I can't really say, with any level of certainty, what Peter's thinking about right now. What I can tell you is that he's fidgeting a little more than he usually does. I can also tell you that it takes a lot to really get him to lose his cool, so even with him joking and trying to toss everything to the side, there's a chance that he's a whole lot more upset than he's letting on. Politics might be a sensitive spot to him, after what happened at the last election, all the promises he made, and for all that both him and Tony Stark talked about how change naturally takes time, sometimes even decades or centuries, it can't feel good for the progress to be going as slowly as it is.
Maybe I really should change the topic, talk about cheese, wine, gods, but I feel like I can't step away completely without asking. Without trying to figure out exactly where he's standing.
"So that means I shouldn't be bugging you to start collecting signatures?" I ask, offhand, keeping my tone as light as possible. It's just one more prod. One more, and then if he needs, I'll keep quiet.
Or if he wants a sounding board, well, I'm here and willing.
"Mozzarella!" I say without missing a beat, throwing my arms out to the sides, though I'm careful to not hit Claire in the head. There are very few people with whom I'm willing to have a serious conversation nowadays -- and willing shouldn't be confused with will. Burying my grief has gotten me a lot more friends than airing it out for everyone to see, and while Claire is a pretty sweet kid, she's still just that: a kid.
Well-meaning, maybe, but not someone I'm going to be confessing all my secrets to, all my doubts. She gets the same side of me as everyone else: a little nerdy, a little annoying, a little unassuming. I don't share my business, even if she occasionally tries to get me to spit something out.
I never do. I barely admit things to myself these days, let alone to a teenage girl. You can imagine how much I tell Jessica, then, though she knows me a lot better than Claire could ever hope.
"Cheese here just isn't the same. Or pizza. Seriously, don't believe anyone who tries to make pizza here. It's just a pale imitation of the real thing. Not worthy of the pizza name."
Okay, okay. Clearly, this isn't something that he wants to spend too long dwelling on, and I get it, I really do. If anyone tried to pin me down and get me to talk about my dad, or Sylar, or what I could do back home... well, they'd have to be someone I was pretty close to, and even then, it's pretty clear that there are times when I still put up a lot of resistance. So, I let it go. I mean, if Peter ever wants to climb back on that horse, he'd find a way, right?
Right.
"Unless you're a vegan. I'm pretty sure they have all of the ingredients here to make pretty bitchin' vegan pizza," I counter with a purse of my lips. "But then again, I always thought that a vegan life sounded... pretty sad. I mean, I guess I can understand going vegetarian if you're worried about your health, or organic if you're worried about pesticides, or free-range if you're worried about the conditions animals are kept in, but I still don't really see what's so wrong about drinking milk that won't do the cows much good, anyway."
Maybe I really should change the topic, talk about cheese, wine, gods, but I feel like I can't step away completely without asking. Without trying to figure out exactly where he's standing.
"So that means I shouldn't be bugging you to start collecting signatures?" I ask, offhand, keeping my tone as light as possible. It's just one more prod. One more, and then if he needs, I'll keep quiet.
Or if he wants a sounding board, well, I'm here and willing.
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Well-meaning, maybe, but not someone I'm going to be confessing all my secrets to, all my doubts. She gets the same side of me as everyone else: a little nerdy, a little annoying, a little unassuming. I don't share my business, even if she occasionally tries to get me to spit something out.
I never do. I barely admit things to myself these days, let alone to a teenage girl. You can imagine how much I tell Jessica, then, though she knows me a lot better than Claire could ever hope.
"Cheese here just isn't the same. Or pizza. Seriously, don't believe anyone who tries to make pizza here. It's just a pale imitation of the real thing. Not worthy of the pizza name."
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Right.
"Unless you're a vegan. I'm pretty sure they have all of the ingredients here to make pretty bitchin' vegan pizza," I counter with a purse of my lips. "But then again, I always thought that a vegan life sounded... pretty sad. I mean, I guess I can understand going vegetarian if you're worried about your health, or organic if you're worried about pesticides, or free-range if you're worried about the conditions animals are kept in, but I still don't really see what's so wrong about drinking milk that won't do the cows much good, anyway."
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