Mohinder Suresh

I've been putting off doing this to avoid any unwanted comments from current company, but ... it's been more than a fortnight, and it feels wrong leaving it unfinished. So, I suppose I'll have to endure unfortunately, and that said ...

1. I think I've said before I have an issue with lying, and that applies here as well. I suppose it's a bit hypocritical of me, given that I've been lying by omission to Mira concerning what I'm capable of now, but ... I'd much rather know what's going on in my partner's life than to be kept in the dark, directly or otherwise.

2. I'm much more possessive than I used to be. I've lost far too much on my own merit -- or lack thereof. I can only imagine if I caught Mira spending time more time with someone else than she did with me, even if it wasn't in a sexual context, I'd be upset and she'd find herself sleeping on the couch.

3. Women who wear too much make up. There's a difference between making yourself more attractive and looking like a clown. Thankfully, Mira's never gone as far as the latter.

4. Again, as I've said before, being able to make conversation is important -- intelligent conversation doubly so. I don't think I could date someone who didn't have the mental capacity to discuss the weather or their hair. And yes, I realize how intellectually snobby that makes me sound.

1. I wish I hadn't gone to the police when Sylar called before the Kirby Plaza fiasco. Perhaps that's foolish of me, perhaps he would have continued using me for his own personal gain, but maybe not. Maybe the last few years would have played out entirely differently if I'd showed an instant of compassion. Think how many lives could have been saved if I'd been able to put aside my hurt and fear and anger.

2. I wish I hadn't gone to work for the Company. I'm not entirely sure how much that would have changed, for better or for worse, but at least I wouldn't have had to do any of the terrible things they asked of me.

3. A part of me wishes I hadn't sent Molly away after Sylar attacked the lot of us at our home, but at the same time ... if things had continued to progress as they did in spite of whether or not I sent her away, I'm not sure I would have wanted Molly around for that. God only knows if she would have ended up cocooned to the wall in the loft and how much more irreparable our relationship would be now if I'd hurt her.

4. I wish I'd never gone to Pinehearst. It was, in the end, in my best interests -- who knows what state I'd be in if it hadn't been for Arthur Petrelli finding the catalyst -- but it was a desperate time riddled with desperate measures, all of which I regret immensely.

5. I wish I'd hadn't ignored Bennet when he told me the hammer was about to fall for all of us. If I hadn't, I could have warned some of the others. It wouldn't have prevented anything Nathan did, of course, but perhaps we could have gotten away to safety.

6. I wish I'd never gone to see Joseph Sullivan at that carnival of his. Spending weeks in a mental institution solely because of what came from a total fifteen minutes of conversation is not my idea of a good time. Nor is the alternative Hiro thought he was protecting me from.

1. Possess the ability to carry on a conversation on a broad range of topics. I'm well aware that some people believe all I'm capable of discussing is genetics, but that's entirely untrue, and while that is where my passions lie even now, I can and am open to talking about other things as well.

2. Be willing to let me pursue my own interests. Nothing is more irritating, nor more likely to tempt me to do the exact opposite, than telling me to give up on something I'm interested in. Mira's learned that the hard way on more than one occasion, I'm afraid.

3. Understand that my temper gets the better of me occasionally and be willing to stand by me even when it does. Or talk me down, assuming I'm about to do something I'd regret terribly because of it.

4. Be honest with me. I've dealt with enough deceit in the past few years to last a lifetime.

5. Admit when you've made a mistake. I'm well aware that we all do, that none of us are perfect, but it's still nice to feel as though I'm not the only person who regrets something they've said or done over the course of the years.

6. Be able to make me laugh. Smiles, as it seems, are in rather short supplies these days.

7. Have something your passionate about. Be willing to explain it to me if I'm unfamiliar with or not up to date with it, willing to debate if I don't necessarily agree, or wax philosophical if I do. Allow me to do the same with you concerning my interest. I suppose this could really be considered a footnote in my first answer, but I felt the need to differentiate.

8. Take initiative. Strike up a conversation. Decide where we're going for dinner and give me a time to be ready by. Make the proverbial first move. I'm terribly oblivious most of the time -- or so I've been told -- so I generally need a few less than subtle hints.

1. I understand quite well the importance of redemption and forgiveness -- the value of it -- but in spite of the rumours I've heard, I don't think I can ever forgive you for all you've done to me. For all I've done to myself in your name. I hope you can live with that. I hope we both can.

2. I wish so desperately I could tell you all the things I've seen and experienced over the last few years, but I fear you wouldn't understand. Not only because you never approved of what my father lived his life for -- what I lived my life for -- but because I'd have to include some of the terrible choices I made for any of it to make the least bit of sense.

3. I never meant to hurt you. I did what I did because at the time I thought it was the best means of keeping you safe. I was wrong and it damaged our relationship. I'm sorry.

4. I wish I could understand why you settled for the life you did. Then again, I suppose I settled to some degree, too, in going back to Mira.

5. I gave everything I had for you. Every dream I had for the longest time, every hope, everything -- it was all in some desperate, misguided attempt to earn your approval. I realize now how naive I was and how impossible your standards were, yet I still can't help but wonder what you would think of me now. I imagine you'd still be disappointed.

