, though Claire looks a little older, a little wiser, a little worn. It suits her.
Isaac glances up at the two of them as they are now; Peter is raising his fists at something heroic he’s just made his character do, and Claire take the opportunity to elbow him in the ribs. Nathan’s going to be pissed as hell, but Isaac can’t quite keep from smiling. He considers slipping the comic into her purse, but it’s not like she wouldn’t immediately know it was him. Instead he folds it up and tucks it into his coat pocket, thinking he might use it as a starting point for some non-prophetic art.
Mohinder is asleep when he gets back to the bedroom, so he takes a swig of the second beer. Feeling kind of creative now, he grabs a sketchbook and a charcoal pencil and settles against the pillows. All he means to do is draw Mohinder in sleep, peaceful and free of the worry that so often plagues him. He used to catch Simone like this, too; once he gave her father the resulting piece, and it brought tears to his eyes.
But he feels himself sinking into it again, and his fingers fly across the paper while he stares blankly at it, seeing the future as he gives it form. When he finishes, he sees that he’s drawn Mohinder after all – awake, on his knees, looking up with desperate fear. Forgive me is scrawled in capital letters across the top of the page.
Cocking his head, Isaac regards his charcoal vision of the man sleeping beside him. He might be apologizing to Isaac himself, though Isaac can’t imagine for what; it’s not like they’re exclusive. Maybe the late-night, post-fight fucks have grown into more in this possibility. Or maybe he’s looking at someone else entirely.
Whatever the drawing means, Isaac doesn’t like the naked pleading in Mohinder’s eyes, doesn’t particularly want to think what or who is causing it. Whatever Mohinder is asking or begging or apologizing for, it’s hurting him.
He pulls the page out of the book and tears it in long strips, then shreds those into little squares. Dumping the mess into the trashcan next to the bed, he burrows back under the covers and against the warmth of a familiar body. Mohinder sighs and curls an arm around Isaac’s waist without waking. Not exactly an effusive man by day; clingy in sleep. Sometimes Isaac finds it annoying. Tonight, however, he draws Mohinder’s head against his shoulder and thinks about the millions of random, inconsequential actions and consequences that can change what he sees. And how, even when the many possible futures fall away to leave the ones he fears most, they’ve still managed to make it through.
Together.
So far, anyway.
In the Dark
There are some paintings Isaac never lets anyone see.
Most of them lack any kind of context, so he tells himself that they’d be impossible to figure out anyway. But they’re often prompted by some event or conversation. The night he runs into Matt and Audrey at the Indian place around the corner (Matt in a crisp button-down shirt, Audrey looking nice – and embarrassed about it – in a dark green dress), he sketches a pretty brown-haired woman at a kitchen table. She has an uneaten frozen dinner steaming beside her, and she is hunched over the table sobbing as if her heart is breaking, mascara running down her pale cheeks. He feels a curious kinship with her, so he paints the rough sketch in cool blues and grays, then tucks it into a plain manila folder and tries to forget about it.
Nothing of note happens before he paints a small portrait of Micah – teenaged if not older, in a dark suit and tie, somber at first glance but with anger in his shadowed eyes. The sun sets behind him as he stands before a fresh grave. Isaac wonders if some thread of consciousness caused him to paint it so that the name on the stone can’t be seen. He rolls this one up and sticks it in a cylindrical cardboard protector, then hides it under his bed.
One night when he’s sleeping at the brownstone, he wanders downstairs to get a beer. The rest of the house is quiet, but Peter and Claire are on the couch playing some sort of complex fantasy game on the XBox. She appears to be kicking his ass. Isaac stands against the kitchen counter to watch for a few minutes, impressed by the graphics. At some point the low-volume action of the game and the giggles and arguments on the couch fade away, and when it all comes shooting back he is surprised to see that he’s drawn something with a ballpoint pen on the back of an old receipt. It’s a comic strip, starring Claire and Peter; in the first panel she’s waving her arms around, clearly shouting, though he didn’t give her a speech bubble. Peter has one in the second panel, though – he’s saying Claire… and taking her face in his hands. She looks confused and a little panicked; his eyes are bright with emotion. They’re flipped around from their position in the first panel, and now the long scar crossing Peter’s eye is clearly visible. In the third panel they’re kissing, and the fourth is a close-up of Claire’s face over Peter’s shoulder, full of wonder and gratitude and love and relief. It’s pretty expressive for being so rough. Peter looks the same except for the scar, though Claire looks a little older, a little wiser, a little worn. It suits her.
Isaac glances up at the two of them as they are now; Peter is raising his fists at something heroic he’s just made his character do, and Claire take the opportunity to elbow him in the ribs. Nathan’s going to be pissed as hell, but Isaac can’t quite keep from smiling. He considers slipping the comic into her purse, but it’s not like she wouldn’t immediately know it was him. Instead he folds it up and tucks it into his coat pocket, thinking he might use it as a starting point for some non-prophetic art.
Mohinder is asleep when he gets back to the bedroom, so he takes a swig of the second beer. Feeling kind of creative now, he grabs a sketchbook and a charcoal pencil and settles against the pillows. All he means to do is draw Mohinder in sleep, peaceful and free of the worry that so often plagues him. He used to catch Simone like this, too; once he gave her father the resulting piece, and it brought tears to his eyes.
But he feels himself sinking into it again, and his fingers fly across the paper while he stares blankly at it, seeing the future as he gives it form. When he finishes, he sees that he’s drawn Mohinder after all – awake, on his knees, looking up with desperate fear. Forgive me is scrawled in capital letters across the top of the page.
Cocking his head, Isaac regards his charcoal vision of the man sleeping beside him. He might be apologizing to Isaac himself, though Isaac can’t imagine for what; it’s not like they’re exclusive. Maybe the late-night, post-fight fucks have grown into more in this possibility. Or maybe he’s looking at someone else entirely.
Whatever the drawing means, Isaac doesn’t like the naked pleading in Mohinder’s eyes, doesn’t particularly want to think what or who is causing it. Whatever Mohinder is asking or begging or apologizing for, it’s hurting him.
He pulls the page out of the book and tears it in long strips, then shreds those into little squares. Dumping the mess into the trashcan next to the bed, he burrows back under the covers and against the warmth of a familiar body. Mohinder sighs and curls an arm around Isaac’s waist without waking. Not exactly an effusive man by day; clingy in sleep. Sometimes Isaac finds it annoying. Tonight, however, he draws Mohinder’s head against his shoulder and thinks about the millions of random, inconsequential actions and consequences that can change what he sees. And how, even when the many possible futures fall away to leave the ones he fears most, they’ve still managed to make it through.
Together.
So far, anyway.
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