(no subject)
sweet dreams - oneshot
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar/Elle
Rating: K.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Summary: If it’s not love, it’s something close enough. Set sort of after The Butterfly Effect and AU from there.
When Elle sees him again, it’s in her nightmares.
There’s not many people Elle can say she has ever cared about, ever loved-even her daddy says a sociopath doesn’t feel like everyone else does, is incapable of normal human compassion and real, real love.
This idea has always made her hurt, like someone was taking an ice cream scooper to hollow out her heart. In her nightmares she sees it happening, and she’s chained to a black, cold surface, and there’s only her tears and she has no spark to fight back.
It wasn’t until Gabriel Gray that there was a person doing it to her, gutting out her chest. She doesn’t think it’s because she feels guilty for betraying him-she doesn’t, not really-but she feels like her daddy was wrong, and she is in love with him. She thinks his cruel hungry face is in her dreams because she wants to be near him, and it hurts her so badly that she’s not.
She thinks if she ever saw Gabriel again-Sylar, his name is Sylar, she thinks-she’d probably kill him. Lovers kill each other all the time.
She remembers what Noah told her when she said she was in love with Gabriel, and she still thinks about it sometimes.
He said, “You’re not in love, Elle. You’re just in love with the idea of love.”
She thinks about it now, while watching Sylar sleep-his head on the hard block in his locked cell. She thinks about it hard, rolls the words around in her head, and whispers them underneath her breath. She tries to decide if they’re true or not, watching his eyes move beneath their lids.
He’s peaceful-innocent, quiet. For some reason, it’s all the more terrifying that he’s so harmlessly human in his sleep. She wonders what he dreams about.
She asks him one day, lounging out across his bed, legs kicking the air. It’s the twenty-seventh time she’s visited him here, in Level Five, where they’re keeping him locked up and drugged and studied like a lab rat.
So far he hasn’t said a word to her since he opened those big dark eyes of his, but she can tell that he hates her, and loves her, and wants her just by the looks he shoots her sometimes. Elle can tell these things-she’s really good at reading him, she thinks-and whenever his gaze flits across her writhing body trying to get comfortable on the slab, she curls the corners of her mouth up and winks at him.
He likes it, she can tell.
“What do you dream about?”
He rests a large hand on the glass, his shoulders thrown back. She watches him, on her back, head tilted to the floor. Upside down.
He doesn’t answer-she isn’t surprised. “I dream about you a lot,” she says instead, and his head flinches a little towards her. She’s not sure why she said it, deceptively calm and factual. She’s not sure she wants him to know anything about her dreams, and she’s scared to continue, but her voice has an agenda of its own. “I dream I’m chained to a slab-like this one-and you’re tearing out my heart. Sometimes with an ice cream scooper.”
She watches his reflection intently, and she waits. He smiles, just a little, and it’s enough.
The fifty-second time she visits him, he finally answers her question, and this time he’s sitting beside her lain-out form. Her hair is spread out over his thigh, because she put it there to tease him, and her eyes are closed.
She’s dangling her legs out over the side and imagining he’s playing with her blonde locks, strong fingers weaving through strands of sun-kissed silk. She sighs and he says, “I dream about watches. Ticking.”
She keeps her eyes closed despite her surprise, the rumble of his deep, melodic voice. “That’s boring,” she says casually.
“I dream about you in that top with the flowers on it,” he continues, and his tone has turned rough, angry. She opens her eyes, cranes her neck to capture his. They bore into her. “I fuck you against the wall, over Trevor’s limp body and open skull, and your screams drown out the ticking.”
His hand is on his thigh, touching her hair. She arcs a little more, and the side of his finger touches her forehead. His breath slows at the contact.
“Don’t you wish it would have happened like that?” she asks wistfully.
He doesn’t respond, but she knows the answer.
When he finally escapes, she’s waiting for him at the exit with a smile.
There’s blood smeared across his cheek, caked under his fingernails. She wonders whose it is, holding the doorframe and coyly peeking up at him from beneath fluttering lashes. She knows being flirtatious isn’t going to help, but she does know telling him she had started giving him placebos a week ago would.
His sensual lips curl back, and his lifts one bloodstained hand to throw her against the locked door. It hurts; her body aches and her head throbs, and he holds her there with an invisible grip to her throat. “Why?” he growls, stalking closer.
She could say it’s because she loves him, because she cares, but Elle doesn’t. Everyone’s always told Elle she’s incapable of feeling these things, and that’s okay-they’re dead wrong, and she almost giggles because they are dead wrong because he’s just killed almost everyone in her life.
Instead she lifts a hand and touches his cheek, her thumb skimming his warm bottom lip. She gasps a little as he licks the pad, nips at it with his teeth. The murderous gaze he’s giving her is flashing with lust and dreams and dark promises.
She doesn’t answer him at all, because he knows why. He knows like she does that if it’s not love, it’s something close enough.
