Sylar/Elle Fic: In the Name of the Son (1/3)
Title: In the Name of the Son (1/3)
Author: MrsTater
Fandom: Heroes
Characters & Pairings: Sylar/Elle, Noah Gray
Rating & Warnings: R for language, sex, violence, mentions of abortion and sadism, character death
Format & Word Count: WIP, 6210 words
Summary: You make a turn onto the highway in the opposite direction of the path of flight you planned together last night. "Everything is going to change." [AU]
Author's Notes: It's been a while since I dipped my toes into the Sylar/Elle waters, but I got to thinking the other day about episode 3x04 and just how it was that Sylar ended up being (apparently) a single dad living in the Bennet house, and this is the result. The story takes place in that alternate future, so basically everything after the car rental scene in "Eclipse" didn't happen. :) Many thanks to godricgal for her magnificent beta work. I hope y'all enjoy. I hunger for feedback like Sylar hungers for abilities. Except I won't, you know, cut open any heads to get it. ;)
In the Name of the Son
1.
"Well?" says Elle, her voice sharp with impatience, after a full minute has passed since she slid into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and told you what she'd learned in the gas station ladies' room. "Are you going to sit there with your mouth hanging open like an idiot, or are you going to do something useful with it, like say, Okay, let's go get rid of it?"
Now that the initial shock of her announcement has worn off, your idea of doing something useful with your mouth differs slightly from Elle's. Leaning across the center console, you cup her face in her hands and kiss her, stealing her breath away as you did the first time you kissed her, a few short weeks ago.
Though apparently, you realize as her hands press against your chest, pushing you away, her gasp is not one of delighted surprise or mutual passion.
"Gabriel!" Well -- maybe a little surprise. Or maybe it's more like disbelief. "This is how you react to me telling you I'm pregnant? By kissing me?"
"Uh-huh."
You try to kiss her again, but she turns her head. Obviously she expected you to be upset about her unplanned pregnancy, as most men probably are -- and most men don't usually have the added excuse of being on the run from an arch-villain father who is no doubt extremely pissed off that you abandoned your very first mission to kidnap his granddaughter.
Part of you thinks you probably should be upset, or at least reject the idea of parenthood in this context, but your instincts say that this is good. So you slide a hand around the base of Elle's neck and gently turn her face back to yours.
As your lips brush hers, a jolt of electricity on your chest thwarts the amorous advance.
"Ow!" Your eyes snap open as you release Elle to rub the throbbing place directly above your heart. "What the hell was that--"
The words die, and your mouth hangs open, mute again. Though Elle was at the giving end of the jolt, it's her blue eyes that blink back tears.
"Elle? What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" She grinds the question out through clenched teeth. "I've been with you for three weeks, and I'm pregnant. And you're happy about it. How can you be happy about it?"
"I can't really explain it." Your gaze leaves Elle's stormy eyes as you speak to look up at the deep, cloudless blue sky. "All I can think about is that I had a part in creating a new life. That's pretty special."
"Special," Elle mutters. "It's always special with you, isn't it?"
Before a retort forms, she leans out the convertible and calls to the guy filling up his SUV at the next pump. "Hey, my boyfriend's boys can swim!"
"Elle." You shrink down in the driver's seat as various customers fix their amused attention on you.
But Elle could care less about your embarrassment. "Let's give him the goddamn gold medal in competitive reproduction!"
The man gives you a thumbs-up, and there are a few cat-calls and claps, which make heat prickle up from your collar.
Elle turns away with a groan. "God, you're all a bunch of cavemen."
"No, I'm a highly evolved human." Keeping your voice even requires a concentrated effort. "And so are you."
You try to take Elle's hand, but she jerks it away, tucks it into the crook of her folded arm, shifts in her creaking leather seat so that her back is almost fully to you. Now it's your patience that's being tried, but that fades with a glimpse of Elle's face in the passenger side mirror -- her pale, young face, twitching for control of her emotions, but not making a full success of managing to hide that she's a scared young woman who can't remember her own mother and was raised as little more than a rabbit, and who now faces a first, unplanned pregnancy.
And on top of being frightened, her hormones are certainly out of whack. Now that you know what you're looking for, you sense that particular shift in her physiology. The knowledge gives you another dose of pride, but you try not to show it, lest she call you a caveman again.
"Elle." Despite her previous reaction to your touch, you lay a hand on her shoulder. She flinches, but doesn't shrug you away. An improvement. In the mirror, her eyes flick up to yours, seeking reassurance. You give her a small smile and say, "If we want our kind to survive, then reproduction is our biological imperative."
Beneath your palm, the tendons between her neck and shoulders tighten, and she's back to gritting words out through her teeth. "A little late for a biology lesson, don't you think? Since I'm, you know, already pregnant?"
You let your hand fall away from her shoulder, rake it through your hair and draw a shaky breath. For a man who just boasted about being highly evolved, you feel like you could use a lesson or two in basic human mating behaviors.
You feel like poor, pathetic, un-special Gabriel Gray.
But the self-loathing stops there as you consider that it was Gabriel Gray who first began this journey toward conceiving a child with Elle. That it was Gabriel Gray who fell in love with her -- that it was Gabriel Gray who Elle loved first. Before Sylar. Before this Bonnie and Clyde game they are playing now, simply because they could, with no thought of whether or not they should.
Awkward as it is from the driver's seat, the steering wheel and gear shift getting in the way, you slip both arms around Elle. In the mirror, you watch the tears fall down her cheeks, cutting twin trails through her makeup. You nuzzle the long ponytail away from her neck and kiss her nape, lingering to taste the salt on her warm, slightly moist skin, your breath making the fine blonde hairs stand as you murmur, "I never really had a father, and I didn't have much of a mother, either."
You block out the images of Arthur and Angela Petrelli, who may or may not be your birth parents and who definitely don't have your best interests at heart, as parents are supposed to do. As you do, already, for your own child.
"And your family had its shortcomings, too," you add. "We're both the products of extreme dysfunction."
"Which is exactly why you and me are the very last people on earth, highly evolved or not, who should be having a baby."
"A baby, Elle. The best of me, the best of you..." You kiss your way across her bare shoulders. "Don't you see this is our chance to truly atone of our mistakes? For our parents' mistakes? We can't throw that chance away."
Taking a mental step back to her earlier plea to get rid of it, your stomach tightens in revulsion and...low boiling rage. The thought of abortion is repugnant to you, not merely because you were raised Catholic, but at a primal level. You must protect your offspring at all costs, violently if necessary -- though, you realize, restraining your hand, in the case of the mother, violence would be counter-productive. You must protect her, too. From herself, if need be.
"We owe it to our child to give him the chance we never had," you say.
Elle turns to you, one eyebrow hitching beneath her feathery bangs. "Him?"
You grin, sheepish. "We can't call our baby an it. Should I say he-slash-she to be politically correct?"
"Kind of a tongue-twister." Elle attempts to repeat it, and fails, which sends you both into a fit of giggles that turns a few heads in the gas station parking lot and must have to do with the state of your nerves at this sudden change in the direction of your life.
Regardless of what the root cause of this giddiness is, you embrace the shift in Elle's mood. Never mind her cynicism: this is the most special thing you've ever shared with another human being. Empathy is the driving force behind your power, and in discovering that, you've forged a bond between yourself and Elle that can never be broken, first when you healed her and acquired her ability without killing, and again when you joined with her to create a new life -- and at the same time, killed Sylar, stopped the hunger. If that's not a reason to laugh for joy...
