what a father would do for his daughter

[ellectrical]

Bob Bishop stumbles back from his daughter, hitting the emptied shelf, hands grasping at his nose with blood visible between his fingers. Elle follows in slow steps, her hands at her side now, expression not angry, not even satisfied, but flat. There was nothing close to satisfying about seeing him fall, his glasses askew, nearly panting –

But his voice is still so calm.

"Is that it, Elle?"

She raises her hand again, but with surprising strength, he jumps forward, grabbing her wrist and twisting her arm behind her back. Her skin doesn't spark, and he shoves her back over the desk. Elle's free arm is enough to let her brace the impact, push the desk's contents aside so that she doesn't hit her head on anything besides the desk's surface. A moment later, he's released her.

"You wait," he snaps. "You let them underestimate you. Who do you think taught you that?"

Elle answers by shoving her foot back against his right shin. Pushing up against the desk, she twists around again, this time landing a hit against his left shoulder as she stands again. He stumbles back once more, this time to the bookshelf, rocking it enough that a couple of the small leather-backs from the top hit the floor.

"You didn't teach me that."

"No," he agrees. He's winded, clearly enough, but somehow he doesn't look surprised, as though he can't even muster the feeling anymore. He seems to sense it when she's about to charge again and takes a step toward her, his hand outstretched, palm open. She doesn't move.

"We don't have much time." He continues toward her, hand still outstretched, at last stopping when he can grip her shoulder. When he pushes her back, it's not rough again, but not gentle either – Elle feels like she has as little choice as she ever did to step back with him, against the desk; when she has to, she bends her knees, and pushes herself up to sit on the edge. Her father releases her. "I was hoping we could have a conversation."

But then he's silent, and Elle understands – she'll be the one who has to ask the questions. Maybe it's what she's owed. That doesn't make it any easier.

"What happened to Mom –"

"Don't waste your time with what you don't care about." It's a sharp interruption; Elle's eyes had wandered for only a moment, and it startles her attention back to him. He's standing awfully close – someone else might want to push him away, as he watches her so intently that it reminds her of the man who killed him. Like he also wishes he could take her apart.

And he was right. She was no puzzle for him; even if his stories about her mother's indifference, or of her death in a car accident hadn't been true, there was not even a small part of her that really cared. Elle's eyes never leave her father's.

"I thought you helped me."

"Oh, Elle –" The look is gone. Her father doesn't embrace her, but takes her hands in his. It's not until then that she notices the blood he'd smeared on her wrist; his nose is pink, some blood still on his face, but it couldn't be relevant. His hands close over hers, pressing them together – unlike before, there's no warmth in his skin.

"That's exactly what I did."

It's hardly her own will when sparks start crackling between her hands. Her father pulls away immediately, and Elle's pushing herself from the desk when he raises his hand again.

"I'm not lying to you." His voice still isn't so much as a forced calm – he sounds hollow. " You were never going to live outside it, not after you manifested. What the people in this world could have done to you –"

Her father takes a step back toward her, though he doesn't reach for her again. When she doesn't move, something seems to spark in his eyes – the emotion, the earnestness she's never seen from him is real. "I made you tougher than that."

Sociopath with paranoid delusions.

It had never made any sense – the way her father had always wanted her to be part of his world, to be good at it, but at the same time, seemed to resent her for it. Her gaze has fallen to the carpet now. He leans in as he takes another step closer, trying to get her to meet his eyes, but it doesn't work, and he moves away again.

"What happened here should be hurting you, Elle."

the hardest thing for a parent is to see their child in pain

But it isn't. The room, the scattered folders, her father's dead skin – it's like the sound of an old radio, too low to hear it. Something so quiet can't do so much as make her stomach turn. Elle looks back to him.

"I'm so proud of you."


You're the one who hears so much.




Tell me.
That hurts.

Her eyes are wet. Elle turns away, not bringing her hands to her face but turning to look to the window behind desk, distracting herself until any shine on her eyes is gone. She hears footsteps approach the desk again, and doesn't look back to him.

"What are you thinking about?"

The answer comes, even if she has to choke it out. "The letter opener."

The pause that follows is enough for her to collect herself. His steps stop short once more.

"It's not very efficient –"

"It'll hurt more." She can turn back to face him now. "Gold's a good conductor."

The earnest manner is gone entirely. Her father merely watches her in silence. Yet again, she knows he'd look disappointed if he weren't dead.

