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Okay, initial thought: ow.

Sylar had been quiet, lately. Ever since the, uh... lovely meeting last time, that had ended up with a spoon in Peter's forehead and Sylar riddled with forks, he'd been pretty damned quiet. Mulling around. Biding his time. Boring. What was he supposed to do anyway? Harass Peter and that stupid redheaded wife of his? Kill the kid a few more times? Oh, yes, it was the latest hobby in Scotland. Peter was a challenge too easy for his liking. So long as he hadn't picked up any more... fun powers Sylar didn't know about.

Anyway. Back to the ow. With the knuckles connecting with his chin - only enough to smart, really, it wasn't like Rachel had super strength aiding her blow. Unlike some people - and... was that a gun barrel? Against his head? Oh, come on. She was kidding, right? The punch might have connected, but he had been caught off guard. Already he was jerking out the headphones, rap music (http://youtube.com/watch?v=z23gqAl8Few) pouring out of each end at what had to be deafening volumes as he shot Rachel a look out of the corner of his eyes. Needling death glares that could kill babies or something.

"Tsk tsk, husband should have taught you better," Sylar shot to her in a snappy tone, eyes flashing as the gun suddenly wrenched free of her fingers and went pinging across the room, nearly taking all of Rachel with it. He planted one hand on the side of his jaw and pushed, a small pop sounding in the air before he spoke again. "You should know that something like that doesn't work on something like me. Rachel, is it?"

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Damn it. Why didn't the bad guys ever just let me shoot them? Seriously, it would be so much easier.

A harsh laugh ground out of my throat, and I was moving before he could even stop talking. "You should know that lame lines don't work on something like me." A knee to the groin was deflected, but I managed to get in a solid punch to his kidneys before I was thrown back against the wall. Fine. We'd play it that way.

I tapped the ever after in a heady rush and moved forward again, eyes locked on Sylar. "Should have known you'd be too much of a coward to fight like a man," I sneered. "Let's make this simple, though, so you don't get your ass handed to you by a girl. Give me back Peter's watch. I'll walk away."

Step three - almost check, and then I'd be gone. Easy as pie.

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Oof. Watchmakers weren't exactly the types to be up to par on their hand-to-hand, even ones like... Well, like Sylar. And Rachel was good, very good. He was blocking left and right, but she still landed the one punch and, ow, of all to land. The one that felt like giving birth to a watermelon. Or getting a ~~wheelie map~~sledgehammer to the gut or something. Kidney shot, and long story short, he was seeing sparkles for a few seconds there.

Arm clutching at his side, Sylar let both brows arch, eying Rachel with a look. What, nobody told her? While husband's away, he didn't have to keep his tricks hidden. No Peter to pick up on his powers now, and Sylar was actually raising his free hand, icy blue crystallizing over his fingers when...

Uh? Watch? Peter's watch? That old thing he'd fixed weeks ago? Jeez, was that what this was about? "Tell me, are you just that much of a charmer that it's a normal occasion for you to break into someone's home, start throwing punches, or am I just special?" he asked in turn, eyes flickering towards the kitchen counter, and right there. Peter's watch, with the one he'd fixed for that Violet girl as well. They'd been routine jobs, for crying out loud - barely five minutes to finish.

Intruding for a damned... He had no room to talk, sure, but why her busting in out of nowhere for it? Sylar just sent all five of the kitchen knives in the rack hurtling straight towards Rachel.

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"I just like you that much," I shot back. His eyes were followed by mine and...ha! Score. But before I could snatch it, knives were hurling at me. I was prepared, though. Muttering a trigger word it'd taken me the better part of a day to train myself to use, I shot up a shield of ever after energy.

Four knives pinged off. One was currently buried in my shoulder, just below my collarbone. Hissing in pain, I grabbed the amulet from behind my shirt and swiped it in the blood, letting it thump back against my skin. The pain faded and I pulled the knife out with barely a grimace. Heck yeah, you sorry son of a bitch. Dealing with a freaking witch, now.

