JMM 37.10 Defying Gravity [For hadtobeahero and <lj site="livejou

[thepainted_lady]

Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules
Of someone else's game

The music was loud and the crowd was already drunk at noon, as Lydia made her way through the press of their too-hot bodies. She’d killed a girl heading this way and taken her clothes--her own far too ripped and bloody from her run through the woods--and boots (since she’d run off without any shoes) and felt like she fit in fairly well, though she was still occasioning quite a bit of comment.

Then again, women in leather miniskirts, corset tops and boots tended to do that anywhere. She felt a hand on her ass and let it pass. It was a grope, sure, but a quick sense from the touch...he wouldn’t take it farther if she complained. Not what she was looking for, then. She wanted her usual prey, but she needed a lot of them, or their kin. People the world wouldn’t miss, people she could use and still face herself in the morning.

Edgar had mentioned this place as somewhere to avoid, last time they passed through the area. She saw why when her attention was caught by the group in the corner.

Unfortunately for Edgar’s peace of mind, she had no intention of avoiding them today.

* * *

A half hour later, she was on the back of the bike of their leader, his blood singing in her veins--not enough to incapacitate him, but enough to give her compulsion an iron-clad hold. She’d tasted the others, too, for the same reason, and killed one more so she would be at her strongest and now they were winging their way back to Füssen. She locked down her emotions tight, letting herself go numb for the moment to give no signal of her approach. If she was right...Samuel wouldn’t be able to feel the bond between her and Sylar as sire and progeny, and if her emotions were shut down...he wouldn’t pick up on anything empathically, either.

Besides, she needed to be cold to face Peter again.

“Stay here,” she told the men, sliding off the back of the bike and pointing to an abandoned warehouse. John was down here somewhere, she was sure of it. “Don’t make any noise, don’t get into trouble. Sleep, until I call you.” She took one of their cell phones and waved it at the leader. “When I call...you’ll come immediately to me, understood?”

He nodded, looking at her a little glassily.

“Good boy.”

* * *

She visited a shop she’d found a couple of weeks before, filled with teas from all over the world, and smiled at the woman, who recognized her despite the somewhat...drastic change in her appearance.

“Everything’s at the cleaners,” Lydia said, making a face at her clothes. “All I had left was the costume I wore to a party on Halloween...”

The woman laughed, then, and they discussed the silliness of men and costumes and the things they forced themselves into, and yes, of course, she had exactly what Lydia needed, and she handed it over. Lydia shuddered a little bit, though she hid it, and was careful not to let any of it touch her skin.

“Could you mix some up for me, straight, in a to-go cup, and then another batch....blended in with something to mask it? My boyfriend hates the taste of the herb, but it’s the only thing that helps with his headaches, and he’s got such an awful one today...” She gave the woman an appealing little smile, tucking the pure herb away in a bag.

Another smile, and five minutes later, Lydia walked out of the store with one hot cup of vervain tea in her hand, ready to be poured down the throat of one Peter Petrelli, forcibly if necessary, and a neatly wrapped up tea bag, just waiting to be brewed.

Some people’s habits were, after all, just a little too predictable.

Now to find Peter, and change the rules of this game to hers.

Comments

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

John woke up in agony. Not that this was anything new these days.

He hadn't eaten in nearly a week, and while this normally wouldn't be a problem, his body at his age only demanding he feed once every few days, the bullets still lodged in his shoulder, back and legs were a poison. They kept bleeding, unable to heal, and between that and the fact that the boy kept taking more blood, more than he would ever give a pet in the best of times, he was most assuredly starving and it was taking its toll on him. He didn't dare move, didn't try to escape, too weak for it, each little movement like a firebrand against skin that more than showed every last one of his four hundred and some years. Staying still was almost just as bad and his jaw ached, the pain too great to even think about trying to open his mouth far enough to feed, let alone rip out the boy's throat on the off chance he could muster the strength to escape his bonds in the first place.

It was hell. Worse than whatever sickness he'd endured as a human. Worse than the vervain Richard had poisoned him with after he'd killed Anna. And worse than that, he could faintly make out the door opening upstairs and someone descending the steps to where he was hidden away. The boy was back.

A week ago, he would have threatened him -- he had threatened him. Now he just watched him with hollow eyes, not entirely able to focus on him from the starvation and not particularly wanting to. The boy said something to him, though he couldn't understand him, brambles of pain catching in his ability to reason and tearing his thoughts to shreds and moved over to him, fingers going to the rope at his wrists. He undid one side, pulling his arm down from the board it had been pinned to, and John whimpered, the edges of his vision bleeding black from the agony that gentle a movement was. His eyes fluttered closed, but not before he saw Peter lean into his wrist, his teeth sharpened to fine points.