There's also the aspect that having grown up abandoned, unwanted, you can think of no greater gift to give your child than the knowledge that learning of his existence made you and his mother deliriously happy.
"How about just she," Elle suggests, "since we're obviously having a girl."
"Obviously." You’re happy to indulge her, especially if it helps this lighter mood to last for a little while longer, prevents a premature return to a more negative outlook. She just needs a little time, that's all...
You turn the key in the ignition, and the engine of the Corvette stolen off the lot of Hotspur Car Rental to aid in your escape from Arthur and Angela and everyone in your past lives who pushed you to be angels or monsters to suit their own purposes roars to life. Before backing out, you grin at Elle, only to see worry tugging at her mouth. When you release the gear shift and take her hand, her fingers clamp around yours.
"I think you're going to be a wonderful mother."
The smile she gives you in return doesn't match the strength of her grip on your hand. Her lack of confidence is understandable, though at the back of your mind niggles that earlier concern about her stability. You shake it off. She only just discovered her pregnancy. She's still surprised that you aren't upset. Give her time.
"It's just," she says as you drive out of the gas station parking lot, "a baby will change everything."
"Exactly." Your tone is firm and matter-of-fact as you as you make a turn onto the highway in the opposite direction of the path of flight you planned together last night. "Everything is going to change."
"Las Vegas?" Elle practically shouts over the wind and the freeway noise as the Corvette, top down, speeds under a sign that reads Las Vegas, 187. "That's where we're going? Las Vegas?"
Without taking your eyes off the road whilst changing lanes to pass a semi, you grin. "Nice deduction, Sherlock."
"Why are we going to Las Vegas?"
You ignore the annoyance in her tone. "Why does anyone go to Vegas?"
"To gamble?"
"Please. Why would we gamble when I can do this?" You release the steering wheel with one hand to touch the 32-ounce Slusho in the cup holder, and it gleams gold beneath your fingertips -- straw, melting raspberry slush at the bottom, and all.
"Hey!" Elle snatches the golden cup. "I wasn't done with that!"
"Don't worry. I'll use it to buy you anoth--Shit!"
The car swerves into the shoulder as you duck to avoid getting knocked out by a solid gold Slusho that comes flying at your head. You jerk the steering wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding an 80 mile per hour collision with the concrete divider on your left and cutting off a truck coming up behind, the driver of which flips you off.
In control of the Corvette again, though not of your temper, you pound the dashboard with a fist. "Damn it, Elle! What the hell is the matter with you?"
"You know I hate seeing you use that power!"
You look away, out the window, ashamed. Since she told you about the baby, you've been feeling a little cocky. A lot cocky. Special. And you know where that has gotten you in the past. With a child to think of now, you've got to change those old behaviors. Everything you do must be in the best interests of the child.
Antagonizing the mother to the point that she causes a car accident is not in the child's best interests.
You take a deep breath and exercise the meditation techniques (minus the closed eyes, of course) you practiced in your cell at Primatech, releasing your anger and pride as you exhale. The apology seems to fall from your mouth effortlessly.
"I'm sorry. That was inconsiderate of me."
Elle sniffs. "I'm probably just hormonal."
Agreeing with that statement isn't going to help your case, even if it is the truth. Pleased with your foresight, you allow a smile as you ask, "Besides gambling, why else do people go to Las Vegas?"
You turn slightly to watch Elle mull over the question. Momentarily, she gives a puff of laughter and looks back at you in disbelief.
"Please tell me you don't think we're going to get married."
The way she says it makes you squirm with an embarrassment that is reminiscent of the hell that was high school. You consider laughing her off, saying, Of course not, that would be ridiculous, but you keep your mouth shut. The child needs protection from your insecurities as much as from your megalomania.
"Oh God," says Elle. "You do want to get married."
"It's the right thing to do," you say. "Children need their parents to be in a stable, committed relationship."
"Right. You and me, stable," Elle scoffs. "So stable we should be committed."
"Our child deserves two parents who will try!"
That wipes the scorn from her face, silences her. For a moment, anyway.
"But marriage, Gabriel..." Leaning back against the black leather seat, her words are now less of a protest and more uncertain resignation. "That's..."
"A big step," you supply for her.
"Huge! We shouldn't just rush into--"
"I'll buy you a wedding dress," you say, clutching the steering wheel. "Any dress you want, even if it's the most expensive one in Las Vegas."
It's bribery, and it fills your mouth with bile. You can move any physical object with your mind, but you don't know how to move Elle a little further along the road to matrimony. So you're buying her. Just like you paid for a date to your senior prom, just like you paid for love in your shabby Brooklyn apartment.
Back then, however, you weren't able to rise above your humiliation and look those women in the eyes. Now you meet Elle's gaze unflinchingly as her eyes gleam with the appeal of your offer. Funny how she's apparently not bothered by the prospect of you using her father's ability for that purchase. The bitter thought doesn't stop you from remembering how those blue eyes gleamed for you not even a month ago when you touched her and repaired her damaged power. Or a year ago, when you were the one with the problem, and she was your angel with a broken watch. She could love you...You hope her reluctance is only because there are so many changes, so very soon, that even if the reasons she marries you are the wrong ones, she'll stay married to you for the right ones.
"And a ring so big you won't be able to raise your hand," you add.
A diamond couldn't shine brighter than the grin she flashes as she sits back and brings her bare feet up to rest on the dashboard. "Here comes the bride."
With much less fuss than you would have imagined from a woman you had to bribe to marry you, Elle chooses a strapless form-fitting number that somehow manages to be classy and yet slinky enough to suit an exchange of vows at the first chapel you see on the strip. She's thrilled with the two-karat three stone platinum ring and the bouquet of deep purple calla lilies you selected for her, with your tux, and, you can almost believe as she gazes up at you through her veil and promises to love and to cherish till death do you part, with you.
That's what you let yourself believe, anyway, as you kiss your bride and dance with her in one of the clubs at the Luxor -- Elle's choice; you'd have preferred someplace a little less gaudy and a little more romantic than the Egyptian-themed casino for your wedding night, but when Elle saw the pyramid and Sphinx through the shoe-polished windshield of the Corvette, you couldn't say no.
But you do say no when, playing the slots just for the hell of it despite your golden touch, a waiter wanders by with a tray of champagne. Elle reaches for a glass, and you snatch it from her grasp.
"You shouldn't be drinking," you hiss through your teeth which are clenched in a sheepish smile at the waiter who no doubt thinks Elle is underage.
"Please, just one--?"
She makes another grab, and this time you stop her with a thought.
"She's pregnant," you growl at the waiter; glances at Elle's wedding dress and mouths oh before finally scuttling off with the champagne.
"You're such a bastard," says Elle, her hand still frozen mid-air, grasping for champagne that is no longer there. She grabs her wrist with her other hand, as if in an attempt to wrench herself free, but then releases it, realizing the futility of fighting telekinesis. Her glower hardens on him, and her chin tilts upward, her teeth bared as she spits, "I'm an adult. I don't need you to take care of me."
"I wasn't taking care of you, I was taking care of the baby."
"The baby." Her lips twist as they form the word as if pronouncing a profanity. "We've known about the god-damn baby for one day, and you're obsessed."
