Heroes fic: Start Me Over

[out_there]

Title: Start Me Over
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Matt/Mohinder
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing, but the Phish Food belongs to Ben & Jerry’s.
Notes: Written for celli, who is responsible for making this couple my newest OTP. Thank you to scribewraith for betaing and suggesting ice-cream flavours. Title from the Scissor Sister’s Might Tell You Tonight which is a warm, romantic, happily-ever-after of a song that feels appropriate.

Summary: A year ago, this was precisely what Matt wanted with Janice: a kid of their own, a place of their own, a domestic routine of chores and TV and homework. That tells him everything.





"You should write a shopping list," Mohinder -- there's no other word for it -- nags. "You'll forget."

Matt's sticking his head in the fridge, looking around for all the things they're out of. "I'll remember it."

The same way you remember to empty the garbage bin, I'm sure.

"I took the garbage out. The garbage is gone. No longer here," Matt says and then sees the expression on Mohinder's face. It's a combination of embarrassment and surprise, but at least he's not angry. "Sorry. I'm trying to get better at this."

"You are getting better," Mohinder says kindly. "It happens less frequently. But it's quite unnerving to have someone hear your thoughts before you've decided to share them."

Matt nods and decides to compromise. Sort of. "Molly, you want to come help me make the shopping list?"

"Can we get Phish Food?" she calls out from the sofa. Mohinder looks a little confused -- understandable since they don’t own any fish -- and Matt mouths 'Ice cream' at him as Molly comes into the kitchen.

"Only if you write the shopping list and get everything else on it," Mohinder replies, passing her a pen and piece of paper. While Mohinder's back is turned, Matt gives her a thumbs up sign and a little nod -- their signal for 'Yay, sugar!' -- and she beams back at him. Mohinder turns to him, mock serious, and says, "Everything else on that list, Matt. Including the vegetables."

Matt nods, aiming at the same serious tone as he replies, "And the chocolate-caramel-fudge-marshmallow ice cream."

Mohinder rolls his eyes -- clearly, where Molly can see -- and she giggles, writing 'Phish Food' on the very first line.

***

It hasn't taken long for chores to settle into a routine. Matt's happy to clean the bathroom if he doesn't have to wash a dish, and Mohinder's happy to cook if he doesn't have to deal with grocery shopping. They take turns at the vacuuming and taking the garbage out. It's a good compromise.

For all that Mohinder will live on fast food when alone, he refuses to raise a child on McDonalds and KFC. (Matt's happy about it since Mohinder cooks an amazing curry -- not too hot, just the right level of spicy, the smell of it filling the hallway -- and some days, Matt's mouth waters before he opens the door.) He worries about nutrition and normalcy, about setting bad eating habits and child obesity rates.

Mohinder worries about a lot of things.

Matt tries not to notice. Listening to someone's fears is like reading their diary and watching their nightmares, so he tries to be courteous and respect Mohinder's privacy. Apart from the basic respect issue, there's also the fact that he doesn't want to know Mohinder's theories on what drives Sylar, on possible psychotic side-effects of mutations, on the survival chances of the human race if non-typical cases like Sylar appear in as little as 0.25% of the world's population.

For all of Mohinder's calm appearance -- the still, gentle way he holds onto Molly, the deep, reassuring tones of his voice as he reads her bedtime stories -- the man constantly thinks. As he cooks, as he watches television, as he reads books as thick as Matt's wrist, he keeps thinking of their problems, thinking of new ideas and new ways to solve it.

Matt tries to focus, to ignore, but he still gets caught out. He's taken by surprise by, "If Sylar's powers are based on an understanding of how other mutations have adjusted the pathways of the brain is there a direct need to kill his victims? Logically, open-skull surgery, performed under general anaesthesia of course, would still allow him to identify the source and function of the mutation and to then adjust his own genetic make-up to imitate it," and chokes on his mouthful of Doritos.

Mohinder looks up from the other end of the couch, lamplight falling over his shoulder, thick novel resting open on his lap. "Isn't it considered bad manners to go stumbling through someone else's thoughts?"

"Sorry," Matt says reflexively. "Didn't mean to."

Mohinder raises one eloquent eyebrow, looking quite amused. "You didn't *mean* to read my mind?"