Fangs. It hadn't even been a week, and the boy had fangs already. If he could have screamed when the pull of blood started, he would have.

Eventually, finally, mercifully, the boy pulled back, and John sagged back against the wood behind him, sobbing soundlessly, sure for a moment that he would be sick. Peter rebound his arm and stepped back, as if he was expecting the same, but nothing came and eventually the boy grew tired of watching him, moving away and back up the stairs, though the pain barely let him track him that far. He prayed that, where ever Peter was going, someone would put him out of his misery or that someone would arrive to put him out of his own, and then he was slipping back under into unconsciousness, spared more agony from overload on this slice of torment.

And Peter, breathing hard and high on blood, moved out of the warehouse and back towards the Gasthaus, hoping with a sort of insane fervor that Sylar (Samuel) had something for him to do.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia might have had herself locked down emotionally, but her sense of smell was just fine, and she was hunting. She moved soundlessly through the streets, careful with the tea, not spilling a drop of it on her skin, and when she caught Peter's scent she smiled. It wasn't particularly a nice smile.

Moving quickly, she slid up behind him, grabbing him and tugging him into an alleyway, spinning him and slamming him against the wall, all in one fast, seamless movement.

She flashed him that same smile, dark and feral, and then sank her teeth into his throat. She could smell John all over him, taste the richness in his blood she'd smelled on the air in the clearing, and it made her growl low in her throat and pull a bit more fiercely than she'd intended.

Before it had always been about pleasure, making it good for him. She didn't stint on that now--she had a greater purpose, after all--but if she laced it with a barbed whip of pain, she didn't think she could really be blamed.

[hadtobeahero]

Even with his senses as finely tuned as they were at the moment, he hadn't heard her coming, and so he had no time to react. He wasn't about to stand still once she had him against the wall, however, and so he fought back with as much strength as he could muster, snarling and bearing newly earned fangs as if that would help. It didn't and he wasn't stupid enough to keep struggling when she sunk her teeth into his throat, but he did try and shove her back mentally, pushing all of the madness that had been inflicted on him towards her, hoping it would reach her through his blood.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

She snarled against his throat, one hand still keeping the tea at bay from the struggle, the other holding him, and though she felt the waves he threw at her, she let them break over her. They'd done their worst already, hitting all the places she didn't think she could survive. While part of her knew he was as much a victim as her, she didn't have time for pity, and she sent back a rolling mental command to be still.

[hadtobeahero]

Normally, it wouldn't have worked -- hell, normally they wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place. He would have felt Sylar (Samuel) in his head and he would have been able to fight him off, just as he would have been able to fight her off now, but Samuel had broken something in him in possessing him in the first place. He'd done it again when he'd put Peter in his sway and as such, at the moment, he had no will to fight back and he stilled abruptly, watching her with hateful eyes.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

She didn't want the look in his eyes still to hurt, but it did. It couldn't matter, though, and she pushed it back. She took more blood than she should have probably, but she did intend to give it back, once she worked her way back in. She needed him under her control first, though, before she gave him back his own. It was all she'd been able to figure out to break Samuel's hold.

He'd been hers first, her bond should hold some primacy. She just hadn't asserted it thoroughly before. Now she was.

Pulling back from his neck, she met his eyes, fingers tight on his chin to make him meet hers, hold them. She put Power behind every word, eyes never wavering, more compulsion than she'd ever tried with simple persuasion with him. In some things, blood really was the key, and they'd shared enough, she knew she had the edge here. "Whatever he's done, I want you to let it go. Remember who you are. Remember you're mine. Not his. Mine." That last might have been an exaggeration, but. She needed him to be on her side, now. Needed his loyalty--that loyalty Sylar had been jealous of--back.

Her fingers softened on his chin, brushing over his cheek more softly. Some part of her, locked up tight, twisted to do it after the night before. Part of her wanted to slap him again, to scream at him again, but she needed him, and she couldn't go crawling back to that cave. So she let her guard drop, just enough to let her ability out, reaching for his, for that other connection, empath to empath, that Samuel could maybe emulate, but not understand. Somewhere in there was still Peter's soul, and all Samuel's mindfucking, or hers, couldn't take that away. She needed it back, too, and even as she worked to compel his mind to take back itself, with that slight addendum, she reached for the other piece, too.

