A quick little cute one, because things are about to get emo.
Title: Looking for satellites
Author:![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
eonism
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to NBC. I'm just having a laugh at their expense
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Mohinder
Word Count: 1,788
Author's notes: Takes place after Sunshine and red plastic seats. General season two spoiler stuff.
Summary: Apartment hunting was not something Mohinder felt he was best equipped to do. That was more of a Peter thing, requiring the kinds of sentimental thought processes Peter was prone to.
“So – what do you think?”
The familiar lull of silence snapped open somewhere behind his head like a clap in the hush of carpeted footsteps. The book store was a small corner shop in a more subdued pocket of Manhattan near Peter’s apartment, lacking the tacky ambiance of franchise décor and a steeply priced in-store barista. It had been largely empty by two-forty-five in the afternoon and comfortingly so, save the polite but bored looking clerk by the front door with a strict black ponytail and a pleasant smile, and the few customers quietly roaming from shelf to shelf. Books on low-calorie cooking or Danielle Steele tucked under their arms, pausing occasionally only to cough or spare a passing glance to an employee or another patron.
Looking up, Peter had suddenly appeared in Mohinder’s peripheral vision, now hovering with two lidded Styrofoam cups retrieved from the coffee shop next door and a look of intensely personal interest. Feeling suddenly misplaced, Mohinder closed the new copy of Origin of Species he had just been thumbing through (to replace the one he had found under the bed earlier that morning, several pages smeared and stuck tight with peanut butter and what looked to be Coca Cola) and blinked.
“About what?”
“The apartments?” Peter passed him one of the cups with the thin fold-up cardboard holder ring and looked at him like he was an idiot. “The one’s we were just looking at this morning?”
“Oh.” Mohinder took a sip of the proffered coffee, something sweet and spiced like pumpkin, absently nudging his reading glasses up to the top of his head with the back of his free hand. “Right. What about them?”
Apartment hunting was not something Mohinder felt he was best equipped to do. That was more of a Peter thing, requiring the kinds of sentimental thought processes Peter was prone to. It involved making phone calls and jotting down numbers, and driving across town to talk with overly nice apartment managers with names like Joyce or Diane. None of which he minded, exclusive of prattling discussions about counter space and closet space, and how much sunlight the master bedroom received in the morning. Because too few windows were just as undesirable as too many windows, as it turned out.
With the exception of mentally calculating monthly utility costs and annual budgeting, Mohinder had found himself somehow lost to the process, and quietly stepped into the hallway outside to wait.
“Well, what did you think?” Peter prodded with a soft chuckle, “Two bed one bath or two bed one-point-five bath?”
Looking back to the selection of books on the shelf, Mohinder shrugged. “The one-point-five is rather…brown.” Plucking another version of the text he inspected it closely. “Don’t you think?”
“I like brown.” Peter shrugged. “And we can always paint it.”
“I suppose we could.” Thumbing through the pages of the second book, his face lined in distracted concentration. “But the one bath is in a better neighborhood. It’s closer to Molly’s school – other children her age. Might be a good change for her.”
“So?” Toying idly with mouth of the lidded cup Peter leaned against the shelf beside Mohinder, regarding him slowly. It was the pouting sort of look that Mohinder recognized as puppy-dog-eyes and sighed as Peter leaned in entirely too close than was likely necessary, in the very Peter sort of way that he was becoming used to. Too close, at least, for the older man in the dark plaid suit on the other side of the aisle, looking at them from over the latest John Grisham. Mohinder glanced at him from over Peter’s shoulder and swallowed. “The one bath?”
Putting the book back in its place, Mohinder paused. “I don’t know, really,” he admitted. Sliding his glasses back on he decided to ignore the man with the John Grisham book. They were hardly doing anything incriminating anyway. “I’m not entirely sure I know what I’m supposed to be doing, to be honest. I chose my last apartment because it was close to the university, and I didn’t want to have to buy a car if I didn’t have to.”
Peter looked unconvinced. “Did you even care what it looked like?”
“No.” Mohinder thought about it and shrugged. He did not care what his current apartment had looked like either; it had been his father’s home when he came to New York, silent and cold. Four drab walls and the roof that housed his wildly running beliefs, a week’s worth of dust having settled over the second-hand furniture and peeling papered walls. Armed with only a duffel bag and a mouthful of tangled thoughts, it had just been a place for Mohinder to sleep, and to work, and to try not to ask himself what his father would do if he where there.
Now breathing with the mundane sounds of the life he had built inside of it, its silence punctuated by the rhythm of footfalls and the soft twitter of Molly’s voice, it seemed a cold way to regard it. Peter would likely agree.
“And I don’t really mind, Peter,” Mohinder finally conceded, “Whichever building you prefer will be fine. I’ll speak to the apartment manager in the morning.”
