Lydia (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thepainted_lady) wrote2010-05-28 03:46 pm
thepainted_lady) wrote2010-05-28 03:46 pm
Entry tags:
[WM] 131.1.F "Don't you dare judge me!"
[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.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, eyes darting away from her, searching out Sylar and then the barker, nervously, before flicking back to her.
Lydia shook her head, not moving away. He could break her, and they both knew it, but he wouldn't, and they knew that, too. He'd be dead before she hit the ground, his strength no match for Edgar's speed. In fact, the knives were already out, casually being tossed in a steady thunk against a post behind them, a rhythmical warning beat that punctuated the uneasy silence that had otherwise fallen.
"What the hell have I ever done to you? We gave you a home, a safe haven, a place to be. We didn't have to take you in, but we did. You wanted him. I let you have him. I retreated gracefully. I didn't fight you for him. I wanted--you loved--and that trumps want." Her voice was still low, thick with confession she knew Sylar likely could hear but prayed Samuel could not, though the words held true in the reverse, as well. She loved, too, and not Sylar, for all that she'd never made that confession aloud except in deed. "You don't trust us, but you stay. You take our hospitality. You take our food. You do the work, sure, but you're not part of us. You sit and you pass judgment on all of us, but most especially on me."
"I don't..."
Her hand flew, then, slapping him for the lie, and the other grabbed his hand in the first full touch she'd ever dared, he'd ever allowed. Her eyes fell closed as she delved deep, not sparing either of them, and he hit inside of her like the tsunami that had devastated his hometown a few years before, wrecking just about as much in his wake. She shuddered under the soul-wrecking guilt and self-loathing, the shame that rivaled hers and twisted around it, leveraging all those old shadows back to the surface violently enough that tears formed in her eyes, leaking out from beneath her lashes. She couldn't breathe for a moment. It wasn't the blood or the darkness--those she could handle. She'd soothed Edgar after he'd come from Danko, from Bennet, and held Samuel while Joseph's blood still stained his hands. For years she'd carried shame, she knew its weight even when tucked in secret corners, but this was stifling, choking off the good that tried to raise its head again and find the light that still shone. He teetered on a precipice she felt too many close to her on, but if he fell...a shudder ran over her, echoed through him, hard enough to make her feel queasy.
She stepped back.
Mohinder watched her, dark eyes wary, his hand moving to capture hers when she would have escaped the touch of his skin completely, and she hated that she was trembling a little, ripped too bare to hide behind the mask she'd worn since she came to this place. He hadn't her gift, but he saw something in her eyes, nonetheless, some echo of a shame he couldn't identify, but understood all the same. With a bit of a snarl, she tried to pull free, but he held her with ease, not even exerting himself, examining her with a fierce curiosity as if she were one of those pitiful souls he'd ripped apart in his experiments. For a moment, the thunk of the knives and the very ground under her feet which could open up on command, ceased to be a comfort and fear trembled down her spine. He felt it, and the shame was back, humiliation, even, that he'd caused that.
He let her go.
"I didn't hurt him," she said, voice still low. "Whatever you think of my sexual morals...I didn't hurt him. I comforted him when he had nothing, no one, else. I gave him something to hold on to, and that...that didn't hurt anyone." Her chin came up, eyes flashing with both understanding and anger. She couldn't go on, claim never to have hurt anyone. Joseph stood there, always, in the shadows of the tents and trailers, his eyes accusing at her betrayal, though she swore at his ghost she'd done a far lesser evil than his.
"I know," he said, though it seemed the admission pained him. His eyes closed, and she hissed her impatience, still feeling sick at the overwhelm of his emotions, though the stirrings of pity, too. Another time, another day, another person, she'd ache to help him, but he'd been too cruel, and now raised too many ghosts of too long ago for her to want more than to get away from him, to retreat to her trailer, hers alone, and take the hottest shower she could manage, even in this weather.
"I know what you've done. What you are. Who you are," she near spat the words. "We took you in, anyway."
"I know." His eyes opened and flashed at her with his own suppressed guilt and rage, and, still, under that barrage of emotion she couldn't sort through for the shame, she had no idea why he targeted so much enmity on her, why she'd become the subject for his self-loathing. That she knew him so intimately only worsened it. She couldn't say it had helped her outlook, either, pity or no.
"Fine. Keep it in mind. And don't you dare sit there and judge me. Not ever again."
She held his gaze, fury to mutinous, until he nodded, once, sharply, and she spun on her heel, headed to her trailer without looking back. And still she felt that burning gaze on her back every step of the way, and even later as the water pounded away every memory she tried to erase, she couldn't truly tell herself she'd won more than a skirmish in a war she didn't understand.
