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capableof_bothHe'd stolen the snow globe.
It was probably evil, he knew -- not as bad as murder, of course, but along the same lines, him coveting and then taking whatever he thought he needed -- but when he had seen the thing, alone and neglected in the gift shop at his and Mohinder's latest destination, he found he couldn't help himself. It was ugly and cheap, made of plastic and painted in ridiculous day-glo paint, but it had instantly reminded him of his mother.
He'd thought about buying it for whatever reason, then decided against it, not entirely keen on explaining his choice of souvenirs to Mohinder when he asked -- and he would ask -- and set it back down on the shelf he'd gotten it from. He'd backed away, moved off to pursue more expensive baubles while waiting for Mohinder to find his way back from the sorry excuse for a men's room, and somehow, inexplicably, he had ended back in front of the damn row of snow globes, drawn to them as surely as he'd been drawn to Mohinder in the first place. And in a split decision, he'd slipped one into his day bag, bought something random from the gift shop just to avoid suspicion, then made his way outside casually.
It hadn't been hard, taking what didn't belong to him still almost second nature, even if this was a far cry from killing for abilities, and he hadn't really thought much about it at the time. He'd wanted it, wanted to avoid questions, and a little shoplifting wasn't going to hurt anyone. Now, though, sitting at the table in his and Mohinder's hotel room, the snow globe sitting neatly in front of him, he wasn't so sure. It was such a small thing, inconsequential really, even for how ridiculously overpriced it had been, but ...
What would his mother think, were she still alive, to know that he'd just taken something that reminded him of her? What would Peter think? Did he really, truly particularly care?
Making a face at ridiculous little thing, he pushed it away telekinetically and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest like a petulant child.
It was probably evil, he knew -- not as bad as murder, of course, but along the same lines, him coveting and then taking whatever he thought he needed -- but when he had seen the thing, alone and neglected in the gift shop at his and Mohinder's latest destination, he found he couldn't help himself. It was ugly and cheap, made of plastic and painted in ridiculous day-glo paint, but it had instantly reminded him of his mother.
He'd thought about buying it for whatever reason, then decided against it, not entirely keen on explaining his choice of souvenirs to Mohinder when he asked -- and he would ask -- and set it back down on the shelf he'd gotten it from. He'd backed away, moved off to pursue more expensive baubles while waiting for Mohinder to find his way back from the sorry excuse for a men's room, and somehow, inexplicably, he had ended back in front of the damn row of snow globes, drawn to them as surely as he'd been drawn to Mohinder in the first place. And in a split decision, he'd slipped one into his day bag, bought something random from the gift shop just to avoid suspicion, then made his way outside casually.
It hadn't been hard, taking what didn't belong to him still almost second nature, even if this was a far cry from killing for abilities, and he hadn't really thought much about it at the time. He'd wanted it, wanted to avoid questions, and a little shoplifting wasn't going to hurt anyone. Now, though, sitting at the table in his and Mohinder's hotel room, the snow globe sitting neatly in front of him, he wasn't so sure. It was such a small thing, inconsequential really, even for how ridiculously overpriced it had been, but ...
What would his mother think, were she still alive, to know that he'd just taken something that reminded him of her? What would Peter think? Did he really, truly particularly care?
Making a face at ridiculous little thing, he pushed it away telekinetically and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest like a petulant child.
