heroes drabble
title: ---
fandom: heroes
pairing: sylar/elle
rating: pg-13
word count: 2607
notes: wrote this on a whim, testing my sylar voice. got this idea while i was in the shower. hurr hurr.
Sylar opens a closet door and pulls a towel from a stack of five. He goes into his room, opens some drawers, and pulls out some clothes. It feels like an easy day, nothing particularly stressful going to happen, no murder - so he takes jeans and a black shirt and black socks. He wonders, idly, what time it is, before pulling the drawer open from across the room and calling his watch over. Five, he thinks, and smiles. That’s a good time to shower as any. Plus, Elle’ll be home soon, and he hardly wants to be a sweaty mess for her.
Well, not yet. He chuckles to himself and places the watch on the cabinet, picking up the towel and the clothes and closing his bedroom door behind him. He’s almost at the bathroom door when he hears the click of a gun being cocked.
Really? While he’s going to shower? With an effortless flick of his fingers, he snaps the gun (a 9MM. Classic, he thinks) from the would-be killer’s hand to his and rubs his thumb along the grip. He hears footsteps moving down the steps to hide from him, but he doesn’t care to look or watch the person flee.
“Noah, this is pathetic, coming from you. I would have expected hiding in my closet with a gun from Parkman, maybe Nakamura. But I always thought you knew better.” He puts the clothes and the towel in the bathroom, walking back across the hallway. Razor. That’s what he forgot. “I would have expected a heavy-gauge shotgun right to the back of my head. Not a bullet I would stop halfway to me, so far away that it might not even hit me straight on. Can’t I at least take a shower?”
There’s a pause, in which he almost expects to hear the man’s voice. He tries to imagine what he would say in such a poorly-planned scheme, especially a man who he’s come to know for better.
“Occam’s Razor,” the man says after that too-long pause, from the bottom of his stairwell.
He sighs. “I’m going to take a shower, because I can’t even bring myself to be concerned by you. If you’d like, you can sit and try to figure out how to drown me while I’m showering. However, I think you know as well as I do that I’m really tired of you trying to kill me.” He pauses, in the middle of the hallway, still not looking to where he knows Noah must be standing. A small smile flickers on his lip, whimsical, cruel. “You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner, if you’d like. Leftovers. Elle made a casserole last night. She should be home soon. I’ll call her and tell her not to electrocute you to death.”
“How touching.”
He laughs softly and retrieves his cell phone. “Should I tell her you’re spending some time with us?”
“Why not.”
“Elle,” he says, into the phone, back in his room and looking out the forth-floor window onto the busy Manhattan street, “Noah Bennet will be joining us for dinner. We have plenty for him, right?”
”What? Why?”
“Oh, he tried to kill me again,” his voice is dismissive, as he flicks open the window with his power. It’s a nice day out. “But I decided to change things up, a little. We have such a boring relationship, me and him.”
”Want me to electrify him?”
“No, no, I would do it myself if I wanted to. I think, eventually, it will be me, anyway. We have enough casserole for him, right?”
”I think so. I’m on the way home. I’ll be there in a little bit, all right, baby?”
“I’ll probably be in the shower when you get here. And don’t call me baby.”
She giggles at him, and hangs up. He sighs, puts the phone on the bedside table, and opens the door, walking back to the bathroom. He can hear, if he strains, the sounds of movement in the kitchen. It’s very rude to go through someone’s refrigerator, he almost says, but it pales in comparison to breaking into his apartment and trying to kill him, which he apparently condones. So he just smiles to himself and locks the bathroom door and turns the shower on.
*
Elle raps sharply on the door, her hands filled with packages. When nothing happens, she puts half of them down, unlocks it, and walks inside. She looks up, to where the sound of water running is evident, and then at him.
Dark eyes behind glasses greet her silently, judging. She smiles at them - she always has, really, and drags her stuff in.
“Way to not open the door for me,” She says, rolling her eyes as she barges past him and closes a door two rooms behind him.
He doesn’t apologize.
