Heroes fic: Like Father, Like Son

[out_there]

Title: Like Father, Like Son
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Matt/Mohinder
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, I make no money.
Spoilers: Spoilers for Heroes 2.04 “The Kindness of Strangers”.
Notes: Written after seeing 2.04 and jossed by the time I finished with the beta. *sigh* I forgot about that part of writing for a current show.I dithered about posting, but since storydivagirl went to the trouble of betaing, I might as well post it.

Summary: "Your father has Molly. I need to know what he'll do, what type of man he is," Mohinder says, although he already has suspicions from the hurt slouch of Matt's shoulders, from the harsh way Matt spoke about him, that Matt's father is someone that he would not like under the best of circumstances.



After ten minutes, it's clear that Molly's condition isn't going to change. Her pulse is steady and strong, her breathing is regular and she looks like she's finally catching up on much needed sleep, but she won't respond. She won't wake up. Matt keeps pushing her hair back, fingers brushing over her temples, saying, "I can hear her calling for me, but I can't reach her," and apologizing, so Mohinder pushes past him. He gathers their little girl up in his arms, and puts her to bed. Matt follows, hovering three steps behind.

Mohinder's fingers flutter once more to check her pulse before pulling the covers up. He swallows down his fear.

Then he turns around, grabs Matt's elbow tightly and drags him out of the room. "What else do I need to know?"

"What?" Matt's eyes are wide, still shocked, and he looks like he's going to be sick. At another time, Mohinder would be sympathetic, would have the urge to hold him and reassure him, but right now, Molly needs them too much.

"Your father has Molly. I need to know what he'll do, what type of man he is," Mohinder says, although he already has suspicions from the hurt slouch of Matt's shoulders, from the harsh way Matt spoke about him, that Matt's father is someone that he would not like under the best of circumstances. "Will he hurt her?"

"No," Matt says immediately. It almost soothes Mohinder's fears. "He's not a vicious guy. He never hit me or anything. He's not going to--"

"Then she's safe with him?"

"He won't go out of his way to hurt her, but…" Matt shakes his head, blinking, finally looking awake. "If she's standing in the way of what he wants, he won't care about collateral damage."

It's not as bad as he feared, Mohinder thinks. This is a selfish, uncaring man, not someone like Sylar, not someone who enjoys the screams of his victims. "Why didn't you mention this earlier? We talked about our childhoods, about our backgrounds. You told me you grew up in Denver, finished school, moved to LA, became a police officer. You lied about your father being a telepath--"

"I didn't lie," Matt says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I didn't know my father was a telepath. I didn't know he was the one in Molly's dreams. And I did grow up in Denver."

"With your mother?"

"With my aunt and uncle. Moved there when I was thirteen."

"Your father left you there?" Mohinder asks, trying to puzzle the pieces together, trying to match the goofy stories Matt tells about high school with the awkward, dull pain in his eyes.

"No." Matt laughs, and it sounds painful. "Not exactly."

"What happened?"

"Bus depot. Downtown LA. Gave me a hundred and twenty bucks, wrote down his sister's number and her address in Denver, and the bus route I was going to need, and told me to go buy a child's ticket. Patted me on the head, called me sport, and said he'd see me in a minute."

It seems unthinkable: leaving a child in the middle of a bus depot, abandoning him with an address and phone number. "That was the last time you saw him?"

"No. I turned around in the line and saw him heading outside. After I got the ticket, I followed him out and saw him getting on a coach to Colorado. That was the last time I saw him." Matt slouches back against the wall, folding his arms and Mohinder doesn't know what to say. He knows what it's like to disappoint a parent, to lose them to death. He has no idea what it's like to know they choose to leave you behind.

"You should have told me," Mohinder says finally.

"Why? So you'd have advanced warning in case I'd inherited the deadbeat dad gene along with the telepathy?" Matt glares at him, and it's so familiar to see Matt indignant and stubborn. "Knowing wouldn't have made a difference. You still needed a US citizen for Molly's foster papers."

"That's not the issue. The issue is that we discussed it." That I told you all the painful details of my life, of my family history, and you decided I didn't need to know about yours. Mohinder doesn't say it but Matt flinches so he probably heard it anyway. "What else should I know about your childhood?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything." Mohinder glances back toward the closed bedroom door, the stained-glass tinting the bed in a murky green. "It might help us gain an advantage. Start with your mother."

"I don't remember her," Matt says simply. "She died when I was five."

Mohinder frowns. At that age, Matt should have had some memories; not clear ones, possibly, but some. For a moment, he thinks of the Haitian. "Do you remember anything about her?"

"Not a thing. Never have. But when I grew up I checked the death certificate. It matches up."

"Then what do you remember?"

"We lived in New York when I was a kid. I can remember going to school here." Matt drags in a deep breath and then raises his head to look past Mohinder, to stare out the windows into the black night. "When I was seven, we started moving around. On average, we'd move four or five times a year. When I was nine, I attended seven different schools in six different states."

"Your father was running from something?"