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.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, eyes darting away from her, searching out Sylar and then the barker, nervously, before flicking back to her.
Lydia shook her head, not moving away. He could break her, and they both knew it, but he wouldn't, and they knew that, too. He'd be dead before she hit the ground, his strength no match for Edgar's speed. In fact, the knives were already out, casually being tossed in a steady thunk against a post behind them, a rhythmical warning beat that punctuated the uneasy silence that had otherwise fallen.
"What the hell have I ever done to you? We gave you a home, a safe haven, a place to be. We didn't have to take you in, but we did. You wanted him. I let you have him. I retreated gracefully. I didn't fight you for him. I wanted--you loved--and that trumps want." Her voice was still low, thick with confession she knew Sylar likely could hear but prayed Samuel could not, though the words held true in the reverse, as well. She loved, too, and not Sylar, for all that she'd never made that confession aloud except in deed. "You don't trust us, but you stay. You take our hospitality. You take our food. You do the work, sure, but you're not part of us. You sit and you pass judgment on all of us, but most especially on me."
"I don't..."
Her hand flew, then, slapping him for the lie, and the other grabbed his hand in the first full touch she'd ever dared, he'd ever allowed. Her eyes fell closed as she delved deep, not sparing either of them, and he hit inside of her like the tsunami that had devastated his hometown a few years before, wrecking just about as much in his wake. She shuddered under the soul-wrecking guilt and self-loathing, the shame that rivaled hers and twisted around it, leveraging all those old shadows back to the surface violently enough that tears formed in her eyes, leaking out from beneath her lashes. She couldn't breathe for a moment. It wasn't the blood or the darkness--those she could handle. She'd soothed Edgar after he'd come from Danko, from Bennet, and held Samuel while Joseph's blood still stained his hands. For years she'd carried shame, she knew its weight even when tucked in secret corners, but this was stifling, choking off the good that tried to raise its head again and find the light that still shone. He teetered on a precipice she felt too many close to her on, but if he fell...a shudder ran over her, echoed through him, hard enough to make her feel queasy.
She stepped back.
Mohinder watched her, dark eyes wary, his hand moving to capture hers when she would have escaped the touch of his skin completely, and she hated that she was trembling a little, ripped too bare to hide behind the mask she'd worn since she came to this place. He hadn't her gift, but he saw something in her eyes, nonetheless, some echo of a shame he couldn't identify, but understood all the same. With a bit of a snarl, she tried to pull free, but he held her with ease, not even exerting himself, examining her with a fierce curiosity as if she were one of those pitiful souls he'd ripped apart in his experiments. For a moment, the thunk of the knives and the very ground under her feet which could open up on command, ceased to be a comfort and fear trembled down her spine. He felt it, and the shame was back, humiliation, even, that he'd caused that.
He let her go.
"I didn't hurt him," she said, voice still low. "Whatever you think of my sexual morals...I didn't hurt him. I comforted him when he had nothing, no one, else. I gave him something to hold on to, and that...that didn't hurt anyone." Her chin came up, eyes flashing with both understanding and anger. She couldn't go on, claim never to have hurt anyone. Joseph stood there, always, in the shadows of the tents and trailers, his eyes accusing at her betrayal, though she swore at his ghost she'd done a far lesser evil than his.
"I know," he said, though it seemed the admission pained him. His eyes closed, and she hissed her impatience, still feeling sick at the overwhelm of his emotions, though the stirrings of pity, too. Another time, another day, another person, she'd ache to help him, but he'd been too cruel, and now raised too many ghosts of too long ago for her to want more than to get away from him, to retreat to her trailer, hers alone, and take the hottest shower she could manage, even in this weather.
"I know what you've done. What you are. Who you are," she near spat the words. "We took you in, anyway."
"I know." His eyes opened and flashed at her with his own suppressed guilt and rage, and, still, under that barrage of emotion she couldn't sort through for the shame, she had no idea why he targeted so much enmity on her, why she'd become the subject for his self-loathing. That she knew him so intimately only worsened it. She couldn't say it had helped her outlook, either, pity or no.
"Fine. Keep it in mind. And don't you dare sit there and judge me. Not ever again."
She held his gaze, fury to mutinous, until he nodded, once, sharply, and she spun on her heel, headed to her trailer without looking back. And still she felt that burning gaze on her back every step of the way, and even later as the water pounded away every memory she tried to erase, she couldn't truly tell herself she'd won more than a skirmish in a war she didn't understand.