Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or the characters, so don't sue me.

Author's Note: This story toys with the idea of Heaven and Hell a little bit, so if you don't like it, don't read it. Also, I'd like to hear what you think. Comments and reviews are appreciated!

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Summary: "Why didn't she understand that she was supposed to be dead?" If Sylar hadn't killed Elle, could his life have turned out any better?

Spoilers through 03x11 – The Eclipse, Part Two

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Angels

Sylar's eyelids fluttered open groggily and he yawned, stretching his arms over his head and spreading his legs apart to wake himself. Instead of rubbing up against soft bed sheets alone, however, his leg touched something else entirely – bare skin. He jumped, looking over quickly to find a woman lying in the bed next to him.

Her naked back was turned to him, revealing only long blond hair and smooth, white skin. The woman's figure was all too familiar, like he had seen it hundreds of times before. Sylar opened his mouth in a noiseless gasp, both confused an surprised. Where was he? Why was he here? And, more importantly, was this woman really her?

"Elle?" he breathed, too afraid to reach over and touch her.

She stirred under his gaze, grunting softly but not turning towards him. Obviously she had heard him – that much was clear. But was she still asleep, or was she acknowledging his words?

"Elle?" Sylar repeated hesitantly. This time he did touch her, propping himself up on his elbow and brushing his fingertips against her shoulder gently. It seemed so long since he'd seen her last – so long since he'd killed her. Being in her presence now, however strange it was, was breath-taking.

Elle (for now he was sure it was her) grunted again and muttered an agitated, "what?" She still didn't bother to turn and face him. In this strange place, Elle didn't seem shocked to hear him, and that only confused Sylar more.

"What . . ." he trailed off, not really knowing what to say. Now that Elle was here, what should he say?
"What are you doing here?" he finally managed. It was the only thing he could come up with.

Elle didn't answer him for the longest time. She just lay there, curled up with the covers tucked tight around her, silent. She yawned softly and moved up a hand to brush the hair from her face, and when she did reply it was only to confirm Sylar's fears.

"What do you mean? I live here."

After what seemed like ages, she turned around to face him, laying her head on her elbow. Her blue eyes were as bright as he'd remembered; her pink lips were pursed, and her brow was creased in her own confusion. Why didn't she understand that she was supposed to be dead?

Sylar looked away from her long enough to take in his surroundings. A small bedroom with white walls and a fresh, homely scent. A neighboring master bathroom with a tiled window, allowing the morning sun to creep through, just enough to give off a faint light. If Sylar were to ever buy a house of his own, it would look just like this – comfortable, roomy, perfect . . .

"Gabriel?"

Elle's voice snapped him out of his reverie. Her tone was urgent and frightened, almost concerned; they were emotions he would never have guessed were there.

Sylar looked back at her. "I . . ." He jumped up, practically flinging the covers back and scrambling out of bed. Finding a pair of clothes laid out for him on the foot of the bed, he slipped them on hurriedly and ran for the door, with Elle's blue-eyed gaze on him the whole time. "I don't know what I'm doing here. I have to go."

Elle's eyes widened; terror was etched upon her face. "Wait! Gabriel, wait!" She, too, jumped up, not bothering to hide her naked body as she dressed. "We can talk through this! Please, just wait!"

Once she was fully dressed, Elle moved closer to him and grabbed his hand, pulling him back into the room. Sylar allowed her to force him into a sitting position on the bed . . . partly because he still had no idea what was going on or what she was even talking about.

"You're not gonna leave me, right?"

So Elle thought he was going to break up with her? Was that it? It had to be. But why would she care if he left her? He had been nothing but horrible to her. And Elle was supposed to be dead! At least, she had been dead when he had gone to sleep the night before.

"What?" he asked and wrenched away from her grip. "What are you talking about? What the hell is going on? You're dead!"

Elle opened her mouth to speak, only to shut it just as quickly. Maybe she didn't really know what was going on either. Maybe last night she had been living in darkness, only to wake up next to Sylar. Maybe it wasn't just him. If so, why was she acting like they were still together – like she had never died?

"You're obviously not yourself today," Elle said calmly, not at all like the crazed lunatic she had been moments before. "Either that or you're crazy. And I sure as hell hope I don't have a crazed husband!"

