(no subject)
Grimacing from the way the bullet shifted in her thigh, regretting more than anything that they hadn't stopped to take the time to dislodge it, Elle made her way to a sitting position in the sand. Probably not the most sanitary thing she could have done for it, but, well … beggars couldn't be choosers after all. She'd learned pretty quickly that complaining about it wouldn't get her far. Besides, complaining about it to Sylar when he'd just had his throat sliced by Claire's psycho-dad seemed pretty juvenile, anyway.
Her breath hitched in her throat from the pain all the same, but she tried to put on a brave face. This situation couldn't possibly suck as it felt like it did. How stupid had she been? Insisting to go along just because she wanted to prove she could still be a good agent after everything that had happened. And now she's slowed Sylar down so much that they'd blown to whole thing. Arthur was going to be pissed.
Right. Arthur. Her eyes flickered, concern evident, up towards Sylar's, trying to get a read. Noah had shaken him, that much was clear during the mini interrogation that her injury had at least managed to distract from. Thank whatever asshole god was up there for small favors. He didn't look angry, which meant he at least partially believed her that she didn't know anything. And, really, when was she supposed to find it in her heart to tell him the truth, anyway? It would have totally distracted him from the mission, distracted him from getting it done and doing what they'd come to do. It would have changed everything.
She wasn't sure she could take another earth-shaking change. Besides. Honesty was hard, and as guilty as she felt for lying to him again (seriously, when was that ever going to not be a theme in their relationship?) she felt better knowing that he could keep his head in the game. Until now, anyways. When he reached forward, though, she was sure it was a gesture that was bound to be coupled with telekinesis. A change of mind. He'd figured it out, realized she lied, and now she was going to get hers. Instinctively, she flinched, back shoulders tensing.
But, no pain came. No movement even. And she opened her eyes to look up at him, vulnerability and guilt evident. It was the only answer he'd need, she knew that much. Even with the cotton and ice of all those abilities clouding his mind again, she knew that he saw her clearer than anyone else did. He saw the monster she really was, and she'd hoped he'd accepted it, just like she'd accepted him for the monster he'd made her into. There was hesitation in her gaze as she tried to search his eyes for some kind of confirmation that she was right, but before she could find anything to ease her mind, he reached forward again to brush her hair back, simultaneously leaning in to kiss her.
And that was okay. That was familiar. It was easier than worrying about any of that. Elle was good at the physical part of intimacy. It was the emotional vulnerability that really got to her. The trust. She'd never had it with anybody but her own father and, well, he'd abused that and experimented on her and then he abandoned her. Well. Sylar made him abandon her. Still.
Everything seemed more complicated with powers introduced back into the situation. Like family, too, and obligations, were harder to forget. The dream world she'd built up where they could just have one another and be broken and find a way to fix each other was falling apart. Noah was right -- like always. That jackass. Given the chance, she really might have killed him back there, but instead she forced herself to push the rage to another part of her mind to deal with later while she and Sylar laid back, fingers interlacing. The moment was nearly perfect. Nearly enough to make her forget about the pain in her thigh and just remind her of how simple things seemed on the floor of the empty Canfield house. But then, he had to talk.
"I've been thinking," he said. Bad news. She tried not to assume the worst. Tried to pretend that she was worried it was a segue into calling her a liar and telling her that he couldn't do it anymore.
"About what?"
"What you said about finding ourselves free of parents." Almost like an afterthought, he added, "of powers." Well. At least they were still on that same wavelength. That was reassuring, and way less likely to end with him getting pissed at her over the fact that they both knew Glasses was telling the truth.
"What about it?"
"You were wrong," there was a new intensity to his voice. Something terrifying and dark that made Elle's stomach clench. Something that reminded her that, with his powers back, he was Sylar again. Not Gabriel. "People don't change." It was almost accusatory, the way he said it, but Elle tried to flounder for some optimism. Pretend that he didn't mean her not changing from the liar she'd always been. Tried to pretend that he wasn't pointing out that she was still the same monster her father had made her. She shifted beneath him, trying in vain to get more comfortable. No luck. His weight was seriously bearing down on her. A painful reminder of the power he had over her? Probably. Maybe he wasn't even consciously doing it himself. Maybe it was just her imagination working it up to be worse than it was, some physical manifestation of her guilt. How lame would that be? She tried to chuckle through it, but it just came out as uncertain, choked breaths.
"You did," her lips curled into an encouraging smile. Like she was pleading with him. Please, she wanted to say, tell me you did. Tell me I'm not just being stupid and naive and hopeful. That we can really have this. "I saw you." Like somehow, this would make it more legitimate. Like it would make up for everything bad she'd forced inside of him by saying that she saw through it to the good now. No dice. His voice grew harsher.
