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

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia felt her stomach clench and try to rebel at the thought of returning to that room, but after one tiny half step back that she hoped neither of them noticed, she nodded and moved after John, figuring Peter would follow.

He maybe couldn't jump to the window, but he could fly, so.

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

Peter did indeed fly to get up to the window, and when they were all inside, John looked to Samuel, making sure he hadn't moved from where he'd left him, then moved towards the door. He knelt down in front of it, setting the bag down next to him, and rifled through it again, pulling out a handful of leaves this time. He set it down around the edges of the bottom of the door frame, reached for another handful, and repeated the process on the other side of the frame. He studied the tiny piles for a moment, frowning, then sighed and got back to his feet, moving to spread a sprinkling of leaves along the window sill.

He moved back to the center of the room, gathering Power around him like a cloak with each step he took, and unsheathed his sword from where it had been hidden in his cane. He pointed it towards the floor at the base of the door and flashed Lydia a wry smile, his eyes slowly darkening as the feel of magic electrified the air. "I do hope they didn't ask you to put a security deposit on this room. You're about to lose it."

Without waiting for her to answer, he raised the tip of the sword, following the line of the door frame with it, and as he did so, the leaves he'd spread at its base followed suit, snaking up the wood slowly and from both sides, hissing with a rustle of unfelt wind. They continued on, creeping higher, covering the frame until they met in the center, above the door, and John pushed more Power into them, closing his eyes. They did nothing for a moment, a slow, sweet smell filling the room as though something were burning, and then they dissolved abruptly into a shower of ash. A delicate pattern of leaves and branches remained on the wood where they had been, apparently burned into the wood.

John studied the markings, then satisfied, he nodded, turning to repeat the process on the window.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia hadn't expected him to be in Samuel's form. Peter hadn't said. Nor had John. She'd braced herself for near everything but that, and for a moment it felt like a blow to the chest, one she was fairly certain was about to stop her already slowly beating heart. Once Peter was in the window, she backed to it, again, pressing close to it, feeling the slight bit of tightening panic rushing in on her.

Then John was doing his thing, and there was magic, and it was far more powerful than anything she'd done.

She moved away from the window, letting him do what he needed to, eyes taking in the vines, the smell of the herbs, and tried to steady herself, adjust to the adjustment in the plan.

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

John reached out to her a she passed, fingers brushing over her arm lightly as if he had sensed her distress. He hadn't thought to warn her about how he'd found Sylar, the fact that he was wearing Samuel's face just a footnote in the story as far as he had been concerned, and now he wished he had. He could apologize later, though, if she required one, and he offered her a sympathetic look in spite of how otherwise cold he was, before raising his sword to finish the window.

He stepped back away from it, nearly bumping into Peter who was staring, rapt. Apparently one of them turning into a wolf or a leopard, a crow or a lion, was perfectly alright, but such an overt display of Power was worthy of staring at. John rolled his eyes, grateful that the fool boy didn't express his surprise verbally, and willed himself to move around Peter and over to Sylar, each step heavy, his exhaustion showing. It would be a miracle if he made it through this and didn't pass out at the end, he decided.

"You're welcome to leave, my dear," he said, nudging Sylar (Samuel) with the flat of his sword. "This ... won't be a joy to watch, I can promise you that."

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

The expression of sympathy, however small, was enough to remind her that there was a bigger issue here, and while Peter and Sylar would know what had been done...it wasn't something she wanted to think about. She gave him a forced smile to show she was all right, but after a quick assessment of how tired he looked, she shook her head, eyes going a little flat.

"No. I need to see it through. I need..." To know he was gone. To have him know she'd seen him gone. To tell him she knew. To...something. "Besides. You might need me." She'd gotten far better, just in a week of practice. Necessity was a hard taskmistress, but powerful.

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

"Remember, then, that I warned you," he said, all but ignoring the part where she suggested he might need help. He could do this -- would do it, for his pride and his progeny both -- but chances were he wouldn't be doing much in terms of Power and magic for awhile after this. Not until he had time to recuperate and had a few good meals in him. Maybe he'd go back to London for a time.

He shook his head, forcing the thought of mind, and lowered himself to his knees beside Samuel, fingers slipping under one of his shoulders to roll him onto his back. He looked down at him, willing himself to see his adoptive son rather than the man that had hijacked his body, and brushed his fingers over his forehead lightly, murmuring an apology. He leaned away when he was finished, allowing himself a moment of silence, gathering Power to him again and pushing it through the blade, then leaned back in, hovering over Sylar, and drove the tip of the sword through the top of his head savagely.