"Husband! We're married?"

Elle only stared at him. It was too much to handle. Her being alive again . . . Waking up next to her . . . Finding out that they were married . . . It was as if Sylar had went to sleep and woke up years later.

"Gabriel?" Elle questioned cautiously, reaching out to grab his hand again. "I'm starting to get worried. Is that really you?"

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "I think I should be asking you the same question."

Elle shook her head and bit her lip, her eyes full of concern. Then, after several seconds had passed, she stood up. "I think I'll go make breakfast . . . or at least try to make breakfast, since you're . . . confused." She shook her head again and turned her back on Sylar, moving towards the door, but he grabbed her wrist before she could take another step.

"Wait . . ." he muttered. "I'll make breakfast." Even though he still didn't know what was going on, he might as well try and fit in until he figured it out.

"Good, 'cause I usually burn it." Elle managed a fake-looking grin, but Sylar could tell she was still upset.

Once he stepped outside of the bedroom and made his way down the stairs, Sylar immediately recognized the house. It was the Bennet home. The wooden stairs and front door gave it away easy enough. He had been here multiple times before. But what were he and Elle doing living there? What kind of twisted nightmare was this? Sylar pushed those thoughts aside, deciding that he would probably figure out what was going on sooner or later.

However, his confusion only intensified when he entered the living room and tripped over a toy car. Looking around at the toy-littered room, he let out a quiet moan. They had a kid . . .

As if on cue, Sylar's son walked into the room, a blue blanket trailing behind him. He was still dressed in his pajamas, and he looked just like his mother. Sylar took a closer look and realized that the boy had brown eyes. He couldn't be more than four years old.

"Daddy? Are you gonna make waffles?"

Sylar could only stare at his son, his mouth agape. He couldn't smile, or speak, or feel anything. He wasn't happy to see his son, or sad that he had thrown it all away when he had killed Elle. He felt nothing. Sylar didn't really know what he was supposed to feel. He suddenly realized that if he hadn't killed Elle, then this would have been his future, and that's when he lost it. In that moment, looking his son in the eyes, every emotion that he had previously been holding back came rushing to the surface, and Sylar closed his eyes against the tears that were threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn't cry. Not here. Not now. Not in this perfect world that he had been mysteriously thrust into.

"Yeah," Sylar finally said, his voice coming out in hardly more than a whisper. He opened his eyes and spun around quickly to avoid meeting his son's wide-eyed gaze. "I guess I am." He moved towards the pantry and found what he needed quickly, popping a waffle in the toaster. As he did so, Sylar heard the faint voice of Elle calling her son from upstairs.

"Noah!"

His son's name was Noah. That topped it all off.

* * *

After they had eaten breakfast, mostly in awkward silence with Noah jabbering away about nothing, Sylar followed Elle back upstairs and into the bedroom. When Sylar asked what they should do with Noah, Elle explained that he could watch television on his own and didn't need babysitting. She didn't seem upset by the fact that her husband should already know these things and didn't need telling. Perhaps she had come to terms with the idea that this wasn't her husband after all.

Once they were out of earshot, Elle shut the door quietly and turned to Sylar, her arms folded over her chest, and she sat down on the bed with a sigh. She pushed a strand of hair from her face like she always did and raised a finger to her lips, chewing at it nervously.

"What's going on with you?"

Sylar leaned against the wall, afraid to sit on the edge of the bed with her. He avoided her gaze and looked at the wooden floor between his feet instead. He couldn't possibly tell her the truth. In this happy, perfect world, she would never believe him.

"Gabriel, please. What's wrong?" Elle urged.

"I . . . I don't know." He looked up, and seeing that her face was full of obvious concern, he knew that he had to tell her the truth, no matter if she believed him or not. "I went to sleep last night and you were dead. Then I woke up and you were alive again. How the hell does that happen?"

Elle didn't seem shocked. It was almost as if she had known the truth the entire time, but Sylar knew that wasn't possible. She stood up again and walked towards him, calm and collected.

"What do you mean 'I was dead'?"

Sylar shook his head. He didn't want to tell her that he had killed her. He couldn't tell her.

"Just tell me," she said.

