Disclaimer: It all belongs to Tim Kring – boo hoo.
Author's Notes: Written in response to Porn Battle VIII's prompt 'memories'.
All things considered, it had been a busy three years for Gabriel Gray. He had gone from unassuming watchmaker, to killer, to suicidal, to redemption, to sociopath. And within the sociopath stage, there had been quite a few qualifiers. Every death had been different. Some were perfunctory, some were vengeful, some were entirely necessary. Each of them had killed a small part of him, each helped a small part of him to grow. One stood out particularly in his mind.
He pushed that thought away.
Gabriel had learned a lot about life and death. And perhaps just a small something about love.
Blonde hair dirtying in the sand, electric blue eyes pleading with him, and he could feel the part of her that was inside him screaming in protest.
She had been there at every step. She saw his guilt; watched his grip on sanity falter; felt the pain his killing caused, and the pleasure his determination could produce. And she had faced every point with that damnable twist of insolent lips that matched the twist in his gut. Delicate white fingers, sparking delicate bursts of static, that pulled the noose from round his neck only to feed him the poison that would surely doom him in the end.
"Gabriel, isn't that special?"
"Talking to yourself again?" she asked. Her skin was flushed, eyes brilliant blue and gleaming with mischief. He could not help smiling, and she matched the expression perfectly. "Talk to me instead," she suggested.
And that was his subconscious being plain cruel. Perhaps he deserved it. "I can't," he said simply. "You're dead, I killed you."
Her pale hands were sliding along his inner thigh, crackling with the power he had once coveted. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used it – there were more efficient weapons in his repertoire now. Despite the teasing nature of her touch, Gabriel had no control over the thrill of lust that shot through him. No one had ever made him feel the way Elle made him feel. Like he was the most important thing in the world, and all the rest could go hang. Like he mattered, and he was sexy and sweet and everything she needed.
Writhing beneath him, meeting every thrust. "Harder, Gabriel," she murmured, hands gripping his biceps and urging him onwards, though he was already so close.
She didn't say anything else, but he could imagine the dirty things she was thinking. So seemingly pure and angelic on the outside, all baby blue eyes and flaxen hair. But Gabriel knew better. He didn't need any mind-reading powers to know there was lust and experience in that supple body. He hummed, biting down on his lower lip, when her hand slid over the bulge that was rapidly growing in his jeans. She made no innuendo, as there might once have been, back in that brief space of time when they were almost child-like and laughed as they stripped each other bear.
"You're tickling me," she giggled, hands pushing helplessly at his head between her thighs. He looked up at her, grinning, spreading another quick lick over her sensitive folds.
She had him out of his jeans before he knew what was happening, and stroked him with firm, familiar movements. The hand was alien – small but strong, slender fingers, long nails – but the grip he knew all too well. "Touch me," she said to distract him from the inevitable.
He looked down and ran a hand over her breast. Full and hot, pressing up into his palm with her laboured breathing. "I like it when you-" he began, but she interrupted him.
"I know. Just relax, Gabriel." She was the only one who always insisted on calling her that. And he hadn't minded. 'Sylar', coming out of her, would have sounded silly, like a superhero name. She had enough tricks up her sleeve to make him feel dumb, without her resorting to drawling out 'Sylar' like he was a bad guy in a comic book.
But then thought stopped, because she was gripping him just right and stroking fast now, urging him onwards.
"I want to see your face when you come," she groaned against his ear, and that was all it had taken. She wanted, and he obeyed – but only for her, and only because it felt so good and so right and...
"God, I love you," he groaned, as ropes of come arced and dropped to the stripped floorboards.
Panting and alone, he looked down at the small hand that slowly broadened, grew tanned, dark hair growing over the back. The breasts had gone, too – but watching that happen would have been weird. He took just a moment, to breathe and to regret – his only regret, he might add – the death of a woman he had underestimated.
For a guy who knew how things worked, he mused, he sure didn't know himself very well.