"That's what parents do, Elle, they obsess--"
"Like my father?" Her eyes spark blue, and her next words sting: "Like your mother?"
Your fingers clench into a fist, releasing their telekinetic hold on Elle's wrist, and your hand, suddenly heavy, drops to your side.
"I just want to be a good father."
For a moment Elle's prickling electric stare holds you, then her sharp features abruptly soften as she lets out her breath. The satin skirt of her wedding gown rustles as she steps closer.
"I know." She slides her palms up over the lapels of your tuxedo jacket, fingers finding their way underneath your tight wing-tipped collar, making you shiver in spite of the layers of stiff dress clothing and the crowded casino. Arching up on her toes, she drops her voice to a hushed tone you feel as a warm brush against your skin. "But maybe you should start by being a good husband first."
"I guess I'm getting a little ahead of myself," you say as your arms go around her slender waist -- trimmer even than normal thanks to the tight fit of her bodice; you try not to imagine her abdomen rounding, hips spreading, breasts swelling as she kisses a trail along your jaw line, her breath and tongue hot, almost electrifying, against your skin.
She stops at your earlobe, nips at it, and murmurs, "We haven't even had our wedding night."
Though all around are the roars of approval from the rowdy crowd of gamblers and casino staff as you scoop her up in your arms, your words are only for her. "Then let's go have it, Mrs. Gray."
You've made love to Elle before, obviously, but it feels like the first time. Maybe it's the room -- the Luxor's luxury suite, much too large for two people, all silken and gilded caricatures making a grotesque mockery of ancient Egypt's powerful art and architecture -- the last place a watchmaker from Queens belongs. Your fingers, trained to be steady enough for the finely detailed work of your trade, which have probed human brains with a surgeon's precision, fumble to unfasten the line of satin buttons that runs from below Elle's shoulder blades down past her hips. The shallowness of your breathing, you know, is not from arousal, but from nerves.
This is Elle's wedding night -- a special night she has no doubt dreamed of. It's evident that those dreams never included a baby on the way and a spontaneous exchange of wedding vows officiated by an Elvis impersonator. No doubt she had visions of her father walking her down the aisle -- not walking alone to the man who'd murdered him in cold blood. You can hardly believe she's with you at all, that for tonight's offenses, and those which have come before, she can forgive you to go through with this. It's enough to make you despair of being a lover who can please her.
And, as you lay her gently on the bed, fingers and lips lightly grazing her nipples, the warmth between her thighs, holding your weight off her petite frame and entering her carefully, with shallow, slow thrusts, it quickly becomes apparent that you are not. Elle's sigh is unmistakably frustrated as she crosses her ankles in the small of your back, hooks her hands over your shoulders and pulls you down, deeper inside her.
"Harder," she pants. "Harder, Gabriel."
You want to comply, to grind down roughly, to clutch her hips so hard that you leave fingertip bruises along the pale skin of her back and thighs as you did that first time, when you fucked her against the shower wall of a roadside motel in California, the night you impulsively abandoned your mission to bring your father the Catalyst. The difference was that then Sylar still whispered in the dark corners of your mind. Since you found out about the baby, you only hear Gabriel Gray, who doesn't know what the hell he's doing or whether there's some special way you're supposed to have sex with a pregnant woman.
At the thought, you feel the space around you start to grow as you recoil, but one of her hands leaves your shoulder to grip your backside, holding you firmly where you are, your pelvis pressed flush against hers, you buried within her. Fingernails rake down your back, and you know that if it wasn't for your healing ability, there would be red scratches and crescent moon indentations in your skin for a long time after you finish.
"Elle, stop," you half-gasp, half-grunt, not because it hurts, but because it feels so damn good that you're afraid you'll lose control, hurt her, hurt them.
Apparently missing -- or ignoring -- the pleading note in your voice, Elle chuckles low, her nails dragging down your spine, over your ass. "Baby, I'm just getting started."
Before you can utter another word in protest, her mouth is on yours, teeth raking over your lower lip, nipping, biting--
Your own voice, crying out hoarsely, fills your ears as shockwaves rip through you from Elle's fingertips to your core, re-igniting your repressed desire.
"Elle!"
You can't help yourself. She sparks you, electricity fizzling across your skin, laddering between your body and hers beneath her like lighting zigzagging from ground to sky. It used to hurt when she did this -- it still does, but you're learning to appreciate the pain with the pleasure, welcoming it as purifying flagellation for the wounds you've inflicted on her, on others. You take it now, for the sake of the child, stomaching the faint seared smell which pricks at your nostrils but never quite becomes the sickening stench of burnt flesh as your skin repairs itself almost instantly.
"Isn't it so good, Gabriel?"
Her own pleasure -- whether from your movements or from the pain she's inflicting on you, you're not sure -- is evident in the raspy quality of her voice, spoken against the hollow of your throat where her tongue dances as you strain above her. The rhythm of your pulse quickens beneath her mouth, its erratic tempo a frenetic counterpoint to the pounding of Elle's heart. It makes you think of clocks ticking out of time in the old watch shop, and how it tormented you, kept you hunched over your workbench for hours, days, like a mad scientist, until they were all in sync.
While you can't deny your body's physical response to this wildness, even groaning in reply to her question, you don't know if you can honestly describe this, or any of the other times you've engaged in this type of intercourse, as good. It feels wrong that the conception of a pure, perfect child might have occurred while the mother indulged her sadistic side, feels worse still to continue it now that you're aware of the child's existence. You are highly-evolved humans, not wild animals. Your offspring ought to be conceived, and carried, with acts of love, not lust-filled frenzies.
Even so, it's not enough to kill your desire again.
When it's over you roll away from Elle and stare up at the ceiling. You think of weddings at your old parish church, where priests read the ancient and holy words of Scripture your Elvis impersonator did not: and the two shall become one flesh. You and Elle have come together in body, but your hearts do not beat as one.
"Did you love that?" she asks, clearly thinking that you did. She curls on her side and runs her fingers through her disheveled hair; you think you see blue sparks amid the threads of gold, and you flinch when her fingers graze the line of hair running down from your navel. "You love it when I do that, don't you?"
Prompted by something in her voice, you turn your head on the pillow and immediately see the need in Elle's eyes for affirmation, for assurance. You roll to face her, sliding your knee between her legs and cupping her face, sliding your fingers into her hair.
"I love you."
Though you don't really expect her to echo the sentiment, it's nonetheless disappointing, and not a little bit damaging to your pride, when she merely blinks back. Your hand drops from her face to the white sheets between you, as does your gaze, watching your fingers pick at a loose thread.
Your throat tightens, and you clear it to say, "I don't think we should use our powers anymore."
The crisp sheets rustle as Elle sits up, drawing her knees up to her chest and the sheet over nude body.
"Do you love me or not, Gabriel?"
Bewildered, you also sit up, "I just told you--"
"My powers are me."
You consider this, rubbing your hand over your smooth chin. "But are they the best parts of you? Have they ever brought you anything but pain?"
Elle's reply is the last thing you'd expect from her. "They brought me you."
It's not quite I love you, but it brings a smile to your lips, and you slip your arms around her, kiss her shoulder. She leans into you, catching her breath as you cup her breasts in your hands, teasing her erect nipples through the sheet. You imagine this gentle foreplay leading to another round of lovemaking -- slow, sweet, just right for a wedding night and a couple expecting their first child.