When she comes back out, she’s dressed in an entirely new outfit. She doesn’t sit down with him, instead, pulls a teapot from a cabinet and a box of teabags. “Chai?” She asks, and he nods, eyes intent. She bounces from one task to another, putting the teapot on the stove to boil and pulling out three mugs. “You could at least say something, you know. It’s pretty rude to just sit there and stare at people. Of course, I guess breaking into people’s houses is rude too, but you’re pretty good at that too right?” Her fingers spark, and she giggles. “You know, you guys aren’t that much alike as either of you would want to think. I think he’s starting to realize it too, he just doesn’t like to think about it.”
“I’m nothing like him,” he snarls, provoking another laugh.
“Oh, don’t get all pouty on me just because I said you were like him. You are, you know. Think about it. You know how you two are alike? You both have this thing. And without it, you’re nothing. With him, it’s his powers. Don’t tell him I said this, but when he didn’t have his powers, he was someone different. And now.. Well, I still love him regardless, but whenever he thinks about losing his powers again he makes very strange faces. I wonder when the next eclipse is coming?” Her fingers spark on linoleum table, and he anxiously takes his hands off of it. “With you, it’s this chase. I mean, think about it, Bennet. Who are you when you’re not chasing down people with abilities, seeing what they do? How they tick?” She teases.
“I’m nothing like him,” he says again, and this time, there’s a lower, more threatening tone to his voice.
“I’m just having a little fun,” she sing-songs, and at the whistling of the kettle, pours them both cups. “Honey? Milk?” she asks, pulling some from the counter and pouring both into her cup.
“Milk,” he answers curtly, and she leaves it out on the counter for him.
They both look up as the shower turns off. There’s tuneless humming, the kind that makes Elle smile.
Funny. He never really thought of Sylar as the type to sing in the shower. It’s strange to think of him as a man who eats leftovers for dinner with his (admittedly, equally dysfunctional) girlfriend in a little apartment in Manhattan. There’s footsteps and, if he strains, the sound of shifting clothes.
Noah watches as Sylar comes down the steps, putting a q-tip in his ear. Elle smiles, hops up from where she was drinking tea and pecks him on the cheek; he flinches, just barely, at the spark from her lips, but doesn’t look at her even as she wraps her arms around him and snuggles into his chest. “You smell good,” she says, and sighs contently.
He stares at Noah and smiles.
“Do you think it’s funny,” he says, slowly moving away from Elle to open a drawer and pull out plates decorated around the edges, “that Elle never had a mother at all, really, and she is an incredible cook, while I, on the other hand, was raised by the quintessential housewife and burn everything I get too close to?” He puts the plates down, casually breaking eye contact.
“Were those your mother’s after you killed her?” Noah asks, sharply, staring at the back of his head.
“No, I bought them myself. Exactly how cruel do you think I am? I never went back to my mother’s apartment after that day.” His face twists, just a fraction, at the thought, as he runs his thumb over the flowery designs on the edge of the plate. “The police took all of her things, I suppose. The police and I generally disagree.” He smiles darkly.
“Fixing watches again?”
“I’m…. in between jobs. You’d be surprised how difficult it is to get a job when you’re on the FBI’s most wanted list. It’s funny to think that, isn’t it? I am simply doing what you forced - made - wanted - me to do, all that time back. And you, Noah...you’ve killed people, exploited them, tested them in all kinds of inhumane ways and yet…” the hand comes off the plate’s rim, crackling with a single blue spark, “No one looks at you twice. Besides your daughter, of course.” He tilts his head to the side, folding his hands on top of the plate. “She can’t even stand you anymore, can she?”
Noah clenches his fists on the table and narrows his eyes behind his glasses. “Don’t talk about Claire, you monster.”
“This monster is having you over for dinner. You could at least wear a facade of politeness - facades are what you’re great at, aren’t they? And if you want to play the ‘who can push the other one’s buttons’ game, I would remind you that not only am I very good at it, but I can also twitch my fingers and slit your throat. And as unfortunate as it would be that your blood would destroy my table, it would be worth it.” He pauses, looks behind Noah, where Elle is staring at the oven as if that will make things heat up faster. Nodding to himself, he reaches across the table and, with his real hand, plucks those familiar glasses off Noah’s face.
Noah doesn’t flinch. He knows by now that that real hand can easily be replaced by a telekinetic hand.