"No, I--" Matt scratches the back of his neck, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. In front of him, the TV is showing a repeat of The Amazing Race, people running around an airport. He doesn't even know what country the airport is in. He would have said he was watching a movie about spies, international hackers getting secrets from the CIA. Without realising it, he'd started eavesdropping on Mohinder's thoughts as he read, got caught up in the story and hadn't recognised the narrating voice. "It's hard to explain."

It's hard to explain without sounding like an idiot, is what he means. Luckily, Mohinder can't read *his* mind.

"I guess it must be," Mohinder says mildly. "I would have assumed hearing someone else's voice inside your head would have been a give-away."

"It wasn't that I was trying to, I just forgot to try not to." Matt shrugs, giving up on making sense. Then something occurs to him. "Why do you think in English anyway?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Most people don't think in a foreign language. They think in whatever they learned as a kid."

"I did learn English as a child," Mohinder replies, tapping a finger against the page of his book. Matt's not sure Mohinder even notices that he does that, that he fidgets with his hands when he's about to mention his father. "My father always said that in order to speak another language fluently, you need to be able to think in it."

Matt shakes his head. "Most people don't."

"Maybe most people," Mohinder says carefully and Matt can almost hear the questioning quotation marks around the words, "don't aim for the same level of fluency as I do in a second or third language."

"Third?"

"Technically, I speak four languages," Mohinder says with quiet pride. "Fluently."

Matt laughs it off because there's nothing else he can do. Spending time with Mohinder is like hanging out at pitching field with a pro-baseball player: as nice as the guy is, it still niggles to know he'll never be in the same league.

Matt's not dumb, not stupid, but anyone who's met him can tell he's not a brainy guy. Books and school were never his thing, and now he lives with someone who considers a Masters Degree as merely a prerequisite for serious study. He knows this because he overheard -- real eavesdropping, the vocal kind -- Mohinder explaining the system of tertiary education to Molly.

Switching off the TV, Matt levers himself off the couch. "There's nothing on. I'm going to have an early night."

"Matt," Mohinder says softly, turning his head so the lamp is behind him, light glinting off his dark (still tousled, recently washed) hair. The shadows accentuate the lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, the fine nose. His eyes are dark and impossible to read. "How did you not notice you were reading my thoughts?"

"I got involved in the story," Matt admits sheepishly.

"I don't understand."

"The book," Matt says and then points, as if there was more than one book in this room.

Mohinder looks down, surprised, clearly thinking about this. "You could hear me reading it. That would make sense. If you want, you could read it after me," Mohinder offers and Matt knows to cover his grimace with a grin.

"I'd rather wait for the film. I'll take a big explosion over written words any day of the week."

"But you were listening to me read it. It was inside my mind, but the words printed on each page are the same."

Matt blinks, trying to formulate an answer. He's not about to tell a guy who does complex equations inside his head, who can read scientific reports and probably write poetry in four different languages, that he has trouble reading. That he has to concentrate just to make out the words, to keep the letters settled on the page. That every sentence is a strain and the effort of decoding a paragraph is it too hard to ever be fun.

"Unless you were picking up more than surface thoughts. Not images, precisely, but graduated nuances of meaning connected to ideas."

Matt figures it'd be rude to say, 'What?' so he goes with, "Huh?"

"Language is based upon implied meanings and shared concepts. We think of language as words, but each word is actually a label for a concept," Mohinder says, his tone slipping straight into what Matt privately thinks of as his 'lecturing voice'. Nothing excites Mohinder as much as teaching and sharing his knowledge. "For example, the word 'dog' means a specific type of animal, but encompasses a whole range of breeds. When someone says 'dog' you would think it's defining characteristics such as four legs, two ears, a tail, furred, canine and mammal, but you would also think of related concepts such as fur colour and visual images of Chihuahuas, Great Danes and other breeds. And that's ignoring the other related concepts that are not strictly the animal, such as 'hot dogs', 'in the dog house' and other colloquial meanings."

Matt knows it's best to nod along. "Okay."

"If you are reading someone's thoughts -- hearing them inside your head, as you've said before -- perhaps you are also picking up on the particular meaning of the words. You're hearing it because your brain is translating their thoughts into a mimicry of speech, allowing you to adapt to the new information by making it appear familiar, but the meaning of what you hear may be more specific than mere words."

