(no subject)
electricity and homicidal tendencies - prompts
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar/Elle
Rating: MMMMMM.
Table: here
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Summary: Two drabbles/ficlets for the prompt table. No particular connection between them.
05. I hurt you then you hurt me back.
She’s tired.
She’s pissed off when Angela sends her away on “an important assignment that needs your expertise.” She hears through the grapevine as she’s stuck in California trying to bag some geek who can breathe underwater that he’s working with Noah now, and he’s being hand-fed brains by the bitch herself, and he’s apparently a Petrelli son, too.
It makes her angry at first, thinking that she could be there for all of it-to tell him that even if Angela is his mother, she’s still a manipulative cunt. And that even though he tried to kill her, and he killed her daddy, she still sees Gabriel in him. Even though that when she’s blinking up at the shadows of the ceiling in some Californian hotel room and she thinks about everything he’s done to break her, she still loves him despite the hollow horrible aching hole in her chest where her heart should be. Then she doesn’t feel anything at all.
She leaves California without what’s-his-face (Angela didn’t even want the kid-she just wanted to get rid of Elle) and when she arrives back at Pinehearst, she’s somber and the emptiness has spread. Her outsides are all hard and painted, and the first place she goes is Gabriel’s cell, not really expecting him to be there and feeling nothing when he is.
He stands when he sees her watching through the glass, and his eyes narrow, his lips form the whisper of her name. For a moment she contemplates hurting him, or killing him, or opening the door and letting all of her pain and anger and emptiness out at his feet and begging him to kill her.
The only thing he hasn’t taken yet is her pulse.
Instead she blinks and walks away.
After a hot shower and two perfect sleeping pills, she intercepts his lunch and brings it to him, faking a smile and ignoring his incredulous look as she sets it down on the bed and cracks a joke about how horrible the food is.
She’s wearing her favorite white dress and a pair of black heels, and she’s done her make-up just so, because Elle’s sure if she wasn’t so empty she would try to look cute.
He asks her why she’s doing this, and she tells him it’s her job, silly, and pecks him on the cheek. He’s warm and alive beneath her lips and her skin crawls as she keeps her palm at his jaw. He sees it in her eyes, she thinks-the scary emptiness-when she pulls back, and then she leaves without another word.
She’s restless afterward, pacing and sparking and unable to sleep soundly, even with the pills. She brings him lunch the next day, because it was all just so incomplete and not what she wanted. He wasn’t supposed to see anything, or maybe he didn’t see enough, or maybe she’s finally really truly snapped and none of what she’s doing or thinking makes any sense.
He doesn’t seem surprised to see her this time, and he stands and watches as she drops the tray with a frustrated clang. Then he’s talking about not saying sorry because she deserves more than that in his soothing gentle voice tinged with a kind of understanding that sounds so fucking fake she wants to fry the skin from his bones and hear his screams.
Instead, she tells him to shut up, and the words are sharp and echo and he closes his stupid mouth and looks at her like her empty angry pain is a fucking puzzle he needs to solve, and she hates it; she hates it.
The next day she doesn’t even bother bringing food as a cover, and all he says when she walks in, her boots clicking smartly against the floor, is that he hurt her and she should hurt him back. That they should be even.
Instead she pushes him into the wall and presses her lips to his, clawing and grunting and searching his kiss for a fucking answer to making her strangled pain go away, and she cries even as he kisses her back and his arms encircle her and hold her together even as she’s falling apart.
And she feels. She hurts, and Elle knows that for the first time making him hurt too won’t make anything better.
07. You lie - So do you.
The funny thing about dying is you spend your whole life dreading it, avoiding it, struggling and fighting it, all blood and tears and agony to the very last. (She didn’t fight it at all.) But when it’s taken away from you, when the last breath is given back and your heart starts thumping merrily along like everything is peachy keen and the world is a bright and lovely place to be in, you feel fucking cheated.
Oblivion was sweet, it was empty, it was nothing and everything and it was fucking peaceful. Elle doesn’t understand all those religious drones praying for grapes and virgins after death; Elle’s an atheist because the one thing she wants when she dies is nothing, and when she’s pushed back into the world with Claire’s blood soaked into her wounds and Peter’s arms anchoring her to the sandy, real earth she wants them to give her salvation the fuck back.
She wants Sylar’s (Gabriel’s) hands on her body (brushing skin and panting, kissing moans) and she wants him to tear her apart again (love her, please, just to love her). She wants him to make sure she’s fucking dead, no fucking backsies or loopholes, because it’s not fair he gets to hollow her out and she gets to live with the pain.
