Sylar/Elle Fic: To Turn Back Time
Title: To Turn Back Time
Author: MrsTater
Characters & Pairings: Gabriel/Elle
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for mild sexuality
Format & Word Count: one-shot, 2340 words
Summary: If you want it enough, you can turn back time, erase memory so that the past year never happened. A kiss inspires time travel and reminds Gabriel and Elle how they once felt about each other. [Set during episodes 3x08, "Villains" and 3x10, "The Eclipse, Part I"]
Author's Notes: I've been wanting to write about Gabriel and Elle's former relationship, though this wasn't quite what I had in mind. It's sort of two missing moments at once, one bridging parts one and two of "The Eclipse," and the other expanding the pie scene from episode 3x08. Oh, and one bit of this was inspired by some adorable behind the scenes pics of Zach and Kristen, which you can view here and here. Many thanks to Godricgal for betaing! Feedback welcome and much appreciated. :)
To Turn Back Time
When you kiss her in the unlit, vacant house that used to belong to Stephen Canfield, it's not the first time. As your fingers rake through her hair, your palms cupping the delicate bones of her cheeks and jaw, your lips touching hers, it's as if you've turned back time to the first time you kissed Elle Bishop. The first time you kissed anybody at all. You remember like it was yesterday...
You wore glasses then, and crisply starched shirts, buttoned all the way up to the collar, beneath sweater vests or the occasional cardigan. You slicked your hair with pomade and parted it conservatively on the side. You kept a fastidiously neat apartment, even covering your only chair with plastic so that when you ate your solitary dinners in it, book in hand, you wouldn't spill on the upholstery. Not that your steady watchmaker's hands were prone to spilling.
Yes, you were a watchmaker then. A regular guy -- no, not even that. You were, you suppose, what most people would consider a geek. Erudite. Socially awkward. You didn't own a TV, your walls were covered in books, even a stash of comic books cleverly disguised in unassuming leather magazine holders. You identified with Clark Kent, Peter Parker.
And Elle...she was your Lois Lane, your Mary Jane. Only you didn’t save her from the clutches of death and evil, she saved you -- for a little while, anyway.
Then she brought you a pie.
Scraping up the last blob of peach filling off her plate with the edge of her fork, Elle licked it off. Slowly. At the sight of her tongue dragging over the silver, you felt your face begin to flush and looked away, hoping she wouldn't see the rather pathetic display of lust which was surely the product of never having spent time among women other than your mother and your aunt Stella. But you looked up at Elle again when the corner of your eye caught her laying her fork across her plate and, without uncrossing her legs, pushing herself off the floor to stand. You watched as she tugged at the hem of her sapphire blue top, pulling it down over the waistband of her black pants.
"You're not leaving so soon?" you asked her, your stomach bottoming out as much with fear that you sounded too disappointed as with actual disappointment at the prospect of being left, alone, in your shabby apartment, which then, for the first time in all the years you'd lived there, felt like a home rather than a place to eat, and read, and sleep.
To your relief, Elle smiled -- and, you thought, even looked a little pleased that you wanted her to stay. "I do have to in a sec, but first I've got to take a look at this book collection of yours."
As she moved toward the wall of shelves nearest your bedroom, you sent the leftover pie and dishes to the sink with a wave of your hand, which you caught Elle watching, impressed and...Something else shone briefly in her eyes. Longing? For what? Special powers of her own? Then, meeting your eye, she turned away to examine your books.
You crossed the living room in a couple of strides and came to stand behind her. Very close. So close that you caught a faint whiff of raspberry-scented shampoo from her ponytail as you looked over her shoulder.
"If the watch thing ever stops working for you, you could always open a library," she joked.
"Oh, I couldn't stand to loan my books out. I mean, not to strangers," you quickly amended. "If you want to borrow anything, I'll let you."
The grin Elle cast you over her shoulder made your stomach flip over. "You make exceptions for strangers who save your life?"