"Pretend you're explaining this to Molly," Matt says, then remembers the last time Mohinder and Molly discussed a documentary on evolution. "Scratch that. Pretend you're Molly explaining it to me."

Mohinder laughs. "If you read a book and read the word 'dog', your mind would have to consider all possible meanings and try each of them in the context of the sentence. Your mind would automatically do this to parse each word, and each sentence. It's a near instantaneous effort, but it occurs as you read."

"Okay," Matt says again and doesn't ask what 'parse' means.

"If someone else is reading it, they've already interpreted the desired meaning of the sentence so when you 'hear' their thoughts, you are not, strictly speaking, hearing the words written on the page, but the intended meaning of the words." Mohinder paused, glancing at the dead screen of the TV. "On television, you see a scene and interpret a great deal of information that way. By listening to my thoughts, you may be skipping the step of even interpreting a visual scene. It would be communicating in precise *concepts*."

Mohinder grabs a notepad -- he keeps notebooks and post-its everywhere, constantly scribbling down ideas -- and starts writing. "We should work on this tomorrow. See if there's any way to test the precision of meaning. If you don't mind," he adds belatedly, giving a hopeful smile.

"Whatever you say, Einstein." Matt can't see the harm in it. It's interesting to see Mohinder find new ways to quantify something that belongs in a comic book. "But I'm going to bed."

"You could stay, if you want." Mohinder waves loosely at the other end of the couch. "I'm going to keep reading."

Matt's pretty sure the surprise must show on his face. But he sits down before Mohinder can change his mind.

***

He walks Molly to school. He's pretty sure Molly's teacher thinks he's overprotective but it's only Molly's second week and even if it wasn't, there's no way he's letting her out of his sight unless absolutely necessary. He'd sit in the back of the classroom if Ms Gerber would let him.

"Matt," Molly says. Matt tries not to wince. He knows this tone of voice. This is the tone of voice that comes just before an argument, where Molly logically tries to prove her point and Matt struggles to retain any sense of authority.

"Yeah?"

"Other kids in my class get to stay up and watch TV."

"Then I feel very sorry for them."

She frowns, little creases appearing on her smooth forehead. "Why do you feel sorry for them? They get to watch the shows that I don't."

This is what the argument's about. She's already tried complaining to Mohinder, who simply said, "That is your bedtime. As you cannot change it so you must learn to live within its limits," and then distracted her with food. Now she's trying it on Matt but Matt's standing fast to the eight o'clock rule. Not so much for her health as for his sanity: he needs at least an hour or two of adult time. He needs some time where he can sit down and watch shows with swearing, violence and sex and not worry about how much Molly's trying to understand.

"I feel sorry for them" he says, "because staying up late isn't good for you."

"They seem fine," Molly says, suspiciously.

"Sure, they seem fine but you know what happens if you don't get enough sleep as a kid?"

"What?"

"You don't grow up."

"People don't remain children because they don't get enough sleep," Molly scoffs.

"Oh, I didn't mean they don't become adults. They don't get *tall*. It stunts their growth."

Molly tilts her head up to watch him closely. "It stunts their growth?"

"Uh-huh. When you sleep, your body gets to recharge and it uses that energy to grow. It puts it into your bones and muscles and makes you tall."

She looks suspicious but willing to believe him. "That's why I have to go to bed before the good shows start?"

"That's why you have to have a reasonable bedtime, yes. That's not changing, Molly." She frowns and he adds, "Come on. Do you want to be that tall forever? Do you want to always rely on someone else to get you ice-cream?"

"No."

She's quiet for a few more steps and Matt really, really hopes that's the end of it.

Molly starts jumping on the cracks in the pavement, and he holds her hand, swinging her just a bit higher to get from one crack to another. At the height of one swinging step, she nearly trips, but he pulls her up before her knees hit the concrete. "You okay there?"

"Yeah." She nods, pulling her hand back to walk on her own. Then she suddenly asks, "What else stunts your growth?"

"What else?"

"If I have to go to bed early to grow tall, you'd think that other things that are bad for me would stunt my growth too."

"That's right," Matt says, stalling.

"Like what?"

