Fic: In the Give of Your Voice (Heroes)
“Forgive me if the two seem remarkably similar,” Mohinder snaps.
- - -
Mohinder freezes in shock, his heart pounding against his chest. There’s no way to misinterpret the image on the camera - the other two, they’re heading this way, and Thompson is dead.
Thompson is dead. The blood spreads slow and thick -
Mohinder swallows the bile in the back of his throat, and he moves to action.
This is how the story ends.
- - - -
He’s still dizzy, weak from the blood loss; the transfusion has started, though. Molly may start healing, soon -
Mohinder stumbles, against a counter, and a steady hand catches his arm.
“Take it easy, Suresh,” says Thompson, and he sets Mohinder in a chair, pressing a bottle of water into his hand.
“I’m fine,” insists Mohinder.
“You took the bandage off.”
“I don’t need it, I’m not bleeding.”
Thompson’s fingers brush against the light bruise of the needle mark, just starting to show against Mohinder’s flesh. Mohinder jerks away, the shock of sensation something he doesn’t want to think about.
“Take care of yourself,” snaps Thompson, and he leaves Mohinder there.
- - - -
Thompson’s fingers draw the tourniquet tight around the flesh of Mohinder’s arm, drifting down soothingly over the crook of his elbow.
“You have drawn blood before, haven’t you?” asks Mohinder, managing to keep his voice steady.
Thompson smiles at him - really, Mohinder thinks, less smiles than leers. “Believe me, Dr. Suresh,” he says, flicking the sensitive flesh, “I’ve drawn my share of blood.”
“So, I shouldn’t worry about you having a needle to my vein.”
“Ordinarily,” says Thompson, “you wouldn’t live to worry.”
Mohinder bites his lip, hard.
The needle’s sting is sharp, unexpected, somehow, and Mohinder tenses against it.
“Relax.”
With those hands on him, those eyes gauging every move, Mohinder finds it surprisingly easy to let go. To trust.
His blood floods dark, red into the tube, and Mohinder can’t watch. This is Thompson, Thompson drawing something out him much more important than intimacy. It’s his life, flowing free out of his veins.
“How much do we need?”
Mohinder is shaky, now. “Fill the bag.”
- - - -
“I need you to draw my blood.”
Thompson turns, raising an eyebrow. “Your blood,” he echoes, flatly.
Mohinder nods. “The antibodies are in my bloodstream,” he says. “That was my father’s cure, that was how he planned to help Shanti.”
“Ingenious,” murmurs Thompson. His hands settle on Mohinder’s waist, possessive. “Let’s get you sitting down, shall we?”
Mohinder accepts the kiss, the warm dampness of Thompson’s mouth, with a shiver.
- - - -
When he wakes up, Thompson is sitting up next to him, reading a magazine. Mohinder has no idea whether Thompson has been there all night, or if he’s just returned.
Mohinder shifts and blinks, stretching. The sheet falls, and he realizes that he’s still bare-chested, that he must have fallen asleep during - “How long have I slept?”
“Eight and a half hours,” says Thompson. “Ready to get back to work?”
Mohinder nods, and he pushes the covers aside.
- - - -
Even after accepting Thompson’s suggestion, sleep doesn’t come.
The bed is a little bit too comfortable, and Mohinder can’t rest - he tosses and turns, shifts, tugging the blankets this way and that. He’s not sure how long it goes on before the door clicks open, a dim glow snapping Mohinder out of his semi-awakened state.
“What is it?” he asks. “Is Molly-”
“Molly’s fine,” says Thompson. He eases onto the edge of the bed.
Mohinder moves away, sitting up against the headboard. “Listen,” he says, “I said-”
“I remember what you said,” says Thompson. “Believe me, I have no intentions toward your virtue.” His smile - what Mohinder can see of it, in the darkness - is far from reassuring. “Lie down. On your stomach. And take off your shirt.”
“Thompson-”
“Trust me.”
Mohinder doesn’t trust him, far from it - but he does, pulling the undershirt over his head, settling his cheek on the pillow. “What are you doing?” he asks.
Thompson doesn’t respond, but his hand moves up Mohinder’s spine, pressing here, stroking here. It’s surprisingly gentle, for him, and Mohinder tenses in expectation.
A thumb digs, too hard, into the junction of Mohinder’s neck and shoulder. He half-twists away, but Thompson holds him place, pressing lighter, easing the kinks out of the muscle. The other side of his neck gets the same treatment, then Thompson moves onto the shoulderblades - it hurts, but it feels so much better now. Mohinder can let his thoughts drift, he doesn’t have to focus…
He drifts to sleep under Thompson’s hands.