"Where I come from, wherever that is, you're dead. Maybe this is all just a dream." Sylar shrugged. "I don't really know, Elle."

Elle took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling, tapped her foot impatiently, and finally looked back at him again. "If you really are telling the truth, then what are you doing here?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Well, if I really am dead where you come from, that means Noah was never even born. Right?"

"Yeah."

"He's a good kid." Elle smiled fondly, the tension between them momentarily forgotten. "He acts a lot like you at times. Hard-headed and stubborn. Sometimes annoying. But I've learned to deal with it and love him anyways."

"Really? You love him, then. That's good to hear." Sylar didn't know what else to say. He didn't know what it was like to be a father, or a husband. He had never loved children. But then again, neither had Elle, from what he guessed. Maybe being a father changed things. It was too bad Sylar would never know what that felt like.

Elle's smile faded, replaced by a concentrated frown. "Yeah. And I loved you, too. Well, that was until you started acting weird."

"You loved me?"

"Well . . . Yeah." Elle tilted her head to the side, confused by his response. "Didn't you know?"

Sylar sucked in a quick breath and swallowed. Elle loved him. At some point or another, she had loved him, even after all the horrible things he had done. If he hadn't killed her that night at the beach, she would have learned to love him. Why did the truth have to hurt so much?

"I died before I had the chance to tell you, didn't I?" Elle muttered, her eyes shifting to her feet for a moment. "I'm sorry."

Sylar reached out and touched her cheek gently, forcing her to look at him. "Sorry? For what?"

"For everything. I'm the one who ruined your life. I turned you into a monster. And then you probably killed me, right?"

She knew. She knew everything, and he didn't even have to tell her. Sylar nodded his head, shutting his eyes for a moment until he found the courage to speak again. "Yes. I did."

"And it's okay. Because I understand. Maybe I deserved it." Elle paused, grabbing his hand. "But I don't even care about that. We're here now, aren't we?"

As she stood there, her blue eyes bright and beautiful, with a smile playing at her lips, Sylar was reminded of the past – of all those times he had thought they could be together. He needed to kiss her. There was no doubt in his mind. He leaned over and pressed his lips against hers, and it was just as he'd remembered it – soft, sweet, and unreal. How could any human be so perfect? And why had he thrown it all away? To fuel his own selfishness? He hadn't even told her the truth. He had killed her, and he couldn't even tell her. Even now, in this perfect little dream, he couldn't tell. He would always be selfish.

When they broke apart, Sylar looked down at her, murmuring the words, "I'm sorry."

The last thing he saw before the dream ended was Elle, blue eyes wide with confusion.

* * *

Sylar sat up in bed instantly, looking around to find himself alone in a dark, stuffy hotel room – the very place he'd went to sleep before the dream. Elle was gone, and so was Noah. He was completely, utterly alone, and for the first time in years, he didn't like the feeling of loneliness. Normally he would be content to sit alone and think, or read a good book, but that was before he had met Elle.

And then he had killed her . . . Of course, there had been a reason. She had lied to him; she had thought him a monster. She had been a liability . . . But now that his dream was over, having ended so abruptly, he wanted her back. He wanted to touch her again, to feel her lips against his, more than anything else in that moment, and that made him angry.

He snarled, hurling a pillow against the wall on the other side of the room. Then Sylar stood up and made his way to the bathroom. He flipped on the light switch and grimaced, closing his unaccustomed eyes shut against the blinding light. Leaning against the counter, he opened his eyes again and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Furious, brown eyes looked back at him, red and rimmed with tears.

He missed her. He missed Elle. Why else would he be dreaming about her? She was haunting him. Or, rather, the memory of her was haunting him. In the dream, before he had known it was a dream, he wanted to be with her again. If he hadn't killed her, would they really be together?

"Damn it!" he cursed and gripped the counter with his fingers. "Damn it!"

Sylar allowed the frustrated tears to trail down his face, until his knuckles turned white and numb. Finally, he growled and let out his anger, releasing the counter and smashing the mirror with his fist. The images of Elle and Noah's happy faces disappeared.

In his world, Elle was dead. And that meant he would never know his son. He would never hear their voices, or touch them again, but they would always be there. Like angels. And if they were truly angels, then he could never hope to see them again.