Mohinder eats his waffles in exactly sixteen bites. No more, no less.

First, he cuts it into quarters. Then he cuts the quarters in half. Then he halves the eights. Then he very methodically fills every little cell with jam, and drizzles honey on top of the whole confection in a complicated pattern Matt could never quite follow.

The process was more than a little fascinating. He'd stared that first time, and the second, mostly because he couldn't figure how anyone could eat those char-boiled things, even if they were given to you by Molly while she sang 'Happy Birthday' to you and beamed.

He'd stared the fifth time too, but that was more because their relationship was still in the shiny and new phase at the time, and the sight of anything entering Mohinders mouth was more than a little distracting than anything else.

He'd asked him about it once, and had gotten the same sort of blank stare/ nonanswer he'd get whenever he caught the other man going through his emo-food stash (Molly's phrase, not his). He supposed it was just one of those quirky little routines they'd hammered out over the years, to create some sort of semblance of order in their very chaotic lives. Just like it didn't matter whether there were living in a ranch house in suburbia or the slums of the city, Matt would always patrol around the place, checking the locks, the safety on his Glock, the hiding place of the diamonds and their fake IDs. Just like Molly, now a teenager on the cusp of adulthood (legally, at least; he didn't think he'd ever be able to think of her as anything other than his Molly-doll), could never sleep soundly without slipping her book of Indian Fairy Tales under her pillow. Mohinder would always east his waffles, whether the were home-grilled or Eggo, or restaurant made, in exactly sixteen bites, no more, no less.

Matt doesn't really have a problem with that. However Mohinder wants to cope is fine with him.

But if he ever eats the last Snickers bar again, he's going to have to put his foot down.