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Mar. 18th, 2009 06:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
heroslayer(Not binding on Choicesverse or the people in it, I just felt the need to jump on the bandwagon, however briefly. I blame ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
humanmapquest's mun. Written as sort of a companion piece to this.)
It's not the first time you ever held a baby, nor is it the first time you've cradled your own blood in your arms. The former experience goes to Baileigh and Sark's child, while the latter goes to Claire's, Hiro hovering over you the whole time as if he still expected you to crack the poor kid's skull open, even if you haven't hurt anyone in years. Technically, though, the boy in your arms really doesn't belong to you in the least; he's Molly's, and while you may be one of her father figures, you're not her father. But here, holding him, smiling down at him, you can't help but think this is the closest thing to a grandson as you'll ever get, thanks to choices you don't regret and circumstances you do.
He's not yours but he may as well be, and you promise to protect him just like you protected Molly before turning to the nurse who's been watching you like a hawk since you came in here. "I want to take him upstairs. To see my sister."
Sister. You told her you were Molly's brother because you weren't sure she'd buy the idea that you were her father. You look too young, the distance in age between you and Molly closing more rapidly with each passing moment, and it hurts. Just like it hurts to have to tell the lie, even if it's what you're sure the nurse will believe--what she did believe because a twelve year older brother makes more sense than a twelve year older father. Regardless, though, the nurse nods and reaches out to take the wide-eyed baby from you, wrapping him in blankets to keep him warm before heading for the door.
You follow, mutely, and sooner rather than later, you're standing outside of Molly's room. The nurse informs you that she'll wait out here--she still doesn't trust you (or anyone) not to run off with the kid--and tells not to keep Molly awake for too long. She needs her rest, the woman tells you, and you don't doubt it; when they finally let you in to see your daughter last night, she looked more than exhausted. So you nod, taking your grandson back from the nurse and head into the room.
Molly's asleep understandably, and so you content yourself making little noises at the baby and letting him fidget with the buttons on your shirt. You're pretty sure no one will be around until later to see you making an idiot of yourself, as Mohinder can't make it back for another hour at least, and Adam's keeping Matt busy so he doesn't spend all day here, pacing. You're pretty sure, but even now, seven years later, you're not that lucky, and suddenly there's a quiet giggle from the bed as Molly catches you peppering her son with inane questions you both know he won't be able to answer.
You look up and then away, sheepishly, and mutter an apology. At least you take embarrassment better now then when you were younger.
"It's fine," she promises, beckoning you over, and you're up from the chair without a moment's hesitation.
Carrying Molly's son over to her, you hold him out to her and she gathers him in her arms, looking down at him, calmly. She smooths a hand over his head, carefully--she'll make a good mother, you decide, even if the circumstances aren't ideal--pretending you don't exist for a moment. Years ago, it would have bothered you, to be ignored like that, now you don't blame her for the squirming little life in her arms to be the most important thing in her universe. And so, you let her have a moment before trying to draw her attention again.
"So, what's his name?"
She manages a tired smile, still looking down at him as he settles into sleep in her arms, before raising her eyes back to you. "James Clark."
She doesn't add like his grandfather out of respect for you--she's forgiven you a long time ago, for what you did, or so she tells you--but you make the leap, anyway. There's a stab of pain, old but it still hurts to remember that you were a killer once, that you terrorized the closest thing you'll ever have to a daughter once, and you look away. Molly's not an empath like you are, but it wouldn't take a rocket scientist, and so she rests her newborn son on her stomach so she can brush her fingers over your arm, soothingly. The touch practically scalds more than it helps, but you don't recoil; you don't want to upset her, not anymore than you're sure you already have in the past. In what you did to her, as a child.
"He has your eyes," she tells you after a moment, as if this will cheer you up. "And Mohinder's nose."
You get the fact that she's humoring you, but you don't want it right now, and so you offer her a wry smile. "That's impossible, Molly."
"Maybe, but he does." Molly shrugs, eyebrows lifted in such a way that she looks more like Mohinder than her son, silently telling him that there will be no further debate over this. You can't help but flash her a small, amused look, and then she lowers her eyebrows before shifting a bit in bed, trying to get comfortable without waking her now sleeping son.
"Tired?" you ask after a moment.
"Very," she answers before pausing, and fires off another one of those tired smiles, "but I want to see him and you."