"That was temporary." She flinched a little as he said it. "And then I got my powers back, and I understand now that I'm never going to change." Although she opened her mouth to protest, he just continued, this time digging deeper. "Neither are you, because we're both just damaged goods." He said it with such venom that Elle had to take a minute to process. She deserved that one. She definitely deserved it -- but he'd forgiven her for it once. Found it within himself to accept everything she was. When had the terms of that changed? As much as she wanted to argue, stipulate that it was unfair, she knew she couldn't. There was no defending herself or drawing up the childish indignation at this point.
She'd lied. And now she was going to pay the price. WIth the sudden silence came a greater awareness of her situation and she slowly turned to look at their joined hands, trying to shift again beneath him. The discomfort had turned to pain as he pressed down on her, forcing her limbs into an awkward angle and forcing her further into the dirt.
She swallowed thickly.
"You're hurting me," she whimpered out, trying to grimace through the pain. Not that she'd ever had a great tolerance for it, but she was kind of hoping she'd seen the end of Sylar inflicting it. Apparently not, because judging by the tilt of his head, he had no intention of letting up.
"I know." The words chilled her to her core and a coldness washed over her entirely. Once upon a time, in this same situation, she'd overloaded her ability and blasted him into next week. Hurt him instead of letting him hurt her. Made him regret coming after her and locked him up. But now, out on the beach alone, without the anger of her own father's death to blind her, she just found herself staring dumbly, helplessly up at him. In those weeks, something had changed. Some serious growing up, maybe. In London with Claude, that was certain, and even in Pinehearst since then. Since then, she'd learned to stop playing the victim; learned to take responsibility for her own mistakes and forge her own place.
Well, there was no mistake greater than the one right in front of her to take responsibility for. If anyone deserved to kill Elle Bishop, it was the monster she'd created. In the back of her mind, she wondered if her father had found the same serenity, or if he'd just been selfish and ignorant and not realized how poetic it really was. She'd killed Gabriel Gray so long ago by ripping apart his very soul. It was only fair that he did the same to her.
Instead of fighting back, she just shut her eyes, quiet whimpers of pain instead of the screams that might imply she wasn't ready for exactly what was coming causing her lips to tremble and tighten as he drew one hand back and slowly cut into her head. It was slow -- agonizing, really, but not as bad as the tremors from her malfunctioning ability had been. And it was peaceful. The sound of the ocean waves was the last sound she heard as everything slowly went dark and every muscle in her body slowly relaxed, the final whimpers dying in her throat.
And then, all at once, just as soon as the last breath had blown past her lips, it was like she was heaving her very first, eyes wide as she stumbled forward, landing on her knees on cobblestone by an intricately designed fountain -- the teleportation feeling, by now, was old hat. Hiro Nakamura? It was who Sylar had blamed on the beach, but … No. There was no tug this time. Just a sudden fresh breath of life where she had felt it all drain from her. She looked around, taking in her surroundings, reaching up with one hand to find that her head was very much not cut into. Maybe it had all been a bad dream, she wanted to tell herself. That the whole past few weeks had just been some wild quazi-nightmare after her father's death and this was some crappy prank.
Like she was ever that lucky. Slowly, she drew herself back to her feet, looking down at her clothes. Sylar's black button-up and shorts told her that it had been very real, and so did the blood that she could see in her bright blonde, stringy hair in her peripheral vision. What was this, some crappy consolation prize for being so good about accepting death? For welcoming what was coming to her and maybe somehow repenting? Because if this was Heaven, it was a little short on trumpets and crappy horn music.
Not that Elle Bishop had ever really believed in the afterlife, but it was hard to deny when it was right in front of her.
Actually, scratch the Heaven theory. As soon as she became acutely aware of the creeping ticking in the back of her mind, she spun around suddenly, as if trying to accuse someone of being the source of it. Of being some agonizing reminder of the crimes she'd committed in her life. The crimes she'd been forced to commit and willingly fallen into. Gabriel Gray, the watchmaker, haunting her forever in her own personal Hell. She was going to scream. If she didn't know better, she'd say this was his own form of punishment for how she'd lied. If she didn't know better, she'd think he'd stolen Candice's powers on his way back stateside and was now trapping her in a prison of her own mind, forcing her to acknowledge her crimes.
Hell or some purgatory of her overpowered ex boyfriend's creation. Great. Another reminder of what a great life she'd led. As ready as she'd been willing to accept death at Sylar's hands, she was far from willing to accept that she was now destined to live her life out in some ugly city with that obnoxious ticking. The obvious answer was to confront one of the people she could see milling around the square off in the distance -- far enough away that she couldn't just open her mouth and demand an answer -- but considering what a great track record she'd had with actually trusting people …
Well, she'd pass. Instead, she just fidgeted with the edges of Sylar's torn clothes. She'd figure things out on her own. She didn't need them -- she didn't need anyone. She'd proven that much since her father had died. She was just choosing to ignore that she'd hopped from codependent pleading to codependent pleading until she'd been locked in a basement in Pinehearst for the time being, as it didn't really support her theory that she'd be fine without any help.