With a smoothness born from long practice, I was hurling the knife at his head. Followed by a ball of pure ever after. Ducking into a roll, I snatched up my splat gun and was headed towards the counter at a run. Victory, baby. Smells like victory.

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There's was something unhealthily furious boiling under Sylar's skin as he advanced towards Rachel, shoulders drawn up and fists clenched and every classic sign showing that he wanted to tear her to pieces. The four knives were sent back in all directions, one towards his own and stopped with a wave of his fingers, and a very unnecessarily angry sort of way in how his fingers wrapped around the handle. Without a blink of an eye, ten inches of knife were suddenly rendered to a pool of silver, dripping to the floor with a creepy sort of ease.

He shook out his hand once, and the knife thrown towards him went skittering off towards the floor. Oh no. She wasn't winning that easily. She wasn't winning at all, if he had his way here, strange guns or not. "I dunno if I can let you do that, Rache, I kind of like that thing," Sylar suddenly snapped in return, and a twitch of his fingers sent her sprawling to the floor, a long dark shadow looming over her with a kind of ominous creepiness.

"Just a watch. Is it really worth witnessing this sort of thing in action? First hand? I'm betting your head would open easier than a damned can."

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I bared my teeth in a grin even as I was sent to the floor. There was no fear in my expression. I couldn't die here. And I had enough pain amulets on to stop a horse. Stupid as hell, but it kept me in the game.

Plus, I wasn't stupid. Foolhardy, yes. Reckless, yes. But not stupid. I'd seen Sylar fight, I knew that, with his abilities, I was outmatched. The thing was - I didn't care. I wanted a fight where every second was an agony of adrenaline. I needed that - to know I could get hurt, to test everything I was up against someone who could better me. Sick and wrong, perhaps, but I had way too many things boiling under my skin and a fight was easy.

"Gee, Sylar," I raised my shield again, the ever after cutting off his connection to me and I raised my eyebrows as I stood, carelessly dusting off my pants, heedless of the blood running down my arm. "Somehow I don't think that's going to happen." The shield lowered, I shot off a barrage of splat pellets, diving again for the counter. And my bag.

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...This was getting kind of sad.

Then again, kind of expected from a... what was she, again? Not quite useless enough to be human, not quite strong enough to be someone with an ability. Where did that live her, in the happy medium section? The link between the two sides or something? Right. Whatever she was, the two had been reduced to throwing random objects at each other. Knives and what have you. 'Kind of sad' being one interpretation of it.

And then there was the... what even were these things? They weren't bullets. They were... something else. Whatever they were, they were all pinging out in all directions, telekinetically thrown away from him. She was more of a bother than he felt a want to deal with, at the moment. Still clutching at his stomach, and he could hear blood pooling in that spot - a few of the vessels and capillaries popped from the punch, little bitch - he raised his free hand, the watch soaring across the room and neatly into his palm. "Oh, is this the watch you wanted?"

What a brat.

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My eyebrows raised. "Yeah, actually." A quick gesture of my hand and he went flying against the wall, me following quickly behind. Scooping the machete out of my bag, I was suddenly pressing up against him, knife to his throat, a cocky grin on my face.

"Now, if I take off your head, do you think it'll regrow? How about we find out."

My free hand went out to his, grabbing at the watch, my fingers sliding along his skin as I searched for it blindly. I was too busy staring Sylar down.

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Tricks up her own sleeves. ...Not bad.

There was a brief moment of actual panic that leaped into his eyes, just for a second, the blade's edge to his throat. Maybe because of that damned Hiro Nakamura, back in Kirby Plaza, the sword straight through his gut, without warning... Some kind of psychological thing, associating them together or... something. Whatever the reason, there was a machete to his throat right now, and Sylar's eyes flickered from Rachel to the blade and back, almost bored.

"Care to test that theory out?" he replied in a hush of a voice, eyes flashing for a moment. His hand jumped away from hers as she started for the watch, and what was she doing? "Cockroaches can live about a month without their heads." A hand jumped up, grabbing at the machete blade with a kind of fervent earnestness, and, damn, Rachel was tall, but Sylar just towered over her. "It's been a while since I have died." He spat out the words like a promise, leaning in closer towards Rachel and narrowing his eyes. "But don't think yourself so important as to be the first to have killed me."

