It's in the Blood // Claire & MohinderMature

Claire nodded, setting her cup down on the counter. “I don’t have enough luggage to warrant a whole trunk,” she said, “but a car would make things easier. We could perhaps get my things after breakfast?” Mohinder seemed glad enough to help and she wasn’t the sort to turn down that kind of offer. He wouldn’t be coming inside, that was for certain, but not having to carry her stuff for several blocks was worth the doctor coming over. Her stomach let out a low rumble at the mention of food, and the lady chuckled. “I’m also a vegetarian, so you can have your bacon and eat it too.” Gesturing absently, she shrugged. “Can’t risk the blood, you see.”

Claire didn’t elaborate further, though, allowing herself instead to be shown around Mohinder’s home. Having grown up with embarrassingly large amounts of money and extravagance, Claire didn’t find herself impressed by much anymore. Her own place was fairly Spartan, furnished with what she needed and a few bits of memorabilia and art. But she found she liked Mohinder’s apartment. It was the Goldilocks of homes–not too full of things, not too bare. Tastefully in the middle. Surely comfortable enough to spend a few weeks in, especially with that bathtub. She could have a nice bubble bath in that.

Back in the kitchen, Claire nodded. “It’s lovely, and thank you. I’m sure I’ll be comfortable.” She leaned against the counter and watched him go about the task of setting out what they’d need; bowls, utensils….though he didn’t get any out. She’d heard the familiar shuffle of silverware in the drawer, though he hesitated and closed it again. Claire could guess well enough at his concerns; she’d faced similar situations enough to understand. Laughing at his reaction and the nervous air that now surrounded him, she shook her head. “Blood is only an issue when I taste it, doctor,” she explained, guessing at the thoughts behind that nervous smile, hoping that would put him more at ease.

“I can handle a knife quite skillfully, I promise. You’ve nothing worry about.” It was her job to read people, to understand their body language and expressions; conversational subtext was a part of that. It was most of that, actually, as the important things were often the ones that went unsaid.

“That said…yes, I’ve made an omelet before,” she said, laughing, genuine smile crossing her lips.

The End

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