"He owed people money. It became normal, you know? Every so often, I'd come home from school, let myself in and the place would be trashed. I'd start packing toys and clothes, anything I wanted to take with us, and that night, we'd be moving again. And then there'd be a new city in a new state, and he'd be using a new name to enroll me in school."

Mohinder can't help it: he reaches out and holds onto Matt's arm. Matt doesn't look at him, but he straightens up and stops clenching his fists so tightly.

"I couldn't remember new names, so I'd always be Matt. As I got older, it would be Matt Parmann or Parson, but he'd always have forged documents to explain it all. He'd say I was a nephew or a ward, or his new wife's brat. He liked that last one."

"All those different stories," Mohinder says, sliding his hand up and down Matt's shirtsleeve. "How could a child remember them?"

"When it's important, you remember. Hell, when I was eleven--" Matt stops, suddenly looking at Mohinder like he's assessing a threat, like he's negotiating for a hostage. "It doesn't matter."

Mohinder's sure it does, but he doesn't push. Instead, he says, "What was he like as a parent?"

"He left me at a bus depot. He's not in the running for Father of the Year."

"I'm simply trying to get a feel for the man." To understand what *your* father will do to Molly, Mohinder thinks and Matt turns toward the bedroom, colour draining from his cheeks. "I didn't mean--"

"Yes, you did," Matt says, voice hollow. "And it's my fault. My father, my stupid idea, my fault."

"You had no idea it would lead to this." Mohinder knows it's true. Matt would never knowingly expose Molly to such danger. If he'd realized the true risks, this wouldn't have happened. Matt nods, and Mohinder's not sure if he's agreeing or not. "Do you have any idea what your father was doing during those years?"

"Not a clue. I didn't see him all that much," Matt mutters. Mohinder's confusion must show – must leak out of his thoughts – because Matt waves a hand through the air and adds, "He'd always wake me up for school, get me breakfast and pack a lunch. Always make sure I was out the door on time. I don't know what he did for the rest of the day."

"Maybe he mentioned something after-school, maybe--"

"I never saw him after school. I'd walk home, or take the bus, and let myself in with a key. I was supposed to do my homework," Matt grins for a moment, cheeky and bright, "but I'd always end up watching TV. For dinner, there'd be a ten dollar bill sitting on the kitchen table and take-out menus."

"It sounds very lonely."

"It made sense to me. All the other kids had dads who spent most of their time at work, so my dad was normal. The difference was that they had moms who cooked and cleaned and looked after them. We didn't, so…" Matt shrugs and it explains so much.

It explains why he'd refused to move to a new apartment, even though the current one was small for two people, let alone three. It explains his attitude at Molly's school, his insistence that school records list both of them as parents (it embarrassed Mohinder a little -- to have the staff assume they were lovers before they actually were -- but Matt hadn't cared, he'd just said, "Molly needs to know who her parents are." At the time, Mohinder had worried that Matt was over-compensating for the Molly's loss, trying too hard, but now he understands). His determination that Molly be picked up from the school, that they adjust their schedules to accommodate that, regardless of how awkward or inconvenient it made life.

"Yeah, well, everybody's got issues," Matt says uncomfortably. Mohinder leans forward and kisses him, because he's angry and he's scared and their daughter needs them and the situation is partly Matt's fault, but regardless of all that, he still cares about him. When he pulls back, Matt says, "Gee, thanks," and it's only half sarcastic.

"You can stop reading my mind whenever you feel like it," Mohinder chides. He refuses to apologize for – or explain – things he hasn't actually said.

"We're going to have find him," Matt says, after a slow breath. "And he probably knows we're coming."

"Did no one ever find him? When you were a child?"

"Once. I was eleven." Matt shrugs. "Came home, place was trashed, and then two guys stepped out of the bathroom. The thing I remember most clearly was that one of them stepped on one of my toys and broke it. I was going through a dinosaur phase and it was one of those long-necked ones--"

"A brontosaurus?" Mohinder offers before he realizes how pointless the detail is.

"Probably. They hung around for a few hours, asked where my father was. Said they worked for some people who wanted to talk to him. And I did what I was told to do: I told them I hadn't seen my dad in months, that I was living there with my uncle."

"Did they--" Mohinder stops, thinking of Molly and how terrified she'd be in the same situation. Thinking of how much Matt isn't saying. "What happened?"

"I was a brat and one of them hit me. When I woke up, dad was there, packing our suitcases. What kind of parent does that, huh? What kind of father teaches his kid to lie to protect him? What kind of guy puts his child in danger because it suits him?" Matt glances over at Molly's door, at her quiet, dark room, and Mohinder doesn't need to be a telepath to read those thoughts. "Apart from me and my dad, I mean."

"It's not the same situation," Mohinder says, brushing a hand across Matt's wrist.

"Sure. He was probably running for his life. Me? I just wanted her to do it."

Mohinder steps forward, wrapping his arms around Matt. He doesn't know what else to do, what other comfort to offer, so he holds Matt close and hopes touch will suffice.

"You're not your father," he manages eventually.

Matt drops his head to Mohinder's shoulder, so his reply is muffled. "Right now, I'm not so sure."