You let your fingers graze the small of her back, holding your breath as they lightly stroked the valley beneath the fabric of her shirt. "You know my deepest, darkest secret, Elle. You're not a stranger."
Her smile softened, but before you could bask in the light of her blue eyes, a veil dropped over them, and she turned away. You withdrew your hand from her back as if your arm had turned suddenly to lead.
"I'm not much of a reader," she said, "but what the hell -- tell me what you think I'd like."
Her enthusiasm made you shake off the hesitation you'd felt about her confusing change of mood, and your own energy mounted in the opportunity she gave you to show off your literary knowledge.
"Well..." You shuffled a little closer to her, so that her perky little butt brushed against your waist; your arm formed a half-envelope around her as you passed a hand across to indicate the different categories of books scattered across the expanse of shelves. "I've got science, history, religion--" Elle made a face at that. "--poetry, fiction -- classics and popular contemporary--"
Elle plucked a book from the shelf and turned toward you, eyes dancing. "Like cat stories?"
You blushed, both with embarrassment and Elle's nearness; her hips touched your legs.
"My aunt Stella gave me that a couple of birthdays ago," you explained. "Every time I see her, she asks if I've read it."
"And you haven't?"
"Cat fiction..." You made a face. "Not really my thing. I do like cats, though."
Elle looked around the apartment. "Why don't you get one?"
"Oh, I don't know." You looked around the space, too, noting everything in its right place, exactly where you expected it to be, and tried to imagine a cat popping out from beneath the chair or behind the curtains. "I'm kind of a neat freak, if you haven't noticed."
"Is that why you've got plastic over your chair?" she teased.
You ducked your head, sheepish, but not really embarrassed. You hadn't really been teased before. Belittled, yes, by kids at school and, more frequently, your mother. But never teased. Or...flirted with. Inexperienced as you were with females, you were pretty sure what Elle was doing counted as flirtation. It was nice. Made you want to kiss that wickedly upward-curved mouth of hers.
Instead, you shoved your hands into your pockets and said, "I guess I'm already pet-proofed, huh?"
Elle nodded. "Seriously, you should get a cat. It would make nice company."
"You make nice company," you said, impulsively, and that time it was Elle who was pink-cheeked and a little self-conscious, clutching the cat story book to her chest. But still smiling, albeit a little sadly.
"My dad never let me have a pet," she told you. "Always said I wasn't responsible enough."
"Strict?"
"Oh yeah." Elle's gaze dropped, and she moved away, to look at the items in your museum display cases, though it was clear she wasn't really seeing them. "And I can never do anything well enough to please him."
"Sounds just like my mom and me," you admitted. "She hates my job. Even though it was Dad's..."
Elle looked at you, and understanding, empathy, passed between you across the room like a current of electricity. It hurt, to own up to that out loud, to hear that someone else had experienced the same pain you'd never wish on anyone. Yet you were drawn to the feeling, as well, because it meant you weren't alone anymore.
"I really should get going," Elle said, looking down at the watch you'd repaired for her the day before.
Reluctantly you got her bag -- she said you could keep the leftover pie -- but it was almost worth it to say goodbye, because as Elle slipped the strap over her shoulder, she said, "I had a really nice time with you, Gabriel."
She arched up on her toes, and though you could scarcely believe she was going to do what you thought she was about to do, you bent your head so she could kiss you lightly on the cheek. Just enough pressure that you could feel that her lips were soft and warm, and the slightest bit sticky from lip gloss and peach pie filling.
When she removed them from your skin, you found her light show of affection had emboldened you enough to place your hands on her slender waist, stopping her from turning her back to go, and to tilt your head to touch your lips to hers, which were parted slightly in surprise. But only for a second, and then she was kissing you back.
It was so brief that it probably only barely qualified as a kiss. Nonetheless it left you breathless and trembling in your core. You lingered close to Elle, her bangs feathering your forehead, your noses touching.
"You taste like peach pie," you murmured.
"Your favorite," Elle replied.