"Alcohol. Smoking. Living on chocolate." He adds that last one for Mohinder, who keeps trying to curb her sweet tooth. It's an uphill battle because Matt habitually buys chocolate and sweets -- he *likes* Cherry Ripes and rocky road, mints and chocolate chip ice cream -- but they're trying to do the right thing. "You can't eat chocolate until after you've had three meals a day."

As a last minute thought he adds, "And kissing boys."

"Kissing boys stunts your growth?" It's amazing that Molly can sound so innocent and so sarcastic at the same time.

"Sure," Matt says, not quite managing to cover his smile. "If you kiss boys before you're eighteen, you'll never grow tall."

"I don't think that's true," Molly says.

"Go ahead and try. You'll end up very, very short and always relying on someone else to get your ice-cream."

Molly pulls a face, sticking her tongue out in disgust. "I wouldn't want to kiss boys."

"That's very good to hear," Matt says. "I'm glad you're such a sensible young lady."

***

There are flashcards.

Matt's trying not to grin. There's nothing inherently amusing about flashcards but there's something about the way that Mohinder sets everything out carefully on the dining table -- a biro and lined notepad for him, a pile of loose pages and one of Molly's thick pencils for Matt, a clear glass of water for each of them -- and the way he shuffles the flashcards deftly between his long fingers that gives Matt the urge to laugh. Mohinder is quietly serious about this, as serious as he is about all of his research, but Matt keeps thinking of Celebrity Poker, imagining Mohinder flicking the cards across the table and raising bets with pencils.

Part of his amusement must show because Mohinder raises an eyebrow at him. "Care to let me in on the joke?"

"I think I'm the only one who'd find it funny," Matt says, sitting down at the table. He's not too concerned about this. Any test that involves flashcards can't be that hard to pass. It'll probably be a verbal test anyway. All of Mohinder's other experiments have only required Matt to repeat what he's heard in someone else's mind or answer questions not asked out loud.

This will probably be the same so he's really not that concerned about it, apart from the tiny part of him that notices the pencil and paper on his side of the table.

If it comes to it, he can always fake a headache to get out of it, Matt thinks. "So what are we doing here, professor?"

"We are going to test how you interpret the meaning of what you hear," Mohinder says, taking his seat. "What you hear telepathically, of course. It's impossible to ascertain if you understand what you hear verbally."

"Hey, I took the garbage out eventually."

"After I mentioned it to you three separate times," Mohinder says. He doesn't know that it was Molly complaining about the smell that finally made Matt take it out. Matt's not about to tell him, either.

Matt waves towards the flashcards. Actual *flashcards*. "So what do I have to do?"

"Each of the cards has a word and a single image on it." Mohinder turns one over. It has a picture of a five-pointed star, a simplistic shape that five-years-olds could recognise. Beneath that, it has 'STAR' printed in bold, dark letters. Mohinder's printed these out and laminated them, which seems like a lot of effort for a something this simple. "I'm going to look at the card, think of the word, and I want you to draw the first associated image that comes to mind."

Matt shakes his head a little. "Suddenly, the pencil makes sense."

"We'll start with the easier ones, the most frequent connotations of a word and move along to more specific or unusual meanings. Focus on my thoughts, and then I'll turn the card over," Mohinder says and then thinks, Ready?

"As ready as I'll ever be," Matt says, picking up the pencil.

The first word is 'fish' and Matt draws a quick cartoon, something that looks vaguely like Blinky from The Simpsons, except with two eyes. When he's finished, he shows Mohinder, who frowns slightly and says, "Not quite."

When he flips the card, there's a picture of a fish, but it's a simple line drawing: a triangle tail and a squashed oval for the body, the type of fish that belongs on a Christian bumper sticker.

For a moment, there's a disconcerting echo inside Matt's skull as Mohinder says, "We may need to experiment in our approach," and thinks, I was sure it would work. Maybe if he closed his eyes, focused on the visuals. After all, it's a different way of interpreting information.

"Hey, one method of communication at a time, okay?"

Mohinder nods and thankfully doesn't speak. Of course. Maybe we should try this with your eyes closed.

***

It takes some trial and error -- closing his eyes helps, trying to draw with his eyes closed is impossible -- but it works. Matt can close his eyes and hear Mohinder think, Vegetable and then draw a stalk of broccoli; when Mohinder flips the card, it's the right image.