Samuel cried out, half-sitting up for a moment, before sinking back into the floor. For all that that likely would have killed anything, though, vampire or not, he continued breathing, albeit suddenly heavily. More than that, he was writhing on the floor now, fingers balling into fists and then relaxing, head snapping from one side to the other, his skin running riot as if something was alive underneath it. And while the latter was not particularly part of the process, John imagined it had something to do with the fact that Sylar's body was wearing Samuel's face and ignored it. Just as he ignored Peter who had appeared at the edges of his vision, apparently startled.

Leaving the sword where it was, he pulled away again, and put his hands to his chest just above where his rib cage came together and started muttering fiercely, whatever he was saying far too low to be picked up by even Lydia's ears, and in the same tone he had used on Halloween. It was clearly having some sort of effect on Samuel, though, as his movements became more violent, John's hands on his chest following suit, holding him down now rather than touching him. This continued on for several minutes, all of it building to fever pitch, the sense of raw Power in the room tremendous, Samuel's eyes snapping open, black and unseeing, slurred curses slipping out between clenched, fanged teeth, and then finally, he stilled. John, however, did not move his hands.

"Let him go," he ordered, loudly and clearly, though his voice was strange. Like fire on some deep, visceral level. Peter shrank back out of his line of sight. Samuel screamed, the sound building in volume, shifting halfway to Sylar's voice as his body snapped back into its rightful form in a swell of Power, and then cut off abruptly, Sylar sinking back into the floor, tendrils of smoke rising from his flesh. It spiraled up, encircling the pommel of John's sword, sinking into it, and then it was gone.

John shuddered, swaying as he leaned over Sylar again to curl his fingers around the grip of the weapon, barely conscious himself, and took a deep breath. Then, once he felt at least somewhat steadied, he pulled the sword out of the top of his head, the blade unbloodied, and dropped it to the ground. With shaking fingers, he pushed Sylar's hair out of the way, checking for a wound, and when he found none, he reached for the sword again, and got to his feet, moving to the mirror.

"Bring the bag over here," he said, his voice faint now, distant, as if he were barely managing to stay awake and upright. "I need more of those leaves to trap him further."

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia stifled a cry as the sword went in, moving forward with an aborted motion. She trusted John as much as she could trust anyone at the moment. She had to. There was no one else. But it still...

The whole fight made something twist inside of her, as if part of her was rioting in concert with the battle raging between the two souls she'd loved most in her life. If she hated one now more than she believed possible, well...two sides. One coin. It played into a lot of things around them, apparently.

John's voice, speaking to her, not to the ghost, a request she could fill, broke the reverie, spell woven by far more than the magic in the room, and she moved without thinking. Her body felt like ice, but she didn't heed it, getting the bag and bringing it to him, digging out the leaves he'd used earlier, some part of her having noted them exactly, though her eyes never left the sword.

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

He took them from her with shaking hands, spreading them out along the bottom of the frame of the mirror. He didn't raise the sword to direct the flow of Power this time, however, not trusting it to do the work while it was holding Samuel's spirit, and raised a hand instead, tracing the edges of the glass slowly. The leaves followed suit has they had before, and once the leaves had imprinted themselves on the wood, he touched the pommel of his sword to the glass, muttering.

The reflection shimmered, nearly liquid, then stilled, and when it did, Samuel appeared in it, stretched out on the bed, face down, breathing hard as if he were still recovering from what John had done to him. "There."

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia moved to the mirror as if a little transfixed, unable to resist the glance at the bed. It was too like how it started, except...he wasn't looking quite so threatening, or like a figment of her imagination. Even so, she hesitated John's side, staring past her own reflection to Samuel's. In contrast to his labored reaction, she was still as a sculpture, near as pale as one, too, tattoos ebony against the stretches of skin the leather bared.

It was a strange enough reflection she didn't quite feel like herself, making it easier to look past, to ignore the jump in the other girl's pulse, the point where she started to breathe again, the rising tide of color, and the single balled fist that was her only movement.

"Now what?"

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

To tell the truth, John had been planning on torturing Samuel before he sent him on his merry way, wanting to vent some of his anger at Peter and make Samuel pay for what he don't to Sylar both, but now? Now he was utterly worn, his exhaustion reaching far beyond the physical or the mundane. Even if he could muster the will to do something, he wasn't sure he had the strength for magic that dark or that powerful.