"I want to see you again." You kissed her again, now running your hands up and down her sides, rubbing her back.
"I'll have to see you to return your book." She pressed it against your chest. "If it's late, you can fine me."
"In kisses?" You could scarcely believe those words came from your mouth, that a woman like Elle was happening to you. "How about tomorrow night? Are you free tomorrow night?"
"That soon, huh?"
Drawing back, you saw Elle's eyebrows drawn together in concern. Had you come on too strong, too eager?
But then Elle smiled and gave her ponytail a flick over her shoulder. "I think I can be."
You couldn't contain your heavy, relieved exhale, or stop a grin from splitting across your face. You, Gabriel Gray, had a date. "Where do you live? I'll pick you up--"
Elle pressed another kiss to your lips, silencing you, and rubbed her small hands over your chest, coming to rest on your shoulders. "Can I come here again? I bake a mean ziti, and I like the idea of a night in..."
You swallowed. Were you just imagining the suggestive note in her voice? Did she really mean what you wanted her to mean? Dizzied by anticipation and a rush of the images that have filled your dreams -- and your waking -- since you met her, you answered, "I'd like that, too," and bent your head for one last parting kiss...
Now your mouth is fierce upon hers as you kiss for the first time in a year. You bite at her pouting lower lip, plunge your tongue deep into her mouth; your fingers curve and press firmly into the back of her head, thumbs boring into her cheekbones, as if by wanting it enough, you can turn back time, erase memory so that the past year never happened, that now is the day after peach pie...that you're wearing your glasses and a new striped shirt and tie you bought especially for your first date, your hair combed and parted on the side...that Elle has just walked through your apartment door and presented you the book of cat stories, which she says you can tell Aunt Stella sucks, and which you tell her is five minutes overdue, so you're going to have to charge her a kiss per minute...that she gladly pays you before going to your tiny kitchen, where you've arranged the ziti ingredients you insisted on providing since she won't let you take her out...that you spend the better part of an hour hovering behind her, annoying her by placing your hands on her hips and pressing kisses to her neck and cheek until she playfully swats you away with a dish towel so she can concentrate on cooking...
As if wanting has ever worked for you before. God knows you wanted to feed your hunger with pie and ziti and Elle; instead you killed Trevor Zeitlan and gorged your brain with a coveted ability you've never been able to bring yourself to use, because it breaks your heart to remember the night you acquired it, and what you lost to gain it.
And there -- you've thought of it now, against your will, broken your own suspension of disbelief. You tear your mouth from Elle's and, still cupping her face, shake her. Hard. Heedless of the fact that you could snap her neck or crush her skull. Either would be more merciful than what she did to your heart.
"I loved you!" you shout -- or whisper, you're too overwrought with emotion to be sure -- your voice reverberating off the bare floors and walls of Canfield's house. "From the moment you cut me down from that noose, Elle, I loved you! I can forgive you for the betrayal, for everything, but...why did you have to make me love you?"
Elle is crying. From guilt? Pain? She doesn't tell you you're hurting her, doesn't beg you to stop; she has that much in her favor to make you believe her when she says, "I was falling for you, too. Even Bennet noticed--"
"Bennet?"
"And my father..."
It's the magic word. Your hands fall to your sides. Elle's father is the only excuse that could move you now. Not because you killed him, but because you know as well as Elle does that no power on earth compares to that a father, or a mother, holds over their child.
The tears stream freely down her face. "I didn't know if my own father loved me, Gabriel. How could I know that you--"
You cut her off with a kiss.
"I did," you tell her, wrapping your arms around her slight frame and pulling her down with you onto the dusty kitchen floor. You peel off your jacket and ball it into a pillow, which you slip beneath her head as you lay her back, covering her body with yours and her face with kisses, tasting the salt of her tears. "I still do."
Elle doesn't reply; her tongue is occupied with yours. But, judging by the way she wraps her legs around your waist and arches her hips against yours, she still does, too.