But before you do, there have to be some ground rules.
"I just think," you tell her, "that we should think about making some changes. For the--"
"For the baby." Elle stiffens in your arms, then flops onto the mattress, curled up in the fetal position with her back to you. A clear statement that the honeymoon is over. "I am so damn sick of hearing about the baby."
Soon, she is just plain sick.
You're back in New York, in the apartment you and Elle have rented near the old watch shop with the reasoning that Arthur won't look for you right under his nose and anyway, he has powers, and knows people with powers, and can and will find you no matter where you hide if he really wants to punish you for not bringing him the Catalyst. For now you mean to do your best to lead a normal life and earn an honest living, for as long as it will last, which will hopefully be until you've raised your child. Though this part of your life, you hope, won't last much longer.
For the tenth morning in a row, you lean against the locked bathroom door, listening to Elle vomit into the toilet. You can't believe she even has anything in her stomach to throw up; it's been days since she's kept anything down but ginger ale and Saltines. She's lost a few pounds, prompting her, on one of the rare occasions she hasn't been curled up in bed battling nausea, to joke that pregnancy's the most effective diet she's ever been on, so maybe she ought to thank you after all. It can't be good for the baby's development, you think, for the mother to subsist on crackers and soda. You bought her what the pharmacist on the corner claims are the best prenatal vitamins available, but you can't be sure Elle is keeping those down, so you've scoured books and the internet for morning sickness remedies. But nothing works, not even the prescription anti-nausea meds from the OB-GYN, and it's just too much for your evolved paternal instincts.
There's only one thing for it.
You knock softly on the door. "Elle?"
She coughs, then croaks out, "Go away."
"Please let me in."
"That was my first mistake. Why aren't you in the shop, anyway?"
Letting her insults roll off your back, you reply, "Because my wife needs me more than the watches do."
"Yeah, well, your wife needs you to make money to pay the rent and buy food. You know, in case I can ever eat again."
Clutching your hair in exasperation, you come very close to saying that thanks to her father, you can, literally make money, but you catch yourself before you make a bad situation worse. With a sigh, you lean more heavily against the door, fingers testing the doorknob. It was only the one joking time that Elle thanked you for this. The rest of the time she's banished you from her presence, not allowing you to comfort her, cursing you from behind locked bedroom or bathroom doors for not using a condom that night.
It’s fruitless to deny that her resentment and abuse anger you, but at the sounds of painful gagging and the contents of her stomach, meager as they may be, emptying once again into the toilet, you can't bring herself to begrudge her...testiness. Though if you're honest, it's as much for your sake now as for the baby's, and hers, that you want to get Elle past the morning sickness stage.
"I have something that may get you eating again soon," you say, jiggling the doorknob, trying not to think about the myriad tempting ways you could get into the bathroom without her unlocking the door.
"I'm not drinking any more of your herbal teas that taste like shit."
"It's nothing to drink. And it'll work this time." You hope it will, anyway.
"That's what you say every time," Elle's voice drifts weakly out to you; presumably her snarkier remarks used up what little energy she had. The flush of the toilet is followed by sounds of shuffling across the title floor, and the unlocking of the door.
Opening it, you find Elle on her hands and knees, crawling back to the toilet. Her face is as white as the porcelain bowl, her knuckles white as she clutches the rim. You should go to her, kneel beside her on the shaggy burgundy toilet mat, but for a moment your feet remain rooted to the tile, your eyes transfixed by Elle heaving over the bowl. If you were in any doubt that she was truly carrying your child, all unbelief is dispelled now. You never thought it could be beautiful watching another person be sick, but this proof of a new life beginning is one of the more incredible sights you've witnessed, including some pretty mind-blowing powers. How did you ever think there could be any act more special than the primal miracle of reproduction?
All of which are thoughts best kept to yourself, ignored for now in favor of an act Elle will find special. Dropping to your knees beside her, you gather her long hair back from her face, holding it out of the way as she leans over the toilet. You really have no way of knowing whether this plan of yours is going to work. In theory, it makes sense, but you simply have not practiced tapping into the empathic aspect of your ability to fully understand how it was you took Elle's power from her, and how you might transfer one of your abilities to her.
Trusting that it will be intuitive, you stroke Elle's neck. Her skin is cold and beaded with sweat; beneath it, her muscles strain. Her throat must ache after so many days of this kind of use.
"If I could take on any of the unpleasant aspects of pregnancy myself I would."
She chokes out a laugh. "I just pictured you with a big belly."
You make a face. "Maybe not that aspect." Is it a good sign that she is only dry heaving now? Have you actually healed some of her sickness? Or is it only that Elle really is running on empty now? You keep rubbing her back and talking gently to her. "Of course I don't think the huge belly is really an unpleasant aspect of pregnancy for fathers."
"That's because it's like an extension of the whole who's got a bigger penis thing."
She lets go of the toilet bowl and sits up on her knees, turning slightly toward you. The color seems to be returning to her face.
"It's not because pregnant women really are beautiful?"
Elle smirks. "I wouldn't sleep with you if you got fat."
"You won't be fat." You note that behind the defiant flash in her eyes lurks, as always, real insecurity. You trace the outline of her cheek and add, "And you'll always be beautiful to me. Because you're..." You mean to say because you're the mother of my child, but echoes of Elle saying how sick she is of hearing about the baby make you reconsider. "Because you're my wife."
A smile tugs at her dry lips, but skepticism wins the battle for control of her expression. "Even right now, pale and puking?"
"Especially right now."
To prove it, you lean in and kiss her. But you taste the sour sickness on her lips and tongue, so you press your lips together and peck her lightly before drawing back. Despite the brevity of the kiss, she looks at you much as she did in that dark cell at Pinehearst when you made that first empathic connection with her. And as it did then, the awe and gratitude in her eyes make your own fill with tears.
"You just gave me your healing ability, didn't you?"
"Stomach feel better?"
"The nausea's gone! And I don't feel like I've been throwing up my toenails for over a week."
"Good."
You stand and extend your hands to help her up. Elle clasps them, her eyes never leaving yours as you pull her to her feet.
"Do you think it's permanent?" she asks.
"I hope so." You can't think of anything more advantageous to your unborn child's safety, especially considering the possible threat of Arthur, than a mother who can heal from any injury.
"I could cut myself or something to find out."
It would be an alarming idea even if Elle had not spoken about it so flippantly. You try not to react as it makes you feel, or Elle will go out of her way to test her new powers simply to get a reaction out of you.
"It's only a healing ability, not immunity from pain." Then, cupping her cheek, you add, more gently, "Don't worry, if it's not permanent, I'll lend you my ability again. And again."
"So much for not using our powers."
Something in her tone is wistful, as if what you've done is license to access the ability you actually haven't seen her use since you suggested you stop on your wedding night.
"I think we can make an exception for eternal life and health."
Elle's jaw stiffens, and you catch a flare in her eyes before she flips her hair over her shoulder.
"There's still this one thing with my stomach."
You step back and sit on the edge of the sink, confused. Did you heal her, or not?
The sight of your distress makes Elle's lips curve upward. She places her hands on your knees and runs them up over your thighs, eyes gleaming. "Gabriel, I'm starving."
Relieved, you let out a chuckle and slide off the counter. "What do you want? I'll make you something before I go to work."
Elle tilts her head and thinks for a moment. "Waffles?"