It's hard to concentrate on a single idea and trust the first image that comes to mind. It's like trying to click the fingers on his left hand, familiar but completely strange.

The accuracy of Matt's drawings gets better, until they look like... well, not like a photocopy, but like some kid had carefully copied the original and got some of the proportions a little wrong. A few lines here and there were off, but there's a definite resemblance.

And they're only two-thirds of the way through the stack of cards.

The next one is a tree (a tall oak stretching up to the sky), then a cow (splotched black and white, two small horns, and Matt gets the location of the marks perfectly) and then a car. (Matt gets a flash of a dark red Ford sedan, tinted windows, only a few years old; he sketches it as best he can and when Mohinder turns the card over, instead of the simple line drawing, there's a photo printed above the word. Matt's sketch is fairly accurate, which could be useful for a detective, assuming he ever passes that exam)

The next few are pictures, growing progressively more detailed, and while it's interesting, Matt's considering asking Mohinder for a time-out. They've been sitting around the kitchen table for nearly two hours, and these chairs weren't designed with back support in mind.

He's about to suggest they take a break when Mohinder turns over the next card and thinks, Kiss.

The flash of image he gets... well, Matt's sure that's not on the actual card. Not unless Mohinder's spent a lot of time in Photoshop, and even then...

The image is clear -- perfectly clear like a vivid dream -- and there's no doubting that it features Mohinder. Mohinder leaning in, head tilted down, lips pressed lightly... Mohinder's hand dark resting on a cheek, fingers curled gently around the curve of jaw.

The person Mohinder is kissing is *him*. In the image, Mohinder's hand is curved around Matt's jaw, Mohinder's lips are pressed against Matt's. In the image, Matt's eyes are closed and his hand is on Mohinder's bare forearm. It’s a quiet, still moment; a sweet, comfortable kiss that looks confident and familiar.

Matt's breath catches somewhere behind his sternum, then he manages, "Maybe we should call it quits. These chairs are killing me."

Mohinder looks down at his watch, wide black band cutting across the tender skin of his wrist. "It's later than I realised. Maybe we could continue this tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow sounds good," Matt agrees, image still clear in his head, "but right now, trash TV sounds better."

***

They flick stations and end up on a documentary on shellfish. After the first ten minutes, Mohinder falls silent, watching with rapt interest. (For the first ten minutes, he tries to explain the importance of barnacles to Darwin's research. Molly finds this type of thing fascinating; Matt, less so.)

It gives Matt time to think.

He'd helped Mohinder clear the table and set it for breakfast. While he'd done that, he'd flipped over the kiss card to check the image. It looked like a Hallmark card, a black and white picture of twenty-somethings kissing, the guy's hand resting on the girl's cheek. It was similar but it definitely wasn't the picture he'd seen.

Sometimes, Matt longs for the way life used to be. If this happened at the station, he'd know it was one of the guys pulling a prank, trying to embarrass Matt for laughs. But Mohinder isn't like that. Mohinder...

Mohinder can be cold, can be distant, can get so lost in theories and research that he barely notices what's going on around him. He can theorise in harsh, impersonal terms but he's also the most empathetic person Matt's ever met. He's gentle and considerate, and he genuinely feels for other people. Matt's seen him on the subway, helping mothers with their prams, giving up his seat for the elderly.

Mohinder wouldn't see anything funny in causing someone else discomfort, wouldn't appreciate the good-natured smack talk of the station. He wouldn't purposely do this -- think of that image -- as a joke.

Shifting on the couch, Matt looks over at Mohinder (who's too involved in the television screen to notice). Now that he thinks about it, he's not sure Mohinder would have done it on purpose at all.

He's lived on the guy's fold-out sofa for two months now and noticed things. Like, Mohinder has no social life. Admittedly, neither does Matt, but Matt's gone through a very recent divorce and four bullet wounds. Also, Matt doesn't look like Mohinder. He doesn't look like he's stepped off some billboard covered by perfect models with ideal bone structure and flawless skin.

Mohinder does. Mohinder walks down the streets of Manhattan -- Manhattan, filled with the young, the attractive, the rich, the attention seeking; it's as bad as LA -- and doesn't even notice the inviting smiles and flirtatious stares. The guy's single from obliviousness, not from lack of choice.

