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thepainted_lady[ooc: Based on RP with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
heroslayer, offering_hope and hadtobeahero in AU/Vampire Diaries xover verse]
The cave floor was cold and hard, but she barely felt it. She’d shifted last night, mostly to stop the wracking sobs when she couldn’t take any more of them shaking her body. Exhaustion still weighed her limbs down from how far she’d run, and for the moment she had no idea where she was. Austria, perhaps. Maybe Switzerland, if she’d shifted directions. As fast as she was going, she could have made it to Italy. It wasn’t like anyone paid attention to the borders anymore, especially not for creatures like her.
She was shivering, but not from the cold. The cold she barely felt, whether from her own nature, or the fur she hid behind, letting it dull the sensation of having her heart ripped out of her.
All that hate. All those words, cruel, barbed words that dug into the soul and found tender places and twisted up in them, ripping and shredding as they jerked secrets out into the light and bared them, and tangled them around and made them into things they weren’t ever. She felt the bile rising, even in this form, again. To imply she’d wanted...just because she hadn’t...what? Fought hard enough? She’d been twelve. He was her father, the only person in the world she had to take care of her, after Carol left. What the fuck was she supposed to do? He said he loved her. She knew it was wrong, but she...she was twelve and he was her father. He was supposed to know better. She’d never wanted it. And she’d never...the truckers on the road...they’d demanded payment.
Joseph hadn’t. Joseph had been appalled she’d thought he’d want it. And she’d been stunned, and then relieved. And adored him ever after because he didn’t want that from her. And John...for all she encouraged him to get out and meet someone, she didn’t mean her. It wasn’t like that. She missed Joseph. He missed Anna. They...clicked.
Leopard form or, no, the feelings were welling up again, making her want to run, as the words, the accusations from both of them ran around and around and around in her head, not stopping. How could they...the two of them...she’d done what she’d done with them for them...
Maybe they were better off without her. Without the...whore.
She shifted back just so she could scream, because the growl wasn’t enough, and she felt like a good scream. A flock of birds flew up from the trees, and the sound echoed back to her, and then there was silence. Apparently her reservoir of tears had filled back up, because they were falling again.
He’d never thought that. Never said that. Never...not even that first night, not even...not even when he’d come back, when it was clear she was there to get something from him...he was at his most cruel, most determined to kill...and he hadn’t thought that. Hadn’t called her that. She’d called him impotent and if ever there was a time for a man to call a woman a whore, to trade the worst insult for the worst she could throw, that would be the time.
He hadn’t.
So why now? What had she done? Because of Peter? But he’d...he’d been mad at Peter. Hurt, yes, but not...he’d...stayed with her, made Peter leave, and held her all night. He hadn’t thought that then. If he’d been going to think it, he’d think it then, not now, not days later, not suddenly taking Peter’s side, days later.
She paced the cave, back and forth, bare feet cutting on the rocks, bleeding, healing, cutting again, and she heedless of the blood trail she left.
Because she wanted to find John? Because he was jealous his sire had reached out to her and not him? He had been, but not to this level. He had no reason to think that, and even if he had...all he had to do was read her to know it wasn’t true. To know she was...very fond of the older vampire, but not...like that.
It had changed. Something had changed. Why? When? How? The words on the picture of a tortured John flashed back at her, jumbled together with the one standing out in clear sensible contrast.
Samuel.
She stopped pacing, froze in place like a statue, even her breathing stopping as ice washed through her. Joseph. He’d been so upset about Joseph last night. On and on about Joseph, both him and Peter. And her at the carnival, the way she was..exaggerated but...
Sylar wouldn’t know.
Sylar wouldn’t care. Sylar didn’t give a fucking goddamn about what she did before him. Only after he’d staked his claim.
Sylar, if he were mad, would have brought up her with Peter. Not made up some imaginary thing with Joseph. He’d have fixated on Peter. That she brought them to New York. That she was the one to find Peter. That she brought Peter to their bed. That she gave him her blood. That she’d been doing so. How many times had she fucked him when Sylar hadn’t been there? (none, but that’s where Sylar would have gone.) If he’d wanted to go further, he’d have gone to Edgar. On her protecting him, on whether she’d bitten him, on her outings with him and Amanda. Did she want to turn him, have her perfect little nuclear family back? That’s where he’d go--to the things that he’d see as an actual threat to what he had now. That’s what mattered to Sylar. Not the past.