"Waffles it is."
Read Part Two
Author: MrsTater
Fandom: Heroes
Characters & Pairings: Sylar/Elle, Noah Gray
Rating & Warnings: R for language, sex, violence, mentions of abortion and sadism, character death
Format & Word Count: WIP, 6210 words
Summary: You make a turn onto the highway in the opposite direction of the path of flight you planned together last night. "Everything is going to change." [AU]
Author's Notes: It's been a while since I dipped my toes into the Sylar/Elle waters, but I got to thinking the other day about episode 3x04 and just how it was that Sylar ended up being (apparently) a single dad living in the Bennet house, and this is the result. The story takes place in that alternate future, so basically everything after the car rental scene in "Eclipse" didn't happen. :) Many thanks to godricgal for her magnificent beta work. I hope y'all enjoy. I hunger for feedback like Sylar hungers for abilities. Except I won't, you know, cut open any heads to get it. ;)
In the Name of the Son
1.
"Well?" says Elle, her voice sharp with impatience, after a full minute has passed since she slid into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and told you what she'd learned in the gas station ladies' room. "Are you going to sit there with your mouth hanging open like an idiot, or are you going to do something useful with it, like say, Okay, let's go get rid of it?"
Now that the initial shock of her announcement has worn off, your idea of doing something useful with your mouth differs slightly from Elle's. Leaning across the center console, you cup her face in her hands and kiss her, stealing her breath away as you did the first time you kissed her, a few short weeks ago.
Though apparently, you realize as her hands press against your chest, pushing you away, her gasp is not one of delighted surprise or mutual passion.
"Gabriel!" Well -- maybe a little surprise. Or maybe it's more like disbelief. "This is how you react to me telling you I'm pregnant? By kissing me?"
"Uh-huh."
You try to kiss her again, but she turns her head. Obviously she expected you to be upset about her unplanned pregnancy, as most men probably are -- and most men don't usually have the added excuse of being on the run from an arch-villain father who is no doubt extremely pissed off that you abandoned your very first mission to kidnap his granddaughter.
Part of you thinks you probably should be upset, or at least reject the idea of parenthood in this context, but your instincts say that this is good. So you slide a hand around the base of Elle's neck and gently turn her face back to yours.
As your lips brush hers, a jolt of electricity on your chest thwarts the amorous advance.
"Ow!" Your eyes snap open as you release Elle to rub the throbbing place directly above your heart. "What the hell was that--"
The words die, and your mouth hangs open, mute again. Though Elle was at the giving end of the jolt, it's her blue eyes that blink back tears.
"Elle? What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" She grinds the question out through clenched teeth. "I've been with you for three weeks, and I'm pregnant. And you're happy about it. How can you be happy about it?"
"I can't really explain it." Your gaze leaves Elle's stormy eyes as you speak to look up at the deep, cloudless blue sky. "All I can think about is that I had a part in creating a new life. That's pretty special."
"Special," Elle mutters. "It's always special with you, isn't it?"
Before a retort forms, she leans out the convertible and calls to the guy filling up his SUV at the next pump. "Hey, my boyfriend's boys can swim!"
"Elle." You shrink down in the driver's seat as various customers fix their amused attention on you.
But Elle could care less about your embarrassment. "Let's give him the goddamn gold medal in competitive reproduction!"
The man gives you a thumbs-up, and there are a few cat-calls and claps, which make heat prickle up from your collar.
Elle turns away with a groan. "God, you're all a bunch of cavemen."
"No, I'm a highly evolved human." Keeping your voice even requires a concentrated effort. "And so are you."
You try to take Elle's hand, but she jerks it away, tucks it into the crook of her folded arm, shifts in her creaking leather seat so that her back is almost fully to you. Now it's your patience that's being tried, but that fades with a glimpse of Elle's face in the passenger side mirror -- her pale, young face, twitching for control of her emotions, but not making a full success of managing to hide that she's a scared young woman who can't remember her own mother and was raised as little more than a rabbit, and who now faces a first, unplanned pregnancy.
And on top of being frightened, her hormones are certainly out of whack. Now that you know what you're looking for, you sense that particular shift in her physiology. The knowledge gives you another dose of pride, but you try not to show it, lest she call you a caveman again.
"Elle." Despite her previous reaction to your touch, you lay a hand on her shoulder. She flinches, but doesn't shrug you away. An improvement. In the mirror, her eyes flick up to yours, seeking reassurance. You give her a small smile and say, "If we want our kind to survive, then reproduction is our biological imperative."
Beneath your palm, the tendons between her neck and shoulders tighten, and she's back to gritting words out through her teeth. "A little late for a biology lesson, don't you think? Since I'm, you know, already pregnant?"
You let your hand fall away from her shoulder, rake it through your hair and draw a shaky breath. For a man who just boasted about being highly evolved, you feel like you could use a lesson or two in basic human mating behaviors.
You feel like poor, pathetic, un-special Gabriel Gray.
But the self-loathing stops there as you consider that it was Gabriel Gray who first began this journey toward conceiving a child with Elle. That it was Gabriel Gray who fell in love with her -- that it was Gabriel Gray who Elle loved first. Before Sylar. Before this Bonnie and Clyde game they are playing now, simply because they could, with no thought of whether or not they should.
Awkward as it is from the driver's seat, the steering wheel and gear shift getting in the way, you slip both arms around Elle. In the mirror, you watch the tears fall down her cheeks, cutting twin trails through her makeup. You nuzzle the long ponytail away from her neck and kiss her nape, lingering to taste the salt on her warm, slightly moist skin, your breath making the fine blonde hairs stand as you murmur, "I never really had a father, and I didn't have much of a mother, either."
You block out the images of Arthur and Angela Petrelli, who may or may not be your birth parents and who definitely don't have your best interests at heart, as parents are supposed to do. As you do, already, for your own child.
"And your family had its shortcomings, too," you add. "We're both the products of extreme dysfunction."
"Which is exactly why you and me are the very last people on earth, highly evolved or not, who should be having a baby."
"A baby, Elle. The best of me, the best of you..." You kiss your way across her bare shoulders. "Don't you see this is our chance to truly atone of our mistakes? For our parents' mistakes? We can't throw that chance away."
Taking a mental step back to her earlier plea to get rid of it, your stomach tightens in revulsion and...low boiling rage. The thought of abortion is repugnant to you, not merely because you were raised Catholic, but at a primal level. You must protect your offspring at all costs, violently if necessary -- though, you realize, restraining your hand, in the case of the mother, violence would be counter-productive. You must protect her, too. From herself, if need be.
"We owe it to our child to give him the chance we never had," you say.
Elle turns to you, one eyebrow hitching beneath her feathery bangs. "Him?"
You grin, sheepish. "We can't call our baby an it. Should I say he-slash-she to be politically correct?"
"Kind of a tongue-twister." Elle attempts to repeat it, and fails, which sends you both into a fit of giggles that turns a few heads in the gas station parking lot and must have to do with the state of your nerves at this sudden change in the direction of your life.
Regardless of what the root cause of this giddiness is, you embrace the shift in Elle's mood. Never mind her cynicism: this is the most special thing you've ever shared with another human being. Empathy is the driving force behind your power, and in discovering that, you've forged a bond between yourself and Elle that can never be broken, first when you healed her and acquired her ability without killing, and again when you joined with her to create a new life -- and at the same time, killed Sylar, stopped the hunger. If that's not a reason to laugh for joy...