Sheathing his sword, he pressed the tip of the cane into the floor and leaned on it heavily, trying to gather himself. When he managed he limped over to Sylar's favored chair, for once not faking it, and sunk down in it, closing his eyes, their color flickering back to normal in the second before he did. "Now you smash the mirror. That should send him back to where he belongs."

He would have done it himself, but he was too worn for that, even.

Samuel, on the other hand, seemed surprisingly quick to recover, and he peeled himself off the bed, stalking over to the glass, anger in his eyes. "What did you do?"

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia wasn't like him, wasn't like Sylar. She wasn't one to taunt, but she couldn't help the vicious little smile that curled her lips. If it was fueled by a blacker rage and a deeper, more insidious fear that probably wasn't going away any time soon, well...she'd trust Peter would keep that to himself.

"Since this morning? Broke your hold on Peter. Poisoned you. Freed and revived John. And had him rip you out of Sylar's body and trap you back on the right side of the spiritual plane." She ticked each one off on her fingers, though her voice was a tiny bit shaky--probably with the rage, or exhaustion of her own. "It's been a busy day."

She tilted her head, looking back at him, smile fading into a look of mock-confusion. "Was I not supposed to figure it out so fast after that performance last night?"

[offering-hope.livejournal.com]

He snarled, snatching something up off the dresser on his side of the glass, and pitched it at her. It was largely ineffectual, though, and so he didn't bother trying again, instead balling his fingers into fists as his side, tongue darting out to trace over his lips.

"I know all of your buttons, Lydia -- I pushed every one. I made you think he saw you for what you truly are. I made you feel it." So, no, she wasn't supposed to have figured it out. This wasn't supposed to be happening.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

"You did." She'd give him that. "And up until then, it was a masterful performance. I mean, really. Well-done. And even then...You had his power, my power, so. No point lying...last night wasn't my best night ever. But..."

She shrugged, affecting way more nonchalance than she felt. Everything was twisting around inside her, and she was pretty sure she was going to be sick. She slipped out of the biker girl's jacket, the constriction of the leather too much with the discomforting tightness under her skin. "Do you want to know what the 'but' is?"

[offering-hope.livejournal.com]

Trapped as he was, he doubted he was going to get out of hearing where she'd been going, but that didn't stop him from rolling his eyes. Or from huffing out an irritated sigh. "What's that, Lydia?"

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

"You forgot what you used me for all those years. To know people, inside and out. And maybe I am a whore, but a whore's job isn't to lay back and spread her legs. It's to know men. I know you, Samuel. Better than you know yourself. And I know him. I admit it took me a few hours to consider the possession angle, but once I had..." She held his eyes in the mirror. "You could never be him."

[offering-hope.livejournal.com]

He looked decidedly unfazed by her statement -- if anything, actually, he seemed almost amused, his eyes sparkling with dark malice. "I think you've a bit confused. The geisha of Japan, the consorts of India -- there the one meant to know men, and you're not nearly as clever as they are. Whores on the other hand? That is your job -- it's what you've done all your life. Daddy, Peter, Sylar. It's all you've ever done and what you always will do. You got lucky this time, Lydia. Nothing more."

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

"And, yet, in the space of 24 hours, this whore undid all your clever little plans. I'm going back to my life, and my family, now, while you go straight back to Hell." The sickness was still rising, and she reached for a chair, hefting it, and swinging at the mirror with all her preternatural strength.

"Goodbye, Samuel."

[hadtobeahero]

Despite the fact that he knew that it was coming, Peter jumped when the mirror shattered, scrambling back a few steps to avoid the rain of glass. Considering how very little he knew about magic and the fact that the shards were oddly non-reflective, almost black, when they hit the ground, he was pretty sure he'd made the right decision. And he stood there in silence for a moment, staring at them before he dared to shift back closer to the group.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia stared at the shattered pieces of the mirror for a moment, letting the glass fall around her, somehow avoiding being cut by some miracle or another. Then the sickness that had been welling up since she'd come in the room and seen Samuel on the floor hit and she made a dash toward the bathroom, hitting the floor by the toilet just in time to be violently ill, most of whatever had been left of the bikers leaving her system accompanied by heaving sobs.

[hadtobeahero]

Peter moved to follow her to the bathroom; John stopped him with four weary words. "Let her be, boy."

