Peter took a breath. "We've been through a lot of shit, haven't we?"
Mohinder looked across the table at him. Peter never swore. "Yes we have."
The younger man's hands were folded loosely on the scarred tabletop, his eyes resting on them but not really seeing.
"Sometimes-" Peter caught himself, fighting between revealing his feelings and preserving his pride.
Mohinder wouldn't mock him. But why was he sure? Why did he trust this man?
Peter didn't know. But he did, trust him. And so he spoke again.
"Sometimes I just wish there was somewhere away from all this. Someplace safe where I could just go and get away from all this shit. And then I could go back and deal with it again, then it would be okay. I just wish I could find somewhere safe."
Peter hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes so he opened them again. He was looking at his hands that no longer seemed to fit him. He'd taken care of elderly men with those hands, comforted a hurting niece, caressed a lover's cheek. He'd struck men with those hands, pushed away people who loved him, made things he didn't want built. He'd killed with those hands.
Then dark fingers, that had done many of the same things, covered his. They were gentle, warm and soft as they enveloped his. His, so flawless, lined in unseen scars.
And he realized, held in those equally damaged hands,
this was a safe place.