Fic: Grow Up and Blow Away...
Title: Grow up and blow away...
Characters/Pairings: Sylar, Gabriel Gray, Elle, Gabriel/Elle, Sylar/Elle
Rating: 14 A
Warnings: Twisty-ness, violence, occasional swearing and “emo mind fukery”
Spoiler alert: Up to Eclipse Part 2
Disclaimer: If I would own Heroes, Elle would still be alive and Sylar would walk around topless at all times. Be thankful I am not in charge.
Summary: She had been told that, when she’d die, her life would flash in front of her eyes.
Author’s note: Written for the “Little Things” prompt at heroes_contest. Hey, it worked in my mind. I’m not too, too sure if it really adheres to the prompt, if not, someone tell me.
If this is the life
Why does it feel so good to die today?
Blue to gray
Grow up and blow away... Metric
She had been told that, when she’d die, her life would flash in front of her eyes. That it would play out before her as though her life was a movie and someone had pressed fast forward. That she would see her first haircut, her first bicycle ride, her first broken bone, her first kiss, her first fuck.
All the memorable moments cut and pasted all neat and tidy into an easy to view presentation.
All the little things that had made her what she was now.
But she had been lied to. She only saw him and his eyes like fresh mud. And she saw their first and seconds and thirds. Their what was and the painful premonition of what could have been.
It was him she saw in her dying moments, and it made sense. He was the only person who had ever brought her to life, his touch like hands turning the key of a wind up watch. And it was only fitting that she would see him as he took her life away.
* * *
The first time she saw him, there was death.
A noose is tied around his neck like a grotesque gift bow. His feet dangle above the floor and his eyes are shut, an almost peaceful expression softening his face.
When Bennet had said, “study his every move”, she highly doubted that watching the swing of his feet as he hung from his neck had been what he had in mind.
She almost screams for help, an uncontrollable urge to run to daddy, or the closest substitute -Bennet-, takes her over and she feels an almost tangible cord pull her back towards the door and out of the building. But running for help is not what daddy’s little girl would do. That girl would take care of the mess, so that is Elle will too. In a panic she sends a bolt of energy to split the cord and watches as he falls to the ground in a tangle or arms, legs and deep, gulping breaths.
In a flash, and she almost laughs at the irony, she runs to his body, removes the noose from his neck as he still gasps for air. His soft face is pale distorted as he greedily sucks air into his starved lungs while hands frantically swipe at his neck. His horror, his frantic movements, none of it correlates with the noose that had decorated his neck seconds prior and had almost willingly brought along his death.
And a part of her is frantic as she holds onto his head that heaves with the intensity of his breathing.“Are you alright?” she asks, and is proud to hear that her voice does not tremor like the rest of her body, from the adrenaline pumping through her veins. Perhaps her training has come in handy. Maybe one day she will be good enough for daddy.
But he is quiet, simply looking at her as though she is an angel sent from above to rescue him from his own handmade hell. She feels herself caught in his gaze, a lion teasing his prey. But she no longer knows who is the predator and who is about to be lunch.
“Say something,” she insists.
“Forgive me,” he finally wheezes.
And a part of her does.
And then, like a mourning widow, he cries hot bitter tears that soak her shirt as he clutches to clutches her. She is surprised to feel his fingers dig into her upper arms as he cleaves to her like a man clutching to a life raft after days at sea. And maybe she clings to him as well, but that must have been an act, she is not sure.
* * *
“It’s okay, everything is going to be okay,” she assures him.
He sits against a cabinet, head up as if the ceiling can give him answers, as if God will show up and explain everything to him. But there is no God hiding in the rafters, just dust and spider webs. And she sits beside him, watching him uneasily, the already darkening bruise on his neck a sick reminder, just like the noose clutched in her hand, of what the man was capable of doing.
“No, it isn’t,” he says.
And she hates to admit is, but he’s right.
“I’ve done something unforgivable,” he continues.
“Everybody does bad things. Think I haven’t felt exactly how you’re feeling right now? Maybe if you talk about it, sometimes when you talk about it-”
“I can’t,” he pauses a few moments as if gathering his courage. “A man had something that I wanted, but I took it at a terrible price”
“I know it seems hard to imagine, but you’re going to get through this. Because you’re not a bad person.”
