Fic: I Am What You Cannot Be
Title: I Am What You Cannot Be
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Pairing: Sylar/Elle
Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH
Summary: Sylar's thoughts during the end of 3x11
Sylar knows he is but a man at the edge of something, and he could be a hero.
Sylar is on the beach where he has been suddenly sent, with his fingers tangled in Elle's blond hair. She is below him, lying on the sand, talking; still beautiful, wounded. Maybe even more beautiful, so strong despite the pain, so stubborn, like the blood running down her leg is nothing.
Elle is talking, like Elle likes to do. She has a beautiful voice and a beautiful mouth, too, but Sylar can't really listen to her. He's distracted. It's the hunger, that oppressive weight on his brain again, not exactly stifling his thoughts but redirecting them. Channeling them, like a river brought suddenly to a canyon, a raging flood forced in one direction, and it isn't towards Elle, it's towards power. Oh, power. He has it. He craves more of it. Sylar can feel it like heat on his fingertips, like whipped cream on his tongue. His brain reels in that direction, power, and he could no more stop it than he could raise his hand and bring the sun to a halt.
Well, he can't do that yet.
It wasn't like this, during the eclipse. He'd felt... free. Like a shackle had been lifted from around his ankle, and maybe it left sores, scrapes, maybe he was damaged, but he was out of there, he had time to heal. He had time and he had Elle, electric Elle, powerful Elle. Only she hadn't been then, either. No complications. With the sun's blinding light blocked by the cool dark moon, Sylar could see clearly for the first time. He could see their future together, or at least imagine it so vividly it felt like seeing. Spend a few years on the road, driving down the Pan-American Highway, because they're both adventurous spirits and they'd need to exercise that out - and then they could settle down, somewhere, probably not a nice house in suburbia but at least a little apartment in the city. He can almost see the apartment, threadbare, shabby, but home, within walking distance of a bakery and a movie theater and a bowling alley. Eventually a baby would arrive, too. A kid they hadn't expected, maybe, but welcomed, and as he got older they'd teach him things, like watchmaking (useful even if it's not a career), and bowling, and dancing, because Sylar's never seen but he'd be shocked if Elle couldn't dance. It would be mundane, but Sylar, for once, was fine with that. It would be a life worth living. Sylar is a man, and he could be a father.
The eclipse went and the clarity went with it. Now he's on the beach, still, trying to listen to Elle, really trying, even though his mind is in faraway places, with lists and prison cells and new abilities like wildflowers waiting to be plucked. Sylar thinks he loves Elle. No. He knows it. He's never felt this way about anyone, and no one has ever felt this way about him. They're in this together - this road to redemption. Elle's confused too, she's hurting too, but she knows her way; she knows how to be wild and free and practical and good, all at once. She knows how to follow orders and still do what she wants. Elle is like alchemy. Elle is like a thunderstorm and he is the lightning rod. His fingertips are made for her skin, his mouth is made for her mouth. Still, he thinks, Elle is... not like him. Elle is different. He is worse. He was made to become what he is, but that was autonomous of choice; Elle became what she is out of guilt, out of such horrible wounds that she could chose to wall herself off. Now she's choosing to bring those walls down, step out into the world, taking Sylar by the hand along with her.
By the hand. This not... his decision. None of it is. And his thinking is so much more muddled with the hunger pulling his thoughts like iron filings to a magnet back to powerpowerpower, but he knows, he thinks he knows that this isn't right. It's that he cannot go where he cannot choose to go himself, and he cannot choose to go there; it's that Elle cannot possibly drag him there herself. He would lead her back down. He would take her back into darkness. Sylar looks down at her, at her smooth pale face. She needs to go somewhere he can't follow. She won't go without him. A paradox.
Elle. Too good for this world. Sylar is a man, but he wants to be a savior.
Slowly, he draws the line across her forehead. She's startled, of course she is, oh God Elle, and he tries to make her understand. He cannot be anything but what he is. She cannot be anything but what she is, and here, they cannot exist simultaneously. The magical world of the eclipse, bright with the future, could not last forever. So he opens her skull reverently, like it's artwork, and it is, it's Elle, and with telekinetic fingers on her nerves he dampens her pain. She is too good for this world but she doesn't have to suffer.
Elle slumps, her beautiful hair in the sand. It's red and the grains stick to it. Sylar thinks that he will wash it later. Wash it so it can shine with its proper luminescence before the burial, which he knows, already, that he will do deep in the wild somewhere, high on a mountain, during a storm - the only place for someone like Elle.
She is limp and her blue eyes are sightless.
Elle is dead.