And that's enough, even without the ziti and peach pie.
The End
Author: MrsTater
Characters & Pairings: Gabriel/Elle
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for mild sexuality
Format & Word Count: one-shot, 2340 words
Summary: If you want it enough, you can turn back time, erase memory so that the past year never happened. A kiss inspires time travel and reminds Gabriel and Elle how they once felt about each other. [Set during episodes 3x08, "Villains" and 3x10, "The Eclipse, Part I"]
Author's Notes: I've been wanting to write about Gabriel and Elle's former relationship, though this wasn't quite what I had in mind. It's sort of two missing moments at once, one bridging parts one and two of "The Eclipse," and the other expanding the pie scene from episode 3x08. Oh, and one bit of this was inspired by some adorable behind the scenes pics of Zach and Kristen, which you can view here and here. Many thanks to Godricgal for betaing! Feedback welcome and much appreciated. :)
To Turn Back Time
When you kiss her in the unlit, vacant house that used to belong to Stephen Canfield, it's not the first time. As your fingers rake through her hair, your palms cupping the delicate bones of her cheeks and jaw, your lips touching hers, it's as if you've turned back time to the first time you kissed Elle Bishop. The first time you kissed anybody at all. You remember like it was yesterday...
You wore glasses then, and crisply starched shirts, buttoned all the way up to the collar, beneath sweater vests or the occasional cardigan. You slicked your hair with pomade and parted it conservatively on the side. You kept a fastidiously neat apartment, even covering your only chair with plastic so that when you ate your solitary dinners in it, book in hand, you wouldn't spill on the upholstery. Not that your steady watchmaker's hands were prone to spilling.
Yes, you were a watchmaker then. A regular guy -- no, not even that. You were, you suppose, what most people would consider a geek. Erudite. Socially awkward. You didn't own a TV, your walls were covered in books, even a stash of comic books cleverly disguised in unassuming leather magazine holders. You identified with Clark Kent, Peter Parker.
And Elle...she was your Lois Lane, your Mary Jane. Only you didn’t save her from the clutches of death and evil, she saved you -- for a little while, anyway.
Then she brought you a pie.
Scraping up the last blob of peach filling off her plate with the edge of her fork, Elle licked it off. Slowly. At the sight of her tongue dragging over the silver, you felt your face begin to flush and looked away, hoping she wouldn't see the rather pathetic display of lust which was surely the product of never having spent time among women other than your mother and your aunt Stella. But you looked up at Elle again when the corner of your eye caught her laying her fork across her plate and, without uncrossing her legs, pushing herself off the floor to stand. You watched as she tugged at the hem of her sapphire blue top, pulling it down over the waistband of her black pants.
"You're not leaving so soon?" you asked her, your stomach bottoming out as much with fear that you sounded too disappointed as with actual disappointment at the prospect of being left, alone, in your shabby apartment, which then, for the first time in all the years you'd lived there, felt like a home rather than a place to eat, and read, and sleep.
To your relief, Elle smiled -- and, you thought, even looked a little pleased that you wanted her to stay. "I do have to in a sec, but first I've got to take a look at this book collection of yours."
As she moved toward the wall of shelves nearest your bedroom, you sent the leftover pie and dishes to the sink with a wave of your hand, which you caught Elle watching, impressed and...Something else shone briefly in her eyes. Longing? For what? Special powers of her own? Then, meeting your eye, she turned away to examine your books.
You crossed the living room in a couple of strides and came to stand behind her. Very close. So close that you caught a faint whiff of raspberry-scented shampoo from her ponytail as you looked over her shoulder.
"If the watch thing ever stops working for you, you could always open a library," she joked.
"Oh, I couldn't stand to loan my books out. I mean, not to strangers," you quickly amended. "If you want to borrow anything, I'll let you."
The grin Elle cast you over her shoulder made your stomach flip over. "You make exceptions for strangers who save your life?"