Peter looked to him, then away, intently studying the floor, and nodded. He stood there for a moment, dumbly, his fingers curling into fist, something near anger coiling in his chest, but he fought it down, sighing when it had passed. And when it had and in an effort to at least feel as though he was helping someone, he shuffled over to Sylar, dropping down on the ground next to him to check his vitals, half-worried since he hadn't woken up yet.

John probably could have reassured him -- probably should have, in fact -- but he couldn't be bothered. Sylar was fine, he knew that well enough, and if Peter was scared out of his mind? So be it. The boy deserved a little taste of terror for all that he had done to him, and even if he was feeling more generous and less spiteful, he was too damn tired. London was looking better and better every second.

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

When there was nothing left she could expel, and the heaving had stopped, Lydia managed to flush the toilet before curling up on the cool tiles a little weakly, still crying softly, though she was trying to do it silently, feeling shivers running through her.

Eventually she pushed up to sitting, but rested her head on the side of the tub, pressed in the corner of the bathroom. She heard the murmur of voices, softly, but didn't bother to try and make them out. It wasn't Sylar's, and she...really didn't want to face them, to know what they knew, or...have to be strong right now.

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

Time passed. How much, John couldn't say, as he spent the majority of it drifting in and out of consciousness, not asleep, not resting, but instead stumbling from black out to black out as he had been certain he would when things had started to wind down. Eventually, though, he managed to drag himself out of the vicious cycle his body had thrown him into, in part thanks to the pain that had started in his jaw, hunger twisting through his veins in burning waves, and he pulled himself out of his chair, shooting Peter a glance.

He considered eating him, briefly, while Sylar was still unconscious and Lydia was indisposed, and then thought better of it. He was hungry, not as mindlessly starved as he had been, and the boy still have vervain in his system. He'd only be hurting himself if he killed him. Such a pity, really.

Sighing, he reached up and scrubbed a hand over his face, then reached for his cane behind him, using it to support him as he hobbled into the bathroom. He stepped in, closing the door behind him, and looked down at Lydia, his expression sympathetic, his emotional walls crumbling in his exhaustion and hunger. He moved to sit next to her on the tiles.

"I'm going to head back to London. I've had my fill of the Germans, I think, and home seems ... " He shook his head, not quite sure he wanted to admit to wanting to run and hide, even though it was probably painfully apparent. He sighed. "I'll go by train. I can still catch the last one of the evening if I hurry, and I don't think I'm well enough yet to make the flight. I can be home by tomorrow morning."

He paused, reaching into his breast pocket for the ring of keys Samuel either hadn't noticed or hadn't thought to strip him of when he'd detained him, and fidgeted with it long enough to slide an ancient silver one off the ring. He put the keys back and touched a hand to her shoulder, holding the one he'd retrieved out to her. "When your done here -- " And he imagined it wouldn't take long. " -- I want you and my boy to drop in. Bring your human, if you must, but come. Please."

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia looked up at him when he came in, and his emotions battened into hers, and she almost whimpered, but held the sound in, biting down on her lip. When he sat, she gave in to the tiny need for some comfort from the storm, and leaned into him a little. He was safe, he was...a week ago, he'd been the one she'd trusted to end it all, and he had, but he'd suffered along the way, along with everyone else, and she didn't know how to make up for that.

That he was offering her a key to his home, that he wanted her there, after all of that...so much that he was willing to take Peter as well, and not just for Sylar...sort of stunned her. She took the key, looking at him a little blankly, not understanding how any of them could want her around after all of this, but she nodded.

"I'll bring him, once he's able to travel..." She didn't know when that would be, hadn't heard him stirring, didn't know if he'd ever recover, though if Peter had, surely Sylar would too? Her eyes slid away, down to the key, fingers tracing the ancient metal. "I'm sorry."

[of-highdegree.livejournal.com]

"Give him the night," he suggested, shifting a bit to lean back against her. "You'll likely want to find somewhere else to spend it -- and I'd be willing to give you the key to my flat here, too, if you think one of you has the strength to carry him there -- but he'll be fine in a few hours. Starved, I'm certain, but fine."

He paused again once that was out of the way, pulling away from her to look down at her, frowning. "For what, love?"

[thepainted-lady.livejournal.com]

Lydia felt sick again at the mere idea of staying here for the night. "Peter's got a room upstairs," she remembered, "But I could carry him..." Though she wasn't sure she could...on a different level if she didn't have to.

She looked away. "For causing all of this."