tampered | log; ongoing;

When; Christmas day, afternoon
Rating; PG-13? It's Christmas, who knows?
Characters; Eden McCain [

suicideslowly]; Mohinder Suresh [

orderonto]
Summary; When you wake up to two hundred white roses in your kitchen, something's bound to happen.
Log;

It wasn't unusual for Eden to wake up to an empty bed - she could be a morning person if a situation required it, and she never slept through an alarm, but it seemed far less urgent in the City to follow any schedule by the hour, and so usually it was Mohinder who woke first and could be counted on to be fixing breakfast by the time Eden stumbled out of bed. There was extra reason to sleep in today, as well, for Eden had not forgotten the last conversation she had with Mohinder on the topic of holidays, and of Christmas in particular.

So it was only when the hour finally struck ten that Eden had finally stumbled out of the bedroom, yawning, terry robe wrapped tightly around her small frame.

To the overwhelming scent of roses permeating the apartment. Her first reaction had been to laugh. Fortunately for her, Mohinder wasn't hiding around the corner.

By the time the afternoon rolls around, Eden has already managed to thin the roses out somewhat, several vases scattered throughout the apartment - although there are still a few dozen resting in the kitchen, lacking glasses tall enough to support them. It's enough, however, to clear out a decent amount of space on the countertop. She's trying her hand at lasagna - a step up from macaroni and cheese, and a little more balanced overall, Eden thinks.

Her new earrings jangle cheerily with every turn of her head.

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He comes back from work only slightly anxious; he's left to get things done on Christmas day, things that he clearly saw as more worthwhile than spending time with loved ones on Christmas. Somebody's got to work on Christmas, after all-- the whole world cannot shut down for a singular Christian holiday (Mohinder was perhaps the Ghost of Christmas Sucks). In some ways he was his father's son, in some small ways every day, and this was one of them. Still, he knows Eden, and Eden knows him-- inasmuch as people who have not even had a year in acquaintance can know one another, at any rate. Perhaps this was what they called a 'deeper connection.' She wouldn't be angry, not entirely.

Perhaps frustrated.

So Mohinder enters the apartment that evening somewhat shyly, lingering in the doorway. The same way he would have in New York if he knew he'd done something that would irritate Matthew Parkman, such as 'not the laundry.' He smiles at the noises in the kitchen and calls out, digging in his pocket for the one last gift that he picked up on the way home.

A dark chocolate orange, the kind you've got to bang to break into pieces. He thinks that she will like it; it suits her sense of humor.

"Happy Christmas, Eden?"

"I refuse to believe that you couldn't call a single day off work," Eden sighs as she emerges from the kitchen, an apron keeping potential messes away from the deep red sweater dress she's wearing for the occasion-- it matches the jewelry well, she thinks. Surreptitiously, she slips the orange from his hand, grinning as she reaches for his free hand to tug him inside. It's still cold, and he smells of snow.

Stubborn thing.

"Merry Christmas, Mohinder," she murmurs, sneaking in a quick kiss on his lips before pulling back into the kitchen, pausing for a moment before placing the orange on the counter. "Want to do the honors? Or should I? And I took the liberty of starting dinner-- hope you don't mind."

"I could," he says, after sharing that short greeting kiss, and then he follows her, moving into the kitchen and slowly divesting himself of all of the clothes he was wearing outside, peacoats and leather gloves and scarves, and they do smell very much like outside, noticeable in the apartment which smells sweet; roses. He hopes for a moment that she likes the smell as much as he always has-- different cultures, after all, and different ideas of what qualifies as 'too strong a scent.'

He slides in behind her, one finger lifting the earring closest to his face to examine it, or maybe just to play under the pretense of thoughtfulness. If his first priority was work, then his second priority would always be curiosity, like a puppy, or a child or a bird. He stares at the black and white stones against the skin of her cheek.

"I thought that this would be the best shade for you. Turns out that I was correct. Dinner smells wonderful, it's no liberty at all."

There's curiosity on her end as well, although less in the tangible, the sheen of white against black splayed on the soft cream of her complexion. Instead, she looks over her shoulder at Mohinder himself, his expression and his movements, soft and hesitant, his attention ever as focused as his gaze. It tempts her, now and then, to prod, see how hard she can push until he puts up the slightest bit of resistance. But she doesn't-- simply dances around everything.

"You've got a good eye, one that I've never had for this type of thing. Thank you, Mohinder, it's..." Her voice falters for a minute, unaccustomed to this type of interaction, heartbeat pulsing. "I love it. But you owe me something, you know."

She digs into her pocket, pulling out the note that she'd eventually found among the flowers.

"A translation, if you would be so kind."

His hand falls back, moving to rub her shoulder for a moment before he slides away, moving to the other side of the kitchen to start taking out dishes to set the table with, small, teasing smile on his face as he works around her in the same familiar way that he always has been able to, even when they'd only known one another for a few days.

"I know that I have a good eye," Mohinder says, with the sort of playful egotism he wears when he's comfortable but still testing and controlling the situation in his own mind. He considers the paper.

"If I tell you it's cheating. Isn't it?"

"Keep it up and I'll have to take you shopping with me, next time," Eden calls after him, crouching down to peek at the lasagna in the oven, before grabbing a pair of mitts to pull it out, leaving it to cool for a few minutes on the counter. "Although Claire just took me, a few days ago. Made me buy something for New Year's."

She watches the careful calculation in his movements, leans against the cool tiles of the counter and brushes some of her hair out of the way. It's probably time for a haircut.

"Well, I could always guess, or I could do my homework. Google's my friend." Eden works her way into a smile. "But I think I'd like to hear it from you, if at all."

Mohinder is digging in the refrigerator next, for a bagged salad and some dressing. He studies the bottles as he rifles through them-- ranch, french, balsamic vinaigrette, a raspberry vinaigrette. He settles for balsamic, with the tomato sauce. The bag gets tossed into the sink a moment later as he plucks the paper out of her hand, face tight as if he needs to remember what he wrote.

It's clear to anyone that he doesn't. It's clear that the message is also much less flippant and clinical than his voice sounds as he reads.

"It says...'whatever colour you would choose to imagine them, such as is our future...however it stands at the moment.'"

When he tugs the paper out of her hand, Eden immediately rubs at the back of her neck, left arm wrapped tightly around her midriff, because if there's one area where Mohinder often catches her off guard, it's delivery. It's a good thing that she braces herself too, as her eyebrows raise at the message. Features soften as she contemplates, echoes of Angela's terse tone somewhere in the back of her head, although Mohinder Suresh is certainly a far cry from Peter Petrelli. And that's a good thing.

"Then all the valley would be pink and white, and soft to tread on," she finally replies, nodding to herself, thoughts lost in the musty aisles of a library. But where his jaw is tense, Eden lips quirk appreciatively as her arms wrap around Mohinder's waist from behind. Is it that embarrassing, Mohinder?

"Although I think I'd add red in there too. But you're the one planting them."

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