There's also the aspect that having grown up abandoned, unwanted, you can think of no greater gift to give your child than the knowledge that learning of his existence made you and his mother deliriously happy.
"How about just she," Elle suggests, "since we're obviously having a girl."
"Obviously." You’re happy to indulge her, especially if it helps this lighter mood to last for a little while longer, prevents a premature return to a more negative outlook. She just needs a little time, that's all...
You turn the key in the ignition, and the engine of the Corvette stolen off the lot of Hotspur Car Rental to aid in your escape from Arthur and Angela and everyone in your past lives who pushed you to be angels or monsters to suit their own purposes roars to life. Before backing out, you grin at Elle, only to see worry tugging at her mouth. When you release the gear shift and take her hand, her fingers clamp around yours.
"I think you're going to be a wonderful mother."
The smile she gives you in return doesn't match the strength of her grip on your hand. Her lack of confidence is understandable, though at the back of your mind niggles that earlier concern about her stability. You shake it off. She only just discovered her pregnancy. She's still surprised that you aren't upset. Give her time.
"It's just," she says as you drive out of the gas station parking lot, "a baby will change everything."
"Exactly." Your tone is firm and matter-of-fact as you as you make a turn onto the highway in the opposite direction of the path of flight you planned together last night. "Everything is going to change."
"Las Vegas?" Elle practically shouts over the wind and the freeway noise as the Corvette, top down, speeds under a sign that reads Las Vegas, 187. "That's where we're going? Las Vegas?"
Without taking your eyes off the road whilst changing lanes to pass a semi, you grin. "Nice deduction, Sherlock."
"Why are we going to Las Vegas?"
You ignore the annoyance in her tone. "Why does anyone go to Vegas?"
"To gamble?"
"Please. Why would we gamble when I can do this?" You release the steering wheel with one hand to touch the 32-ounce Slusho in the cup holder, and it gleams gold beneath your fingertips -- straw, melting raspberry slush at the bottom, and all.
"Hey!" Elle snatches the golden cup. "I wasn't done with that!"
"Don't worry. I'll use it to buy you anoth--Shit!"
The car swerves into the shoulder as you duck to avoid getting knocked out by a solid gold Slusho that comes flying at your head. You jerk the steering wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding an 80 mile per hour collision with the concrete divider on your left and cutting off a truck coming up behind, the driver of which flips you off.
In control of the Corvette again, though not of your temper, you pound the dashboard with a fist. "Damn it, Elle! What the hell is the matter with you?"
"You know I hate seeing you use that power!"
You look away, out the window, ashamed. Since she told you about the baby, you've been feeling a little cocky. A lot cocky. Special. And you know where that has gotten you in the past. With a child to think of now, you've got to change those old behaviors. Everything you do must be in the best interests of the child.
Antagonizing the mother to the point that she causes a car accident is not in the child's best interests.
You take a deep breath and exercise the meditation techniques (minus the closed eyes, of course) you practiced in your cell at Primatech, releasing your anger and pride as you exhale. The apology seems to fall from your mouth effortlessly.
"I'm sorry. That was inconsiderate of me."
Elle sniffs. "I'm probably just hormonal."
Agreeing with that statement isn't going to help your case, even if it is the truth. Pleased with your foresight, you allow a smile as you ask, "Besides gambling, why else do people go to Las Vegas?"
You turn slightly to watch Elle mull over the question. Momentarily, she gives a puff of laughter and looks back at you in disbelief.
"Please tell me you don't think we're going to get married."
The way she says it makes you squirm with an embarrassment that is reminiscent of the hell that was high school. You consider laughing her off, saying, Of course not, that would be ridiculous, but you keep your mouth shut. The child needs protection from your insecurities as much as from your megalomania.
"Oh God," says Elle. "You do want to get married."
"It's the right thing to do," you say. "Children need their parents to be in a stable, committed relationship."
"Right. You and me, stable," Elle scoffs. "So stable we should be committed."
"Our child deserves two parents who will try!"
That wipes the scorn from her face, silences her. For a moment, anyway.
"But marriage, Gabriel..." Leaning back against the black leather seat, her words are now less of a protest and more uncertain resignation. "That's..."
"A big step," you supply for her.
"Huge! We shouldn't just rush into--"
"I'll buy you a wedding dress," you say, clutching the steering wheel. "Any dress you want, even if it's the most expensive one in Las Vegas."
It's bribery, and it fills your mouth with bile. You can move any physical object with your mind, but you don't know how to move Elle a little further along the road to matrimony. So you're buying her. Just like you paid for a date to your senior prom, just like you paid for love in your shabby Brooklyn apartment.
Back then, however, you weren't able to rise above your humiliation and look those women in the eyes. Now you meet Elle's gaze unflinchingly as her eyes gleam with the appeal of your offer. Funny how she's apparently not bothered by the prospect of you using her father's ability for that purchase. The bitter thought doesn't stop you from remembering how those blue eyes gleamed for you not even a month ago when you touched her and repaired her damaged power. Or a year ago, when you were the one with the problem, and she was your angel with a broken watch. She could love you...You hope her reluctance is only because there are so many changes, so very soon, that even if the reasons she marries you are the wrong ones, she'll stay married to you for the right ones.
"And a ring so big you won't be able to raise your hand," you add.
A diamond couldn't shine brighter than the grin she flashes as she sits back and brings her bare feet up to rest on the dashboard. "Here comes the bride."
With much less fuss than you would have imagined from a woman you had to bribe to marry you, Elle chooses a strapless form-fitting number that somehow manages to be classy and yet slinky enough to suit an exchange of vows at the first chapel you see on the strip. She's thrilled with the two-karat three stone platinum ring and the bouquet of deep purple calla lilies you selected for her, with your tux, and, you can almost believe as she gazes up at you through her veil and promises to love and to cherish till death do you part, with you.
That's what you let yourself believe, anyway, as you kiss your bride and dance with her in one of the clubs at the Luxor -- Elle's choice; you'd have preferred someplace a little less gaudy and a little more romantic than the Egyptian-themed casino for your wedding night, but when Elle saw the pyramid and Sphinx through the shoe-polished windshield of the Corvette, you couldn't say no.
But you do say no when, playing the slots just for the hell of it despite your golden touch, a waiter wanders by with a tray of champagne. Elle reaches for a glass, and you snatch it from her grasp.
"You shouldn't be drinking," you hiss through your teeth which are clenched in a sheepish smile at the waiter who no doubt thinks Elle is underage.
"Please, just one--?"
She makes another grab, and this time you stop her with a thought.
"She's pregnant," you growl at the waiter; glances at Elle's wedding dress and mouths oh before finally scuttling off with the champagne.
"You're such a bastard," says Elle, her hand still frozen mid-air, grasping for champagne that is no longer there. She grabs her wrist with her other hand, as if in an attempt to wrench herself free, but then releases it, realizing the futility of fighting telekinesis. Her glower hardens on him, and her chin tilts upward, her teeth bared as she spits, "I'm an adult. I don't need you to take care of me."
"I wasn't taking care of you, I was taking care of the baby."
"The baby." Her lips twist as they form the word as if pronouncing a profanity. "We've known about the god-damn baby for one day, and you're obsessed."
