ellectrical (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ellectrical) wrote2010-10-22 09:12 pm
ellectrical) wrote2010-10-22 09:12 pm
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She can't move anymore. When she starts to wake up again, she can feel not a concrete floor beneath her, but something softer. It dips very slightly at her shape, when she presses two fingers very gently against it. Harder than a bed – it reminds her of sitting in the doctors' exam room. The thought stings her a little, but she still doesn't open her eyes. She's not feeling particularly hungry or thirsty – in fact, she's not really feeling anything, as though even the wish for a glass of water would be too much for her to bother with right now, when she could stay reclined, her eyes closed, unmoving.
The light changes; she doesn't have to open her eyes to see it. Something bright flashes against her eyelids for a moment before it's extinguished once more, accompanied by the click of a latch and quiet turn of a lock that she can't block out. There are footsteps again, the same footsteps she heard before. She wants to ignore it, maybe if he thinks she's still unconscious he'll leave her alone. But another side of her doesn't want him to leave. He has what she wanted. Why should she be refusing it now?
But soon enough, the decision is made for her. His footsteps halt, and he murmurs, "Look at me, Elle."
Her eyes open on cue, as though she can't help it, but she doesn't look straight to him. First it's the florescent bulb on the ceiling, then the raised cot she's on, the hard fabric she realizes is exactly like the doctor's exam table she'd pictured. Then it's to the bright spot on her skin she can see in the corner of her eye, which turns out to be one of many pieces of tape keeping something attached to her left arm; a glint in the air allows her to follow the thin tube sticking out of it up to the IV bag full of clear fluid hanging from a metal rack.
"Elle," he repeats, and her eyes do go to him. He's stepped into the light, so that she can't see his face, though a slice of light does illuminate his red tie. Not imagining it could make any difference, she watches this, instead.
"I don't have time for this anymore."
She shifts very slightly, her hands grasping at the sides of the table, finding metal handles and sliding around them as though this slight sense of stability could give her the strength for a few simple words.
"Why don't you take it?" Each word scratches on her throat. He holds out a hand, beyond his own shadow but short of her grasp, and a small ball of sparks crackles up above it.
"I don't need to."
The sparks go out, and Elle leans back against the table, her eyes returning to the ceiling she can barely make out. She can feel the adhesive on her arm now, but letting it irritate her would take energy she's not sure she has.
"I was hoping –"
Her grip on the handles tightens. Taking in the breath she needs for it makes her tremble, but she doesn't want to show it, and so holds tight so as to try and keep herself from shaking.
"– it'd be you. Not – him."
A thought flurries up into her mind, wondering if the stretch of silence that follows indicates surprise. She can't imagine that it does. One or the other had seemed inevitable, and while Arthur Petrelli may have taken her ability from another source (Peter, she should have known, anyway), Sylar would have to come right to her. Of course, nothing that had happened so far had been what she'd expected, and that remained true for every moment she was still breathing.
"It's not what I was thinking."
He steps forward, forcing himself into her line of sight. She slips her hands from the sides of the table, folding them over her stomach instead. But she doesn't look away.
"He'd like it, but it's not what I need from him. Or you."
Petrelli leans in, and Elle is almost surprised by the effort it takes to keep still. She nearly jumps when she feels his fingers on her forehead, and unwillingly begins to claw at the fabric on the table, the energy that so recently seemed beyond her reach suddenly flooding under her skin like a sudden burst of adrenaline. He brushes her shortened bangs aside, not seeming to notice how quickly she's breathing, that her shoulders are close to trembling –
"I was hoping you could help, but you may be too broken for that."
Elle tilts her head back as much as she can, less than an inch from his fingers.
"What..."
She can't seem to pull together any more of the question. Far from it being too much work, there is suddenly too much, too much going on that her mind can't sort it out, and she's gripping the table to try to steady herself.
"I'll have to take you out," he murmurs, leaning in like a mechanic over the hood of car, as though he could see into her just as easily. "Leave what I can of your training and work from there."
Petrelli straightens, though his hand is still on the table next to her, his fingers in her hair. "But that won't be so bad, will it? I'm sure there's plenty you'd rather just forget agai –"
The room is full of light before she knows what's happening. Her eyes blink, and she's pulling herself up on the table. The fluorescent bulb above is flickering wildly – she can see Petrelli's form on the floor, stirring gently, dark burns lightening already. He's begun to pull himself up off the floor as Elle steps down from the table. She's not really thinking – not about what he'd said, or the locked door and whatever would stop her beyond, or his healing wounds. Her movements seem apart from her, like a triggered alarm. She has to stop him. That's all that mattered.
