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.
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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.