[ Listening to Sylar speak, Peter's hands tightened their grip on the edge of the counter, feeling his stomach nearly drop out from under him, his expression falling. Just because he was still warm from sleep didn't mean he couldn't feel remorse, some form of guilt.
Of failure.
Swallowing thickly, he drags his gaze away from Sylar and stares at the refrigerator instead, simply because it's there, because it doesn't twist him in all the wrong ways quite like looking at the other man does. For a few seconds he contemplates saying that he has work, that he has to leave, that he has things to do because he can't imagine the conversation getting any better from here, but instead picks up his cup of coffee again, holding it between his hands and almost imperceptibly shrugging. ]
Maybe I should. Won't really matter either way if I go back home, though. [ But that makes him feel equally sick to his stomach to think about, his expression showing just as much, though Peter tries to hide it behind another sip of coffee. ] But I guess I see your point.
no subject
Of failure.
Swallowing thickly, he drags his gaze away from Sylar and stares at the refrigerator instead, simply because it's there, because it doesn't twist him in all the wrong ways quite like looking at the other man does. For a few seconds he contemplates saying that he has work, that he has to leave, that he has things to do because he can't imagine the conversation getting any better from here, but instead picks up his cup of coffee again, holding it between his hands and almost imperceptibly shrugging. ]
Maybe I should. Won't really matter either way if I go back home, though. [ But that makes him feel equally sick to his stomach to think about, his expression showing just as much, though Peter tries to hide it behind another sip of coffee. ] But I guess I see your point.