Glancing away from the TV, Mohinder gives him a quick, curious smile. Matt looks away quickly, a little embarrassed to be caught staring. Glaring at the magnified barnacles on the screen, Matt wonders why he's here.

Molly, of course. She needed someone to look after her while Mohinder put together material for his planned lectures. Convenience, because he didn't have anywhere else to go (he had friends, sure, he could have crashed on their sofas for a night or two but they were all cops and would require more explaining than he wanted to do, and that would have been back in LA, away from Molly). Then there was the comfort -- Mohinder's couch folded out so he wouldn't be squashed up -- and the cost -- renting in NYC isn't cheap, especially when renting on your own.

Those were all the reasons he'd come in the first place. All the reasons he'd stayed for the first week, and the second. Those are the reasons he keeps using to himself whenever he thinks about leaving, even though the transfer to NYPD has happened and there's still some compensation left after medical costs. He could afford to leave, to get his own place...

But he doesn't want to be without Molly, and even if he got a place and asked her to come...

Well, he likes living with Mohinder. Likes having someone who cooks and argues about the garbage, likes having someone who obviously cares for Molly as much as he does. He likes sitting on the couch with someone after Molly's gone to bed, watching TV and scoffing at sci-fi movies, sharing a bag of chips and talking through the ads.

A year ago, this was precisely what he wanted with Janice: a kid of their own, a place of their own, a domestic routine of chores and TV and homework. That tells him everything.

It just doesn't tell him what to do about it.

***

Matt's pretty sure it's cheating to use telepathy to check if someone likes you or *likes* you, but he does it anyway. He's used to actively trying not to hear Mohinder's thoughts and now that he's trying to, he keeps forgetting and screening them out from habit. It means he spends most of the day watching Mohinder, making sure that he only responds to what's actually said.

It's driving him crazy.

Partly because Mohinder really does worry a lot -- about Molly, about her education, about her lack of parents, about how much the Company wants her back, about how they're going to organise childcare once Matt's working full-time again -- and hearing those worries creates an almost physical reaction in Matt. There's a tightness in his chest, a queasy weight in his stomach. He want to reassure Mohinder as badly as he wants to erase Molly's fear when she has a nightmare, but even if Matt could carelessly confess to deliberately eavesdropping, he still wouldn't know what to say. Mohinder's fears are based on solid fact.

It's also driving him crazy to watch Mohinder talking, to watch the way his mouth moves around the words and the flashes of white, straight teeth, and not focus on that image. Not wonder how it would feel if Mohinder did kiss him, if the stubble would burn, if his lips would be as soft as they look. And while Matt's thinking about kissing, about coming up behind Mohinder in the kitchen, sliding hands over his hips, licking along the crisp edge of his collar, Mohinder's thoughts are completely benign.

Mohinder isn't the one flicking through the sports section of the Times and watching his roommate's fast fingers on the keyboard, wondering if they'd be so light and nimble on bare skin, if he'd go slowly and take his time. The only thing Mohinder thinks about is his worries, his research, and Molly. He thinks of current affairs as he watches the news, thinks of possible plot twists as he watches TV (it takes some of the fun out of watching spy shows when Mohinder guesses the ending) but he definitely does not think about sex or kissing.

Or being attracted to Matt at all.

He'd slipped up a few times -- it was impossible not to -- and covered his badly-timed replies with coughing fits, leaving Molly certain that he was getting a cold and insisting he went to bed when she did. She'd been so adorable, both bossy and concerned, that he didn't have the heart to argue with her. (He'll thank her for her miraculous cure tomorrow.)

So Matt goes to bed early, feeling guilty and sheepish (and, fine, disappointed), with a hot mug of honey and lemon juice beside him. He turns on the sofa bed at least a dozen times before he gets comfortable.

***

He lurches into a sitting position at the sound of his name. He forces himself to blink, checking that his eyes are actually open, and slowly the darkness resolves into shadows and shapes.

Beside the bed, one of the blurry shadows is Molly-shaped. "Matt?" she asks cautiously.

He turns on the lamp, and sees her watery eyes, her small hands fidgeting with the hem of her pyjama top. He pulls back the corner of his covers and she scurries in, burying her head against one shoulder and wrapping her arm around the other. He pulls the covers up around them both. "Another nightmare?"

She nods.