And even if she knew the truth -that he had killed a man with his own bare hands because of greed and jealousy- seeing his grief, as plain as blood on a white shirt, she thought that maybe he was not such a bad person. Maybe he was just desperate. Maybe he saw his life as never-ending and monotonous as the ticking of the clocks he surrounded himself with. Maybe he wanted to be more than he was, to be special.
Like Brian Davis. Like herself.
“But you don’t know anything about me”
“I know what I see, a man who deserves a second chance. The rope broke,” she says, bringing the noose back into view, “you can’t tell me that’s not a sign.”
At this he laughs, shaking his head, as if unbelieving that fate, whom he believes to be behind this whole mess, would smile upon his now and cut the cord She had forced around his neck.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Elle.”
It comes out a whooshing gasp, as though it was fighting to get out this entire time.
She had been told to create an alias, to be untraceable. But she no longer wanted to be. This vulnerable man was not a killer. He could not be. He felt grief, guilt, for the crimes he had committed. A killer, she had been told, had no conscience and could not make her feel this way, as if she could see everything clearly for the first time. As though he lifted a veil she had not been aware of until now.
“Elle,” he says softly, hesitating, as if trying out the name on his tongue. She secretly hopes he likes it, that it lingers on his lips like a lover’s kiss. “Look at you, Elle, showing up out of nowhere. Like an angel.”
She feels something like wings dancing in her stomach and the smile came without time to reconsider. Without time to think of what it might mean. Suddenly she is light as a feather caught in the breeze and she no longer wants to think of assignments and duties. Just watches and rooftop suppers and angels tangled in bed sheets.
“An angel with a broken watch,” she says with a smile and a handful of metal.
And she tries to forget the sparks she feels when their fingers brush as he takes the metal wrist ornament from her pale fingers. It’s so unlike her blue electricity, so much warmer, so much more human.
“He’s just an assignment,” Bennet had told her. “Don’t get too involved, it will only make the mission harder.”
He probably did not have this in mind either.
* * *
The second time he stepped into her life, there was pie.
And death.
An unlikely combination that ended exactly as she had planned. But not how she had hoped.
She tries not to think about it.
* * *
The third time they met, there was fireworks.
Bright blue and sparkling, like the ones the lovers are supposed to feel when they touch. But there is no love in these blue bolts. Just hatred.
Hatred for what he had done to her father.
Hatred for what is being done to her.
Hatred for man who has placed her in this cell.
And he withstands it. He bears it like a marshmallow over the campfire flames for two long. He burns to cinders and she watches him as he reforms. Sometime she slows the flow, watching as his skin melts off his bones, muscles comes off in ribbons and ribs stand out like gnarled tree branches. It is a sick anatomy lesson, her subject coming back from the dead after every mortal wound.
But that case study would cry, would scream, would beg for mercy. He simply took her wrath, as if it was absolution from his sins, flagellation for his crimes.
And then, when his fingers are pointed at her, the same ones that had lifted the skulls of many others, she knows that she is going to die. So she takes her last shaking breath, looking into the brown eyes of her killer, almost black in this light, but did not see her life flash in front of her eyes. She just saw him.
And then she feels the cuff unlock and she feels her freedom like newfound wings. The wings of an angel.
And the buzz that had burnt her body for days just fades away.
* * *
The first time they hold each other, it is on the splintered floor of an abandoned house in California, their bodies still basking in the afterglow and the dim light of the eclipse. He holds her possessively as she kisses his lips, rough kisses of passion followed by fleeting whispers of skin, unspoken promises that this will last forever.
And she believes him.
She believes that he can change, that he will change, for her. She believes that he loves her, that he finds her as perfect as she does him. And he smiles, in the heat of pursuit. And he kisses her behind the cars in the junkyard, roughly as if this is the last time their bodies will meet. His hands tangle themselves in her hair as if they can hold her next to him for the rest of the life they will share.
Because time was precious now that he does not have forever. And she is precious now that she is his tether to morality.
* * *
It’s the little things, the touches on the back of the hand, the fact that he uses his hands to carry her after she gets shot instead of forcing her to walk, the time he sends her away when they’re about to be killed, that shows her that he cares for her.
It’s his finger slicing open her forehead that shows that he loves her.