...But he’d gone to Joseph, instead. To the carnival.
And when she’d talked about Samuel...that look on his face, there for a moment...she’d caught it, but not recognized it...and the flicker of agony, of struggle, when she left...
Samuel wasn’t gone. They hadn’t gotten rid of him. He wasn’t in her nightmares or the mirrors anymore, because somehow, someway, he’d found a way to take up a far more permanent residence in one of them.
Her mind raced. Peter’s dreams. How cold he was all the time. How they couldn’t get into his head. And then suddenly he was okay again, if acting a little...off. And Sylar was...they’d looked. They hadn’t found...but what if they had. Peter’s scent in the clearing. Peter’s scent over John’s in the warehouse. Peter who could fly.
Peter who’s head she could get into now, but couldn’t when she had been on her knees...and then the night when Sylar swore he hadn’t found...had he already been...
Apparently vampires could still get sick, and she did, violently in the corner of the cave, body shaking with the force of it. Not Peter. Not Sylar. Samuel.
She leaned against the wall, cold now and shivering. Samuel had control, somehow, of the most powerful body he could find. And with that...he had to be compelling Peter or something. And they had John. And she was in the middle of a foreign country with no allies, no one to call for help. She couldn’t bring Edgar into this.
She wasn’t a strategist. She wasn’t the mastermind. She was a follower, not a leader, which was why it was so very laughable that Samuel thought she needed to be eliminated because the family was looking to her as their new empath. She could have stood by his side, provided the emotional balance maybe, but he was the planner, not her.
He thought he’d beaten her. She’d run away. He’d think she was down and out, at least for a little while, which gave her something of an edge. He’d never believe she’d figure it out. She was just a stupid little whore, after all.
So, now all she had to do was go up against him. By herself. She had to break down the fortress he’d built for himself piece by piece, and get her friends, her family back. If any of them were coming out of this alive, she had to do more than play Samuel at his own game.
She had to win.
heroslayer, offering_hope and hadtobeahero in AU/Vampire Diaries xover verse]The cave floor was cold and hard, but she barely felt it. She’d shifted last night, mostly to stop the wracking sobs when she couldn’t take any more of them shaking her body. Exhaustion still weighed her limbs down from how far she’d run, and for the moment she had no idea where she was. Austria, perhaps. Maybe Switzerland, if she’d shifted directions. As fast as she was going, she could have made it to Italy. It wasn’t like anyone paid attention to the borders anymore, especially not for creatures like her.
She was shivering, but not from the cold. The cold she barely felt, whether from her own nature, or the fur she hid behind, letting it dull the sensation of having her heart ripped out of her.
All that hate. All those words, cruel, barbed words that dug into the soul and found tender places and twisted up in them, ripping and shredding as they jerked secrets out into the light and bared them, and tangled them around and made them into things they weren’t ever. She felt the bile rising, even in this form, again. To imply she’d wanted...just because she hadn’t...what? Fought hard enough? She’d been twelve. He was her father, the only person in the world she had to take care of her, after Carol left. What the fuck was she supposed to do? He said he loved her. She knew it was wrong, but she...she was twelve and he was her father. He was supposed to know better. She’d never wanted it. And she’d never...the truckers on the road...they’d demanded payment.
Joseph hadn’t. Joseph had been appalled she’d thought he’d want it. And she’d been stunned, and then relieved. And adored him ever after because he didn’t want that from her. And John...for all she encouraged him to get out and meet someone, she didn’t mean her. It wasn’t like that. She missed Joseph. He missed Anna. They...clicked.
Leopard form or, no, the feelings were welling up again, making her want to run, as the words, the accusations from both of them ran around and around and around in her head, not stopping. How could they...the two of them...she’d done what she’d done with them for them...
Maybe they were better off without her. Without the...whore.
She shifted back just so she could scream, because the growl wasn’t enough, and she felt like a good scream. A flock of birds flew up from the trees, and the sound echoed back to her, and then there was silence. Apparently her reservoir of tears had filled back up, because they were falling again.