"What happened?" She shakes her head, not looking up. Settling a hand on the back of her head, stroking the soft hair, he can't help but notice how tiny she is, just this frightened little kid. "Come on, Molly. If it's scary enough to wake you up, I think you should tell me about it."

She huddles in closer and Matt has to strain to hear her muffled voice. "I was at home, I mean, at my old house. With Mom and Dad, and with you and Mohinder, and--"

The rest he can hear in her thoughts: the bogeyman coming, her hiding under the stairs, trapped all alone as people screamed.

"You know we're not going to let that happen, right?" he whispers into her hair, smelling the strawberry-scented shampoo she'd insisted on. "Mohinder and me, we're not going to let anything happen to you. We're not going to let anything happen to each other either. You're safe."

She nods and lies there for a while, saying nothing but slowly relaxing. After a few minutes, she lifts her head and asks, "Tell me a bedtime story?"

Mohinder usually reads to her at night -- Harry Potter, The Hobbit, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe -- but Matt prefers to make up his own stories. "Once upon a time," he says, stretching to switch the lamp off, "many, many years ago, there was a famous baseball player named Babe Ruth. He hadn't been christened Babe, but he'd been called that since he was a kid and the name stuck."

She slips off to sleep before he gets to tell her about the curse being lifted and crowds cheering.

***

Matt helps Mohinder clear the table after breakfast while Molly packs her backpack for school. "She had another nightmare last night," he says quietly, placing the dishes by the sink.

Mohinder's hands are covered by bright green gloves, half submerged in soapy water. "Sylar?"

"Yeah."

That's all they say about it. They've talked about it before and there's nothing they can do, other than hold her and tell her she's safe now, so Matt wipes the table down in silence. When he brings the cloth back, Mohinder says, "You know..." quite slowly, and after years as a cop, some of Matt's instincts are very good, and he's pretty sure this conversation is going to be bad.

"What?" Matt asks, faking mild interest.

Mohinder lifts a bowl over to dry. "I'm starting to wonder if a subject can develop a sensitivity to knowing when their mind is being read."

"Really?"

"I would swear you were reading my mind yesterday," Mohinder says coldly, very calm, very in control, searching with one hand to make sure the sink is empty.

Matt tries not to grimace. "What time yesterday?"

Mohinder pulls the plug and there's a loud squelching, suction noise as the water finishes draining down the sink. "All day."

"Oh. Um..." Mohinder turns quickly and Matt takes a step back, bumping the fridge. He's never seen Mohinder this angry. (Closest was when Mohinder had a gun pointed at Bennet, but his expression then had been a mix of anger, worry and fear. Now he just looks angry, eyes narrowed, jaw set, and maybe Matt's screwed this up more than he thought.) "Yeah, sort of, but--"

"You have been living in my home for nine weeks," and Matt flinches, because it's not like Mohinder's even asked him for rent, just opened his door and offered, "and you still suspect my motives?"

"What?" Matt asks, honestly confused.

"I thought we'd resolved this. I would never do anything to hurt her," Mohinder growls, stepping closer and jabbing a pointed finger towards Molly's closed door. "I would never harm her. That you've been here for nine weeks and still distrust me is highly insulting."

"Oh, hey, no," Matt says quickly, lifting up his hands in surrender. "It's not--"

"What did you think? That I'm still working for the Company and planning to dissect her?" Mohinder hisses, dark eyes furious. It doesn't help that Matt had thought that, had worried about Molly being in Mohinder's care while he was recuperating. At the time, it'd been a fair concern; after all, when he'd met the guy, he'd been on the Company's payroll and holding a gun. But Matt's seen him with Molly, seen the way he cares for her right down to his bones. "Or maybe you wondered if I was under Sylar's influence, planning to give Molly to that monster."

"You're the only person I trust with Molly right now," Matt says quickly, willing Mohinder to believe him. "Yesterday-- Yesterday was nothing to do with that."

"Then what was it about?" Mohinder leans back, shoulders still high and tense. Matt appreciates the breathing space.

Matt stalls for time, wondering if there's any way he can get out of this without complete humiliation. "You could really feel me inside your head?"

"No. But you only answered a question if you could see me talking, and you spent over an hour without turning a page of the sports section."