“As for money,” Sylar stares at the glasses, and when he puts them down, there’s the clink of gold, “We make due.” He smiles, and snaps his fingers; the glasses turn to ash, which he blows in Noah’s direction. Noah brushes it from his face, from his suit jacket, doesn’t squint. “I didn’t think you needed them. I used to need mine. Not anymore, though. But sometimes I still wear them. I look at that person in the mirror and say, ‘I’m glad I’m done with you.’”
“You can’t get rid of Gabriel. It’s who you are.”
“I can do anything,” he replies coolly, and smiles. Before Noah can speak again, though, he glances back to Elle, his smile suddenly harmless. “Done yet?”
“Just about!” She says, and pulls the half-eaten casserole from the oven and a knife from the knifeblock, cutting it into pieces. “How hungry are you? What about you, Mr. Bennet?”
“Starving,” Sylar replies, his voice smug, as his eyes draw a line across Noah’s forehead.
“Not for brains, silly,” Elle teases. “For casserole.”
“I’m pretty hungry either way.” He stands up, opening the fridge, “Sweetened iced tea, Bennet? Coke? Root beer?”
“Root beer’s fine.”
He pours them both root beer, then sits down, smiling as Elle serves them reheated casserole, microwaved vegetables, leftover pasta. “I know you like tomato sauce,” she says to Sylar, opening the fridge, “So I got you the really, really good kind.” She places the jar on the table then pulls a set over for herself. “We don’t normally have guests, so it’s a small table. I hope you don’t mind.” A sweet smile for Noah.
“Not at all,” He mumbles, and picks up his fork, shifting through the food in front of him. “When did you learn to cook, Elle?”
“Oh, it’s just something I picked up along the way. When you actually don’t live in a cafeteria, something you gotta do, you know?” She smiles, pleased with herself, and spoons a handful of pasta into her mouth.
“What do the Bennets talk about over dinner?” Sylar asks, as he swallows a bite of casserole. “Surely not what Mr. Bennet does for work every day? Pencil-pushing at a paper company must be very boring conversation material.” He takes a gulp of soda. “Maybe what Claire does in school?”
“What do a serial killer and a company girl talk about is more interesting, probably.” Noah finally bites, starting on the vegetables. “Yes, days at school, business trips. Nothing particularly interesting.”
“What we did on any particular day. If we’re going to do something tonight, or tomorrow. If anything fun happened. A couple of days ago, I got assaulted at a supermarket. That was a lengthy discussion over penne in white wine sauce.”
“By agents?” Bennet asks. “Danko, again?”
“No, and Danko won’t be a problem for a long time. The agents still think I’m dead - stabbed, cremated. And then you shot me and proved how dead I was.” Sylar laughs, as Noah’s face darkens
“Somebody tried to mug me. In a supermarket. With a handgun. They had an exceptionally bad day after that,” He elaborates. “I didn’t kill them, though. Do you know, that in the earlier part of human history, the punishment for thievery was cutting off the perpetrator’s hand? I’ve always believed in that sort of theory. If he survives, he certainly can carry on with his life single-handedly.”
Elle giggles again. “Can you get the salt?” She asks, and he flicks a finger, placing the salt in her outstretched hand.
“You’re a monster,” Noah growls, setting his mostly-uneaten plate aside. “I’m leaving.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” Sylar gives him a long look, putting his fork down. “Allow me to walk you out. I hope you don’t mind if I keep your gun.”
“It was a pleasure for you to have me.” It’s clear that he doesn’t really mean it.
“Strange, looking at you without your glasses.” He runs a hand through slicked hair, tilting his head to the side. “it’s almost like, without your mask, you’re not really you. You don’t really know who you are without those glasses, do you? Without them to hide behind, god knows what you might let other people see. That’s why I don’t wear mine, Noah. I let the world judge me for who I really am. Maybe you should try it, too.” He opens the door, leans in the doorjam. “Don’t bother coming back here with the Haitian and twelve guys with tazer guns - we we won’t be here.”
“I know,” Noah takes two steps down the flight in front of the small apartment, then looks up. “I think, by the way, that the fact that you can’t cook doesn’t say anything about her - you burn everything you touch regardless of what it is. Food, people, a good idea….in your hands, it’s all ash. The casserole was good, though. Thank Elle for me.”
fandom: heroes
pairing: sylar/elle
rating: pg-13
word count: 2607
notes: wrote this on a whim, testing my sylar voice. got this idea while i was in the shower. hurr hurr.
