"I see," he said, watching her with sharp eyes. "You'll have to forgive me for not having the presence of mind for deductive reasoning while I was wounded, starving and bled."
Though honestly, chances were he would have still laid the blame with Peter and not made the leap to possession even if he had been in his right mind. Where Lydia would have rationalized it as him simply not knowing Peter, however, that was not the case. Quite the opposite, actually. In following Sylar, he'd seen much of Peter over the years -- hell, he'd even turned his focus on the boy for a few weeks when he'd lost sight of the killer when he'd been detained at the Company -- and he knew that he had a dark streak. He tempered it very well, yes, but it was still there and what was the difference between shooting your own brother or taking a nail gun to your mortal enemy and torturing the man who had technically killed your best friend and, quite possibly, others, too.
He didn't say that, though, flashing her a semi-apologetic look instead. He hadn't meant to snap at her, if what he'd said could be considered scathing at all, but he was rapidly growing more and more irritated. With Peter. With Samuel. With all of them, all of this, except perhaps for her and Sylar. And it was apparently showing and it wasn't over yet.
He reached up, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, and then moved to get to his feet, wincing, expecting pain where there had been pain for a week now, and sighing in relief when it did not come. "Regardless, though, we should go find them. If he has my boy, chances are it won't take him long to realize that Peter's lurking about, and I'd like to take care of this before any of us suffer any further."
Well, truthfully, he could care less whether or not Samuel found Peter and bled him dry. After all the boy had done to him, he rather thought he deserved it. What concerned him more was the fact that Peter's blood was poisoned, and if Samuel drank from him ... well, he didn't want that.
no subject
Though honestly, chances were he would have still laid the blame with Peter and not made the leap to possession even if he had been in his right mind. Where Lydia would have rationalized it as him simply not knowing Peter, however, that was not the case. Quite the opposite, actually. In following Sylar, he'd seen much of Peter over the years -- hell, he'd even turned his focus on the boy for a few weeks when he'd lost sight of the killer when he'd been detained at the Company -- and he knew that he had a dark streak. He tempered it very well, yes, but it was still there and what was the difference between shooting your own brother or taking a nail gun to your mortal enemy and torturing the man who had technically killed your best friend and, quite possibly, others, too.
He didn't say that, though, flashing her a semi-apologetic look instead. He hadn't meant to snap at her, if what he'd said could be considered scathing at all, but he was rapidly growing more and more irritated. With Peter. With Samuel. With all of them, all of this, except perhaps for her and Sylar. And it was apparently showing and it wasn't over yet.
He reached up, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, and then moved to get to his feet, wincing, expecting pain where there had been pain for a week now, and sighing in relief when it did not come. "Regardless, though, we should go find them. If he has my boy, chances are it won't take him long to realize that Peter's lurking about, and I'd like to take care of this before any of us suffer any further."
Well, truthfully, he could care less whether or not Samuel found Peter and bled him dry. After all the boy had done to him, he rather thought he deserved it. What concerned him more was the fact that Peter's blood was poisoned, and if Samuel drank from him ... well, he didn't want that.