And as he climbs to his feet again, Elle reaches across to her left arm, grips the tape over it, and tears out the needle beneath. She'd barely felt a whisper of blood between her fingers before she'd stepped forward, thin needle in her right hand, and without so much as a second to pause, Elle slams the needle into Petrelli's throat. He makes an odd gurgling sound, and staggers back, and Elle rips as much of his neck as she can as she pulls the needle out again, and slips back against the exam table.
Dark ribbons slip down his white shirt from beneath the hand he clutches to his neck, and Petrelli falls to his knees in front of her. Elle can see quickly enough, however, that this is as far as the wound will take him – already the spurt of blood seems to be subsiding, and he looks up at her, something close to a smile on his bloodied face. Fear spikes in her once more, and she lifts the needle again, holding it over him for a moment before a different idea occurs, and she redirects its path toward her own throat.
Someone watching might have been unable to tell what came first – Petrelli throwing up his hand, croaking something at her, or Elle pause with the point of the needle a hair from her neck. But it doesn't matter – the hesitation is enough to tell who's bluffing, and before Elle can think any further, something hits her in the face, with all the force of a punch though there's nothing there at all. The adrenaline fueling her seems to subside as quickly as it spiked, and Elle's knees buckle. She topples to the floor, her only composure in managing to use her hands to break her fall, and for a moment Elle watches dark spots slap themselves on to the concrete floor of the room before she realizes it's blood dripping from her lip.
He's risen to his feet, and she can barely keep the energy to hold herself up. The now stained needle hangs limp in front of her like a drooping balloon, and she can't think of anything to save herself. It's the thought that makes her answer, finally –
"Don't."
He remains silent. She can only feel his shoes shift on the concrete. Elle presses her eyes shut.
"Please don't – I can't –"
Her elbows start to sting badly, she can tell they're about to give way. She closes her eyes even more tightly, as though she could simply block him out, but she can't block out his voice, returned with his healed windpipe. His tone is calm, matter-of-fact, maybe a little disappointed.
"So that's what it takes for you to say what you want."
He's out the door before she can understand his words. Unable to hold herself up any longer, Elle lets herself crumple, making no effort to climb back onto the table but instead curling up on the bloodied tile floor.
The light changes; she doesn't have to open her eyes to see it. Something bright flashes against her eyelids for a moment before it's extinguished once more, accompanied by the click of a latch and quiet turn of a lock that she can't block out. There are footsteps again, the same footsteps she heard before. She wants to ignore it, maybe if he thinks she's still unconscious he'll leave her alone. But another side of her doesn't want him to leave. He has what she wanted. Why should she be refusing it now?
But soon enough, the decision is made for her. His footsteps halt, and he murmurs, "Look at me, Elle."
Her eyes open on cue, as though she can't help it, but she doesn't look straight to him. First it's the florescent bulb on the ceiling, then the raised cot she's on, the hard fabric she realizes is exactly like the doctor's exam table she'd pictured. Then it's to the bright spot on her skin she can see in the corner of her eye, which turns out to be one of many pieces of tape keeping something attached to her left arm; a glint in the air allows her to follow the thin tube sticking out of it up to the IV bag full of clear fluid hanging from a metal rack.
"Elle," he repeats, and her eyes do go to him. He's stepped into the light, so that she can't see his face, though a slice of light does illuminate his red tie. Not imagining it could make any difference, she watches this, instead.
"I don't have time for this anymore."
She shifts very slightly, her hands grasping at the sides of the table, finding metal handles and sliding around them as though this slight sense of stability could give her the strength for a few simple words.
"Why don't you take it?" Each word scratches on her throat. He holds out a hand, beyond his own shadow but short of her grasp, and a small ball of sparks crackles up above it.
"I don't need to."
The sparks go out, and Elle leans back against the table, her eyes returning to the ceiling she can barely make out. She can feel the adhesive on her arm now, but letting it irritate her would take energy she's not sure she has.
"I was hoping –"
Her grip on the handles tightens. Taking in the breath she needs for it makes her tremble, but she doesn't want to show it, and so holds tight so as to try and keep herself from shaking.
