aunt_zelda | Christmas Past (Prequel to 'Thanksgiving) (Reply)

Title: Christmas Past

Rating: PG-13 for English swears and implied stuff.

Characters: Peter, Sylar, Monica, Micah, Heidi, Claude, Mohinder.

Series: Heroes Holidays

Pairings: Mylar, Plaude, hinted Heidi/Sandra, Petlar if you want.

Word Count: 1,622

Warnings: Watch Heroes, Seasons 1 AND 2. Otherwise, it’s not safe here for you here.

Disclaimer: If any of us owned Heroes, Claude would not have left.

Summary: A year after the Explosion, Peter tracks down Sylar on Christmas Eve; Monica is in Maine; Claude is sick; Mohinder is confused.

My Thoughts: Wow, this is rather long. And angsty. And weird and odd. Sorry. This is kind of a prequel to ‘Thanksgiving’ to tide you all over until the sequel comes out (which is soon, I swear.) As for Heidi’s last name, blame the ‘Windsor’ thing on the books I’m reading right now.

http://aunt-zelda.livejournal.com/37998.html - Thanksgiving

Peter panted, pausing in the snowy street. A nearby street-lamp was festooned with white Christmas lights, and there were wreaths in the windows up above him.

Focusing on Mohinder’s adopted daughter, Molly Walker, Peter squeezed his eyes shut in concentration.

There he was!

Peter raced down the street, turned a corner, bolted across the almost-deserted intersection, and phased through the doors of a church.

It was Midnight Mass, Christmas Eve, and luckily Peter had entered just as the lights flickered out and everyone stood to sing. Otherwise the parishioners would have been very startled by the red-faced young man in a black jacket who had just walked through the door.

Peter scanned the crowd, but it was very difficult to recognize someone from the back of their head in a church lit only by candles, so he concentrated on the man recuperating in his house and wove through the pews, searching for him.

Peter blinked back into visibility off to the side and inched into a pew, accepting a lighted candle from a sleepy-looking girl with maroon hair. Summoning up dim memories of his childhood, Peter sang along with the group, earning a smirk from the man in black – the man he’d been looking for – next to him.

In the confusion of the congregation collecting coats and calling ‘Merry Christmas!’ to each other as they left for the cold, snowy night outside, Sylar was able to duck into a side room. Peter darted after him, but he had lost his advantage.

The fight that followed was quick and ended with Sylar backed against a wall, choking Peter with his bare hands.

“Truce.” Sylar hissed.

Peter fought for breath. “What?” he gasped.

“You heard me, truce.” Sylar shoved Peter away from him and continued, “It’s Christmas Eve. I know you’ve got a boyfriend snuggled up at home. Didn’t you wonder why I haven’t come after him this week? Or you, or those beastly Bennets? Or Mohinder?”

Peter felt a chill run down his spine at the thought of Sylar coming after Claude. It did seem odd that Sylar hadn’t come after any of them this week, though.

“Thought so. You’re awfully pretty, but not too bright,” Sylar smirked as Peter turned red with outrage. “Oh hush, you. Anyway, you’re all safe through New Years. Come January second and I’ll be starting up our little trysts again, Petrelli.”

And with that, he was gone.

Peter rubbed his neck and took a few moments to catch his breath. That had been close, too close.

He didn’t trust Sylar, but something about his tone had mostly convinced Peter that the serial-killer was actually calling a truce.

Twisting his lips indecisively, Peter hurried home to Claude.

~*~

Monica sat in a large armchair, focusing on the video iPod she’d had for nearly a year. Snowboarding looked a lot like skateboarding and surfing, perhaps she’d try that out tomorrow …

Micah was asleep on the blue couch next to her, arms wrapped around his laptop case like other kids snuggles teddy-bears.

But Micah wasn’t a kid anymore, Monica reminded herself. After being kidnapped by crazy mobster-mutant-whatevers and being forced to fake an election, loosing his formally-incarcerated-newly-hero father, and witnessing the explosion that killed his mother, the adorable child had faded from Micah. He was twelve years old now: a sad birthday spent in an airport as a storm raged outside and Monica prayed that the terrifying man who’d killed their grandmother and Damon wouldn’t find them here.

It was nice here, in Maine. The frantic call to the Company had landed them here, with Sandra and Heidi, the organizers of the Resistance.

It took some explaining, but Monica finally understood it: Noah Bennet was working for the Company, but he hated it and quietly betrayed the organization whenever he could. Sending two ‘specials’ as they were called now, to his former wife and her lover had been one of those quiet betrayals.

“Monica?”

Monica looked up. Heidi Windsor was at the door, steaming mugs in her hands. “Sandra made hot chocolate, want some?”

“Sure, thanks,” Monica smiled and sipped: it was delicious.

