Title: Special
Pairing: Sylar/Elle
Rating: PG-13
Words: 508
Spoilers: Uh, Elle's first appearence?
Disclaimer: Dude, yeah, I don't freaking own them!

For goddesspharo, who wanted a Sylar/Elle drabble!

Notes: So, this? Yeah, this is sooooo not what I set out to write—I wanted a basic "Sylar kills Elle" fic, you know? Um, yeah, I don't have any idea how the hell this weird little piece of freaky fic happened… but I blame ZQ and KB because, yeah, they are so freaking pretty together, seriously. So, yeah, this makes, like, no sense—but I still really like it, which is weird.

Teaser: It takes him two weeks to realize he's suffering the devastating effects of a simple crush.


In Boston, she takes him by surprise.

She darts up to him in a tidy little designer outfit (dark slacks, pale long-sleeved top, pea coat that's in beautiful condition—not a thread loose or a hair out of place) and a sunny smile, blue eyes bright as the sky above them, and she's the perfect pretty picture of a perfect pretty girl.

When he goes to move past her, shoulder her to the side without a second thought, he realizes it isn't the real her.

The next thing he knows, he's drowning in different shades of blue all at once (an infuriated glare and crackling brilliance around her hands and little blue-white lights exploding behind his eyes) as he gets thrown across the concrete to hit a wall, sliding down even as his muscles twitch, mind hazy.

Before he passes out, she comes over and kicks him viciously with a sharp-toed heel, calling him a rude asshole.


It's quickly clear to Sylar that she's unstable, unsound.

It's a strange contrast—everything she does is like clockwork, one thing following another, and yet she's anything but.

She says she's Elle, says it the first time with a tap of a finger against her chest as if there's a name tag there.

She showers three times every day right on schedule, after breakfast and lunch and dinner, but she still smells like burnt flesh and white-hot heat.

She smiles and frowns at the same time as she drives and she squints when she thinks; she bites the corner of her lip when she flips open her little pink phone and calls her daddy three times a day, breakfast and lunch and dinner, to check in like a good little girl.

She brings him coffee every morning and he hesitates every morning until she pouts back at him, insisting that she made it special just for him, lower lip trembling until he takes the coffee and drinks it.

Like clockwork, and he likes it even though he doesn't like coffee.

She tells him he has to be good (to get what he wants) and then laughs when she kills and as he watches her, he wipes sweaty palms on his jeans, fingers itching to push glasses he doesn't wear anymore up his nose.

It takes him two weeks to realize that he's suffering the devastating effects of a simple crush.


"My daddy says I'm special," she tells him in a whisper one morning as she hands him his coffee just like she always does, voice low and soft like she's telling him a secret. "Says he picked me out of all the other little kids because he knew I was."

Special, he thinks as he takes the coffee— and he studies the way her nose crinkles up when she smiles at him, the way she bites the corner of her lip, the way her mouth quirks into a blending of a smile and a frown.

"You're very special," he agrees, and takes another sip of the coffee with an awful aftertaste.