Her breath hitched in her throat from the pain all the same, but she tried to put on a brave face. This situation couldn't possibly suck as it felt like it did. How stupid had she been? Insisting to go along just because she wanted to prove she could still be a good agent after everything that had happened. And now she's slowed Sylar down so much that they'd blown to whole thing. Arthur was going to be pissed.
Right. Arthur. Her eyes flickered, concern evident, up towards Sylar's, trying to get a read. Noah had shaken him, that much was clear during the mini interrogation that her injury had at least managed to distract from. Thank whatever asshole god was up there for small favors. He didn't look angry, which meant he at least partially believed her that she didn't know anything. And, really, when was she supposed to find it in her heart to tell him the truth, anyway? It would have totally distracted him from the mission, distracted him from getting it done and doing what they'd come to do. It would have changed everything.
She wasn't sure she could take another earth-shaking change. Besides. Honesty was hard, and as guilty as she felt for lying to him again (seriously, when was that ever going to not be a theme in their relationship?) she felt better knowing that he could keep his head in the game. Until now, anyways. When he reached forward, though, she was sure it was a gesture that was bound to be coupled with telekinesis. A change of mind. He'd figured it out, realized she lied, and now she was going to get hers. Instinctively, she flinched, back shoulders tensing.
But, no pain came. No movement even. And she opened her eyes to look up at him, vulnerability and guilt evident. It was the only answer he'd need, she knew that much. Even with the cotton and ice of all those abilities clouding his mind again, she knew that he saw her clearer than anyone else did. He saw the monster she really was, and she'd hoped he'd accepted it, just like she'd accepted him for the monster he'd made her into. There was hesitation in her gaze as she tried to search his eyes for some kind of confirmation that she was right, but before she could find anything to ease her mind, he reached forward again to brush her hair back, simultaneously leaning in to kiss her.
And that was okay. That was familiar. It was easier than worrying about any of that. Elle was good at the physical part of intimacy. It was the emotional vulnerability that really got to her. The trust. She'd never had it with anybody but her own father and, well, he'd abused that and experimented on her and then he abandoned her. Well. Sylar made him abandon her. Still.
Everything seemed more complicated with powers introduced back into the situation. Like family, too, and obligations, were harder to forget. The dream world she'd built up where they could just have one another and be broken and find a way to fix each other was falling apart. Noah was right -- like always. That jackass. Given the chance, she really might have killed him back there, but instead she forced herself to push the rage to another part of her mind to deal with later while she and Sylar laid back, fingers interlacing. The moment was nearly perfect. Nearly enough to make her forget about the pain in her thigh and just remind her of how simple things seemed on the floor of the empty Canfield house. But then, he had to talk.
"I've been thinking," he said. Bad news. She tried not to assume the worst. Tried to pretend that she was worried it was a segue into calling her a liar and telling her that he couldn't do it anymore.
"About what?"
"What you said about finding ourselves free of parents." Almost like an afterthought, he added, "of powers." Well. At least they were still on that same wavelength. That was reassuring, and way less likely to end with him getting pissed at her over the fact that they both knew Glasses was telling the truth.
"What about it?"
"You were wrong," there was a new intensity to his voice. Something terrifying and dark that made Elle's stomach clench. Something that reminded her that, with his powers back, he was Sylar again. Not Gabriel. "People don't change." It was almost accusatory, the way he said it, but Elle tried to flounder for some optimism. Pretend that he didn't mean her not changing from the liar she'd always been. Tried to pretend that he wasn't pointing out that she was still the same monster her father had made her. She shifted beneath him, trying in vain to get more comfortable. No luck. His weight was seriously bearing down on her. A painful reminder of the power he had over her? Probably. Maybe he wasn't even consciously doing it himself. Maybe it was just her imagination working it up to be worse than it was, some physical manifestation of her guilt. How lame would that be? She tried to chuckle through it, but it just came out as uncertain, choked breaths.
"You did," her lips curled into an encouraging smile. Like she was pleading with him. Please, she wanted to say, tell me you did. Tell me I'm not just being stupid and naive and hopeful. That we can really have this. "I saw you." Like somehow, this would make it more legitimate. Like it would make up for everything bad she'd forced inside of him by saying that she saw through it to the good now. No dice. His voice grew harsher.
"That was temporary." She flinched a little as he said it. "And then I got my powers back, and I understand now that I'm never going to change." Although she opened her mouth to protest, he just continued, this time digging deeper. "Neither are you, because we're both just damaged goods." He said it with such venom that Elle had to take a minute to process. She deserved that one. She definitely deserved it -- but he'd forgiven her for it once. Found it within himself to accept everything she was. When had the terms of that changed? As much as she wanted to argue, stipulate that it was unfair, she knew she couldn't. There was no defending herself or drawing up the childish indignation at this point.