[hadtobeahero]

Peter continued to stare at her for a moment, his eyes hard, and shifted a bit, faintly and restlessly, as if he planned on fighting back or, at very least, as if the reflex to try was still intact. He didn't, though -- couldn't -- and slowly his eyes went blank, his expression softening. He stared at her for a long time like that, then finally life touched his face again and he shook his head, closing his eyes, his world and his stomach along with it reeling.

He could remember what had happened in bits in pieces -- what he'd done to John and to Lydia -- and it seemed both far away, like a bad dream, and startlingly sharp at the same time. How much of that had been his choice? Had any of it? He could remember being possessed and then compelled, but ... how much of a say had he had in any of that? How much had he tried to fight back? He couldn't remember. There were great gaping black holes in his memory. Other parts were just smears of memory. He couldn't -- he couldn't --

He pushed away from her abruptly, moving to the opposite wall of the alley, sinking down against it. Whatever had happened, whatever he'd done or hadn't done or whatever, he felt sick, and unless she wanted that on her dress, he needed to get away.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia felt the shift, and let him go, emotions battening back down tight. She couldn't feel his breakdown, couldn't go through it with him, not when she'd had her own, and still...if she thought, if she went there, if she dwelt...if she thought about Sylar...it all came reeling up out of the darkness and she'd fall back under and to pieces.

She couldn't do that. Not for Sylar, not for John. They needed her to be strong.

"Throw up. Scream. Hit something. Get it out. Get it over, then get up," she said, softly, straightforward, but not cruelly, not really. "I know it hurts, but...there's not time. We can all...fall apart later, after it's done. I need you. I can't fix this alone, okay?" He was human, of course. He didn't have the same ability to switch off she was using, but he'd been through Hell before. He had to have some coping mechanism he could call on to get through the night, right?

[hadtobeahero]

"Yeah, just -- "

He curled his fingers into a fist and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to fight back another wave of nausea as it hit him. It, like so much else this evening, seemed to be an exercise in futility, however, and he pulled his hand away, moving it to the wall for support, and was violently physically ill. He didn't stop until there was nothing left in his stomach to rid himself of, and when he finished, he stared down at the sick red smear on the pavement for a long time, swiping his fingers over his mouth and trying to catch his breath, before finally turning back to her. He couldn't quite bring himself to look at her, however.

"I think ... " Pausing, he shook his head, then started his head, ashamed but willing to own up to what he'd done. Or what he'd been forced to do. "I know where John is. He's -- I've -- I think he's dying."

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Her fingers curled into a fist, nails biting into her palm, but she nodded, a flicker of relief that she'd been right, that he knew where he was running through her, and another of terror that they'd be too late following on its heels.

She pulled out the wrapped packet of loose sprigs of vervain, passing it over.

"Put this somewhere on you. In your pockets, in your belt, in your shoes--wherever. It'll keep you from being compelled again. By anyone." Including her. Though it wouldn't break the one she'd laid, which is why she'd had to break Samuel's. She didn't mention that, of course. She held out the teacup a bit, too.

"When you think you can stomach it, drink this. It's vervain tea. It'll help if he finds the herb on you. Second line of defense." Also poisoned blood, but she didn't say that out loud. Peter knew that. She figured he'd also get it was her way of saying she wasn't taking more of his blood tonight, or whatever. She'd get to the tea for Samuel after they'd gotten to John.

"Take me to John."

[hadtobeahero]

He took the packet from her, careful not to touch her, ashamed and afraid of making things worse somehow if he did, and looked down at it for a moment, trying to decide what to do with it. Eventually, he decided that putting it in one of his shoes seemed the best idea -- less a chance of it falling out or being found accidentally -- and he leaned down, hiking up his jeans to slip it in the heel of his sneakers. He shifted from one foot to the other, just to make sure it was secure, then sighed, reaching to take the cup from her without looking directly at her.

He stared down at it, not sure if he could stomach the tea right now, but he had to try. Had to force himself to keep it down for Sylar's sake. For all of theirs. And that in mind he took a deep breath to steady himself before taking a sip. Thankfully his stomach only protested weakly, and he chanced another sip before gesturing back down the way he'd come.

"There's a warehouse down that way. Third one on the left. I ... I moved him there last time you guys went looking for him." It made sense now why Sylar hadn't called him out when he'd lied about it. Not that that particularly mattered right now. He sighed, reaching into his pocket for John's ring, and held it out to her. "You might want to take him this."

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Her nightmare crashed down around her again, the feel of the late afternoon sun suddenly too bright and she hissed something wordless, reaching out to take it, fingers barely brushing his skin, like he might burn her, or worse, if she dared more contact again, despite having just drunk a good couple pints of his blood.

