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[WM] 131.1.F "Don't you dare judge me!"
May. 28th, 2010 03:46 pm[Mohinder is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
capableof_both and mine to use for purposes of this fic/verse. Samuel is offering_hope, Sylar is heroslayer and both are mentioned with permission. Edgar is not aimed at any particular muse, 'cause we don't have an Edgar in 'verse. :-D]
He was watching her again. He did that a lot, those dark eyes burning across the arid ground, boring into bared, painted skin like he could peel it back with a look and expose even more of her. What was he looking for, she wondered. Some proof of her perfidy, no doubt. That he didn't trust Samuel and trusted her even less she didn't need her ability to know, though neither of them had given him any reason for such virulent mistrust. Hadn't she vacated Sylar's bed and left it to him with nary an argument? Hadn't Samuel offered him a place, a home, a family, when he'd been lost and wandering, rejected for the things he'd done by even those who once claimed to be his closest friends? He'd killed. He'd tortured. He'd maimed. She knew what he was, what blackened his soul as surely as it soaked through others' here, and yet, there he sat in his bright linen, peeling an apple, watching her as if she were something less than him.
Why? What had she done to him, ever? Shared the bed of the man he loved? He couldn't say he'd not bedded anyone else but Sylar. She'd told Sylar no lies, done nothing but give him comfort when he was lost, something and someone to cling to, a haven from the storm. Was it because she belonged to someone else? Samuel knew where she was, what she'd done, had sent her to do it, even, to make the former killer at home. It hadn't been a hardship. Was that the good doctor's problem? Not that she'd gone to Sylar's bed, but that she'd done it at Samuel's direction, for purposes other than lust or love? Well, other than love. Even without his memory, Sylar remembered what to do in the bedroom, and she hadn't needed to pretend much of anything, though that was a secret she'd keep close to herself. Samuel's jealousy was the last thing they needed added to the mix.
An itching sensation crawled along her skin and she finally threw down the trowel from the ditch she'd been digging. Another pair of dark eyes snapped up, catching the movement, and then another, and another, and she knew full well that three others watched her progress across the stretch of ground that separated her from the Indian. She didn't stop, even so, not until she was enough into his space that Mohinder was forced to straighten to meet her, something vaguely like alarm in his eyes.
( 'What is your problem?' she asked, voice low, but hard. )
capableof_both and mine to use for purposes of this fic/verse. Samuel is offering_hope, Sylar is heroslayer and both are mentioned with permission. Edgar is not aimed at any particular muse, 'cause we don't have an Edgar in 'verse. :-D]He was watching her again. He did that a lot, those dark eyes burning across the arid ground, boring into bared, painted skin like he could peel it back with a look and expose even more of her. What was he looking for, she wondered. Some proof of her perfidy, no doubt. That he didn't trust Samuel and trusted her even less she didn't need her ability to know, though neither of them had given him any reason for such virulent mistrust. Hadn't she vacated Sylar's bed and left it to him with nary an argument? Hadn't Samuel offered him a place, a home, a family, when he'd been lost and wandering, rejected for the things he'd done by even those who once claimed to be his closest friends? He'd killed. He'd tortured. He'd maimed. She knew what he was, what blackened his soul as surely as it soaked through others' here, and yet, there he sat in his bright linen, peeling an apple, watching her as if she were something less than him.
Why? What had she done to him, ever? Shared the bed of the man he loved? He couldn't say he'd not bedded anyone else but Sylar. She'd told Sylar no lies, done nothing but give him comfort when he was lost, something and someone to cling to, a haven from the storm. Was it because she belonged to someone else? Samuel knew where she was, what she'd done, had sent her to do it, even, to make the former killer at home. It hadn't been a hardship. Was that the good doctor's problem? Not that she'd gone to Sylar's bed, but that she'd done it at Samuel's direction, for purposes other than lust or love? Well, other than love. Even without his memory, Sylar remembered what to do in the bedroom, and she hadn't needed to pretend much of anything, though that was a secret she'd keep close to herself. Samuel's jealousy was the last thing they needed added to the mix.
An itching sensation crawled along her skin and she finally threw down the trowel from the ditch she'd been digging. Another pair of dark eyes snapped up, catching the movement, and then another, and another, and she knew full well that three others watched her progress across the stretch of ground that separated her from the Indian. She didn't stop, even so, not until she was enough into his space that Mohinder was forced to straighten to meet her, something vaguely like alarm in his eyes.
( 'What is your problem?' she asked, voice low, but hard. )