Gently, you settle down on the edge of her bed, reaching out to comb your fingers through her hair, lightly. "I'm not going anywhere, Molly." And you've always been a man of your word.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 967
humanmapquest's mun. Written as sort of a companion piece to this.)It's not the first time you ever held a baby, nor is it the first time you've cradled your own blood in your arms. The former experience goes to Baileigh and Sark's child, while the latter goes to Claire's, Hiro hovering over you the whole time as if he still expected you to crack the poor kid's skull open, even if you haven't hurt anyone in years. Technically, though, the boy in your arms really doesn't belong to you in the least; he's Molly's, and while you may be one of her father figures, you're not her father. But here, holding him, smiling down at him, you can't help but think this is the closest thing to a grandson as you'll ever get, thanks to choices you don't regret and circumstances you do.
He's not yours but he may as well be, and you promise to protect him just like you protected Molly before turning to the nurse who's been watching you like a hawk since you came in here. "I want to take him upstairs. To see my sister."
Sister. You told her you were Molly's brother because you weren't sure she'd buy the idea that you were her father. You look too young, the distance in age between you and Molly closing more rapidly with each passing moment, and it hurts. Just like it hurts to have to tell the lie, even if it's what you're sure the nurse will believe--what she did believe because a twelve year older brother makes more sense than a twelve year older father. Regardless, though, the nurse nods and reaches out to take the wide-eyed baby from you, wrapping him in blankets to keep him warm before heading for the door.
You follow, mutely, and sooner rather than later, you're standing outside of Molly's room. The nurse informs you that she'll wait out here--she still doesn't trust you (or anyone) not to run off with the kid--and tells not to keep Molly awake for too long. She needs her rest, the woman tells you, and you don't doubt it; when they finally let you in to see your daughter last night, she looked more than exhausted. So you nod, taking your grandson back from the nurse and head into the room.
Molly's asleep understandably, and so you content yourself making little noises at the baby and letting him fidget with the buttons on your shirt. You're pretty sure no one will be around until later to see you making an idiot of yourself, as Mohinder can't make it back for another hour at least, and Adam's keeping Matt busy so he doesn't spend all day here, pacing. You're pretty sure, but even now, seven years later, you're not that lucky, and suddenly there's a quiet giggle from the bed as Molly catches you peppering her son with inane questions you both know he won't be able to answer.
You look up and then away, sheepishly, and mutter an apology. At least you take embarrassment better now then when you were younger.
"It's fine," she promises, beckoning you over, and you're up from the chair without a moment's hesitation.
Carrying Molly's son over to her, you hold him out to her and she gathers him in her arms, looking down at him, calmly. She smooths a hand over his head, carefully--she'll make a good mother, you decide, even if the circumstances aren't ideal--pretending you don't exist for a moment. Years ago, it would have bothered you, to be ignored like that, now you don't blame her for the squirming little life in her arms to be the most important thing in her universe. And so, you let her have a moment before trying to draw her attention again.
"So, what's his name?"
She manages a tired smile, still looking down at him as he settles into sleep in her arms, before raising her eyes back to you. "James Clark."
She doesn't add like his grandfather out of respect for you--she's forgiven you a long time ago, for what you did, or so she tells you--but you make the leap, anyway. There's a stab of pain, old but it still hurts to remember that you were a killer once, that you terrorized the closest thing you'll ever have to a daughter once, and you look away. Molly's not an empath like you are, but it wouldn't take a rocket scientist, and so she rests her newborn son on her stomach so she can brush her fingers over your arm, soothingly. The touch practically scalds more than it helps, but you don't recoil; you don't want to upset her, not anymore than you're sure you already have in the past. In what you did to her, as a child.
"He has your eyes," she tells you after a moment, as if this will cheer you up. "And Mohinder's nose."
You get the fact that she's humoring you, but you don't want it right now, and so you offer her a wry smile. "That's impossible, Molly."
"Maybe, but he does." Molly shrugs, eyebrows lifted in such a way that she looks more like Mohinder than her son, silently telling him that there will be no further debate over this. You can't help but flash her a small, amused look, and then she lowers her eyebrows before shifting a bit in bed, trying to get comfortable without waking her now sleeping son.
"Tired?" you ask after a moment.
"Very," she answers before pausing, and fires off another one of those tired smiles, "but I want to see him and you."
Gently, you settle down on the edge of her bed, reaching out to comb your fingers through her hair, lightly. "I'm not going anywhere, Molly." And you've always been a man of your word.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 967
