The lovers who have tainted you/
They pulled you into the night
They touched your skin/
With velvet gloves/
And made you feel alive/
When Nathan opened his eyes, he was in some kind of a hotel room, laying on an unfamiliar, meticulously made bed, and that woman was staring at him. This made him uncharacteristically uncomfortable; he usually didn't mind attractive women leaning seductively on furniture in his room, but this one made him jumpy. Probably, he recalled, because she'd disguised herself as his wife, invaded his house, and shot him and Peter with paralyzing tasers. That could be part of it.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and jumped off it, feeling something bite into his neck as he moved. An exploratory touch found some kind of metal band wrapped around his throat like a collar.
"That's to keep you in line," she said helpfully. "Cuts off your abilities by injecting a neurotoxin every hour and, as an added bonus, acts as a kind of a shock collar." She held up a trigger remote. "If you misbehave, I can zap you."
"Where's my brother?" Nathan wanted to know.
"I killed him," Candice said blithely.
Nathan went white, grabbing the bedpost for support. "What?"
"Yeah, sorry about that. We only needed one of you." She formed her fingers into a gun and made shooting motions. "Bam, straight through the head. He didn't suffer." This last was insulting, mock-sweet.
Nathan sat down hard on the bed, head in his hands. Candice shot him a last insolent grin, and left the room, locking the door behind her. Humming perkily to herself, she crossed the suite, boots clicking a staccato beat on the floor. What a thoroughly gullible bunch these Petrellis were, she thought with satisfaction. She'd expected to be bored out of her mind, babysitting specials until the Bennet mess was sorted out.
She didn't think she'd be bored, anymore. With two such attractive, emotionally unstable men in her care, how could she be?
She paused outside the door of the other room, taking a moment to shift into a new shape. Time to check on the other Petrelli.
---
After a cursory examination of the room he was locked into—he hadn't really expected to find a way out, but he'd had to look anyway—Peter had settled back into an uncomfortable armchair to wait.
He didn't have to wait very long. He stood as he saw the doorknob turn, but when he saw who came through the door, his knees nearly gave out and his heart nearly burst trying to beat its way out of his ribcage.
"Simone," he gasped, barely getting the word out, trying to breathe at least enough to stay conscious.
She rushed to him, motioning for him to be quiet, her eyes worried, the same shade of earthshattering blue he remembered from his nightmares. "You died—" he protested, but she put a hand on his mouth, blocking his questions.
"Isaac got me to a hospital," she explained in a whisper. "It was worse than it looked, I only needed a couple of stitches. I'm fine, Peter, but we have to get you out of here, I don't know what these people are going to do to you."
"Yeah," he said vaguely, still transfixed by the sight of her standing and smiling and living like he'd thought she never would again.
She saw his look and relented, putting her hands on the sides of his head and leaning in to kiss him. He responded immediately, kissing her like he'd been starving for her, nearly dead but just pulled back from the brink by the chance to tangle his hands in the hair at the back of her neck again, and pull her closer.
The kiss grew in intensity, and she pushed him back against the wall, hard enough to drive the breath out of him for a moment. He slid his hands up her back, tracing her spine with one finger—then, suddenly, his hand met a sticky dampness at her shoulder blade. He pushed her away, and to his horror, there were two spreading patches of blood dying her shirt to red, and her eyes were going out and she was falling back, exactly like he remembered.
"No—" he choked. "No, Simone—"
As she crumpled to the ground, he saw her body distort and blur, blending into the figure of a hard-eyed brunette woman who sat up and tucked her knees into herself, laughing. "Fooled you," she mocked.
He slid down the wall, burying his head in his arms. "What do you want with me?"
She wondered if he knew how hopelessly broken he sounded. Probably not—it was the other one that had the act, the flawless masks. "Oh, we're not exactly sure yet," she said dryly, kicking her legs out. "We just know that we want you." He brought his head back up, leaning it against the wall behind him. She thought he looked nearly dead, and very tired, hollow all the way through. "Cheer up," she smirked. "We won't be getting into all the nasty tests and things for a while. You get to hang out with me instead." She batted her eyelashes exaggeratedly at him. "We can even play 'dead girlfriend' some more, if you want."
"Get out," he said flatly.
She raised her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"Get. Out," he repeated, his voice breaking-point dangerous.
"Whatever you want, babe," she said, leaning forward until she could slip a finger under the metal collar at his neck, pulling on it until his face was inches from hers. "Just remember who's in charge here." She released him, patted his cheek, and sauntered out of the room, leaving him with blood on his hands and thoughts he'd been trying to lose.