Elle doesn't reach for her weapon. She returns his gaze for several moments before –

"Did I ask you to stop?"

He blinks, with no change in his expression."Whe –"

"Ever." She's not yelling. It's such a clear question, the clarification is calm and deliberate, even if it comes close to pleading. "Did I ever ask for it to stop?"

Her father's shoulders straighten. The light flashes off his glasses once, as he tilts his head back, and then down again. She can read nothing of her answer in him.

"Will it make you feel better?"






It's –

How could anyone -

Elle has hardly any voice for her answer.

"No."

She makes herself watch him as she says it. Elle's right foot comes to the floor, and the left, as she lifts herself off the desk. Now, she's the one stepping toward him, and he doesn't back away. Her full voice returns to explain, "But I don't know why you'd make me forget."

Coming to an even stop in front of him, close enough that she has to look up to see his eyes. "Maybe you would've had to trust me."

There's still no change in his expression. But her father leans into her, much less like a parent now.

"What I don't understand," he answers, slow emphasis on every word, "is how you could want it back."

'cause if your life sucks that bad

This answer is so easy.

Elle's voice shakes, very slightly, but her eyes stay on his without any hesitation. "It's mine."

In her life, and his, Elle's father had raised his voice to her fewer than ten times. He had never struck her – not himself, anyway. Any kind of normal affection between them had been rare; if there was one thing their abilities held in common, it was that physical contact could be a dangerous thing. It's enough that her mind freezes when his hands are suddenly on her shoulders. He shoves her back, hard, toward the desk – Elle manages to twist, hands landing on the desk's edge to brace herself for it. Her arms tremble from the impact, knees slammed so hard she wants to sink to the floor, but she holds herself up.

It must be the only way he can tell her, because he can't fucking look so disappointed anymore.

When I think about all the hard work I put into raising you.

After all that –

"I wasn't what you wanted," Elle murmurs, still facing away, too low for him to possibly hear her.

He still answers.

"No."

She can hear his footsteps on the carpet, and tenses, but doesn't move, not even when she feels his hand on her hair, that same innocuous motion that had meant so much to her when she was nine and only barely aware of what was happening.

"They've all taken what's yours."

His mocking tone is a stark contrast to the affectionate gesture. But it's nothing so new from him. He leans closer to her ear as he continues, "Your normal life. Your father."

Her dead father. Sylar took her dead father.

did that make it better
sometimes

In one motion, she steps away from her father, and turns; her left arm shoves away his outstretched hand while her right once again curls into a fist, and this time slams against his jaw. When he staggers this time, she opens her hand and holds out her palm – a bright white electric arc fires out. He drops to the floor.

Now she knows what his screams must have sounded like.

She steps over his legs to move around the desk once more. It's been knocked aside; Elle has to lift the keyboard up to find it. A small blade, so dull it couldn't slice through paper without quite a bit of pressure, heavier than most knives because it was made from pure gold. There were plenty of other objects in her father's office that could be used as weapons, starting with the handguns in the center desk drawer. The one that's been in her mind for their entire conversation is the one that, even without her ability, will cause the most pain.

Elle lifts the letter opener, and moves away from the desk, back to where her father is sprawled across the carpet in front of it. His eyes are open. There's a small burn in his shirt where she'd hit him. It's nothing serious, unless he had a heart condition, but her father was in very good health up until his brain was torn out. He doesn't move as his eyes flicker between her chosen weapon, and her face.

"You can't change." Her father sounds finally resigned to it.

But Elle shakes her head, and smiles once again.

"Not for you."

To her father, it makes no difference. He closes his eyes.

"Let's go, Elle."




The letter opener hits the carpet next to him with nothing more than a soft patter. Her hand stays open, faint, thin line across her palm, until he opens his eyes again.

"Bye, Daddy."

Elle steps away, first back, and then turns. Walks over the carpet, over the spilled filed folders, the emptied one labeled Bishop, Elle, without noticing. Her eyes are on the door; she won't let them wander to anything else in this place.

"Elle –"

She stops just short of the door, and reaches for the handle, without so much as a pause in her motion. It opens out, not onto the hall that lies beyond in the Company's Hartsdale facility, but to nothing. Empty space. Nowhere to go.

"Elle, get –"

But it doesn't matter. Elle steps through, anyway. She doesn't need to see what's ahead to close that door behind her.