ellectrical | (no subject)

"I don't think I work now, either."

"I -- "

"Okay."

"It's not -"

"It's me. It's mine."

"I know."

"I don't think –"

"You're not wrong."

If she were able to recognize it, Elle might see her treatment now as similar to the kind one gets when recovering from a bad bout of flu. She wakes up in a large bed with white covers, a tray with a glass of water, bread, bowl of chicken soup, and small bottle of aspirin left on the table beside her. The space makes her think now of a moderately nice hotel room – there are two windows along the white wall that are occasionally left open; a round table large enough for two chairs; various lamps and a miniature refrigerator containing sodas and chocolate, bags of pretzels piled in to a basket on top of it. There's a writing desk in one corner, though no computer or television, no phone or radio. The soaps are frequently changed in the bathroom. Elle allows herself as much time as she can stand before, the lingering aches in her body at least mostly faded away, she pulls off the bandage on her arm, picks out a couple of the tiny shampoo bottles, and takes a long, hot shower.

Her hair is still damp when she returns to the room, moving to the untouched dresser still wrapped in a white towel. There are a lot of things that look like her old work clothes; she passes over these, picking out jeans and a white button-up blouse. It's not until she's pulled these on that she notices a pair of slender, steel scissors resting on top of the dresser.

The reason is obvious. Elle reaches once more for her towel and rubs it against her hair, then for a comb also left on the dresser. Once her hair is combed through, straight and untangled, she holds the ends between her fingers, twisting in front of the mirror for a clear view. After a few minutes of this, she picks up the scissors, and begins snipping at the ends of her hair, cutting it shorter still, thin blonde threads falling to the floor around her feet as her hair becomes short enough to barely brush over her shoulders. It's her only option – the ends have been left haphazard and uneven, like whoever had cut her hair before was inexperienced, or just bad at it.

She hears the lock and the door turn, and the creak as it opens, but rather than turning around, she watches this as it's reflected in the mirror. Arthur Petrelli's presence doesn't cause her to stop; Elle continues her work until the tips of her hair are smooth and straight, then replaces the scissors on the dresser.

"We don't have anyone as good as you." He's taken a seat at the small, round table. Elle doesn't answer, but turns, and approaches to drop into the other chair. The room is nice, as is not being tortured, but there's still no illusion that she has a choice.

(Or, as he'd shown her in leaving her alone with a small, sharp object – any choice she was willing to take.)

He's silent for a moment, like he expects her to say something, but when she doesn't he asks, "How are you feeling?"

Her breath is only caught in her throat for a moment. It's healed enough that she can answer with her full voice, though it's even, and quiet –

"Much better."

He nods without taking his eyes off her, expression slightly curious, as though waiting to see if she'll break eye contact first. Elle returns it, but with no sense of defiance or nerve, or even the callous sort of bravery that would suggest she has nothing to be afraid of. She has everything to be afraid of, but her vacant expression suggests she's given up on fear, or bravery, or nerve. He looks at her, so she looks back.

"I was hoping you'd be well enough to continue the discussion we had earlier."

She doesn't answer, but waits for him to continue the direction of this conversation. He doesn't seem to mind.

"If you're going to stay as you are, I'm going to need to know it will be worth my time."

Elle waits another moment, but eventually replies, "I asked what you wanted."

"And now I'm going to tell you." Petrelli leans in a little farther, his hands folding over the table between them, the look he's giving her one to hold her attention rather than to daring her to glance away. "But I need to know you won't be having any more trouble telling your dreams from reality."

She still doesn't move, not even glancing away, but after another stretch of silence:

"Look all you want."

Nearly five minutes later, Petrelli tells her,"You're a little old for imaginary friends, don't you think?"

Elle finally blinks away, and then back. It's all the response there is.

He also finally looks away, as he stands from the table and takes a few steps past her. Elle lets him move behind her, not turning even a little to keep him in her sight.

"If it were just that, I'd be getting rid of it. But with memory, well – you never know what you'll lose, do you?"

She doesn't rise to the taunt, and he continues without pause. "If you're going to do this, you'll need to know who you are, and what you can do."

A quiet click from behind her tells Elle that he's opened the small refrigerator. She still doesn't turn around, and directs her question to the opposite wall.

"You're going to tell me that now, right?" Despite the hint of impudence in it, the question is sincere, in her voice toneless. Several minutes pass in silence, and he returns to the table with two glasses of water and a small bar of chocolate that he places in front of Elle before sitting down. He takes a sip of his own water, though Elle touches neither, before he finally nods.

"I have someone here who's powerful but difficult to control." He doesn't need to say any names, though in her shift to meet his eyes again, Elle can't entirely hide the way her stomach turns at the thought of where this could be going. "And you're going to help me fix that."

Her first question is the wrong one, but she can't stop herself –

"Why me?"

Petrelli smiles again, as cold and brittle as the first.

"Because you don't have a choice. This is all you're worth to me , the way you are now. And I won't save you from him if he attacks. You don't mean anything beyond what you can do for him – and if you can get it done without him killing you–"

He exhales, like he can't imagine why anyone would want such a thing, but nonetheless continues, "– I'll leave you like that."

It's not a deal. She doesn't ask how she knows he isn't lying, because it doesn't matter. Like he said, she doesn't have a choice.

And it's not about having a choice. She doesn't need to know how, she shouldn't have asked why. It's not for her. She knows what she has to do. It's a single, bright line in her mind.

"Yeah, well. You still have someone telling you what to do."

It's simple. But it's not easy.

Elle looks down to the glass of water he'd brought her, and nods without speaking. The scratch of the feet of his chair against the floor lets her know he's standing again, but she doesn't move.

"And you've already denied him something he wants. There aren't many people who can do that anymore."

The slice of sincerity doesn't raise her attention; her eyes drop further, now to her lap, and she answers in a still voice, "All right."

There's another stretch of silence between them, so long that for a moment, she wonders if he picked up teleportation somewhere. But then she hears his voice again –

"And Elle –"

It's been long enough that her eyes snap to him instinctively, just in time to see Petrelli raise his hand swipe casually at the air. And something hits her hard across the face, with such force that she topples out of her chair and onto the floor. She's pushing herself up again before she even realizes it, but the same invisible force slams her back down so hard that it's all she can do to remember to keep breathing. She can see the windows as blurs of light on the far wall, and it's not until something steps in front of her, blocking her view, that she realizes she can't move.

Elle stops struggling, keeping her eyes ahead as her vision begins to clear again. Her breathing is harder to control, but by the time she can feel his fingers on her temple, it's fast, but steady, as though she were jogging. His fingers linger at her forehead for a moment, but the shadow shifts, and he's straightened, and begun walking away from her.

"Maybe you are getting better," he calls back.

She doesn't answer, doesn't try to guess what he means.

It's several minutes after the door has closed behind him when, this time on her own, she begins to gather herself up from the floor.