Her fingers curled around the ring tightly, and she nodded, not daring to speak for a moment. When she managed to trust her voice again, she rethought her original request. He'd told her, that was good enough. better he didn't go.

She fished out the second packet.

"This is more tea. When you've finished yours...go back. This one's..." She smiled, though it was bitter, and her voice had an odd note, thick with some sort of unspoken emotion. "Samuel's favorite. It's laced with vervain. It won't kill him, but it will incapacitate him. We'll need that. Make sure you get plenty in him, then get out. I don't want him taking control of you again. Meet me back here. I'll...after I get John somewhere safe, I'll come for you. We'll fix this."

God willing, John would know how.

[hadtobeahero]

He took that packet from her too, tucking this one away into safety in his pocket, and nodded, curling both hands back around his tea. He took another sip of the drink and glanced in the direction of the Gasthaus almost nervously. "I think I'm gonna start heading back. I can finish the tea on the way and lose the cup before I get there."

While he was no coward, he knew that John wouldn't be happy if and when Lydia got him back on his feet. He didn't want to be anywhere nearby when that happened.

"Just ... do me a favor?" Not that he had a right to ask for one after what he'd apparently done to them all. Not that what he was about to ask for would make any bit of difference. Regardless, though, he had to ask, had to make sure it was said, and he meant every word of it. "Tell him I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ... "

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia nodded slightly, taking a couple of steps back away from him, now that she had her hands free again save for John's ring, which she kept a tight grip on. The cell phone she didn't go for, not yet, just watching Peter, as impassive as she knew how to be.

"I'll tell him."

[hadtobeahero]

"Thanks."

He chanced a glance up at her finally, meeting her eyes for an instant, trying to let her know that his apology extended to her, too. He couldn't quite say it, afraid of damaging their relationship, whatever remained of it, further, but he hadn't meant what he'd said. Hopefully she'd get that, and if not, hopefully he'd find the power to say it before too long had passed. And that done, he turned, heading back towards the Gasthaus, his teacup clutched tightly against his chest.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

She watched him go, not really willing to accept apologies in looks, even if he hadn't been himself, had been compelled by a ghost who hated her beyond all reasoning. It still stung, cut a bit, but she turned away, reaching for the cell phone she held and called the bikers she'd brought, moving to the warehouse Peter had indicated, and giving them the address.

It wasn't far from where she'd left them--little was in this town. If they made some noise in arriving...well. So be it. No one was going to come to investigate with so many, not without serious backup the police in this town didn't have right now. And they weren't going to bother for an abandoned place.

She gave them all sweet smiles, and led them inside, catching the scent of blood, John's blood, as soon as they stepped inside. It was all she could do not to cry out, to fall when she saw him, and when one of the bikers started to make a joke, she nearly ripped out his throat.

Instead, she hissed a scathing order, and they all froze like marionettes, as she moved to where John was hanging and bound, and gently, but quickly started freeing him, ready to catch him when he fell.

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

He collapsed into her arms, not bothering to try and soften the weight of his fall, not able to, and whimpered. He could smell blood -- wanted it, needed it -- but everything still hurt. At his point he was hysterically certain that he couldn't eat even if he wanted to, his jaw all but paralyzed, and even if he could, that would require moving and that would hurt more and God, all he wanted was for the pain to stop. Maybe Lydia would be merciful and put him out of his misery, if she was here at all and not some hopeful hallucination brought on by the coming of the end.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia caught him as gently as she could, and if she was crying, she didn't realize it, not fully. Lowering him to the ground, she cradled him there, brushing fingers over his face, and murmuring some sort of comforting nonsense about how sorry she was, that she hadn't realized who he was, that it was her fault, and she was sorry, but she was going to fix it now. She gestured for one of the bikers blindly, but they were bound tight enough to come and drop beside them both, and she didn't even hesitate, but snagged the man's wrist and near slashed it with her teeth, before holding it up to John's lips.

She could feel his pain, running through her, not able to keep her walls up around him, and her murmurs turned coaxing. He didn't have to open his mouth, not far, just part his lips. The blood was right here, just take a small sip, just a little, and the pain would ease, please, just a bit, for her, he could do that, right?

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

He barely managed even that, choking on a sob as he tried, but he did manage, blood flowing from the wound and into his mouth through gravity rather than any great act of will or want. Regardless of how it happened, however, the effect it had on him was near immediate, some of the pain subsiding, the steel wiring that had bound his jaw shut shrinking back a little. It still hurt, God, did it hurt, but he wasn't praying for a swift death anymore. There was a chance he could make it out of this alive now, and the predator in him pounced on that, snarling.