“He’s already asleep?” Heidi eyed Micah. “I envy you, my boys are still climbing the walls,” she sighed and sat down next to Monica. “How have you been holding up?”

Monica gave a half-shrug and sipped more cocoa.

Heidi sighed. “After Nathan … when I thought he was dead I …” she shuddered. “I’m glad you found your way to us.”

They sat in silence, staring at the Christmas tree – the first real one Monica had ever had – and sipping their hot chocolate.

It began as a sniffle, then a muffle sob, then all of the sudden Monica had set down her empty mug and was crying in Heidi’s arms. A mother’s hug is like no other, something Monica had realized after Katrina, which made her sob all the more.

Far off, perhaps in the kitchen, the radio was playing:

Silent night,

Holy night.

All is calm,

All is bright.

On the couch, Micah slept on.

~*~

Claude had been having a beastly week. First he’d gotten sick, then he’d ended up, half-delirious, on Peter Petrelli’s doorstep of all places. After exhibiting something that looked suspiciously like a smirk, the empath had dragged Claude into his apartment, bundled the feverish Englishman into his bed, and taken care of him from then on.

Refusing the vile-smelling medicines Peter offered had – to Claude’s increasing annoyance – been a bad idea. He didn’t seem to be getting any better and he prayed to God (something he hadn’t done since he was a kid) this wasn’t an STD of some kind.

Not AIDS … please … I know I’ve been a right bastard and done awful, awful stuff … I’m a coward and I’ve killed and tortured people and I had an affair with a man I knew was married … this isn’t about me being gay, right? Ya wouldn’t hold that of all things against me …would ya?

Of course, the dreams didn’t help matters. Every time he managed to drift off the worst moments of his life played in his head:

The pain and shock of betrayal as Bennet shot him … singing at his mother’s funeral … the long weeks of isolation in a Company cell as he paced and paced, teenage angst getting him nowhere … watching Brian die of AIDS, Linderman’s refusal ringing in Claude’s ears … his first week working for the Company: being taken by Thompson, bent over a desk without consent, but boys don’t cry … hitting Peter and running away because he knew it was too good to be true …

Claude woke with a start and blinked, bleary-eyed. A figure in black was standing at the foot of the bed.

“Bugger …” the Englishman croaked. “Fine … go ahead, ya soddin’ zombie … not like I’m usin’ my brain right now … hope ya catch this bloody plague while ya kill me …”

The figure inched closer. “Claude?” Peter face swam into focus.

Claude moaned, limply waving his hand in front of his face. “Too close … too close!”

Peter backed up, crouching on the bed next to Claude, decidedly worried. “You thought I was Sylar?”

Claude glared at him. “Ya both got dark hair and long black …” he coughed violently, “… jackets, ya might as well be twins from this angle …”

Somehow Peter got Claude to take a hot bath – but not until there were mutterings of ‘ponce’ and a kick that sent Peter crashing into a wall and threats of more roof-tossing if Peter told ANYONE Claude was ticklish on his feet.

After getting Claude into the pajamas Peter had bought (because the emapth’s clothes obviously wouldn’t have fit) they snuggled up in bed and Peter read aloud from A Christmas Carol.

“Peter?” Claude asked hoarsely, terrified of sleep but unable to stop himself.

“I won’t leave you,” Peter assured him, nuzzling the older man’s neck and continuing with the story.

Smiling, Claude drifted off, free of nightmares for the first time in years.

~*~

There was a knock at the door.

Mohinder paled, grabbing a gun from the drawer, and slowly approached the door. Sylar hadn’t been around in two weeks: it was downright unnatural. Thankfully Matt had gone into hiding with Molly four months ago. Still, it was painfully empty in the apartment. The fact that people only came by to torture him within an inch of his life or save him from said torturer didn’t compare at all with Matt’s casual sarcasm and Molly’s bright smiles.

Taking a deep breath, Mohinder yanked the door open.

There was no one there.

A small box, wrapped in red paper, was sitting on the doormat. Mohinder glanced down the hallway: saw no one, and crouched down, reading the card.

To: Mohinder

From: Your Secret Santa

That damnable symbol had been drawn next to ‘Secret Santa.’ Mohinder considered it and picked up the box: it wasn’t heavy.

With a shrug he hurried back into his apartment and gingerly set the box down on the kitchen table. Mohinder and eyed it for a few seconds. Was it harmless? Or was it some sort of clockwork devise that would blow him up as soon as he opened it?

Eventually curiosity won over his fear and Mohinder slowly but surely untied the ribbon, unwrapped the paper, and opened the lid to a nondescript cardboard box.

Inside green tissue paper was a simple white coffee mug with a cartoon cockroach printed on the side.

A hand-written note was crumple inside the mug. Mohinder bit his lip, smoothed it out, and read:

To replace the one I broke last year.

Happy Holidays!

– Sylar