“Yeah but that’s not the point. We’re supposed to figure this out together.” The corner of Peter’s mouth curled into lopsided smile. “That’s what you do when you move in with somebody, idiot.” Stepping forward he gave Mohinder’s shoulder a playful nudge. “And if you keep zoning out on me I’m gonna start taking it personally.”
“Sorry.” Mohinder let out a sigh as he tucked his selection under his arm, motioning for the cashier’s desk. “I know I’m no help right now – I’ve just been a bit distracted. Work has been piling up at the lab in the past two weeks, between interviewing subjects and cataloguing sample material...”
“I noticed.” Reaching out from beneath the elongated sleeve of his sweater, Peter smiled patiently and brushed the tips of their fingers together in passing. The man across the aisle simply looked away. “I haven’t seen you out of a lab coat in a week.”
At that Mohinder afforded a smile. “I thought you liked the lab coat.”
“I do.” Peter squeezed his fingers and shot him a devious glance. “But I prefer to see you out of it.”
The clerk at the cashier’s desk tried not to smile. High ponytail swaying behind her, she did her best to avoid their faces with a sheepish bite of her lip, and busied herself by scanning the price sticker on the back of the book. Clearing his throat, Mohinder felt his face suddenly heat. Peter simply glanced at her with a smirk.
Of course Peter would not care. He never did, in a way that was becoming easier to understand with time, or on some days at least accept. With an angle of his head Peter inspected the selected book as the clerk slid it into a small plastic sack.
“What did you find, anyway?”
“Origin of Species,” Mohinder said mechanically, glad for the change of subject. “It seems my copy turned up under the bed with peanut butter stuck between the pages.” Opening his wallet to hand the cashier a small fold of neat bills, he offered Peter an incredulous smirk. “Which I remember picking up from the store at your request last week.”
At that Peter opened his mouth to protest, brought up short by a sudden chirping in his back pocket. Mohinder politely thanked the clerk and took the bag to motion for the adjacent shop door, watching Peter retrieve his cell phone and flip it open with a frown.
“Who is it?”
Peter’s jaw tightened. Pressing a button on the dial pad he snapped it shut again and dropped his phone back into his pocket.
“Nothing,” he said, letting out a tight breath, “just my mom.”
“Ah.” Mohinder nodded. There was nothing else he could think to do. “How is she doing?”
Peter shrugged, pushing open the shop door and leading them to join the foot traffic ambling down the sidewalk outside. “I dunno.” He sounded suddenly dour. “I haven’t really talked to her since after the funeral.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Mohinder asked lightly, cautious of the subject. He was aware Peter had not been speaking to his mother, but – well, what could he say? Tell Peter to just ring her and patch everything up?
“No.” Another shrug. “But I can’t talk to her right now. It’s just – hard to trust her.” Peter stuffed his hands into his the pockets of his jeans and looked to the sidewalk as though reading the answer to Mohinder’s question from the spiny cracks of cement. Peter would call that brooding; Matt was prone to calling it PMS. Mohinder did not feel it was particularly worth naming. “I don’t know if she’s telling me the truth about anything anymore.”
“Have you given her the chance?”
“Well, no.” Peter sighed. “I dunno, though. She’s spent all these years going behind my back, playing me and Nathan off of each other. I mean, she wanted me to explode – what do you even say to that?”
Mohinder paused, only nodding. His family suddenly seemed so much more average by comparison. “Well – have you spoken to anyone since the funeral?”
“Yeah, my sister-in-law.” Peter looked up. “But she’s moving out of the city in a couple weeks. Apparently she’s going to stay with some family in Massachusetts for a while. Said the boys needed a ‘fresh start,’ after everything…Heidi – well, I guess she and Nathan never really sorted things about, before…yeah.”
Watching Peter’s face tighten, Mohinder swallowed.
“At least you have someone to speak to about it, if it makes any difference,” he offered, lifting a shoulder to shrug. “After my father died I had just come to a strange country, completely alone…”
Except for Eden, he mused; or rather Sarah, or whatever else she may have been called. His concentration plucked from his work by impromptu knocks at the front door, followed by a cheery smile and her proffered macaroni, in large blue Tupperware containers that still sat in the back of his cabinet collecting dust. Whether or not that had ever actually stood for anything he did not know, and likely never would.
In any case Mohinder cleared his throat gently and straightened his chin. “Well. You know.”
Peter’s expression softened. “Yeah.” He reached out a hand to thread their fingers together with a firm squeeze. “I do.”
Digits sliding easily between Peter’s, Mohinder’s chest felt suddenly warm.
“But you still never answered my question.”
A sigh.
“The two bed one bath,” Mohinder answered, “and I’ll call them in the morning.”