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"I don't kill people," I retorted, my eyes narrowing. I didn't. Not even Sylar. "So rest easy, cookie. I just want what I came for."

My fingers tightened on the hilt of the blade and as I shoved my body weight forward into Sylar, I also yanked the machete, tearing out of his fingers and plunging it into his thigh with one motion. "That doesn't mean I'm not going to hurt you."

I had seen that fear. So he didn't like blades, huh? Good to know. I pulled the machete out, maybe twisting it a little, and grabbed the watch away. "Stay away from Peter," I told him with a too-bright smile. "Or next time I'll get really angry." Turning around, I grabbed my bag and headed out the door.

Step three was a check and I was gone. How hard did I rock?

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Oh, she wasn't getting off that easily.

Apparently Rachel was one of the people in the school who, well, just really didn't know Sylar. What he was capable of. A machete through the thigh, while, yes, hurting like a bitch, wasn't near enough to stop him, even with the yelp of pain and the sudden surge of crimson pooling down his jeans, in rivulets. ...Although she seemed to think it was.

Sylar's hands laced around his thigh, clutching fingers trying to stop the bleeding with... very little avail. Oh, that was it. Little guns time was over. This was getting personal now.

All this, over a Scooby Doo watch.

Invisible fingers automatically twined into Rachel's hair, grabbing harshly at a chunk of it and jerking, hard, dragging the witch back into the tent with a force a bit more brusque than he'd initially meant to. Couldn't help himself. Rachel had decidedly Pissed Him Off. And all it had taken was a machete through the thigh. "Really angry, oh, I'd love to see how that works," Sylar snarled, as Rachel was yanked back to where he was, and there may or may not have been a few cheap shots in which he slammed her against some of the furniture.

"You thought it would be that easy, didn't you? Thought you'd get out the door with something as simple as a machete stab?" He would've knelt, had it not been for the gaping hole in his leg. Instead, Rachel came to him, and his own fingers grasped at her hair and pulled, hard, tilting her head back to bare her throat. "Oh, no, no, no." His free hand was clamping around her forearm, attempting to pry the watch from her hand. Skin flaring to a florescent orange, fingers searing into her skin... "I'm not done with you yet."

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mmm-brainz.livejournal.com - Date: 2007-08-31 12:05 am (UTC) - Expand

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Well. That had gone well.

I choked back another giddy laugh, stumbling through the darkness back to my tent. I only got sick once on the way, so, all in all, I thought I was doing excellent, thanks for asking. Try the veal. Tip your waitress.

My pain amulets were all but useless now, but that was all right. Most of my body was numb, anyhow. The night air cutting me like a knife, though, and I was shivering violently, the blood on my shirt (and now dripping down my pants) coating my skin and pulling all the warmth from me.

Through the haze, I realized I'd made it to our front door. I had to wipe my feet carefully on the mat, an act that required an intense amount of concentration and me clutching the door jam for balance, in order to get the dirt from my boots. They were my lucky boots. I think I'd name them George. Collectively.

Oh, right, I was at the door. Some vague part of my brain realized I needed to get horizontal, another part knew that I could pretty much not tell Peter anything of what had just happened. Luckily, both of those parts of my brain got along, so I soon had a plan. Which I was doing great at. I mean, seriously, the 'Get The Watch Back' plan? Top notch. Here I was, I had the watch...who could ask for more?

I got rhythm. I got music. I got - something something...

Oh! Still at the door. Walking through, heels clacking on the floor, I smoothly sailed past Peter, dropping the watch into his lap without a word. Then I headed up and into the bathroom. Ha! I was doing so well.

Between the floor and the tub, the tub looked more comfortable. Plus, easy to clean. Crawling in, I pulled a towel off of the rack and held it uselessly to my stomach wound. Then my head fell back against the tile and my eyes drifted shut.