Edit: Fixed MAJOR formatting booboos, everything should be alright now,
Characters/Pairings: Sylar, Gabriel Gray, Elle, Gabriel/Elle, Sylar/Elle
Rating: 14 A
Warnings: Twisty-ness, violence, occasional swearing and “emo mind fukery”
Spoiler alert: Up to Eclipse Part 2
Disclaimer: If I would own Heroes, Elle would still be alive and Sylar would walk around topless at all times. Be thankful I am not in charge.
Summary: She had been told that, when she’d die, her life would flash in front of her eyes.
Author’s note: Written for the “Little Things” prompt at heroes_contest. Hey, it worked in my mind. I’m not too, too sure if it really adheres to the prompt, if not, someone tell me.
If this is the life
Why does it feel so good to die today?
Blue to gray
Grow up and blow away... Metric
She had been told that, when she’d die, her life would flash in front of her eyes. That it would play out before her as though her life was a movie and someone had pressed fast forward. That she would see her first haircut, her first bicycle ride, her first broken bone, her first kiss, her first fuck.
All the memorable moments cut and pasted all neat and tidy into an easy to view presentation.
All the little things that had made her what she was now.
But she had been lied to. She only saw him and his eyes like fresh mud. And she saw their first and seconds and thirds. Their what was and the painful premonition of what could have been.
It was him she saw in her dying moments, and it made sense. He was the only person who had ever brought her to life, his touch like hands turning the key of a wind up watch. And it was only fitting that she would see him as he took her life away.
* * *
The first time she saw him, there was death.
A noose is tied around his neck like a grotesque gift bow. His feet dangle above the floor and his eyes are shut, an almost peaceful expression softening his face.
When Bennet had said, “study his every move”, she highly doubted that watching the swing of his feet as he hung from his neck had been what he had in mind.
She almost screams for help, an uncontrollable urge to run to daddy, or the closest substitute -Bennet-, takes her over and she feels an almost tangible cord pull her back towards the door and out of the building. But running for help is not what daddy’s little girl would do. That girl would take care of the mess, so that is Elle will too. In a panic she sends a bolt of energy to split the cord and watches as he falls to the ground in a tangle or arms, legs and deep, gulping breaths.
In a flash, and she almost laughs at the irony, she runs to his body, removes the noose from his neck as he still gasps for air. His soft face is pale distorted as he greedily sucks air into his starved lungs while hands frantically swipe at his neck. His horror, his frantic movements, none of it correlates with the noose that had decorated his neck seconds prior and had almost willingly brought along his death.
And a part of her is frantic as she holds onto his head that heaves with the intensity of his breathing.“Are you alright?” she asks, and is proud to hear that her voice does not tremor like the rest of her body, from the adrenaline pumping through her veins. Perhaps her training has come in handy. Maybe one day she will be good enough for daddy.
But he is quiet, simply looking at her as though she is an angel sent from above to rescue him from his own handmade hell. She feels herself caught in his gaze, a lion teasing his prey. But she no longer knows who is the predator and who is about to be lunch.
“Say something,” she insists.
“Forgive me,” he finally wheezes.
And a part of her does.
And then, like a mourning widow, he cries hot bitter tears that soak her shirt as he clutches to clutches her. She is surprised to feel his fingers dig into her upper arms as he cleaves to her like a man clutching to a life raft after days at sea. And maybe she clings to him as well, but that must have been an act, she is not sure.
* * *
“It’s okay, everything is going to be okay,” she assures him.
He sits against a cabinet, head up as if the ceiling can give him answers, as if God will show up and explain everything to him. But there is no God hiding in the rafters, just dust and spider webs. And she sits beside him, watching him uneasily, the already darkening bruise on his neck a sick reminder, just like the noose clutched in her hand, of what the man was capable of doing.
“No, it isn’t,” he says.
And she hates to admit is, but he’s right.
“I’ve done something unforgivable,” he continues.
“Everybody does bad things. Think I haven’t felt exactly how you’re feeling right now? Maybe if you talk about it, sometimes when you talk about it-”
“I can’t,” he pauses a few moments as if gathering his courage. “A man had something that I wanted, but I took it at a terrible price”
“I know it seems hard to imagine, but you’re going to get through this. Because you’re not a bad person.”