She spends a day curled up on Claire’s bed, ignoring the cheerleader’s knowing looks and the food she sets out for her. She ignores Noah’s pitying gazes and the sound of everyone arguing over her downstairs; she ignores that time has passed since that day at the beach (the first day-with Gabriel (Sylar)-or maybe it’s the last; she doesn’t bother with existential musings). Her head hurts the entire time, and she doesn’t even make a snotty, sexual remark when Peter sits down beside her sometime in the night and asks if she needs anything.
She lets him carefully, soothingly, push back her hair, and she doesn’t flinch (she does) when his fingers touch her temple, and she doesn’t cry (she sobs) when he leaves the room, rejected and unsure.
Early in the morning she packs and steals a few of Claire’s clothes and leaves before the sun is even kissing the windows.
She’s never worked so hard to find someone in her entire life, and it’s easy and quick with vengeance coiling up inside of her; the only thing that deters her is the weight of living, the emptiness in her chest that makes her sick and feverish. She finds him-she finds him in the middle of nowhere chasing some bitch with the power of telepathy (she wonders why it took him so long to covet that one), and she knows one way or another one of them is going to die.
His gaze hardens when he sees her, and her insides lurch; her electricity engulfs her, prickling over her skin.
“Gabriel,” she calls him (a rose by any other name), and he merely pales and stares at her like she’s a ghost, and she explodes, letting out every broken promise and drop of spilled blood, every kiss and every whispered word, every fucking moment she loved him and all the ones she didn’t. And when it’s over and done and she’s collapsed to the floor, clutching at her chest (her heart, her stomach), he patches himself up (just like that) and sucks in a needy breath. And she laughs madly that he killed her and burned her corpse and brought her back, and now she’s done the same to him, but it doesn’t make anything even (it never is).
“Why?” she chokes out, and she realizes she’s not laughing, she’s crying, and his dark eyes lift to hers as the open gaping hole in his chest heals over.
“You lied,” he gasps out.
“So did you,” she growls out viciously. (Every touch, kiss, promise.)
“You knew about my parents,” and then he’s standing, hovering over her, his hand raised to her temple, and it’s that first (last) moment all over again, and he touches her new skin with a sweet caress that cuts into her forehead.
She bursts with rage and blasts him back. “You don’t get to touch me again,” she forces out, and wipes at the blood and stands on weak knees, “or our son.”
He looks up at her with wonder and awe, sprawled on the floor, and that’s how she leaves him-alone, unloved, and dead inside. She doesn’t look back.
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar/Elle
Rating: MMMMMM.
Table: here
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Summary: Two drabbles/ficlets for the prompt table. No particular connection between them.
05. I hurt you then you hurt me back.
She’s tired.
She’s pissed off when Angela sends her away on “an important assignment that needs your expertise.” She hears through the grapevine as she’s stuck in California trying to bag some geek who can breathe underwater that he’s working with Noah now, and he’s being hand-fed brains by the bitch herself, and he’s apparently a Petrelli son, too.
It makes her angry at first, thinking that she could be there for all of it-to tell him that even if Angela is his mother, she’s still a manipulative cunt. And that even though he tried to kill her, and he killed her daddy, she still sees Gabriel in him. Even though that when she’s blinking up at the shadows of the ceiling in some Californian hotel room and she thinks about everything he’s done to break her, she still loves him despite the hollow horrible aching hole in her chest where her heart should be. Then she doesn’t feel anything at all.
She leaves California without what’s-his-face (Angela didn’t even want the kid-she just wanted to get rid of Elle) and when she arrives back at Pinehearst, she’s somber and the emptiness has spread. Her outsides are all hard and painted, and the first place she goes is Gabriel’s cell, not really expecting him to be there and feeling nothing when he is.
He stands when he sees her watching through the glass, and his eyes narrow, his lips form the whisper of her name. For a moment she contemplates hurting him, or killing him, or opening the door and letting all of her pain and anger and emptiness out at his feet and begging him to kill her.
The only thing he hasn’t taken yet is her pulse.
Instead she blinks and walks away.
After a hot shower and two perfect sleeping pills, she intercepts his lunch and brings it to him, faking a smile and ignoring his incredulous look as she sets it down on the bed and cracks a joke about how horrible the food is.
She’s wearing her favorite white dress and a pair of black heels, and she’s done her make-up just so, because Elle’s sure if she wasn’t so empty she would try to look cute.
He asks her why she’s doing this, and she tells him it’s her job, silly, and pecks him on the cheek. He’s warm and alive beneath her lips and her skin crawls as she keeps her palm at his jaw. He sees it in her eyes, she thinks-the scary emptiness-when she pulls back, and then she leaves without another word.