Sylar opens a closet door and pulls a towel from a stack of five. He goes into his room, opens some drawers, and pulls out some clothes. It feels like an easy day, nothing particularly stressful going to happen, no murder - so he takes jeans and a black shirt and black socks. He wonders, idly, what time it is, before pulling the drawer open from across the room and calling his watch over. Five, he thinks, and smiles. That’s a good time to shower as any. Plus, Elle’ll be home soon, and he hardly wants to be a sweaty mess for her.
Well, not yet. He chuckles to himself and places the watch on the cabinet, picking up the towel and the clothes and closing his bedroom door behind him. He’s almost at the bathroom door when he hears the click of a gun being cocked.
Really? While he’s going to shower? With an effortless flick of his fingers, he snaps the gun (a 9MM. Classic, he thinks) from the would-be killer’s hand to his and rubs his thumb along the grip. He hears footsteps moving down the steps to hide from him, but he doesn’t care to look or watch the person flee.
“Noah, this is pathetic, coming from you. I would have expected hiding in my closet with a gun from Parkman, maybe Nakamura. But I always thought you knew better.” He puts the clothes and the towel in the bathroom, walking back across the hallway. Razor. That’s what he forgot. “I would have expected a heavy-gauge shotgun right to the back of my head. Not a bullet I would stop halfway to me, so far away that it might not even hit me straight on. Can’t I at least take a shower?”
There’s a pause, in which he almost expects to hear the man’s voice. He tries to imagine what he would say in such a poorly-planned scheme, especially a man who he’s come to know for better.
“Occam’s Razor,” the man says after that too-long pause, from the bottom of his stairwell.
He sighs. “I’m going to take a shower, because I can’t even bring myself to be concerned by you. If you’d like, you can sit and try to figure out how to drown me while I’m showering. However, I think you know as well as I do that I’m really tired of you trying to kill me.” He pauses, in the middle of the hallway, still not looking to where he knows Noah must be standing. A small smile flickers on his lip, whimsical, cruel. “You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner, if you’d like. Leftovers. Elle made a casserole last night. She should be home soon. I’ll call her and tell her not to electrocute you to death.”
“How touching.”
He laughs softly and retrieves his cell phone. “Should I tell her you’re spending some time with us?”
“Why not.”
“Elle,” he says, into the phone, back in his room and looking out the forth-floor window onto the busy Manhattan street, “Noah Bennet will be joining us for dinner. We have plenty for him, right?”
”What? Why?”
“Oh, he tried to kill me again,” his voice is dismissive, as he flicks open the window with his power. It’s a nice day out. “But I decided to change things up, a little. We have such a boring relationship, me and him.”
”Want me to electrify him?”
“No, no, I would do it myself if I wanted to. I think, eventually, it will be me, anyway. We have enough casserole for him, right?”
”I think so. I’m on the way home. I’ll be there in a little bit, all right, baby?”
“I’ll probably be in the shower when you get here. And don’t call me baby.”
She giggles at him, and hangs up. He sighs, puts the phone on the bedside table, and opens the door, walking back to the bathroom. He can hear, if he strains, the sounds of movement in the kitchen. It’s very rude to go through someone’s refrigerator, he almost says, but it pales in comparison to breaking into his apartment and trying to kill him, which he apparently condones. So he just smiles to himself and locks the bathroom door and turns the shower on.
*
Elle raps sharply on the door, her hands filled with packages. When nothing happens, she puts half of them down, unlocks it, and walks inside. She looks up, to where the sound of water running is evident, and then at him.
Dark eyes behind glasses greet her silently, judging. She smiles at them - she always has, really, and drags her stuff in.
“Way to not open the door for me,” She says, rolling her eyes as she barges past him and closes a door two rooms behind him.
He doesn’t apologize.