I got something something about green pastures, I got my guy, who could ask for anything more?

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The ant statue had become one of Peter's favorite places to brood. Nobody could find him, and people never really seemed to look up to notice that there was anybody on the ant statue. It could become his own little world, somewhere that he could escape for a few hours. (It was a good thing that Peter wasn't aware of Claude stalking him, too.) He'd stayed up there for hours, until he'd realized that it had become dark - in his effort to get off the ant he'd actually tripped and fallen off the building. Thank god for Claire that broken bones were no longer a month-long problem.

So he'd settled back into the tent to read more of his latest book - Fingerprints of the Gods by Graham Hancock, religious theories were so interesting - and he was actually so deeply involved in it that he didn't notice anything until the watch was dropped on his lap. The Scooby Doo watch that Sylar had stolen. With bloody fingerprints.

Stunned, Peter simply watched Rachel head towards the bathroom. Jesus christ, what? Throwing the book to the floor (page 397, he had to remember), Peter scrambled to his feet and hurried to the bathroom, throwing open the door with no thought or care towards privacy. He'd seen Rachel with bruises, he'd seen her unconscious, but a small part of him had been so wrapped up in respect - something bordering on idolizing, hero-worship, thinking Rachel was stronger and above that - that the sight of blood was shocking.

"Jesus, Rachel, what happened?" Without waiting for an answer, Peter sank to his knees in front of her and helped her hold the towel to her stomach. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see what was underneath. "How long ago did this happen?" How much blood had she lost? How had she even got back here?

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Hey! It was Peter. "Hi, Pete!" Hee, Peter. I reached up and patted his face, somehow connecting. "I went on a run. 'S okay, you should see the other guy."

One thought was very clear - I could not tell Peter what I'd done. Mainly because he'd shout or something and my head hurt. Grimacing, I made a soft noise of pain when I shifted wrong. Oh, yeah. Ribs definitely broken. Some still-coherent thought process had me sitting up, breath hitching as I moved my stabbed shoulder, to reach into the stand next to the tub and pull out a pain amulet. Lots of blood made for easy invoking, and I dropped it over my head, giving myself a moment to reorient.

"It happened..." God, I didn't even know. "Kind of a gradual thing." Then I registered his concern and looked at him. "I'm fine. Don't worry, I'm fine." I wished I had some Brimstone, though, even though you'd never hear me admit it. Oh, yeah, and that I could stitch myself up, because two stab wounds definitely needed some attention.

"Don't suppose you have a needle and thread on you?" I wheezed a laugh, face contorting as my ribs ground against each other at the movement.

"Damn it, I left my splat gun on his floor!" Son of a bitch!

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Just because he was a nurse and kind of used to this stuff didn't stop Peter from getting close to freaking out. Hey, he'd been a hospice nurse more recently, and dying people didn't have a tendency to wander around and get stabbed. It had months since he'd seen something like this - he just hoped the training would kick in at some point.

A little incoherent, probably from blood loss or adrenaline. Stab wound in the shoulder, probably one in the stomach under the towel, definitely broken ribs from the way Rachel was grimacing. Burn marks on her arm, god, what had she been going up against? Bruising around her neck, and Peter was willing to bet there'd be more bruising where he couldn't see it. This was insane.

"You're not fine," Peter retorted automatically, ignoring what she said about the splat gun. That was not the right thing to be worrying about here. He tucked the watch into his pocket and rolled up his sleeves, watching Rachel for any signs that she might be about to fall over. Stitching, that was a good idea, had to do that before she lost anymore blood. "Rachel, you're going to have to move. It's a bad idea, medically speaking, and I don't really like it, but I'm going to have to move you to a flat surface so I can stitch you up."

The idea of going to the Hospital Wing was shoved to the back of his mind - it was too far, and he didn't even want to try teleportation. "You with me? We're gonna move to the bed so you can lie down." To hell with caring about getting blood everywhere, that could be cleaned up. And Peter also wasn't caring who did this just yet, either. That could be worried about later.

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"Pssh," I waved my hand, dismissing him. "I'm fine. With you all the way, baby."