He’d never thought that. Never said that. Never...not even that first night, not even...not even when he’d come back, when it was clear she was there to get something from him...he was at his most cruel, most determined to kill...and he hadn’t thought that. Hadn’t called her that. She’d called him impotent and if ever there was a time for a man to call a woman a whore, to trade the worst insult for the worst she could throw, that would be the time.
He hadn’t.
So why now? What had she done? Because of Peter? But he’d...he’d been mad at Peter. Hurt, yes, but not...he’d...stayed with her, made Peter leave, and held her all night. He hadn’t thought that then. If he’d been going to think it, he’d think it then, not now, not days later, not suddenly taking Peter’s side, days later.
She paced the cave, back and forth, bare feet cutting on the rocks, bleeding, healing, cutting again, and she heedless of the blood trail she left.
Because she wanted to find John? Because he was jealous his sire had reached out to her and not him? He had been, but not to this level. He had no reason to think that, and even if he had...all he had to do was read her to know it wasn’t true. To know she was...very fond of the older vampire, but not...like that.
It had changed. Something had changed. Why? When? How? The words on the picture of a tortured John flashed back at her, jumbled together with the one standing out in clear sensible contrast.
Samuel.
She stopped pacing, froze in place like a statue, even her breathing stopping as ice washed through her. Joseph. He’d been so upset about Joseph last night. On and on about Joseph, both him and Peter. And her at the carnival, the way she was..exaggerated but...
Sylar wouldn’t know.
Sylar wouldn’t care. Sylar didn’t give a fucking goddamn about what she did before him. Only after he’d staked his claim.
Sylar, if he were mad, would have brought up her with Peter. Not made up some imaginary thing with Joseph. He’d have fixated on Peter. That she brought them to New York. That she was the one to find Peter. That she brought Peter to their bed. That she gave him her blood. That she’d been doing so. How many times had she fucked him when Sylar hadn’t been there? (none, but that’s where Sylar would have gone.) If he’d wanted to go further, he’d have gone to Edgar. On her protecting him, on whether she’d bitten him, on her outings with him and Amanda. Did she want to turn him, have her perfect little nuclear family back? That’s where he’d go--to the things that he’d see as an actual threat to what he had now. That’s what mattered to Sylar. Not the past.
...But he’d gone to Joseph, instead. To the carnival.
And when she’d talked about Samuel...that look on his face, there for a moment...she’d caught it, but not recognized it...and the flicker of agony, of struggle, when she left...
Samuel wasn’t gone. They hadn’t gotten rid of him. He wasn’t in her nightmares or the mirrors anymore, because somehow, someway, he’d found a way to take up a far more permanent residence in one of them.
Her mind raced. Peter’s dreams. How cold he was all the time. How they couldn’t get into his head. And then suddenly he was okay again, if acting a little...off. And Sylar was...they’d looked. They hadn’t found...but what if they had. Peter’s scent in the clearing. Peter’s scent over John’s in the warehouse. Peter who could fly.
Peter who’s head she could get into now, but couldn’t when she had been on her knees...and then the night when Sylar swore he hadn’t found...had he already been...
Apparently vampires could still get sick, and she did, violently in the corner of the cave, body shaking with the force of it. Not Peter. Not Sylar. Samuel.
She leaned against the wall, cold now and shivering. Samuel had control, somehow, of the most powerful body he could find. And with that...he had to be compelling Peter or something. And they had John. And she was in the middle of a foreign country with no allies, no one to call for help. She couldn’t bring Edgar into this.
She wasn’t a strategist. She wasn’t the mastermind. She was a follower, not a leader, which was why it was so very laughable that Samuel thought she needed to be eliminated because the family was looking to her as their new empath. She could have stood by his side, provided the emotional balance maybe, but he was the planner, not her.
He thought he’d beaten her. She’d run away. He’d think she was down and out, at least for a little while, which gave her something of an edge. He’d never believe she’d figure it out. She was just a stupid little whore, after all.
So, now all she had to do was go up against him. By herself. She had to break down the fortress he’d built for himself piece by piece, and get her friends, her family back. If any of them were coming out of this alive, she had to do more than play Samuel at his own game.
She had to win.