Trembling and weak, he reached to curl his fingers around the biker's arm, tugging his bleeding wrist closer to him and making a show of holding him there, even if he didn't have the strength for it. He looked up at Lydia briefly, his eyes black and startlingly mindless, animal instinct taking over, but still somehow grateful, and then buried his face in the other man's skin, drinking greedily, messily, feeling his life slip away and into him as his heartbeat slowed then stopped. While the blood helped, however, he was no where near whole again, his flesh still near-mummified and just barely starting to try and fix what time and Peter had done to him.

He looked up at her, head tilted to one side almost curiously, still more monster than man, and then slid his eyes to the other bikers, licking his lips. He'd had a taste, a tease, of what he needed and now he was ravenous. If he'd had more strength, he might have rocketed across the room and attacked the first man he fell on for how out of control he was in that moment.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia gave him a little smile, and cradled his cheek, even as she beckoned for the second biker to come to them. Despite the fate of their comrade, they didn't seem to concerned, which sort of impressed her with the whole thrall thing. "Don't worry. I brought more," she assured him, in case he couldn't quite tell there were several over there.

If he was still hungry after, they could go hunting, but she figured they'd make a good start to getting him back on the road to recovery.

The second biker knelt beside him, and Lydia went through the same process, not wanting him to have to strain, biting the man's wrist before handing his arm over, holding it if he needed her to, still cradling John as gently as she could.

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

John didn't hesitate this time, nor did he make a sound, need overriding whatever pain he was still in at the moment, and reaching out, he dragged the man's wrist down to his mouth and sealed it over the wound, draining him dry as quickly as he had the first. He pushed him away with a bit more strength than he had shown before, letting him fall on top of the first one, and shivered, actually feeling a fraction of the rush that came with taking a life this time where he had barely registered it before. It felt good, he was starting to feel better, and it showed on his face, something nearer to sanity filtering back in even as his skin worked to fix itself in earnest.

He still needed more, though, and he shifted a bit, trying to sit up, to get at them, ever hungry. He stopped halfway, hissing, the bite of the bullets still in his shoulder and back racing through him.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia hadn't been aware of the other pain, lesser to the hunger, but there as well, but she felt it now that his hunger had eased enough for him to be hampered by them as well as the other.

"Here..." She helped him shift to sitting, imperiously beckoning a third over to kneel beside him as she moved around behind. He seemed strong enough to deal with the biting now, and feeding would be a distraction. "Eat. I'll...get these out."

She didn't have to tell him it would hurt, but it would be so much better once the poisonous wood was gone, and the ugly wounds could close. Biting her lip, she waited for him to grab the biker while she contemplated the wounds. She had no instruments, but at least sterilization wasn't an issue. It would have to be just fingers then, quick, fast and dirty, but then over. She steeled herself to get it done.

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

Had he been in his right mind, John might have suggested she borrow a knife from one of the bikers and cut the bullets out; as it was, he just looked back at her suspiciously, not truly grasping what was going on, then decided she wasn't important. There was blood to be had and he could smell the biker kneeling beside him.

Wetting his lips with his tongue again, he turned away from her and tugged the biker's arm over to him. He flashed him a ravenous smile, the expression at least partially covered by his wrist, already at John's mouth, and then he bit down, happily ignoring Lydia in favor of feeling more and more alive again.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

She'd been about to go for the first bullet when a glint on the biker's belt caught her attention. Quick as a flash, she had the knife off of him, and in her hand, even as he whimpered, headed to death. Rather than keeping calling them over, she snapped out an order for the rest of them to just line up and wait their turn, and they, quite obligingly, did.

Then, with a muttered apology, and hoping he'd be distracted by the blood that she'd so nicely brought and not turn around when he got his strength back and send her flying or stake her or something before he realized she was trying to help, she went after the first bullet. To her credit--enhanced-speed, dexterity, eyesight and reflexes made her very fast about it?

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

Even so, he cried out, twisting away from her though not intentionally, and tightened his grip on the biker's arm. While the other man echoed his pain, however, he did not pull away, staying obediently still. John, on the other hand, did move, throwing a snarl and a look over his shoulder even though the pain was already gone, one bullet already out of him. It occurred to him then, belatedly, what she was doing, and he huffed, still not happy but at least not ready to put her through a wall, and turned back to his meal, trying not to think that there were several more that needed to come out now that he could think at all.