Mohinder Suresh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
watson_ofarkham) wrote2010-03-27 12:18 pm
watson_ofarkham) wrote2010-03-27 12:18 pm
it's choice, not chance, that determines your destiny | rp for <user site="livejournal.com" user="ne
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.
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.