- - - -
He’s ready to shatter from frustration. He’s not an MD, he shouldn’t be doing this at all. He has no place here. Molly is going to die if she depends on his help.
Mohinder’s eyes burn; how long has he been working? How late is it? It’s probably long since dark outside.
“You should get some sleep.”
Mohinder doesn’t bother to look up. “I have work to do,” he mutters, shuffling a stack of papers.
“You’re not going to get any done if you’re exhausted,” says Thompson.
“I’m not going to get any done if I’m asleep, either.”
Thompson’s hand closes on his shoulder. “In Molly’s interests, I’m going to have to insist that you get some rest.”
Mohinder shrugs his hand away.
- - - -
“Get your hands off of me.”
Thompson laughs, retreating a step. “I was brushing dust off your shirt, not feeling you up.”
“Forgive me if the two seem remarkably similar,” Mohinder snaps.
“Any progress?”
“No.” Mohinder turns away from him. “Leave me alone, and there might be.”
- - - -
The story begins here.
The counter digs into Mohinder’s back; Thompson’s hand is hot on his thigh, hooked over Thompson’s hip. Their groins are flush together, somehow, and Mohinder moans around the tongue in his mouth, loosening against the hand that slips under his shirt.
Mohinder breaks the kiss and flinches, freezes, with Thompson’s hands on him, with their bodies entangled, still fully clothed.
“No,” he says.
“No?”
“Not now,” amends Mohinder.
Thompson nuzzles his neck. “What do you mean, not now?”
“Not,” says Mohinder, “now.” He pushes Thompson away, a little more forcefully, but it doesn’t seem to have an effect. “Let me help Molly. I need my concentration, I need -” and Thompson’s teeth worry the skin under Mohinder’s jaw, just enough edge of pain to make Mohinder’s voice go breathy - “I can’t have distractions,” he manages.
Thompson kisses him, shallow and brief. “After you cure her.”
“Yes,” says Mohinder.
His smile makes Mohinder shiver. “I’ll see you after, then, Dr. Suresh.”
Mohinder turns back to his equipment, trembling. He looks forward to it.
- - -
Mohinder freezes in shock, his heart pounding against his chest. There’s no way to misinterpret the image on the camera - the other two, they’re heading this way, and Thompson is dead.
Thompson is dead. The blood spreads slow and thick -
Mohinder swallows the bile in the back of his throat, and he moves to action.
This is how the story ends.
- - - -
He’s still dizzy, weak from the blood loss; the transfusion has started, though. Molly may start healing, soon -
Mohinder stumbles, against a counter, and a steady hand catches his arm.
“Take it easy, Suresh,” says Thompson, and he sets Mohinder in a chair, pressing a bottle of water into his hand.
“I’m fine,” insists Mohinder.
“You took the bandage off.”
“I don’t need it, I’m not bleeding.”
Thompson’s fingers brush against the light bruise of the needle mark, just starting to show against Mohinder’s flesh. Mohinder jerks away, the shock of sensation something he doesn’t want to think about.
“Take care of yourself,” snaps Thompson, and he leaves Mohinder there.
- - - -
Thompson’s fingers draw the tourniquet tight around the flesh of Mohinder’s arm, drifting down soothingly over the crook of his elbow.
“You have drawn blood before, haven’t you?” asks Mohinder, managing to keep his voice steady.
Thompson smiles at him - really, Mohinder thinks, less smiles than leers. “Believe me, Dr. Suresh,” he says, flicking the sensitive flesh, “I’ve drawn my share of blood.”
“So, I shouldn’t worry about you having a needle to my vein.”
“Ordinarily,” says Thompson, “you wouldn’t live to worry.”
Mohinder bites his lip, hard.
The needle’s sting is sharp, unexpected, somehow, and Mohinder tenses against it.
“Relax.”
With those hands on him, those eyes gauging every move, Mohinder finds it surprisingly easy to let go. To trust.
His blood floods dark, red into the tube, and Mohinder can’t watch. This is Thompson, Thompson drawing something out him much more important than intimacy. It’s his life, flowing free out of his veins.
“How much do we need?”
Mohinder is shaky, now. “Fill the bag.”
- - - -
“I need you to draw my blood.”
Thompson turns, raising an eyebrow. “Your blood,” he echoes, flatly.