When she comes back out, she’s dressed in an entirely new outfit. She doesn’t sit down with him, instead, pulls a teapot from a cabinet and a box of teabags. “Chai?” She asks, and he nods, eyes intent. She bounces from one task to another, putting the teapot on the stove to boil and pulling out three mugs. “You could at least say something, you know. It’s pretty rude to just sit there and stare at people. Of course, I guess breaking into people’s houses is rude too, but you’re pretty good at that too right?” Her fingers spark, and she giggles. “You know, you guys aren’t that much alike as either of you would want to think. I think he’s starting to realize it too, he just doesn’t like to think about it.”
“I’m nothing like him,” he snarls, provoking another laugh.
“Oh, don’t get all pouty on me just because I said you were like him. You are, you know. Think about it. You know how you two are alike? You both have this thing. And without it, you’re nothing. With him, it’s his powers. Don’t tell him I said this, but when he didn’t have his powers, he was someone different. And now.. Well, I still love him regardless, but whenever he thinks about losing his powers again he makes very strange faces. I wonder when the next eclipse is coming?” Her fingers spark on linoleum table, and he anxiously takes his hands off of it. “With you, it’s this chase. I mean, think about it, Bennet. Who are you when you’re not chasing down people with abilities, seeing what they do? How they tick?” She teases.
“I’m nothing like him,” he says again, and this time, there’s a lower, more threatening tone to his voice.
“I’m just having a little fun,” she sing-songs, and at the whistling of the kettle, pours them both cups. “Honey? Milk?” she asks, pulling some from the counter and pouring both into her cup.
“Milk,” he answers curtly, and she leaves it out on the counter for him.
They both look up as the shower turns off. There’s tuneless humming, the kind that makes Elle smile.
Funny. He never really thought of Sylar as the type to sing in the shower. It’s strange to think of him as a man who eats leftovers for dinner with his (admittedly, equally dysfunctional) girlfriend in a little apartment in Manhattan. There’s footsteps and, if he strains, the sound of shifting clothes.
Noah watches as Sylar comes down the steps, putting a q-tip in his ear. Elle smiles, hops up from where she was drinking tea and pecks him on the cheek; he flinches, just barely, at the spark from her lips, but doesn’t look at her even as she wraps her arms around him and snuggles into his chest. “You smell good,” she says, and sighs contently.
He stares at Noah and smiles.
“Do you think it’s funny,” he says, slowly moving away from Elle to open a drawer and pull out plates decorated around the edges, “that Elle never had a mother at all, really, and she is an incredible cook, while I, on the other hand, was raised by the quintessential housewife and burn everything I get too close to?” He puts the plates down, casually breaking eye contact.
“Were those your mother’s after you killed her?” Noah asks, sharply, staring at the back of his head.
“No, I bought them myself. Exactly how cruel do you think I am? I never went back to my mother’s apartment after that day.” His face twists, just a fraction, at the thought, as he runs his thumb over the flowery designs on the edge of the plate. “The police took all of her things, I suppose. The police and I generally disagree.” He smiles darkly.
“Fixing watches again?”
“I’m…. in between jobs. You’d be surprised how difficult it is to get a job when you’re on the FBI’s most wanted list. It’s funny to think that, isn’t it? I am simply doing what you forced - made - wanted - me to do, all that time back. And you, Noah...you’ve killed people, exploited them, tested them in all kinds of inhumane ways and yet…” the hand comes off the plate’s rim, crackling with a single blue spark, “No one looks at you twice. Besides your daughter, of course.” He tilts his head to the side, folding his hands on top of the plate. “She can’t even stand you anymore, can she?”
Noah clenches his fists on the table and narrows his eyes behind his glasses. “Don’t talk about Claire, you monster.”
“This monster is having you over for dinner. You could at least wear a facade of politeness - facades are what you’re great at, aren’t they? And if you want to play the ‘who can push the other one’s buttons’ game, I would remind you that not only am I very good at it, but I can also twitch my fingers and slit your throat. And as unfortunate as it would be that your blood would destroy my table, it would be worth it.” He pauses, looks behind Noah, where Elle is staring at the oven as if that will make things heat up faster. Nodding to himself, he reaches across the table and, with his real hand, plucks those familiar glasses off Noah’s face.
Noah doesn’t flinch. He knows by now that that real hand can easily be replaced by a telekinetic hand.