Strangely, it's reassuring that Mohinder couldn't feel him poking around, and kind of worrying that Mohinder knows him well enough to have noticed. "It wasn't about trust, it was just... curiosity."

Mohinder tilts his chin up, waiting. "About...?"

When Mohinder wants to know something, he can be patient and determined about finding the truth. Matt groans. He's going to have to confess, there's no way around it. "One of the flashcards. The image I thought of wasn't the image on the card."

"Which card?"

"The kiss one," Matt says, hoping really, really hard that Mohinder won't ask what he did see.

Of course, Matt's not that lucky.

"What image did you see?"

"You. And me," Matt manages. Mohinder blinks, clearly confused. "We were... kissing."

"Oh."

Matt buries his hands in his pockets, looking down at Mohinder's feet. He might as well get the most embarrassing part over with. "I wanted to know if I thought of the wrong thing or if you'd thought it... And that was why I was trying to read your mind."

"Did you get your answer?"

And, no, he'd been wrong: here was the most embarrassing part. "Sure. An entire day proved you definitely think of me as a roommate."

"Because when living with a telepath who accidentally reads the thoughts of others, I would clearly sit in the same room as you and think of us kissing," Mohinder says lightly. It takes Matt a moment to notice the fine sarcasm in his tone. "You realise that the mature, adult way of dealing with this situation would have been to simply ask me if I was interested in you, right?"

"I get that now." When Matt looks up, Mohinder is trying -- trying very hard -- not to smile. Matt doesn't fight his own grin.

Mohinder stays standing there, his smile growing. He's less than a foot away from Matt (who's backed up against the fridge), hands by his side, but he's not moving. For a moment, Matt's tempted to read his mind, but that's probably a bad idea. "I'm trying to cut back on that reading minds without permission thing -- at home, at least -- so if you want me to know something, you're going to have to say it."

"I'm waiting for you to ask," Mohinder says, smile unmistakable now.

"Yeah?" Matt asks, then swallows. It's been a while since he's done this -- felt that anticipation of a first kiss, heart speeding up, time slowing down, palms getting sweaty -- and he'd nearly forgotten how fantastic these moments feel. "Do you want to kiss me?"

Mohinder leans forward, one hand braced on the fridge, close enough that one of his curls brushes Matt's forehead. He looks into Matt's eyes and says, "Yes."

"That's good to kno--" Matt's cut off by Mohinder's lips landing on his, warm and spicy. For a moment, Matt's distracted by the thought of his breath and what he ate last -- a cup of coffee, so he's covered -- then Mohinder opens his mouth and licks along the line of Matt's closed lips. Matt gasps a little and then gets with the program.

Hooking a hand around Mohinder's waist, Matt kisses back for all he's worth. He presses his tongue against Mohinder’s and leans forward, closing the gap between their bodies. A slight tilt of the head, a small tug at Mohinder’s sides, and the kiss gets deep and wet. There's a hand grabbing Matt's bicep and the fridge rolls back an inch as Mohinder pushes them up against it.

"Matt!" It's Molly's shocked cry that pulls them apart, Mohinder taking three quick steps away and running a hand through his hair (messing it up more than Matt had; Matt hadn't gotten a chance to).

In times of trouble, start with a confident smile, Matt thinks to himself. "Hey, Molly."

"You said that kissing boys stunts your growth," she says accusingly. If they don't handle this quickly, he's sure the bedtime argument is going to come up again. And Matt's not in the right frame of mind to argue with a determined ten year old.

Mohinder shoots him a quick glance, but other than that, his poker face remains intact. "I don't think that's really a concern," he says, followed by, "How much taller did you want Matt to grow?"

"I can reach the freezer, thank you, Molly. I don't need to worry about my height."

"But you said--"

"I also said that it only stunts your growth if you kiss boys before you turn eighteen. How old am I?"

"A lot older than eighteen," Molly mutters sullenly, sensing that she's lost her newfound argument for a later bedtime.

Beside him, Matt hears Mohinder's stifled chortle. Ignoring it, Matt picks up his keys and turns to Molly. "Okay, short stuff, time for another day of school."

Mohinder leans down to give her a goodbye hug and Matt pauses at the door, enjoying the sight of his unexpected, makeshift family, complete with washing up, walks to school and arguments about bedtimes. And now with kissing.

It occurs to him that he's a damn lucky guy.