Elle is dead and Sylar is -
Sylar is a villain.
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Pairing: Sylar/Elle
Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH
Summary: Sylar's thoughts during the end of 3x11
Sylar knows he is but a man at the edge of something, and he could be a hero.
Sylar is on the beach where he has been suddenly sent, with his fingers tangled in Elle's blond hair. She is below him, lying on the sand, talking; still beautiful, wounded. Maybe even more beautiful, so strong despite the pain, so stubborn, like the blood running down her leg is nothing.
Elle is talking, like Elle likes to do. She has a beautiful voice and a beautiful mouth, too, but Sylar can't really listen to her. He's distracted. It's the hunger, that oppressive weight on his brain again, not exactly stifling his thoughts but redirecting them. Channeling them, like a river brought suddenly to a canyon, a raging flood forced in one direction, and it isn't towards Elle, it's towards power. Oh, power. He has it. He craves more of it. Sylar can feel it like heat on his fingertips, like whipped cream on his tongue. His brain reels in that direction, power, and he could no more stop it than he could raise his hand and bring the sun to a halt.
Well, he can't do that yet.
It wasn't like this, during the eclipse. He'd felt... free. Like a shackle had been lifted from around his ankle, and maybe it left sores, scrapes, maybe he was damaged, but he was out of there, he had time to heal. He had time and he had Elle, electric Elle, powerful Elle. Only she hadn't been then, either. No complications. With the sun's blinding light blocked by the cool dark moon, Sylar could see clearly for the first time. He could see their future together, or at least imagine it so vividly it felt like seeing. Spend a few years on the road, driving down the Pan-American Highway, because they're both adventurous spirits and they'd need to exercise that out - and then they could settle down, somewhere, probably not a nice house in suburbia but at least a little apartment in the city. He can almost see the apartment, threadbare, shabby, but home, within walking distance of a bakery and a movie theater and a bowling alley. Eventually a baby would arrive, too. A kid they hadn't expected, maybe, but welcomed, and as he got older they'd teach him things, like watchmaking (useful even if it's not a career), and bowling, and dancing, because Sylar's never seen but he'd be shocked if Elle couldn't dance. It would be mundane, but Sylar, for once, was fine with that. It would be a life worth living. Sylar is a man, and he could be a father.
The eclipse went and the clarity went with it. Now he's on the beach, still, trying to listen to Elle, really trying, even though his mind is in faraway places, with lists and prison cells and new abilities like wildflowers waiting to be plucked. Sylar thinks he loves Elle. No. He knows it. He's never felt this way about anyone, and no one has ever felt this way about him. They're in this together - this road to redemption. Elle's confused too, she's hurting too, but she knows her way; she knows how to be wild and free and practical and good, all at once. She knows how to follow orders and still do what she wants. Elle is like alchemy. Elle is like a thunderstorm and he is the lightning rod. His fingertips are made for her skin, his mouth is made for her mouth. Still, he thinks, Elle is... not like him. Elle is different. He is worse. He was made to become what he is, but that was autonomous of choice; Elle became what she is out of guilt, out of such horrible wounds that she could chose to wall herself off. Now she's choosing to bring those walls down, step out into the world, taking Sylar by the hand along with her.
By the hand. This not... his decision. None of it is. And his thinking is so much more muddled with the hunger pulling his thoughts like iron filings to a magnet back to powerpowerpower, but he knows, he thinks he knows that this isn't right. It's that he cannot go where he cannot choose to go himself, and he cannot choose to go there; it's that Elle cannot possibly drag him there herself. He would lead her back down. He would take her back into darkness. Sylar looks down at her, at her smooth pale face. She needs to go somewhere he can't follow. She won't go without him. A paradox.
Elle. Too good for this world. Sylar is a man, but he wants to be a savior.
Slowly, he draws the line across her forehead. She's startled, of course she is, oh God Elle, and he tries to make her understand. He cannot be anything but what he is. She cannot be anything but what she is, and here, they cannot exist simultaneously. The magical world of the eclipse, bright with the future, could not last forever. So he opens her skull reverently, like it's artwork, and it is, it's Elle, and with telekinetic fingers on her nerves he dampens her pain. She is too good for this world but she doesn't have to suffer.
Elle slumps, her beautiful hair in the sand. It's red and the grains stick to it. Sylar thinks that he will wash it later. Wash it so it can shine with its proper luminescence before the burial, which he knows, already, that he will do deep in the wild somewhere, high on a mountain, during a storm - the only place for someone like Elle.
She is limp and her blue eyes are sightless.
Elle is dead.
Elle is dead and Sylar is -
Sylar is a villain.