"That's what parents do, Elle, they obsess--"
"Like my father?" Her eyes spark blue, and her next words sting: "Like your mother?"
Your fingers clench into a fist, releasing their telekinetic hold on Elle's wrist, and your hand, suddenly heavy, drops to your side.
"I just want to be a good father."
For a moment Elle's prickling electric stare holds you, then her sharp features abruptly soften as she lets out her breath. The satin skirt of her wedding gown rustles as she steps closer.
"I know." She slides her palms up over the lapels of your tuxedo jacket, fingers finding their way underneath your tight wing-tipped collar, making you shiver in spite of the layers of stiff dress clothing and the crowded casino. Arching up on her toes, she drops her voice to a hushed tone you feel as a warm brush against your skin. "But maybe you should start by being a good husband first."
"I guess I'm getting a little ahead of myself," you say as your arms go around her slender waist -- trimmer even than normal thanks to the tight fit of her bodice; you try not to imagine her abdomen rounding, hips spreading, breasts swelling as she kisses a trail along your jaw line, her breath and tongue hot, almost electrifying, against your skin.
She stops at your earlobe, nips at it, and murmurs, "We haven't even had our wedding night."
Though all around are the roars of approval from the rowdy crowd of gamblers and casino staff as you scoop her up in your arms, your words are only for her. "Then let's go have it, Mrs. Gray."
You've made love to Elle before, obviously, but it feels like the first time. Maybe it's the room -- the Luxor's luxury suite, much too large for two people, all silken and gilded caricatures making a grotesque mockery of ancient Egypt's powerful art and architecture -- the last place a watchmaker from Queens belongs. Your fingers, trained to be steady enough for the finely detailed work of your trade, which have probed human brains with a surgeon's precision, fumble to unfasten the line of satin buttons that runs from below Elle's shoulder blades down past her hips. The shallowness of your breathing, you know, is not from arousal, but from nerves.
This is Elle's wedding night -- a special night she has no doubt dreamed of. It's evident that those dreams never included a baby on the way and a spontaneous exchange of wedding vows officiated by an Elvis impersonator. No doubt she had visions of her father walking her down the aisle -- not walking alone to the man who'd murdered him in cold blood. You can hardly believe she's with you at all, that for tonight's offenses, and those which have come before, she can forgive you to go through with this. It's enough to make you despair of being a lover who can please her.
And, as you lay her gently on the bed, fingers and lips lightly grazing her nipples, the warmth between her thighs, holding your weight off her petite frame and entering her carefully, with shallow, slow thrusts, it quickly becomes apparent that you are not. Elle's sigh is unmistakably frustrated as she crosses her ankles in the small of your back, hooks her hands over your shoulders and pulls you down, deeper inside her.
"Harder," she pants. "Harder, Gabriel."
You want to comply, to grind down roughly, to clutch her hips so hard that you leave fingertip bruises along the pale skin of her back and thighs as you did that first time, when you fucked her against the shower wall of a roadside motel in California, the night you impulsively abandoned your mission to bring your father the Catalyst. The difference was that then Sylar still whispered in the dark corners of your mind. Since you found out about the baby, you only hear Gabriel Gray, who doesn't know what the hell he's doing or whether there's some special way you're supposed to have sex with a pregnant woman.
At the thought, you feel the space around you start to grow as you recoil, but one of her hands leaves your shoulder to grip your backside, holding you firmly where you are, your pelvis pressed flush against hers, you buried within her. Fingernails rake down your back, and you know that if it wasn't for your healing ability, there would be red scratches and crescent moon indentations in your skin for a long time after you finish.
"Elle, stop," you half-gasp, half-grunt, not because it hurts, but because it feels so damn good that you're afraid you'll lose control, hurt her, hurt them.
Apparently missing -- or ignoring -- the pleading note in your voice, Elle chuckles low, her nails dragging down your spine, over your ass. "Baby, I'm just getting started."
Before you can utter another word in protest, her mouth is on yours, teeth raking over your lower lip, nipping, biting--
Your own voice, crying out hoarsely, fills your ears as shockwaves rip through you from Elle's fingertips to your core, re-igniting your repressed desire.
"Elle!"
You can't help yourself. She sparks you, electricity fizzling across your skin, laddering between your body and hers beneath her like lighting zigzagging from ground to sky. It used to hurt when she did this -- it still does, but you're learning to appreciate the pain with the pleasure, welcoming it as purifying flagellation for the wounds you've inflicted on her, on others. You take it now, for the sake of the child, stomaching the faint seared smell which pricks at your nostrils but never quite becomes the sickening stench of burnt flesh as your skin repairs itself almost instantly.
"Isn't it so good, Gabriel?"
Her own pleasure -- whether from your movements or from the pain she's inflicting on you, you're not sure -- is evident in the raspy quality of her voice, spoken against the hollow of your throat where her tongue dances as you strain above her. The rhythm of your pulse quickens beneath her mouth, its erratic tempo a frenetic counterpoint to the pounding of Elle's heart. It makes you think of clocks ticking out of time in the old watch shop, and how it tormented you, kept you hunched over your workbench for hours, days, like a mad scientist, until they were all in sync.
While you can't deny your body's physical response to this wildness, even groaning in reply to her question, you don't know if you can honestly describe this, or any of the other times you've engaged in this type of intercourse, as good. It feels wrong that the conception of a pure, perfect child might have occurred while the mother indulged her sadistic side, feels worse still to continue it now that you're aware of the child's existence. You are highly-evolved humans, not wild animals. Your offspring ought to be conceived, and carried, with acts of love, not lust-filled frenzies.
Even so, it's not enough to kill your desire again.
When it's over you roll away from Elle and stare up at the ceiling. You think of weddings at your old parish church, where priests read the ancient and holy words of Scripture your Elvis impersonator did not: and the two shall become one flesh. You and Elle have come together in body, but your hearts do not beat as one.
"Did you love that?" she asks, clearly thinking that you did. She curls on her side and runs her fingers through her disheveled hair; you think you see blue sparks amid the threads of gold, and you flinch when her fingers graze the line of hair running down from your navel. "You love it when I do that, don't you?"
Prompted by something in her voice, you turn your head on the pillow and immediately see the need in Elle's eyes for affirmation, for assurance. You roll to face her, sliding your knee between her legs and cupping her face, sliding your fingers into her hair.
"I love you."
Though you don't really expect her to echo the sentiment, it's nonetheless disappointing, and not a little bit damaging to your pride, when she merely blinks back. Your hand drops from her face to the white sheets between you, as does your gaze, watching your fingers pick at a loose thread.
Your throat tightens, and you clear it to say, "I don't think we should use our powers anymore."
The crisp sheets rustle as Elle sits up, drawing her knees up to her chest and the sheet over nude body.
"Do you love me or not, Gabriel?"
Bewildered, you also sit up, "I just told you--"
"My powers are me."
You consider this, rubbing your hand over your smooth chin. "But are they the best parts of you? Have they ever brought you anything but pain?"
Elle's reply is the last thing you'd expect from her. "They brought me you."
It's not quite I love you, but it brings a smile to your lips, and you slip your arms around her, kiss her shoulder. She leans into you, catching her breath as you cup her breasts in your hands, teasing her erect nipples through the sheet. You imagine this gentle foreplay leading to another round of lovemaking -- slow, sweet, just right for a wedding night and a couple expecting their first child.
But before you do, there have to be some ground rules.
