Nathan had stopped listening to Candice and Peter after the first few moments of their conversation—he was just such an easy target, and she was just so willing to pull the trigger—but he hadn't expected her back in his room so soon. When he saw his door opening, he jumped up hastily, trying to prepare himself for whatever incarnation she'd taken on.

The door had opened fully, outlining his brother's silhouette against the light from the next room. "Right," he said firmly, "that's enough games, Candice. I'm tired and I'm going to sleep."

"No, Nathan," Peter explained earnestly, walking towards him, "it's me, really. I got the remote away from her and knocked her out, she's in the other room."

"I'm sure," Nathan said dismissively, turning away.

Peter sat down on the nearest armchair, exasperated. "Nathan," he said, drawing the word out. "All right, I guess you're right to be suspicious. How about this—do you remember when I came to you a few months ago and told you I could fly? Do you remember what you said to me? You said 'Tell you what, you think you can fly, why don't you jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, see what happens.' Remember?" Nathan turned back to him, mouth still twisted with distrust, but listening. Peter held up his arm, pulling his sleeve back and pointing at a silvery mark halfway up his forearm. "Remember how I got this scar, Nathan? It was your last day at home, you were going off to college, and I didn't want you to leave, and when you were taking your luggage downstairs I got upset and hugged you. I grabbed your knees and you lost your balance, and we both fell straight down the stairs. I ran into the banister and had to have stitches, but you broke your arm and needed surgery, so I got my wish and you were home for another three weeks."

Nathan smiled at the memory, giving in. "All right, all right," he said. "That's enough of that, I believe you—but how the hell did you get that remote off her?"

Peter eyes went distinctively shifty, and he looked down at his feet. "Oh, you know," he prevaricated. "I was just…really sneaky."

"You're a terrible liar, Pete, and you know it," Nathan accused. "Now, tell me what really happened."

Peter put his hands in his pockets, staring up at the ceiling. "I kissed her," he said blandly.

Nathan burst out laughing, ignoring Peter's aggravated glare. "Oh, Peter," he said affectionately. "You son of a lawyer, you."

"Shut up," Peter snapped, flushing. "We need to get out of here."

They walked out into the adjoining room, enjoying the feeling of unrestricted movement. Peter pointed into the other room, and he could see Candice's stiletto-clad feet from where he stood, bound at the ankles with what looked like a dish towel. "She's in there, and she's unconscious, for now. We're going to have to be careful not to let her wake up, because she'll just change into something else and escape."

Nathan tugged on the metal ring around his neck. "We have to get these off, Peter. If she gets her hands on another remote, she could still control us."

"I agree," Peter said, then paused. "How?"

Silence. Then: "Pliers?"

---

"Hello, room service? I don't suppose you have any pliers?"

---

Peter knew he shouldn't feel uncomfortable, and he knew it was very unlikely that everyone was staring at him. Theoretically, he was just another anonymous shopper in an anonymous roadside store, but he couldn't help feeling like an escaped convict. He felt twitchy and paranoid, mistrustful of every innocent teenage couple and soccer mom that brushed past him. Considering his recent problems with people not being who they seemed, he supposed he could be excused for his jumpiness, but he very much just wanted to get a pair of pliers and get out.

He fidgeted nervously with the collar of his sweatshirt, hoping nobody noticed the glint of metal at his neck or, if they did, assumed it was some kind of (strange) jewelry. There had been a short dispute with Nathan over that sweatshirt ("You have to go, Pete, your sweatshirt will cover the collar." "I'm not any good at this, Nathan, why don't you go? I'll give you my sweatshirt." "Right, that wouldn't look ridiculous, a black hoody over an Armani suit."), but had yet to win an argument with brother—he couldn't commit the way Nathan did, couldn't smile and twist words like Nathan did.

He handed Candice's credit card to the cashier, praying that he wouldn't check the name or ask for a signature. This was the risky part of the shopping venture, but there was nothing for it—they hadn't been able to find their own wallets, so they'd been forced to 'borrow' hers and hope for the best. He'd had enough trouble with her car—he'd never really learned how to drive stick shift, not reliably—and if her card gave him problems, he thought he might scream.

Fortunately, the hung-over cashier didn't give the card a second glance, handing over the pliers with a pained grimace, eyes nearly closed. Peter waved him a relieved thank-you and hurried out of the store, anxious to get back to the hotel room before Candice killed Nathan, or seduced him, or both.

---

"Took you long enough," Nathan exclaimed when he got back into the room.

"You know I can't drive stick," Peter retorted. "If you were that impatient, you should have gone yourself."

Nathan rolled his eyes and ignored this. "Did everything go all right?"

Peter tossed him the pliers, and he caught them easily, one-handed, like he used to catch pop flies in high school baseball. "Everything went fine. How about you?"

He nodded to Candice, lying on the floor at his feet where he'd moved her so that he could keep an eye on her and watch court TV at the same time. "She started to come to about an hour ago, but I kicked her pretty hard in the head, and she's been out every since" he said blithely. "It made me feel way better about things, actually. You should try it, it's very therapeutic."

"I think that's called sadism," Peter told him helpfully, "and I'd rather not touch her, if it's all the same to you."

"Hey, I'm not the one who was making out with her," Nathan smirked.

"Would you shut up about that already?" Peter said, sitting on the ottoman next to Nathan. "Come on, get this off me."

Nathan slid the pliers carefully under the metal band. "We have to get home as soon as possible. Mom's probably out of her mind with worry, and I've already missed two dinners and a rally."

"We could just fly home," Peter suggested as Nathan snipped through the collar. "We can do that, you know."

"I hate it when you say things like that—get ready, I'm pulling this out." Peter drew his breath in sharply as the needle came out of his neck, and Nathan dropped the band to the floor. "You think we're some kind of Wonder Twins living in a comic book world, but we're not, and you're going to get yourself stuck in some laboratory." Peter made a face, looking argumentative, but Nathan wasn't done. "Did you enjoy this? Think this was fun? This is nothing compared to what people will do to you if you don't start acting normal."

Peter shook his head, rubbing his neck where the collar had chafed. "You don't get it, Nathan. We have these abilities for a reason, okay? They're not going to disappear just because you're too afraid to use them."

Nathan slapped the pliers into his palm, a little harder than strictly necessary. "And how do you propose getting Candice home with us, if we jump out of the window and fly away like happy little birds? You need to learn that not everything can be solved by magic powers, Peter."

"I've flown carrying people—" Peter started to protest, but Nathan cut in, neatly slicing off the back half of his sentence.

"We're taking the car."

"I told you, I suck at—"

"I'll drive.