-fin-
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar/Elle
Rating: K.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Summary: If it’s not love, it’s something close enough. Set sort of after The Butterfly Effect and AU from there.
When Elle sees him again, it’s in her nightmares.
There’s not many people Elle can say she has ever cared about, ever loved-even her daddy says a sociopath doesn’t feel like everyone else does, is incapable of normal human compassion and real, real love.
This idea has always made her hurt, like someone was taking an ice cream scooper to hollow out her heart. In her nightmares she sees it happening, and she’s chained to a black, cold surface, and there’s only her tears and she has no spark to fight back.
It wasn’t until Gabriel Gray that there was a person doing it to her, gutting out her chest. She doesn’t think it’s because she feels guilty for betraying him-she doesn’t, not really-but she feels like her daddy was wrong, and she is in love with him. She thinks his cruel hungry face is in her dreams because she wants to be near him, and it hurts her so badly that she’s not.
She thinks if she ever saw Gabriel again-Sylar, his name is Sylar, she thinks-she’d probably kill him. Lovers kill each other all the time.
She remembers what Noah told her when she said she was in love with Gabriel, and she still thinks about it sometimes.
He said, “You’re not in love, Elle. You’re just in love with the idea of love.”
She thinks about it now, while watching Sylar sleep-his head on the hard block in his locked cell. She thinks about it hard, rolls the words around in her head, and whispers them underneath her breath. She tries to decide if they’re true or not, watching his eyes move beneath their lids.
He’s peaceful-innocent, quiet. For some reason, it’s all the more terrifying that he’s so harmlessly human in his sleep. She wonders what he dreams about.
She asks him one day, lounging out across his bed, legs kicking the air. It’s the twenty-seventh time she’s visited him here, in Level Five, where they’re keeping him locked up and drugged and studied like a lab rat.
So far he hasn’t said a word to her since he opened those big dark eyes of his, but she can tell that he hates her, and loves her, and wants her just by the looks he shoots her sometimes. Elle can tell these things-she’s really good at reading him, she thinks-and whenever his gaze flits across her writhing body trying to get comfortable on the slab, she curls the corners of her mouth up and winks at him.
He likes it, she can tell.
“What do you dream about?”
He rests a large hand on the glass, his shoulders thrown back. She watches him, on her back, head tilted to the floor. Upside down.
He doesn’t answer-she isn’t surprised. “I dream about you a lot,” she says instead, and his head flinches a little towards her. She’s not sure why she said it, deceptively calm and factual. She’s not sure she wants him to know anything about her dreams, and she’s scared to continue, but her voice has an agenda of its own. “I dream I’m chained to a slab-like this one-and you’re tearing out my heart. Sometimes with an ice cream scooper.”
She watches his reflection intently, and she waits. He smiles, just a little, and it’s enough.
The fifty-second time she visits him, he finally answers her question, and this time he’s sitting beside her lain-out form. Her hair is spread out over his thigh, because she put it there to tease him, and her eyes are closed.
She’s dangling her legs out over the side and imagining he’s playing with her blonde locks, strong fingers weaving through strands of sun-kissed silk. She sighs and he says, “I dream about watches. Ticking.”
She keeps her eyes closed despite her surprise, the rumble of his deep, melodic voice. “That’s boring,” she says casually.
“I dream about you in that top with the flowers on it,” he continues, and his tone has turned rough, angry. She opens her eyes, cranes her neck to capture his. They bore into her. “I fuck you against the wall, over Trevor’s limp body and open skull, and your screams drown out the ticking.”
His hand is on his thigh, touching her hair. She arcs a little more, and the side of his finger touches her forehead. His breath slows at the contact.
“Don’t you wish it would have happened like that?” she asks wistfully.
He doesn’t respond, but she knows the answer.
When he finally escapes, she’s waiting for him at the exit with a smile.
There’s blood smeared across his cheek, caked under his fingernails. She wonders whose it is, holding the doorframe and coyly peeking up at him from beneath fluttering lashes. She knows being flirtatious isn’t going to help, but she does know telling him she had started giving him placebos a week ago would.
His sensual lips curl back, and his lifts one bloodstained hand to throw her against the locked door. It hurts; her body aches and her head throbs, and he holds her there with an invisible grip to her throat. “Why?” he growls, stalking closer.
She could say it’s because she loves him, because she cares, but Elle doesn’t. Everyone’s always told Elle she’s incapable of feeling these things, and that’s okay-they’re dead wrong, and she almost giggles because they are dead wrong because he’s just killed almost everyone in her life.
Instead she lifts a hand and touches his cheek, her thumb skimming his warm bottom lip. She gasps a little as he licks the pad, nips at it with his teeth. The murderous gaze he’s giving her is flashing with lust and dreams and dark promises.
She doesn’t answer him at all, because he knows why. He knows like she does that if it’s not love, it’s something close enough.
-fin-