6. I don't think I'll ever love you in the way you'd like me to, and for that I'm terribly sorry.

7. I wish I had your heart and your courage. I can't say you haven't made some terrible decisions under the guidance of one or the other, but over the course of the time I've known you, we all have and not always with the same noble intentions.

8. Even if it would have potentially damned us all, I'm sorry I couldn't do as he asked quickly enough. I'm sorry I couldn't save you.

9. I wish I'd gotten the chance to know you.

10. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'd say I wasn't myself, but ... I suppose the darkness I felt then was always a part of me and always will be.

He felt as if he was going mad.

Thankfully, however, Mohinder was quite certain it had less to do with his formula and its ravaging effects and more to do with the fact that he hadn't left the loft in somewhere nearing a week. Between his increasingly desperate attempts to cure what ailed him and the growing paranoia that someone had seen or heard his altercation with his neighbor and land the police at his door, he hadn't felt right leaving the apartment. The fact that ghastly rash he'd been suffering from had spread from his arms to his hands didn't help matters, either. Regardless of his reasoning for staying in, though, the fact remained the same -- he was going rather stir crazy.

Shooting a longing look at the door, he rearranged the papers on his desk, trying very hard not to look at his hands -- though his stomach twisted in revulsion in spite of his best efforts -- and got to his feet. He hesitated, making a half-hearted effort to talk himself out of going, citing all the reasons he had stayed in for so long in the first place, then made for the door in spite of them, not even bothering to take the time to shrug out of his lab coat. He was out on the street in a matter of seconds, having taken the stairs possibly a bit too fast, and moved away from the building, hands stuffed into his pockets just in case, drifting idly, grateful for the coolness of the night.

He stopped just inside Central Park, taking a deep breath and thinking nothing of the fact that it nearly hurt to draw air -- it was mid-October, after all, and he'd noted a thin sheen of frost on the cars he'd passed on his way here -- and closed his eyes. For a moment, for the first time this whole mess had started, he felt almost at peace; it was shattered by the scuff of sneakers on the cement just a few feet behind him.

( Eyes snapping open, he wheeled on his heels and found himself face to face with a rather haggard looking man. )


Muse: Mohinder Suresh
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 3182

Clutching the piece of paper in her hand, Claire looked down at the address she had scribbled down in a hurry and then she glanced once more at the numbers on the building in front of her. Rolling her tongue between her lips, she hesitated as she wondered just what she was doing in that moment. What did she really have to say to Dr. Suresh? She really hadn't had much to do with the man since he had attacked and shot her father but there she was standing on his doorstep.

She knew a large part of it was the anger she felt at her own life at the moment and the fact that she had no control over it. She wasn't in New York because she wanted to be, no one had given her a choice in the move that she had ended up making and now she only sought for a way to escape the current situation. She wanted someone to talk to, someone who might understand and so she knocked on the front door of the loft.

For a moment there was silence on the other side of the door, nothing stirring, no indications that the geneticist was home at all. Then, finally, there was the tell-tale sound of life -- a shudder of something plastic, faint but audible through the thin walls, then footfalls approaching -- and a moment after that, the door was pulled open but a fraction of an inch. Mohinder peered out into the hallway, something like malice shining in his eyes for an instant before disappearing, replaced by confusion, and he stepped back, pulling the door open wider.

( "Claire?" )


Muse: Mohinder Suresh
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 7604

He'd arrived early the evening before, sore and exhausted, and hoping that Peter would find him a place to bed down and leave him to his own devices for a few hours. While this had seemed to be the plan, however, it had been shot to hell before he could even ask, someone he had hoped never to see again bounding down the stairs to meet them in the instant that the door had opened.

He was fairly certain he'd stared at him for a good half a minute, his father's murderer staring back, and then his body had finally caught up with his heart, fingers curling into fists at his side, shoulders tensing. Sylar had raised his hands; he had straightened further, expecting to be thrown into the nearest wall and ready to recover from it, if and when it happened. The attack never came, though -- most likely because Peter stepped between them. He mumbled something to Sylar, the killer disappeared back up the stairs hastily, and Peter turned on him, explaining that Sylar was on their side now. That he was one of the 'other people' he had mentioned when they first spoke.

It was a miracle Mohinder hadn't put Peter through the wall, really. In the end, though, he'd managed to control his temper -- although he had asked rather sharply if Peter had lost his mind -- and simply asked to be shown to somewhere he could put his things rather than sit through Peter's explanation. He didn't want to hear it. Nor did he particularly want to be shown to a room, but angry or not, he was well aware that he couldn't just turn tail and head back to India. Not now. He'd damned himself there.

Thankfully, Peter had said no more, and lead him to a section of the living room where he wouldn't be bothered. It was just temporary he'd said, until they could find a bigger place with more unoccupied rooms. Not so thankfully, he didn't sleep that night, anger and fear that Sylar would simply come slit his throat in his sleep winning out over his exhaustion. And eventually, now, as the first light of dawn crept in through the windows, he gave up entirely, moving into the kitchen for lack of anything better to do.

He could only hope that Sylar wouldn't be the one to stumble upon him standing there, eying the unloved kettle on the stove thoughtfully.