Ooh, except everything got kind of dark around the edges when I sat up. That wasn't fun. Tipping my head forward, crying out a little as things got moved that shouldn't have - stab wound to the stomach was inconvenient - I breathed deeply and tried not to throw up. After a minute, I shoved myself roughly to my feet, swaying a little.

Okay! I was golden, now. Pushing off Peter's help, I stumbled into the bedroom on my own power, focusing on one step in front of the other. Finally, after what seemed like years, I was lying down, the blankets feeling clean and cool against all the sweat and blood and dirt I was coated in.

"No, seriously," I muttered. "I left my splat gun. And my bag. And Dean's machete... Oh, crap, he's going to be pissed at me."

It felt so good to be lying down, to stop fighting, but nonetheless I pushed myself back up. "I should go back now, while he's down. I think I got him before I left, I could go back." Room spinning, again, my skin flashed to an even paler tone, my freckles standing out in stark relief against my skin. I'd taken the pinkie ring off earlier, not wanting to risk losing it. I couldn't remember if Peter had ever seen me without it.

...Right, other, more important things to think about. Like going back and kicking Sylar's ass a second time so I could get my stuff.

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Cursing all stubborn women everywhere, Peter didn't try and help her again after she shrugged off his help to walk. If he grabbed her it might aggravate something internally, and that would be a hell of a lot worse.

As soon as Rachel was lying down, Peter sat on the edge of the bed. Her sitting up again made him scowl, so he just pressed his hand lightly against her shoulder and pushed her back down until she was lying on her back again. "Just... stop talking and let me take care of this," he ordered firmly. Gingerly, he removed the towel from her stomach, setting it aside and pushing up her t-shirt so that he could get a better look. Definitely a stab would - not huge and gaping like he'd feared, but dangerous enough.

The medical kit Peter normally kept on hand was brought to the bed with a wave of his wand - no time to be concerned about proper use or misuse of powers, not when Rachel was in this kind of shape.

Peter hesitated briefly. There was no way he was going to stitch Rachel up when she was awake. And he wasn't going to wait until she fell unconscious. He remembered her threatening to beat him up if he ever did this again, but Peter just didn't care. Not now. "I don't know how you get yourself into these situations," he murmured, resting his hand on Rachel's temple and lightly stroking the hair back from her forehead. "But don't worry, I'll take care of this. You'll be fine. Just..." Peter frowned faintly, and the next words were mental, wrapping around Rachel's subconscious and bending it to his will, "GO TO SLEEP. You'll feel better when you wake up."

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I saw what he was going to do a second before he did it, the realization flaring in my eyes. "Peter, no--"

But it was too late. I felt the words pressing me down, under, and even though I struggled against it, I fell into the blackness.

When I awoke, I felt as though I had a mouthful of cotton. My eyelids were so heavy that I postponed opening them for a moment. Someone was sitting next to me and I could feel a hand stroking my hair. "Peter," I murmured, confused, calling for him.

Then the events of the past few hours fell back into place. Oh, right. My suicide run to Sylar. That had gone beautifully. Finally blinking open my eyes, I took a second to refocus before looking down. My clothes were changed and most of the blood coating my skin had been cleaned off. I was sore, horrendously so, in that familiar way that meant I'd been stitched up. Damn. Peter was no pixie; I'd probably have scarring.

My gaze finally rose to find Peter and one corner of my mouth pulled up in a crooked smile. "Hey." My voice cracked a little and I frowned. "You did that thing again. I hate it when you do that thing." When I had more energy, I'd be mad. For now I just raised my hand shakily to my neck, feeling my spine. Dear God, I'd been dead. I'd been dead and he'd snapped my neck. Everything was rushing back and (oh, GOD, had I kissed Sylar? What the hell kind of exit strategy had that been? The neck snap had been a better option) I remembered the whole 'not telling Peter' plan. Unlike my first plan of the evening, that one was sound.

"Water?" My throat was on fire. Pushing myself to sit up, I started coughing, feeling as though my whole body was going to turn inside out. Damn Sylar with the neck snapping and such.