And even if she knew the truth -that he had killed a man with his own bare hands because of greed and jealousy- seeing his grief, as plain as blood on a white shirt, she thought that maybe he was not such a bad person. Maybe he was just desperate. Maybe he saw his life as never-ending and monotonous as the ticking of the clocks he surrounded himself with. Maybe he wanted to be more than he was, to be special.
Like Brian Davis. Like herself.
“But you don’t know anything about me”
“I know what I see, a man who deserves a second chance. The rope broke,” she says, bringing the noose back into view, “you can’t tell me that’s not a sign.”
At this he laughs, shaking his head, as if unbelieving that fate, whom he believes to be behind this whole mess, would smile upon his now and cut the cord She had forced around his neck.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Elle.”
It comes out a whooshing gasp, as though it was fighting to get out this entire time.
She had been told to create an alias, to be untraceable. But she no longer wanted to be. This vulnerable man was not a killer. He could not be. He felt grief, guilt, for the crimes he had committed. A killer, she had been told, had no conscience and could not make her feel this way, as if she could see everything clearly for the first time. As though he lifted a veil she had not been aware of until now.
“Elle,” he says softly, hesitating, as if trying out the name on his tongue. She secretly hopes he likes it, that it lingers on his lips like a lover’s kiss. “Look at you, Elle, showing up out of nowhere. Like an angel.”
She feels something like wings dancing in her stomach and the smile came without time to reconsider. Without time to think of what it might mean. Suddenly she is light as a feather caught in the breeze and she no longer wants to think of assignments and duties. Just watches and rooftop suppers and angels tangled in bed sheets.
“An angel with a broken watch,” she says with a smile and a handful of metal.
And she tries to forget the sparks she feels when their fingers brush as he takes the metal wrist ornament from her pale fingers. It’s so unlike her blue electricity, so much warmer, so much more human.
“He’s just an assignment,” Bennet had told her. “Don’t get too involved, it will only make the mission harder.”
He probably did not have this in mind either.
* * *
The second time he stepped into her life, there was pie.
And death.
An unlikely combination that ended exactly as she had planned. But not how she had hoped.
She tries not to think about it.
* * *
The third time they met, there was fireworks.
Bright blue and sparkling, like the ones the lovers are supposed to feel when they touch. But there is no love in these blue bolts. Just hatred.
Hatred for what he had done to her father.
Hatred for what is being done to her.
Hatred for man who has placed her in this cell.
And he withstands it. He bears it like a marshmallow over the campfire flames for two long. He burns to cinders and she watches him as he reforms. Sometime she slows the flow, watching as his skin melts off his bones, muscles comes off in ribbons and ribs stand out like gnarled tree branches. It is a sick anatomy lesson, her subject coming back from the dead after every mortal wound.
But that case study would cry, would scream, would beg for mercy. He simply took her wrath, as if it was absolution from his sins, flagellation for his crimes.
And then, when his fingers are pointed at her, the same ones that had lifted the skulls of many others, she knows that she is going to die. So she takes her last shaking breath, looking into the brown eyes of her killer, almost black in this light, but did not see her life flash in front of her eyes. She just saw him.
And then she feels the cuff unlock and she feels her freedom like newfound wings. The wings of an angel.
And the buzz that had burnt her body for days just fades away.
* * *
The first time they hold each other, it is on the splintered floor of an abandoned house in California, their bodies still basking in the afterglow and the dim light of the eclipse. He holds her possessively as she kisses his lips, rough kisses of passion followed by fleeting whispers of skin, unspoken promises that this will last forever.
And she believes him.
She believes that he can change, that he will change, for her. She believes that he loves her, that he finds her as perfect as she does him. And he smiles, in the heat of pursuit. And he kisses her behind the cars in the junkyard, roughly as if this is the last time their bodies will meet. His hands tangle themselves in her hair as if they can hold her next to him for the rest of the life they will share.
Because time was precious now that he does not have forever. And she is precious now that she is his tether to morality.
* * *
It’s the little things, the touches on the back of the hand, the fact that he uses his hands to carry her after she gets shot instead of forcing her to walk, the time he sends her away when they’re about to be killed, that shows her that he cares for her.
It’s his finger slicing open her forehead that shows that he loves her.
Edit: Fixed MAJOR formatting booboos, everything should be alright now,