You let your fingers graze the small of her back, holding your breath as they lightly stroked the valley beneath the fabric of her shirt. "You know my deepest, darkest secret, Elle. You're not a stranger."
Her smile softened, but before you could bask in the light of her blue eyes, a veil dropped over them, and she turned away. You withdrew your hand from her back as if your arm had turned suddenly to lead.
"I'm not much of a reader," she said, "but what the hell -- tell me what you think I'd like."
Her enthusiasm made you shake off the hesitation you'd felt about her confusing change of mood, and your own energy mounted in the opportunity she gave you to show off your literary knowledge.
"Well..." You shuffled a little closer to her, so that her perky little butt brushed against your waist; your arm formed a half-envelope around her as you passed a hand across to indicate the different categories of books scattered across the expanse of shelves. "I've got science, history, religion--" Elle made a face at that. "--poetry, fiction -- classics and popular contemporary--"
Elle plucked a book from the shelf and turned toward you, eyes dancing. "Like cat stories?"
You blushed, both with embarrassment and Elle's nearness; her hips touched your legs.
"My aunt Stella gave me that a couple of birthdays ago," you explained. "Every time I see her, she asks if I've read it."
"And you haven't?"
"Cat fiction..." You made a face. "Not really my thing. I do like cats, though."
Elle looked around the apartment. "Why don't you get one?"
"Oh, I don't know." You looked around the space, too, noting everything in its right place, exactly where you expected it to be, and tried to imagine a cat popping out from beneath the chair or behind the curtains. "I'm kind of a neat freak, if you haven't noticed."
"Is that why you've got plastic over your chair?" she teased.
You ducked your head, sheepish, but not really embarrassed. You hadn't really been teased before. Belittled, yes, by kids at school and, more frequently, your mother. But never teased. Or...flirted with. Inexperienced as you were with females, you were pretty sure what Elle was doing counted as flirtation. It was nice. Made you want to kiss that wickedly upward-curved mouth of hers.
Instead, you shoved your hands into your pockets and said, "I guess I'm already pet-proofed, huh?"
Elle nodded. "Seriously, you should get a cat. It would make nice company."
"You make nice company," you said, impulsively, and that time it was Elle who was pink-cheeked and a little self-conscious, clutching the cat story book to her chest. But still smiling, albeit a little sadly.
"My dad never let me have a pet," she told you. "Always said I wasn't responsible enough."
"Strict?"
"Oh yeah." Elle's gaze dropped, and she moved away, to look at the items in your museum display cases, though it was clear she wasn't really seeing them. "And I can never do anything well enough to please him."
"Sounds just like my mom and me," you admitted. "She hates my job. Even though it was Dad's..."
Elle looked at you, and understanding, empathy, passed between you across the room like a current of electricity. It hurt, to own up to that out loud, to hear that someone else had experienced the same pain you'd never wish on anyone. Yet you were drawn to the feeling, as well, because it meant you weren't alone anymore.
"I really should get going," Elle said, looking down at the watch you'd repaired for her the day before.
Reluctantly you got her bag -- she said you could keep the leftover pie -- but it was almost worth it to say goodbye, because as Elle slipped the strap over her shoulder, she said, "I had a really nice time with you, Gabriel."
She arched up on her toes, and though you could scarcely believe she was going to do what you thought she was about to do, you bent your head so she could kiss you lightly on the cheek. Just enough pressure that you could feel that her lips were soft and warm, and the slightest bit sticky from lip gloss and peach pie filling.
When she removed them from your skin, you found her light show of affection had emboldened you enough to place your hands on her slender waist, stopping her from turning her back to go, and to tilt your head to touch your lips to hers, which were parted slightly in surprise. But only for a second, and then she was kissing you back.
It was so brief that it probably only barely qualified as a kiss. Nonetheless it left you breathless and trembling in your core. You lingered close to Elle, her bangs feathering your forehead, your noses touching.
"You taste like peach pie," you murmured.
"Your favorite," Elle replied.