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As soon as Rachel had fallen asleep, Voice-willed, Peter had gotten to work. Thinking back, it had passed in a combination of haze and clarity; having to cut Rachel's t-shirt off, sponging off the blood so that he could actually see what he was doing, stitching the wounds up. It had been a while since he'd had to stitch anything, and Peter had contemplated owling Carla to ask if there was anything in the Hospital Wing that could help with scarring.

While Rachel had been unconscious, Peter had pulled up the few memories that he had of the cop who'd had telepathy, and clung onto them as long as he could. His intention had just to be to be able to tell when she waking up, but as soon as she did, Peter forgot all about switching that ability off.

"Sorry," he apologized, halting in stroking his hair and returning his hands to his lap. "It was necessary, though. Didn't want you squirming around and upsetting my stitches."

Not shutting the door on telepathy promptly came around to kick him in the ass. Suicide run to Sylar- Snapped my neck- dead- ...kissed Sylar. Peter didn't react outwardly to the jumble of thoughts. He just lifted himself off the bed to go get a glass of water and a straw. When he returned, he clamped a hand around Rachel's uninjured shoulder. "Hey, just breath, not too deep," Peter suggested calmly, lifting the glass and straw to Rachel's mouth. "And take a drink when you're ready. Just small sips, you don't want to choke yourself."

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"I've been awake for stitches before," I grumbled. But I was way more interested in the water he'd brought. Trying to keep his advice in mind, I took a sip, eyes closing as the water washed down my raw throat, feeling like a balm. I knew from experience that the blood loss would dehydrate me, so I carefully took a few more drinks before lying back against the headboard, grimacing as I propped myself up with pillows.

"Hey," I said, my hand going out to rest lightly on one of his. "Thanks, though. Not for the mental KO, but the rest. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come home like that. I wasn't thinking too clearly."

This was going really well, actually. I hadn't let anything slip, and Peter had no idea what I'd done. I would pass the whole thing off as a run and it'd be over.

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"I would have kicked your ass if you hadn't come home," Peter assured Rachel, reaching out to adjust the pillows behind her. There wasn't much he could do about the broken ribs - all he could do was convince her to lie still and stay in bed for the next week. Knowing Rachel, that was going to be nearly impossible.

Dammit, why couldn't he have picked up a useful ability, like the power to heal someone else?

What she'd been thinking... Peter almost couldn't believe it. He'd grown to understand that Rachel went out and looked for a fight when she was frustrated - something about the adrenaline, maybe, or the pain - but this was unbelievable. If Sylar had snapped her neck and she was still alive, then obviously the no-kill spell had kicked him. And why had she kissed him? The only answer was that Rachel was attracted to danger. Suddenly, her attraction to himself made a lot more sense - his powers were potentially dangerous to other people. Perhaps it was nothing more than that.

Setting the glass down on the bedside table, Peter pulled his watch out of his pocket and turned it over in his fingers, contemplating. "So," he spoke up, "Sylar, huh?" He hadn't asked before, because the need to take care of Rachel was more important than anything else. "I bet he was just the challenge you were looking for, right?"

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Freezing, I looked at Peter. Damn it back to the Turn. "Having fun in my head?" I responded, eyebrows raising even as my eyes narrowed. Irrational anger stabbed through me and I shifted back, folding my arms across my chest with a wince.

"Why bother asking? Why not just rifle through my brain and pick out what happened? Or, hey, we could just not talk at all anymore - every time you want to know something, just help yourself. It'll be a real time saver."

Bitterness colored my tone, even as I moved to swing my legs out of the bed. I needed to get out of there. Just the challenge I was looking for meant someone I knew wouldn't hesitate to hurt me. Because that could be easily quantified, could be understood. There was no gray in fights like that. There was you and there was them and you could expel everything you had in order to survive. No holding back, no second guessing. But I had no way of ever expressing that to Peter. He wouldn't understand.

"Yeah," I said, meeting his eyes, expression hard. "He was."

Turn it, I would not apologize for who I was.

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