Previous parts:
Lightning in an empty cup
The clawfoot bathtub
These matters of security
Such a cautious display
Ways and means
Sunshine and red plastic seats
Title: Looking for satellites
Author:
eonismRating: PG
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to NBC. I'm just having a laugh at their expense
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Mohinder
Word Count: 1,788
Author's notes: Takes place after Sunshine and red plastic seats. General season two spoiler stuff.
Summary: Apartment hunting was not something Mohinder felt he was best equipped to do. That was more of a Peter thing, requiring the kinds of sentimental thought processes Peter was prone to.
“So – what do you think?”
The familiar lull of silence snapped open somewhere behind his head like a clap in the hush of carpeted footsteps. The book store was a small corner shop in a more subdued pocket of Manhattan near Peter’s apartment, lacking the tacky ambiance of franchise décor and a steeply priced in-store barista. It had been largely empty by two-forty-five in the afternoon and comfortingly so, save the polite but bored looking clerk by the front door with a strict black ponytail and a pleasant smile, and the few customers quietly roaming from shelf to shelf. Books on low-calorie cooking or Danielle Steele tucked under their arms, pausing occasionally only to cough or spare a passing glance to an employee or another patron.
Looking up, Peter had suddenly appeared in Mohinder’s peripheral vision, now hovering with two lidded Styrofoam cups retrieved from the coffee shop next door and a look of intensely personal interest. Feeling suddenly misplaced, Mohinder closed the new copy of Origin of Species he had just been thumbing through (to replace the one he had found under the bed earlier that morning, several pages smeared and stuck tight with peanut butter and what looked to be Coca Cola) and blinked.
“About what?”
“The apartments?” Peter passed him one of the cups with the thin fold-up cardboard holder ring and looked at him like he was an idiot. “The one’s we were just looking at this morning?”
“Oh.” Mohinder took a sip of the proffered coffee, something sweet and spiced like pumpkin, absently nudging his reading glasses up to the top of his head with the back of his free hand. “Right. What about them?”
Apartment hunting was not something Mohinder felt he was best equipped to do. That was more of a Peter thing, requiring the kinds of sentimental thought processes Peter was prone to. It involved making phone calls and jotting down numbers, and driving across town to talk with overly nice apartment managers with names like Joyce or Diane. None of which he minded, exclusive of prattling discussions about counter space and closet space, and how much sunlight the master bedroom received in the morning. Because too few windows were just as undesirable as too many windows, as it turned out.
With the exception of mentally calculating monthly utility costs and annual budgeting, Mohinder had found himself somehow lost to the process, and quietly stepped into the hallway outside to wait.
“Well, what did you think?” Peter prodded with a soft chuckle, “Two bed one bath or two bed one-point-five bath?”
Looking back to the selection of books on the shelf, Mohinder shrugged. “The one-point-five is rather…brown.” Plucking another version of the text he inspected it closely. “Don’t you think?”
“I like brown.” Peter shrugged. “And we can always paint it.”
“I suppose we could.” Thumbing through the pages of the second book, his face lined in distracted concentration. “But the one bath is in a better neighborhood. It’s closer to Molly’s school – other children her age. Might be a good change for her.”
“So?” Toying idly with mouth of the lidded cup Peter leaned against the shelf beside Mohinder, regarding him slowly. It was the pouting sort of look that Mohinder recognized as puppy-dog-eyes and sighed as Peter leaned in entirely too close than was likely necessary, in the very Peter sort of way that he was becoming used to. Too close, at least, for the older man in the dark plaid suit on the other side of the aisle, looking at them from over the latest John Grisham. Mohinder glanced at him from over Peter’s shoulder and swallowed. “The one bath?”
Putting the book back in its place, Mohinder paused. “I don’t know, really,” he admitted. Sliding his glasses back on he decided to ignore the man with the John Grisham book. They were hardly doing anything incriminating anyway. “I’m not entirely sure I know what I’m supposed to be doing, to be honest. I chose my last apartment because it was close to the university, and I didn’t want to have to buy a car if I didn’t have to.”
Peter looked unconvinced. “Did you even care what it looked like?”
“No.” Mohinder thought about it and shrugged. He did not care what his current apartment had looked like either; it had been his father’s home when he came to New York, silent and cold. Four drab walls and the roof that housed his wildly running beliefs, a week’s worth of dust having settled over the second-hand furniture and peeling papered walls. Armed with only a duffel bag and a mouthful of tangled thoughts, it had just been a place for Mohinder to sleep, and to work, and to try not to ask himself what his father would do if he where there.
Now breathing with the mundane sounds of the life he had built inside of it, its silence punctuated by the rhythm of footfalls and the soft twitter of Molly’s voice, it seemed a cold way to regard it. Peter would likely agree.
“And I don’t really mind, Peter,” Mohinder finally conceded, “Whichever building you prefer will be fine. I’ll speak to the apartment manager in the morning.”