"I want to see you again." You kissed her again, now running your hands up and down her sides, rubbing her back.
"I'll have to see you to return your book." She pressed it against your chest. "If it's late, you can fine me."
"In kisses?" You could scarcely believe those words came from your mouth, that a woman like Elle was happening to you. "How about tomorrow night? Are you free tomorrow night?"
"That soon, huh?"
Drawing back, you saw Elle's eyebrows drawn together in concern. Had you come on too strong, too eager?
But then Elle smiled and gave her ponytail a flick over her shoulder. "I think I can be."
You couldn't contain your heavy, relieved exhale, or stop a grin from splitting across your face. You, Gabriel Gray, had a date. "Where do you live? I'll pick you up--"
Elle pressed another kiss to your lips, silencing you, and rubbed her small hands over your chest, coming to rest on your shoulders. "Can I come here again? I bake a mean ziti, and I like the idea of a night in..."
You swallowed. Were you just imagining the suggestive note in her voice? Did she really mean what you wanted her to mean? Dizzied by anticipation and a rush of the images that have filled your dreams -- and your waking -- since you met her, you answered, "I'd like that, too," and bent your head for one last parting kiss...
Now your mouth is fierce upon hers as you kiss for the first time in a year. You bite at her pouting lower lip, plunge your tongue deep into her mouth; your fingers curve and press firmly into the back of her head, thumbs boring into her cheekbones, as if by wanting it enough, you can turn back time, erase memory so that the past year never happened, that now is the day after peach pie...that you're wearing your glasses and a new striped shirt and tie you bought especially for your first date, your hair combed and parted on the side...that Elle has just walked through your apartment door and presented you the book of cat stories, which she says you can tell Aunt Stella sucks, and which you tell her is five minutes overdue, so you're going to have to charge her a kiss per minute...that she gladly pays you before going to your tiny kitchen, where you've arranged the ziti ingredients you insisted on providing since she won't let you take her out...that you spend the better part of an hour hovering behind her, annoying her by placing your hands on her hips and pressing kisses to her neck and cheek until she playfully swats you away with a dish towel so she can concentrate on cooking...
As if wanting has ever worked for you before. God knows you wanted to feed your hunger with pie and ziti and Elle; instead you killed Trevor Zeitlan and gorged your brain with a coveted ability you've never been able to bring yourself to use, because it breaks your heart to remember the night you acquired it, and what you lost to gain it.
And there -- you've thought of it now, against your will, broken your own suspension of disbelief. You tear your mouth from Elle's and, still cupping her face, shake her. Hard. Heedless of the fact that you could snap her neck or crush her skull. Either would be more merciful than what she did to your heart.
"I loved you!" you shout -- or whisper, you're too overwrought with emotion to be sure -- your voice reverberating off the bare floors and walls of Canfield's house. "From the moment you cut me down from that noose, Elle, I loved you! I can forgive you for the betrayal, for everything, but...why did you have to make me love you?"
Elle is crying. From guilt? Pain? She doesn't tell you you're hurting her, doesn't beg you to stop; she has that much in her favor to make you believe her when she says, "I was falling for you, too. Even Bennet noticed--"
"Bennet?"
"And my father..."
It's the magic word. Your hands fall to your sides. Elle's father is the only excuse that could move you now. Not because you killed him, but because you know as well as Elle does that no power on earth compares to that a father, or a mother, holds over their child.
The tears stream freely down her face. "I didn't know if my own father loved me, Gabriel. How could I know that you--"
You cut her off with a kiss.
"I did," you tell her, wrapping your arms around her slight frame and pulling her down with you onto the dusty kitchen floor. You peel off your jacket and ball it into a pillow, which you slip beneath her head as you lay her back, covering her body with yours and her face with kisses, tasting the salt of her tears. "I still do."
Elle doesn't reply; her tongue is occupied with yours. But, judging by the way she wraps her legs around your waist and arches her hips against yours, she still does, too.
And that's enough, even without the ziti and peach pie.
The End