Mohinder nods. “The antibodies are in my bloodstream,” he says. “That was my father’s cure, that was how he planned to help Shanti.”
“Ingenious,” murmurs Thompson. His hands settle on Mohinder’s waist, possessive. “Let’s get you sitting down, shall we?”
Mohinder accepts the kiss, the warm dampness of Thompson’s mouth, with a shiver.
- - - -
When he wakes up, Thompson is sitting up next to him, reading a magazine. Mohinder has no idea whether Thompson has been there all night, or if he’s just returned.
Mohinder shifts and blinks, stretching. The sheet falls, and he realizes that he’s still bare-chested, that he must have fallen asleep during - “How long have I slept?”
“Eight and a half hours,” says Thompson. “Ready to get back to work?”
Mohinder nods, and he pushes the covers aside.
- - - -
Even after accepting Thompson’s suggestion, sleep doesn’t come.
The bed is a little bit too comfortable, and Mohinder can’t rest - he tosses and turns, shifts, tugging the blankets this way and that. He’s not sure how long it goes on before the door clicks open, a dim glow snapping Mohinder out of his semi-awakened state.
“What is it?” he asks. “Is Molly-”
“Molly’s fine,” says Thompson. He eases onto the edge of the bed.
Mohinder moves away, sitting up against the headboard. “Listen,” he says, “I said-”
“I remember what you said,” says Thompson. “Believe me, I have no intentions toward your virtue.” His smile - what Mohinder can see of it, in the darkness - is far from reassuring. “Lie down. On your stomach. And take off your shirt.”
“Thompson-”
“Trust me.”
Mohinder doesn’t trust him, far from it - but he does, pulling the undershirt over his head, settling his cheek on the pillow. “What are you doing?” he asks.
Thompson doesn’t respond, but his hand moves up Mohinder’s spine, pressing here, stroking here. It’s surprisingly gentle, for him, and Mohinder tenses in expectation.
A thumb digs, too hard, into the junction of Mohinder’s neck and shoulder. He half-twists away, but Thompson holds him place, pressing lighter, easing the kinks out of the muscle. The other side of his neck gets the same treatment, then Thompson moves onto the shoulderblades - it hurts, but it feels so much better now. Mohinder can let his thoughts drift, he doesn’t have to focus…
He drifts to sleep under Thompson’s hands.
- - - -
He’s ready to shatter from frustration. He’s not an MD, he shouldn’t be doing this at all. He has no place here. Molly is going to die if she depends on his help.
Mohinder’s eyes burn; how long has he been working? How late is it? It’s probably long since dark outside.
“You should get some sleep.”
Mohinder doesn’t bother to look up. “I have work to do,” he mutters, shuffling a stack of papers.
“You’re not going to get any done if you’re exhausted,” says Thompson.
“I’m not going to get any done if I’m asleep, either.”
Thompson’s hand closes on his shoulder. “In Molly’s interests, I’m going to have to insist that you get some rest.”
Mohinder shrugs his hand away.
- - - -
“Get your hands off of me.”
Thompson laughs, retreating a step. “I was brushing dust off your shirt, not feeling you up.”
“Forgive me if the two seem remarkably similar,” Mohinder snaps.
“Any progress?”
“No.” Mohinder turns away from him. “Leave me alone, and there might be.”
- - - -
The story begins here.
The counter digs into Mohinder’s back; Thompson’s hand is hot on his thigh, hooked over Thompson’s hip. Their groins are flush together, somehow, and Mohinder moans around the tongue in his mouth, loosening against the hand that slips under his shirt.
Mohinder breaks the kiss and flinches, freezes, with Thompson’s hands on him, with their bodies entangled, still fully clothed.
“No,” he says.
“No?”
“Not now,” amends Mohinder.
Thompson nuzzles his neck. “What do you mean, not now?”
“Not,” says Mohinder, “now.” He pushes Thompson away, a little more forcefully, but it doesn’t seem to have an effect. “Let me help Molly. I need my concentration, I need -” and Thompson’s teeth worry the skin under Mohinder’s jaw, just enough edge of pain to make Mohinder’s voice go breathy - “I can’t have distractions,” he manages.
Thompson kisses him, shallow and brief. “After you cure her.”
“Yes,” says Mohinder.
His smile makes Mohinder shiver. “I’ll see you after, then, Dr. Suresh.”
Mohinder turns back to his equipment, trembling. He looks forward to it.