“Yeah but that’s not the point. We’re supposed to figure this out together.” The corner of Peter’s mouth curled into lopsided smile. “That’s what you do when you move in with somebody, idiot.” Stepping forward he gave Mohinder’s shoulder a playful nudge. “And if you keep zoning out on me I’m gonna start taking it personally.”
“Sorry.” Mohinder let out a sigh as he tucked his selection under his arm, motioning for the cashier’s desk. “I know I’m no help right now – I’ve just been a bit distracted. Work has been piling up at the lab in the past two weeks, between interviewing subjects and cataloguing sample material...”
“I noticed.” Reaching out from beneath the elongated sleeve of his sweater, Peter smiled patiently and brushed the tips of their fingers together in passing. The man across the aisle simply looked away. “I haven’t seen you out of a lab coat in a week.”
At that Mohinder afforded a smile. “I thought you liked the lab coat.”
“I do.” Peter squeezed his fingers and shot him a devious glance. “But I prefer to see you out of it.”
The clerk at the cashier’s desk tried not to smile. High ponytail swaying behind her, she did her best to avoid their faces with a sheepish bite of her lip, and busied herself by scanning the price sticker on the back of the book. Clearing his throat, Mohinder felt his face suddenly heat. Peter simply glanced at her with a smirk.
Of course Peter would not care. He never did, in a way that was becoming easier to understand with time, or on some days at least accept. With an angle of his head Peter inspected the selected book as the clerk slid it into a small plastic sack.
“What did you find, anyway?”
“Origin of Species,” Mohinder said mechanically, glad for the change of subject. “It seems my copy turned up under the bed with peanut butter stuck between the pages.” Opening his wallet to hand the cashier a small fold of neat bills, he offered Peter an incredulous smirk. “Which I remember picking up from the store at your request last week.”
At that Peter opened his mouth to protest, brought up short by a sudden chirping in his back pocket. Mohinder politely thanked the clerk and took the bag to motion for the adjacent shop door, watching Peter retrieve his cell phone and flip it open with a frown.
“Who is it?”
Peter’s jaw tightened. Pressing a button on the dial pad he snapped it shut again and dropped his phone back into his pocket.
“Nothing,” he said, letting out a tight breath, “just my mom.”
“Ah.” Mohinder nodded. There was nothing else he could think to do. “How is she doing?”
Peter shrugged, pushing open the shop door and leading them to join the foot traffic ambling down the sidewalk outside. “I dunno.” He sounded suddenly dour. “I haven’t really talked to her since after the funeral.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Mohinder asked lightly, cautious of the subject. He was aware Peter had not been speaking to his mother, but – well, what could he say? Tell Peter to just ring her and patch everything up?
“No.” Another shrug. “But I can’t talk to her right now. It’s just – hard to trust her.” Peter stuffed his hands into his the pockets of his jeans and looked to the sidewalk as though reading the answer to Mohinder’s question from the spiny cracks of cement. Peter would call that brooding; Matt was prone to calling it PMS. Mohinder did not feel it was particularly worth naming. “I don’t know if she’s telling me the truth about anything anymore.”
“Have you given her the chance?”
“Well, no.” Peter sighed. “I dunno, though. She’s spent all these years going behind my back, playing me and Nathan off of each other. I mean, she wanted me to explode – what do you even say to that?”
Mohinder paused, only nodding. His family suddenly seemed so much more average by comparison. “Well – have you spoken to anyone since the funeral?”
“Yeah, my sister-in-law.” Peter looked up. “But she’s moving out of the city in a couple weeks. Apparently she’s going to stay with some family in Massachusetts for a while. Said the boys needed a ‘fresh start,’ after everything…Heidi – well, I guess she and Nathan never really sorted things about, before…yeah.”
Watching Peter’s face tighten, Mohinder swallowed.
“At least you have someone to speak to about it, if it makes any difference,” he offered, lifting a shoulder to shrug. “After my father died I had just come to a strange country, completely alone…”
Except for Eden, he mused; or rather Sarah, or whatever else she may have been called. His concentration plucked from his work by impromptu knocks at the front door, followed by a cheery smile and her proffered macaroni, in large blue Tupperware containers that still sat in the back of his cabinet collecting dust. Whether or not that had ever actually stood for anything he did not know, and likely never would.
In any case Mohinder cleared his throat gently and straightened his chin. “Well. You know.”
Peter’s expression softened. “Yeah.” He reached out a hand to thread their fingers together with a firm squeeze. “I do.”
Digits sliding easily between Peter’s, Mohinder’s chest felt suddenly warm.
“But you still never answered my question.”
A sigh.
“The two bed one bath,” Mohinder answered, “and I’ll call them in the morning.”
Previous parts:
Lightning in an empty cup
The clawfoot bathtub
These matters of security
Such a cautious display
Ways and means
Sunshine and red plastic seats
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