“As for money,” Sylar stares at the glasses, and when he puts them down, there’s the clink of gold, “We make due.” He smiles, and snaps his fingers; the glasses turn to ash, which he blows in Noah’s direction. Noah brushes it from his face, from his suit jacket, doesn’t squint. “I didn’t think you needed them. I used to need mine. Not anymore, though. But sometimes I still wear them. I look at that person in the mirror and say, ‘I’m glad I’m done with you.’”
“You can’t get rid of Gabriel. It’s who you are.”
“I can do anything,” he replies coolly, and smiles. Before Noah can speak again, though, he glances back to Elle, his smile suddenly harmless. “Done yet?”
“Just about!” She says, and pulls the half-eaten casserole from the oven and a knife from the knifeblock, cutting it into pieces. “How hungry are you? What about you, Mr. Bennet?”
“Starving,” Sylar replies, his voice smug, as his eyes draw a line across Noah’s forehead.
“Not for brains, silly,” Elle teases. “For casserole.”
“I’m pretty hungry either way.” He stands up, opening the fridge, “Sweetened iced tea, Bennet? Coke? Root beer?”
“Root beer’s fine.”
He pours them both root beer, then sits down, smiling as Elle serves them reheated casserole, microwaved vegetables, leftover pasta. “I know you like tomato sauce,” she says to Sylar, opening the fridge, “So I got you the really, really good kind.” She places the jar on the table then pulls a set over for herself. “We don’t normally have guests, so it’s a small table. I hope you don’t mind.” A sweet smile for Noah.
“Not at all,” He mumbles, and picks up his fork, shifting through the food in front of him. “When did you learn to cook, Elle?”
“Oh, it’s just something I picked up along the way. When you actually don’t live in a cafeteria, something you gotta do, you know?” She smiles, pleased with herself, and spoons a handful of pasta into her mouth.
“What do the Bennets talk about over dinner?” Sylar asks, as he swallows a bite of casserole. “Surely not what Mr. Bennet does for work every day? Pencil-pushing at a paper company must be very boring conversation material.” He takes a gulp of soda. “Maybe what Claire does in school?”
“What do a serial killer and a company girl talk about is more interesting, probably.” Noah finally bites, starting on the vegetables. “Yes, days at school, business trips. Nothing particularly interesting.”
“What we did on any particular day. If we’re going to do something tonight, or tomorrow. If anything fun happened. A couple of days ago, I got assaulted at a supermarket. That was a lengthy discussion over penne in white wine sauce.”
“By agents?” Bennet asks. “Danko, again?”
“No, and Danko won’t be a problem for a long time. The agents still think I’m dead - stabbed, cremated. And then you shot me and proved how dead I was.” Sylar laughs, as Noah’s face darkens
“Somebody tried to mug me. In a supermarket. With a handgun. They had an exceptionally bad day after that,” He elaborates. “I didn’t kill them, though. Do you know, that in the earlier part of human history, the punishment for thievery was cutting off the perpetrator’s hand? I’ve always believed in that sort of theory. If he survives, he certainly can carry on with his life single-handedly.”
Elle giggles again. “Can you get the salt?” She asks, and he flicks a finger, placing the salt in her outstretched hand.
“You’re a monster,” Noah growls, setting his mostly-uneaten plate aside. “I’m leaving.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” Sylar gives him a long look, putting his fork down. “Allow me to walk you out. I hope you don’t mind if I keep your gun.”
“It was a pleasure for you to have me.” It’s clear that he doesn’t really mean it.
“Strange, looking at you without your glasses.” He runs a hand through slicked hair, tilting his head to the side. “it’s almost like, without your mask, you’re not really you. You don’t really know who you are without those glasses, do you? Without them to hide behind, god knows what you might let other people see. That’s why I don’t wear mine, Noah. I let the world judge me for who I really am. Maybe you should try it, too.” He opens the door, leans in the doorjam. “Don’t bother coming back here with the Haitian and twelve guys with tazer guns - we we won’t be here.”
“I know,” Noah takes two steps down the flight in front of the small apartment, then looks up. “I think, by the way, that the fact that you can’t cook doesn’t say anything about her - you burn everything you touch regardless of what it is. Food, people, a good idea….in your hands, it’s all ash. The casserole was good, though. Thank Elle for me.”