"I just think," you tell her, "that we should think about making some changes. For the--"
"For the baby." Elle stiffens in your arms, then flops onto the mattress, curled up in the fetal position with her back to you. A clear statement that the honeymoon is over. "I am so damn sick of hearing about the baby."
Soon, she is just plain sick.
You're back in New York, in the apartment you and Elle have rented near the old watch shop with the reasoning that Arthur won't look for you right under his nose and anyway, he has powers, and knows people with powers, and can and will find you no matter where you hide if he really wants to punish you for not bringing him the Catalyst. For now you mean to do your best to lead a normal life and earn an honest living, for as long as it will last, which will hopefully be until you've raised your child. Though this part of your life, you hope, won't last much longer.
For the tenth morning in a row, you lean against the locked bathroom door, listening to Elle vomit into the toilet. You can't believe she even has anything in her stomach to throw up; it's been days since she's kept anything down but ginger ale and Saltines. She's lost a few pounds, prompting her, on one of the rare occasions she hasn't been curled up in bed battling nausea, to joke that pregnancy's the most effective diet she's ever been on, so maybe she ought to thank you after all. It can't be good for the baby's development, you think, for the mother to subsist on crackers and soda. You bought her what the pharmacist on the corner claims are the best prenatal vitamins available, but you can't be sure Elle is keeping those down, so you've scoured books and the internet for morning sickness remedies. But nothing works, not even the prescription anti-nausea meds from the OB-GYN, and it's just too much for your evolved paternal instincts.
There's only one thing for it.
You knock softly on the door. "Elle?"
She coughs, then croaks out, "Go away."
"Please let me in."
"That was my first mistake. Why aren't you in the shop, anyway?"
Letting her insults roll off your back, you reply, "Because my wife needs me more than the watches do."
"Yeah, well, your wife needs you to make money to pay the rent and buy food. You know, in case I can ever eat again."
Clutching your hair in exasperation, you come very close to saying that thanks to her father, you can, literally make money, but you catch yourself before you make a bad situation worse. With a sigh, you lean more heavily against the door, fingers testing the doorknob. It was only the one joking time that Elle thanked you for this. The rest of the time she's banished you from her presence, not allowing you to comfort her, cursing you from behind locked bedroom or bathroom doors for not using a condom that night.
It’s fruitless to deny that her resentment and abuse anger you, but at the sounds of painful gagging and the contents of her stomach, meager as they may be, emptying once again into the toilet, you can't bring herself to begrudge her...testiness. Though if you're honest, it's as much for your sake now as for the baby's, and hers, that you want to get Elle past the morning sickness stage.
"I have something that may get you eating again soon," you say, jiggling the doorknob, trying not to think about the myriad tempting ways you could get into the bathroom without her unlocking the door.
"I'm not drinking any more of your herbal teas that taste like shit."
"It's nothing to drink. And it'll work this time." You hope it will, anyway.
"That's what you say every time," Elle's voice drifts weakly out to you; presumably her snarkier remarks used up what little energy she had. The flush of the toilet is followed by sounds of shuffling across the title floor, and the unlocking of the door.
Opening it, you find Elle on her hands and knees, crawling back to the toilet. Her face is as white as the porcelain bowl, her knuckles white as she clutches the rim. You should go to her, kneel beside her on the shaggy burgundy toilet mat, but for a moment your feet remain rooted to the tile, your eyes transfixed by Elle heaving over the bowl. If you were in any doubt that she was truly carrying your child, all unbelief is dispelled now. You never thought it could be beautiful watching another person be sick, but this proof of a new life beginning is one of the more incredible sights you've witnessed, including some pretty mind-blowing powers. How did you ever think there could be any act more special than the primal miracle of reproduction?
All of which are thoughts best kept to yourself, ignored for now in favor of an act Elle will find special. Dropping to your knees beside her, you gather her long hair back from her face, holding it out of the way as she leans over the toilet. You really have no way of knowing whether this plan of yours is going to work. In theory, it makes sense, but you simply have not practiced tapping into the empathic aspect of your ability to fully understand how it was you took Elle's power from her, and how you might transfer one of your abilities to her.
Trusting that it will be intuitive, you stroke Elle's neck. Her skin is cold and beaded with sweat; beneath it, her muscles strain. Her throat must ache after so many days of this kind of use.
"If I could take on any of the unpleasant aspects of pregnancy myself I would."
She chokes out a laugh. "I just pictured you with a big belly."
You make a face. "Maybe not that aspect." Is it a good sign that she is only dry heaving now? Have you actually healed some of her sickness? Or is it only that Elle really is running on empty now? You keep rubbing her back and talking gently to her. "Of course I don't think the huge belly is really an unpleasant aspect of pregnancy for fathers."
"That's because it's like an extension of the whole who's got a bigger penis thing."
She lets go of the toilet bowl and sits up on her knees, turning slightly toward you. The color seems to be returning to her face.
"It's not because pregnant women really are beautiful?"
Elle smirks. "I wouldn't sleep with you if you got fat."
"You won't be fat." You note that behind the defiant flash in her eyes lurks, as always, real insecurity. You trace the outline of her cheek and add, "And you'll always be beautiful to me. Because you're..." You mean to say because you're the mother of my child, but echoes of Elle saying how sick she is of hearing about the baby make you reconsider. "Because you're my wife."
A smile tugs at her dry lips, but skepticism wins the battle for control of her expression. "Even right now, pale and puking?"
"Especially right now."
To prove it, you lean in and kiss her. But you taste the sour sickness on her lips and tongue, so you press your lips together and peck her lightly before drawing back. Despite the brevity of the kiss, she looks at you much as she did in that dark cell at Pinehearst when you made that first empathic connection with her. And as it did then, the awe and gratitude in her eyes make your own fill with tears.
"You just gave me your healing ability, didn't you?"
"Stomach feel better?"
"The nausea's gone! And I don't feel like I've been throwing up my toenails for over a week."
"Good."
You stand and extend your hands to help her up. Elle clasps them, her eyes never leaving yours as you pull her to her feet.
"Do you think it's permanent?" she asks.
"I hope so." You can't think of anything more advantageous to your unborn child's safety, especially considering the possible threat of Arthur, than a mother who can heal from any injury.
"I could cut myself or something to find out."
It would be an alarming idea even if Elle had not spoken about it so flippantly. You try not to react as it makes you feel, or Elle will go out of her way to test her new powers simply to get a reaction out of you.
"It's only a healing ability, not immunity from pain." Then, cupping her cheek, you add, more gently, "Don't worry, if it's not permanent, I'll lend you my ability again. And again."
"So much for not using our powers."
Something in her tone is wistful, as if what you've done is license to access the ability you actually haven't seen her use since you suggested you stop on your wedding night.
"I think we can make an exception for eternal life and health."
Elle's jaw stiffens, and you catch a flare in her eyes before she flips her hair over her shoulder.
"There's still this one thing with my stomach."
You step back and sit on the edge of the sink, confused. Did you heal her, or not?
The sight of your distress makes Elle's lips curve upward. She places her hands on your knees and runs them up over your thighs, eyes gleaming. "Gabriel, I'm starving."
Relieved, you let out a chuckle and slide off the counter. "What do you want? I'll make you something before I go to work."
Elle tilts her head and thinks for a moment. "Waffles?"
"Waffles it is."
Read Part Two