She'd lied. And now she was going to pay the price. WIth the sudden silence came a greater awareness of her situation and she slowly turned to look at their joined hands, trying to shift again beneath him. The discomfort had turned to pain as he pressed down on her, forcing her limbs into an awkward angle and forcing her further into the dirt.
She swallowed thickly.
"You're hurting me," she whimpered out, trying to grimace through the pain. Not that she'd ever had a great tolerance for it, but she was kind of hoping she'd seen the end of Sylar inflicting it. Apparently not, because judging by the tilt of his head, he had no intention of letting up.
"I know." The words chilled her to her core and a coldness washed over her entirely. Once upon a time, in this same situation, she'd overloaded her ability and blasted him into next week. Hurt him instead of letting him hurt her. Made him regret coming after her and locked him up. But now, out on the beach alone, without the anger of her own father's death to blind her, she just found herself staring dumbly, helplessly up at him. In those weeks, something had changed. Some serious growing up, maybe. In London with Claude, that was certain, and even in Pinehearst since then. Since then, she'd learned to stop playing the victim; learned to take responsibility for her own mistakes and forge her own place.
Well, there was no mistake greater than the one right in front of her to take responsibility for. If anyone deserved to kill Elle Bishop, it was the monster she'd created. In the back of her mind, she wondered if her father had found the same serenity, or if he'd just been selfish and ignorant and not realized how poetic it really was. She'd killed Gabriel Gray so long ago by ripping apart his very soul. It was only fair that he did the same to her.
Instead of fighting back, she just shut her eyes, quiet whimpers of pain instead of the screams that might imply she wasn't ready for exactly what was coming causing her lips to tremble and tighten as he drew one hand back and slowly cut into her head. It was slow -- agonizing, really, but not as bad as the tremors from her malfunctioning ability had been. And it was peaceful. The sound of the ocean waves was the last sound she heard as everything slowly went dark and every muscle in her body slowly relaxed, the final whimpers dying in her throat.
And then, all at once, just as soon as the last breath had blown past her lips, it was like she was heaving her very first, eyes wide as she stumbled forward, landing on her knees on cobblestone by an intricately designed fountain -- the teleportation feeling, by now, was old hat. Hiro Nakamura? It was who Sylar had blamed on the beach, but … No. There was no tug this time. Just a sudden fresh breath of life where she had felt it all drain from her. She looked around, taking in her surroundings, reaching up with one hand to find that her head was very much not cut into. Maybe it had all been a bad dream, she wanted to tell herself. That the whole past few weeks had just been some wild quazi-nightmare after her father's death and this was some crappy prank.
Like she was ever that lucky. Slowly, she drew herself back to her feet, looking down at her clothes. Sylar's black button-up and shorts told her that it had been very real, and so did the blood that she could see in her bright blonde, stringy hair in her peripheral vision. What was this, some crappy consolation prize for being so good about accepting death? For welcoming what was coming to her and maybe somehow repenting? Because if this was Heaven, it was a little short on trumpets and crappy horn music.
Not that Elle Bishop had ever really believed in the afterlife, but it was hard to deny when it was right in front of her.
Actually, scratch the Heaven theory. As soon as she became acutely aware of the creeping ticking in the back of her mind, she spun around suddenly, as if trying to accuse someone of being the source of it. Of being some agonizing reminder of the crimes she'd committed in her life. The crimes she'd been forced to commit and willingly fallen into. Gabriel Gray, the watchmaker, haunting her forever in her own personal Hell. She was going to scream. If she didn't know better, she'd say this was his own form of punishment for how she'd lied. If she didn't know better, she'd think he'd stolen Candice's powers on his way back stateside and was now trapping her in a prison of her own mind, forcing her to acknowledge her crimes.
Hell or some purgatory of her overpowered ex boyfriend's creation. Great. Another reminder of what a great life she'd led. As ready as she'd been willing to accept death at Sylar's hands, she was far from willing to accept that she was now destined to live her life out in some ugly city with that obnoxious ticking. The obvious answer was to confront one of the people she could see milling around the square off in the distance -- far enough away that she couldn't just open her mouth and demand an answer -- but considering what a great track record she'd had with actually trusting people …
Well, she'd pass. Instead, she just fidgeted with the edges of Sylar's torn clothes. She'd figure things out on her own. She didn't need them -- she didn't need anyone. She'd proven that much since her father had died. She was just choosing to ignore that she'd hopped from codependent pleading to codependent pleading until she'd been locked in a basement in Pinehearst for the time being, as it didn't really support her theory that she'd be fine without any help.