"– it'd be you. Not – him."
A thought flurries up into her mind, wondering if the stretch of silence that follows indicates surprise. She can't imagine that it does. One or the other had seemed inevitable, and while Arthur Petrelli may have taken her ability from another source (Peter, she should have known, anyway), Sylar would have to come right to her. Of course, nothing that had happened so far had been what she'd expected, and that remained true for every moment she was still breathing.
"It's not what I was thinking."
He steps forward, forcing himself into her line of sight. She slips her hands from the sides of the table, folding them over her stomach instead. But she doesn't look away.
"He'd like it, but it's not what I need from him. Or you."
Petrelli leans in, and Elle is almost surprised by the effort it takes to keep still. She nearly jumps when she feels his fingers on her forehead, and unwillingly begins to claw at the fabric on the table, the energy that so recently seemed beyond her reach suddenly flooding under her skin like a sudden burst of adrenaline. He brushes her shortened bangs aside, not seeming to notice how quickly she's breathing, that her shoulders are close to trembling –
"I was hoping you could help, but you may be too broken for that."
Elle tilts her head back as much as she can, less than an inch from his fingers.
"What..."
She can't seem to pull together any more of the question. Far from it being too much work, there is suddenly too much, too much going on that her mind can't sort it out, and she's gripping the table to try to steady herself.
"I'll have to take you out," he murmurs, leaning in like a mechanic over the hood of car, as though he could see into her just as easily. "Leave what I can of your training and work from there."
Petrelli straightens, though his hand is still on the table next to her, his fingers in her hair. "But that won't be so bad, will it? I'm sure there's plenty you'd rather just forget agai –"
The room is full of light before she knows what's happening. Her eyes blink, and she's pulling herself up on the table. The fluorescent bulb above is flickering wildly – she can see Petrelli's form on the floor, stirring gently, dark burns lightening already. He's begun to pull himself up off the floor as Elle steps down from the table. She's not really thinking – not about what he'd said, or the locked door and whatever would stop her beyond, or his healing wounds. Her movements seem apart from her, like a triggered alarm. She has to stop him. That's all that mattered.
And as he climbs to his feet again, Elle reaches across to her left arm, grips the tape over it, and tears out the needle beneath. She'd barely felt a whisper of blood between her fingers before she'd stepped forward, thin needle in her right hand, and without so much as a second to pause, Elle slams the needle into Petrelli's throat. He makes an odd gurgling sound, and staggers back, and Elle rips as much of his neck as she can as she pulls the needle out again, and slips back against the exam table.
Dark ribbons slip down his white shirt from beneath the hand he clutches to his neck, and Petrelli falls to his knees in front of her. Elle can see quickly enough, however, that this is as far as the wound will take him – already the spurt of blood seems to be subsiding, and he looks up at her, something close to a smile on his bloodied face. Fear spikes in her once more, and she lifts the needle again, holding it over him for a moment before a different idea occurs, and she redirects its path toward her own throat.
Someone watching might have been unable to tell what came first – Petrelli throwing up his hand, croaking something at her, or Elle pause with the point of the needle a hair from her neck. But it doesn't matter – the hesitation is enough to tell who's bluffing, and before Elle can think any further, something hits her in the face, with all the force of a punch though there's nothing there at all. The adrenaline fueling her seems to subside as quickly as it spiked, and Elle's knees buckle. She topples to the floor, her only composure in managing to use her hands to break her fall, and for a moment Elle watches dark spots slap themselves on to the concrete floor of the room before she realizes it's blood dripping from her lip.
He's risen to his feet, and she can barely keep the energy to hold herself up. The now stained needle hangs limp in front of her like a drooping balloon, and she can't think of anything to save herself. It's the thought that makes her answer, finally –
"Don't."
He remains silent. She can only feel his shoes shift on the concrete. Elle presses her eyes shut.
"Please don't – I can't –"
Her elbows start to sting badly, she can tell they're about to give way. She closes her eyes even more tightly, as though she could simply block him out, but she can't block out his voice, returned with his healed windpipe. His tone is calm, matter-of-fact, maybe a little disappointed.
"So that's what it takes for you to say what you want."
He's out the door before she can understand his words. Unable to hold herself up any longer, Elle lets herself crumple, making no effort to climb back onto the table but instead curling up on the bloodied tile floor.