She’s restless afterward, pacing and sparking and unable to sleep soundly, even with the pills. She brings him lunch the next day, because it was all just so incomplete and not what she wanted. He wasn’t supposed to see anything, or maybe he didn’t see enough, or maybe she’s finally really truly snapped and none of what she’s doing or thinking makes any sense.
He doesn’t seem surprised to see her this time, and he stands and watches as she drops the tray with a frustrated clang. Then he’s talking about not saying sorry because she deserves more than that in his soothing gentle voice tinged with a kind of understanding that sounds so fucking fake she wants to fry the skin from his bones and hear his screams.
Instead, she tells him to shut up, and the words are sharp and echo and he closes his stupid mouth and looks at her like her empty angry pain is a fucking puzzle he needs to solve, and she hates it; she hates it.
The next day she doesn’t even bother bringing food as a cover, and all he says when she walks in, her boots clicking smartly against the floor, is that he hurt her and she should hurt him back. That they should be even.
Instead she pushes him into the wall and presses her lips to his, clawing and grunting and searching his kiss for a fucking answer to making her strangled pain go away, and she cries even as he kisses her back and his arms encircle her and hold her together even as she’s falling apart.
And she feels. She hurts, and Elle knows that for the first time making him hurt too won’t make anything better.
07. You lie - So do you.
The funny thing about dying is you spend your whole life dreading it, avoiding it, struggling and fighting it, all blood and tears and agony to the very last. (She didn’t fight it at all.) But when it’s taken away from you, when the last breath is given back and your heart starts thumping merrily along like everything is peachy keen and the world is a bright and lovely place to be in, you feel fucking cheated.
Oblivion was sweet, it was empty, it was nothing and everything and it was fucking peaceful. Elle doesn’t understand all those religious drones praying for grapes and virgins after death; Elle’s an atheist because the one thing she wants when she dies is nothing, and when she’s pushed back into the world with Claire’s blood soaked into her wounds and Peter’s arms anchoring her to the sandy, real earth she wants them to give her salvation the fuck back.
She wants Sylar’s (Gabriel’s) hands on her body (brushing skin and panting, kissing moans) and she wants him to tear her apart again (love her, please, just to love her). She wants him to make sure she’s fucking dead, no fucking backsies or loopholes, because it’s not fair he gets to hollow her out and she gets to live with the pain.
She spends a day curled up on Claire’s bed, ignoring the cheerleader’s knowing looks and the food she sets out for her. She ignores Noah’s pitying gazes and the sound of everyone arguing over her downstairs; she ignores that time has passed since that day at the beach (the first day-with Gabriel (Sylar)-or maybe it’s the last; she doesn’t bother with existential musings). Her head hurts the entire time, and she doesn’t even make a snotty, sexual remark when Peter sits down beside her sometime in the night and asks if she needs anything.
She lets him carefully, soothingly, push back her hair, and she doesn’t flinch (she does) when his fingers touch her temple, and she doesn’t cry (she sobs) when he leaves the room, rejected and unsure.
Early in the morning she packs and steals a few of Claire’s clothes and leaves before the sun is even kissing the windows.
She’s never worked so hard to find someone in her entire life, and it’s easy and quick with vengeance coiling up inside of her; the only thing that deters her is the weight of living, the emptiness in her chest that makes her sick and feverish. She finds him-she finds him in the middle of nowhere chasing some bitch with the power of telepathy (she wonders why it took him so long to covet that one), and she knows one way or another one of them is going to die.
His gaze hardens when he sees her, and her insides lurch; her electricity engulfs her, prickling over her skin.
“Gabriel,” she calls him (a rose by any other name), and he merely pales and stares at her like she’s a ghost, and she explodes, letting out every broken promise and drop of spilled blood, every kiss and every whispered word, every fucking moment she loved him and all the ones she didn’t. And when it’s over and done and she’s collapsed to the floor, clutching at her chest (her heart, her stomach), he patches himself up (just like that) and sucks in a needy breath. And she laughs madly that he killed her and burned her corpse and brought her back, and now she’s done the same to him, but it doesn’t make anything even (it never is).
“Why?” she chokes out, and she realizes she’s not laughing, she’s crying, and his dark eyes lift to hers as the open gaping hole in his chest heals over.
“You lied,” he gasps out.
“So did you,” she growls out viciously. (Every touch, kiss, promise.)
“You knew about my parents,” and then he’s standing, hovering over her, his hand raised to her temple, and it’s that first (last) moment all over again, and he touches her new skin with a sweet caress that cuts into her forehead.
She bursts with rage and blasts him back. “You don’t get to touch me again,” she forces out, and wipes at the blood and stands on weak knees, “or our son.”
He looks up at her with wonder and awe, sprawled on the floor, and that’s how she leaves him-alone, unloved, and dead inside. She doesn’t look back.