Summary: You like to think he's at your mercy, but lately it seems like you have it backwards. Elle loses control. Oneshot.
Disclaimer: I just take them out of the box and play with them occasionally. I don't own them.
A/N: Originally, the news that Kristen Bell was going to be on Heroes pissed me off to the nth degree. Then Elle actually appeared on the show and I basically fell in love with her. Ever since, I've been infatuated with the idea of Peter/Elle and all the possibilities the pairing offers. Hence, fic. Feedback is my crack.
You stroke your fingers down his arm, zapping his wrist and gripping his hand when he attempts to jerk away from the electricity. This is your new favorite part of the day: touching him, talking to him.
It's new. The talking.
After your little outburst about how sad and pathetic your life is, you brought him his pills and left without saying a word. You didn't touch him. You sure as hell didn't spark him.
You reserve your power for people that are fun to play with.
But Adam isn't fun anymore, either.
At least he doesn't pity you, though. Peter Petrelli does. Did. You're not sure, now that you're spending time with him again. That day that you told him how boring your existence is, his pretty brown eyes were full of sympathy. And you hated it. So you avoided it. And in your head, you questioned his right to pity you when his brother is dying of radiation poisoning because he has no idea how to control himself without medication.
But then, one day, he asked if you resented your powers because they meant you were trapped. When you looked at him, there was no trace of pity in his expression. A weight lifted off your shoulders and you swung around, pressing your back against the door frame and letting your hand flirt with the doorknob.
You smiled and told him you aren't that naïve.
He accepted the answer and didn't push you, and when you came back the next day, the tension was different. Better. The electricity in your veins pulsed, desperate for an outlet.
Peter didn't protest when you asked if you could stay and play.
He just insisted on talking if you did.
His room is empty, and it makes you ill.
What was it that your father used to tell you about trusting people?
And to think, he seemed so genuine.
He's gone. Both of them are. You clench your jaw and remember your training. You will not lose control over something like this. Adam and Peter are gone. So what? Daddy will send you to go get them and then you'll get to make sure they both behave from now on.
Smile, you tell yourself. You love punishments, especially when they're not meant for you.
But no matter how many times you repeat the command — smile, smile, smile — you still can't get your heartbeat to slow down. You know it isn't pumping out of excitement, either.
And the second time you pass Peter's empty room, angry tears well in your eyes without your permission.
You vow to keep lying anyway.
Claire Bennett is an interesting girl. Indestructible. Cheerleader. Biological daughter of Nathan Petrelli. Unfailingly loyal. Desperate to please, but unaware of said desperation.
You don't tell her that the man she calls her father is alive and you don't tell her that the only reason he is breathing is because her blood has been injected into his veins. You don't tell her these things because you aren't supposed to, and you're tired of being put on house arrest for disobeying your dad.
You killed a man in Ireland and you felt no remorse.
Daddy said it was sloppy and pulled you off the case.
Nothing a little pouting couldn't fix.
The teenager sits down in the seat across from you and you ask her if she knows anything concerning the whereabouts of Peter Petrelli. Your voice is professional and your words are measured. This has nothing to do with you. He is a danger to society.
It doesn't matter to you where he is. If you repeat the mantra enough, you're certain it will come true. It doesn't matter.
Lying is such a fantastic skill.
Claire's eyes widen and you're struck by how utterly innocent she is. She shakes her head, tells you she has no idea.
One, two, three…
She takes a deep breath.
Is he in trouble?
You don't know what to say, but you hope for your sake that the answer is no.
You'd forgotten how beautiful he is.
When you say his name, your voice is calm, and it directly contradicts the excitement that is pushing electric pulses to the very tips of your fingers, desperate to reach the open air.
He looks up, and the fact that the sidewalk is empty grows even more apparent. All of your attention is focused on the man in front of you.
The one that wasn't so hard to catch after all.
It takes exactly three seconds for him to recognize you, which is a surprise. You were told that he didn't remember anything, which is clearly untrue. His eyes light up with recognition and then he backs away from you like you have leprosy.
The shock you expect.
But the glare he gives you... The anger there comes as another surprise. But then his expression clears and he says something about a girl named Caitlin and your blood boils, but you ignore the sensation.
You have no time for jealousy. You are on a mission, and you will not fail again.
This is your catch.
The double meaning behind the words doesn't fail to escape your attention.
Peter doesn't even flinch when you shock him this time. You stare at him, bewildered and hurt, and then he grabs your hand and presses your palms together.
For a moment, all you can focus on is the fact that he's touching you again.
And then you gasp when his fingers pulse and electricity jets up your arm, circling your skin in jagged lines of light and heat.
Abruptly, the fact that you've been used becomes apparent and you squeeze his hand between both of yours, determined to beat him.
He yanks on your hand and your cry of protest ends up lost in his mouth, because his lips are pressed to yours and your hand has gone limp inside his.
No. You will not be distracted. Not this time.
With a renewed sense of vengeance, you channel all of your energy into all of the parts of your body that are touching his.
Your mouth. Your chest. Your hands.
His body falls limp and you let him drop to the ground in front of you.
Thirty seconds later, your father rounds the corner and you back away from Peter like you've been burned.
More pills. Higher security.
And he can't fight back anymore. That should make you happy, but now when he winces it feels like you're being stabbed in the stomach with that sword that Adam always talks about.
You learn not to lose your cool when you're excited.
So when he kisses you, he doesn't have to flinch away because you can't control the heat in your veins. He flinches away anyway, sometimes, and you think you finally know what rejection feels like.
You still haven't been on a real date.
But he tells you about roller coasters and how much his brother used to love them when they were little. And at night, when you're asleep, you dream about being upside down in a metal car.
A fluttering sensation fills your stomach when you wake up, and it spreads to the rest of your body when your dad gives you Peter's pills and tells you to treat the patient nicely.
You like to think he's at your mercy, but lately it seems like you have it backwards.
Nathan shows up at the institute one day and your feet stick to the ground like glue. Your father is next to him, the usual expression of indifference shining on his face, and you want to punch your hand through a wall.
Something is very, very wrong.
The Petrelli family is supposed to be ignorant of the fact that Peter is alive.
You grab his pills off the counter and turn on the spot, grinding sparks into the wall with your fingertips as you retreat down the hallway to his room.
Daddy sounds angry when he calls your name, but for once you don't care.
Control is the least important thing in your life right now.
Peter takes his pills like a good little boy, but Nathan walks in before anything else can occur.
And suddenly you hate the fact that life exists outside these walls. The world keeps taking away everything that you love, and it refuses to give anything back.
Not that you're in love with Peter Petrelli.
That's a lie you'd never dare consider telling.